Life in the Government - Part II - Mythologies of Patriarchy

So I was watching this movie, last night - Hazaaron Khwaishein Aisi (Dir. Sudhir Mishra, starring Kay Kay Menon, Chitrangada Singh, Shiney Ahuja). You might have watched it. If you haven't, I recommend you do so. It's a nice movie, informing the viewer about what life was like for people from the upper, middle, and lower classes, during the tumultuous years of Indira Gandhi as Prime Minister of India.

The movie begins to pick up after Emergency is declared and all opposition party leaders are systematically arrested. That's when the director chooses to show the action happening in Bihari hinterland, especially in the district of Bhojpur.

I really like the handling of the character of the policemen in the film. I have rarely seen so accurate a depiction of district-level Indian policemen in film. There's this one scene in which the character of Chitrangada Singh, an adult literacy activist, confronts a policeman, probably a Sub-Inspector (SI), over a large number of villagers arrested in connection with a dead body that the police claim is one of theirs, murdered by Maoists from the village. The SI who is in the Police Station - his place of Power - after venting his rage on the lawyer for the villagers, sits upon his desk, his eyes upon Singh's breasts, slowly moving up to meet her eyes.



In that one movement, he seems to very effectively convey a supreme and total internalization of centuries of patriarchy.

This problem, you see, is not limited to just the police. The point I'd like to make here, is that in states of North India (note: I can write only about what I've seen for myself, so I'm not talking about the Southern states here, at all), the nearer one gets to the heartland, that is to say, the district towns and villages, the more one notices a distinct strain of patriarchal thought and action that seems to pervade the different levels of administration.

Here's a real-life example, something that happened to me:

A very senior officer in the District Administration here sat down in his stenographer's office and lit up a choti Gold Flake cigarette. I was there to look through some paperwork that had arrived the previous day from some departments in the district. The officer took a long drag and decided that he'd like to chat with me while he smoked. So he asked me, "Tum Bambai se ho, to tum Maratha hoge."
To which I responded with, "Main Marathi hoon, lekin main Tamil bhi hoon."
"Woh kaise?"
"Meri maa Tamil hai, aur mere father Marathi hain."
The officer smirked. "Nahi. Pata hai, tum galat ho."
"Woh kaise, sir?"
"Tumhari maa galat hai. Agar woh apne aap ko Tamil bolti hai, to yeh galat baat hai."
A self-satisfied look, and he continued.
"Hindu mythology mein, aurat ka koi jaat nahi hota. Shaadi ke baad, uska jaat apne husband ka jaat hota hai. Iska matlab hai, aap Maratha ho. Tamil nahin."
A man, passing by, was stopped by the officer and asked for his opinion about the matter. The senior officer's views were, of course, corroborated without hesitation. I realised, this wasn't a matter of seniority. That man, passing by, really did believe that men were superior to women, and that this 'fact' has its genesis in the Sacred Texts.

What's funny is, that senior officer spoke of Hindu 'mythology', and I can say, with complete assurance, that the man has never read - or for that matter, even heard of - Roland Barthes. Patriarchy, among so many other things, is sustained through mythologies that provide the structural framework for wisps of smoke to appear (and feel) as thick as concrete.

I'd like to write more about this, but I have to return to work now.
Maybe I'll update this post later.

Life in the Government - Part 1 - English, August / Bagdi*, July

Working within the structure of Indian government exposes one to a variety of experiences.
Since the 1st of May this year, I have:

-been treated with respect
-been treated with contempt
-been treated with utter contempt
-been helped
-been asked to call later
-been asked to come back another day
  ... and the such.

When people meet you here and you tell them you're working with the government, their first reaction is to pull back a little. Why this is, I have yet to figure out. Then they'll ask you what your position is. Then, what do you get? I try to avoid revealing my specific pay by telling them that I'm in the pay-grade of a Class-I Officer and my position's that of a Lecturer in my Institute. But no, how much? Sometimes I tell the truth, sometimes I don't. Depending on how I'm feeling at the moment.

Often, I remember the book 'English, August' by Upamanyu Chatterjee. In the book (Spoiler Alert), Agastya Sen, a newly recruited IAS Officer is posted to a sleepy town in Northern India, called 'Madna'. With a predilection for marijuana, he is thrilled to see the plant growing wild in the environs of the town. This is his first experience, navigating the corridors and halls (with paan-stained walls) of 'Sarkar' or 'Power' that is the Government or the District Administration.

Agastya (or August, as called by his friends from his school) meets the Deputy Commissioner / Collector / District Magistrate and experiences what it means to be an 'Officer', a babu-in-the-making. He gets accommodation in the Circuit House and encounters the staff there, eventually coming to terms with their attitude. If my memory serves me well, I think he is eventually made a Block Development Officer (BDO) and eventually works his way up to the position of District Collector.

Why am I writing about English, August? Because - and I say this without intending to sound presumptuous - I find parallels between the character's experiences (metropolitan city to small town, learning to speak Governmentese, etc.) and mine, over here.

Oh, I should mention, I'm working as a Research Officer with the Haryana Institute of Public Administration and I've been posted in a district named Sirsa, on the borders of Rajasthan and Punjab. It's a pleasant 40 degrees plus right now, and since my arrival here more than a month ago, I have ingested at least a few kilograms of sand. Yummy.

But it's almost 5 PM and the office I'm in will be closed for the day at 4:59 PM (I'm starting to believe, all those who work here have an internal clock. They just seem to know when closing time's near and the anticipation in the air is so thick, you could slice it with a knife). I'd better start winding up, lest I invite the wrath of the room's custodian for making him stay a few minutes longer.

More later.

* Bagdi is a dialect of the Hindi language, belonging to the Rajasthani tonal cluster  

revisiting fear and silence

an old friend
old

wrote 
and told

of confusion conflict and company
but chose
not to alliterate (as above)

alluding to/
expressing through
squiggles of language
the abstract notion
of cognitive commotion

figures of speech
were well within reach-
alliteration too (but forsaken)

but tendency to compare
was pehle se there
extending from
written words
to writing people

oh, the people
she wrote
some smitten
some smote
Spirits Free'd
into ironic chains

but this is the realm
for meetings of old
friends and odds -
beginnings - and ends

Freddy said “You must have chaos\
within you to give birth to a dancing star.”
but all stars become supernovas
and chaos - like infinity -
is always too far
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Photo of the Day at JEEVIKA

Woohoo!

One of my photographs has been featured as 'Photo of the Day' on the JEEVIKA website :)

http://jeevika.org/photo_of_day.html

Check it out!

And don't forget to check out some of the excellent work the organisation has been doing.

Visit: http://jeevika.org/default.html

Till the next post,

In which the writer begins to realise what a web-log's primary purpose is

-1:53 AM. I begin writing this post.-

Just got off the phone. The other end of the line was sleepy.
Fair enough. So I said "Goodnight!"
and terminated the inter-state call at the press of a button.
At the press of a button. Gloria in Excelsis Technology, yes!

Now I'm feeling lonely. There isn't any one I can call up at this hour or any after this.
It would be great to have a fun conversation online if not over the phone.
There are people online but I don't feel like initiating conversation.
I will read a book. I was told recently there are no 'best friends', that the concept is a redundancy or something to that effect, perhaps in other words. To be fair, I was told that it was said individual's opinion and therefore does not by default apply to the concept in general.

Way I see it (this is my opinion), there are best friends. Books. It doesn't matter if it's 1:52 AM or 3:33 AM or 4:56 AM or corresponding PM's for that matter. I have always been and will always be able to read a book whenever I feel like it. And so long as there is a sufficient source of light, and as long as no one complains about the light, I can read for as long as I want to at night or early morning whatever you will.

Oh, it rained today. 12:24 AM by my estimate. Ran down two flights of stairs and out the building, loose pair of shorts notwithstanding. Turned my face up to the heavens. And I knew then why they called it the heavens. After the heat, the soothing cool. Farmers will be pleased. That is an understatement. Watch the documentary 'Nero's Guests' directed by Deepa Bhatia.You will understand.

Do we, as a race, put too high a premium on conversation conducted over the phone?
Perhaps dot-dot-dot.
Do we, as a race, read enough books?
No full-stop.

I am going to read now.
'Tis by Frank McCourt.
'An Equal Music' is pending. I always do this. Always.

If you like me, get me a Kindle or an iPad.
But only If.

-2:20 AM. I finish writing this post.-

on the streets of Paharganj

in delhi big beast

capital city
land of democracy
and here

liquor
cheap hotels
and lust and

I believe
redemption
is there

as an occupant
of a dirty dusty
dingy damp
room for rupees
three hundred sir
better rate nowhere
else

shining beacons
beckon
the foreign invitees
welcome welcome
you will be welcome
with dope and cheap clothes
for dollars and your
valued
patronage

here

come

there is ice cream and
cigarettes and
more

dry blood beast

So it's been a while since my last blog post. I had another blog before this one. It was alright, not too bad, nothing great either. But I wrote a lot more there than I do here. and while I mostly post poems and the like here, I used to open up back there. Be frank. It's not hard for me to be open these days, but I'm not used to it, so writing something like this, though spontaneous, isn't easy.


I think it is time to take stock of my life over the last few months.
I think I've been slowing down a lot in the recent past. Getting sluggish. Getting complacent.
I have found that there is a difference between complacence and satisfaction. The difference is this - Satisfaction feels good and continues to feel good even after a while.
Complacence starts out with making you feel good, but its like a radioactive element with a short half-life. begins to decay and when it unravels - pardon the complete messing-up of scientific phraseology - suffice to say it doesn't give you a reason to smile.


I have been complacent. and I need to remedy that. but how? Maybe by finding things to do. I'm helping an old friend out with her grad. film and that's given me a day of something to do. I read books. so far so good.
Some content-writing here and there. a few hundred rupees are made thus. I don't have many friends, but considering my attitude towards friendship, that is not surprising. I don't make many efforts to maintain friendly relations with people around me - I do want people to keep in touch with me, but am not willing to do so myself.


but.


what's one to do? we are who we are, eh? It's not that I don't try. It's just that my 'best' is too less for most people. so I don't bother too much anymore. call it Sour Grapes Syndrome if you like. Individuality!
My liege.


Even as I type this, I tire of it. Last night as I was returning from that old friend I mentioned's place, I stood by the roadside and watched the twinkling lights of the high-rise buildings about half a kilometer away from me. There was a full moon. Together, they seemed like a cold mother. This city brings out the worst in me, and that, my friends, if channelized right, might just bring out the best.

We have assembled inside this ancient & insane theatre

To propagate our lust for life & flee the swarming wisdom of the streets

The barns are stormed

The windows kept & only one of all the rest

To dance & save us

W/ the divine mockery of words

James Morrison

The Project: Chapter 4

Chapter 4

the tale was told
as show and tell

hissing on

steadily uncertain

energy-

its lack

energy-

curtain

backstage

hands readied an Other

bound to enforce causality

Image of Image

There was a time, and that time was now. Swish past it, passed it and this continued, continues. Trying to make sense of it all, tenses abound, continuing the past, perfecting the future, offering little but variation in perspective. The point that is closest to being, just being in the moment is the moment. This is not a pleasant read, this is not simple. More often than not, an abstract is associated with a concrete, or a material with a colour, when it comes to describing something that exceeds the limits of normality. Pitch black, red hot, silence that can be cut with a knife. Futile similes and pointless metaphors. Silence that can be cut? Such are the times, and such are the parallels drawn. Silence, get this, is not dissimilar to bread. Following that logic, time is sushi – chopped up into digestible bits, wrapped up and rolled into small portions and menu-carded into calendars and clocks to be sold. This is not skepticism, this is cliché and thereby, fact: time is money.

But there is a certain area, with bubbles of sharp jagged rock and cold uninviting snow, floating way above industrial city and modern town. In this place, commercialism tries to live and make its home, but finds that it can never have more than just a house, a temporary residence. In this place: mountains. Great beings of stone power, aged beyond one's capacity to measure time, for whom time means nothing but a few centimeters up or down. Over the centuries, Tibetan lamas, European explorers, Nepali Sherpas and other miscellany have climbed mountains, walking unmade paths, feeling awe while learning humility and this one fact: mountains defy metaphors. Every time that a description has been attempted, all that is left to show for it is utter failure.

Mountains are like…
The view from the summit seemed as though…

No, nothing could come of it. For how is something quantified, that does not relate to numeric values? Where time does not apply, neither does timelessness. The mountains don’t offer much but disappointment for those who go there hoping to gain. Relinquishing the self in that place is not sacrifice; the mountains couldn’t care less. Traveling there is always a pilgrimage – done out of choice though it takes several and then some trips to realize why the choice was made at all. Peace, quiet, solitude, are adjectives that the mountains might evoke, but do not contain within themselves.

Somewhere in the mountains, a climber proceeds, knowing that even as day becomes night and though the watches on a billion wrists tick on, all that may be found there is a photograph -

Semblance of timelessness.

The Project: Chapter 3

Chapter 3

I sought sanctuary

in a tale

the cause of which

was poetic
effect

The Project: Chapter 2

Chapter 2

the world deconstructed

around me

sounds signified

but only for me

phrases kept familiar

so I would hear

making sense allowed for

holding together

on

the journey down

meanings of fall considered

concrete made contact

the shell smashed

I breathed in amnesty

mnemonics helped reorient

stories began

The Project: Chapter 1

These are poems. This is a project. Work is in progress.
--------------------------------------------------------

Chapter One

1.

I begin

Where beginnings are

at the end
of an other

2.

in continuing
this tale
I must raise
issues

3.

cathedrals
wastelands
Valhalla
London
Bombay
a mansion
a cottage

this one time
these two times
those times

of rhymes but
no reason

4.

time passed
or I passed it
as time stood
perfectly still

either way there
was motion
sickness

5.

post
modern medicine

complications arose
the patient
etherized on a table’s

condition became un-
stable and
Dr. Professor tried

so Eliot survived
while the love song

Process: a photo essay

Each of these photographs indicates a stage of human life. I have left the photo-essay open-ended, because there hasn't been, and still isn't any consensus, the world over, regarding what comes after the conclusion of this process we call Life. You will note that while there is an 'Exit', there isn't any 'End' in the following essay:

        

$4.25 billion pledged for fight against climate change. Is it sufficient?

A Reuters article from Wednesday, 12 May 2010 stated that donor countries had pledged a sum of $4.25 billion towards combating the phenomenon of global climate change. This has been the largest amount ever pledged since 1991, the year of inception of the Global Environment Facility which, according to the article is "the world's largest public green fund that helps developing countries tackle climate change".

The largest amount since 1991. No doubt, $4.25 bln is a lot, but the question here is whether it's really enough.

The argument could, of course, be made that it is a beginning. But if $4.25 bln is, I quote, "a 52 percent increase in new resources for the facility", then can you imagine the paltry amount that must have been dedicated to remedying climate change before the Copenhagen Summit? To quote from the article again, "The GEF has been replenished four times since its inception in 1991 starting with $2.02 billion in 1994, $2.75 billion in 1998, $2.92 billion in 2002 and $3.13 billion in 2006."

The latter part of the article discusses how "this initial support will be increased to $100 billion a year by 2020, in particular by introducing new and innovative sources of funding." A hundred billion dollars a year, ten years from now. Let's put that figure into perspective.

According to the document 'The Cost of Iraq, Afghanistan, and Other Global War on Terror Operations Since 9/11' by Amy Belasco, Specialist in U.S. Defense Policy and Budget, "The FY2010 war request totals $139 billion including $130 billion for DOD for both wars...If the Administration’s FY2010 war request is enacted, total war-related funding would reach $1.08 trillion, including $748 billion for Iraq, $300 billion for Afghanistan, $29 billion for enhanced security, and $5 billion that cannot be allocated."

So we're talking about an incremental increase in funding for the Global Environment Facility till it reaches $100 billion in 2020. And in 2010, a whole decade before that proposed target, the United States of America's war-related expenses is expected to amount to $1.08 trillion. That's one, followed by 12 zeros. 1,000,000,000,000.

If this is America's projected military expenditure in 2010, can you imagine what the world's total military expenditure would be this year? How many more zeros would you have to add? And if this mind-boggling figure is from this year, can you then imagine what the world's military expenses might be, ten years from now, in 2020? Someone please remind me again, how much the Global Environment Facility is expected to receive from donor nations in 2020.

The disasters we make ourselves are the ones we spend all our money on, trying to avert their onset. In doing so, we often cause the onset of certain natural disasters and then we complain about it.

Isn't it ironic, the way we spend trillions on destruction in the name of defense and offense, but spend less than a fraction of that on conservation and protection of the environment that sustains life on this planet?

So why should we be concerned? Because while pollution and damage caused to the environment might be a local phenomenon from place to place, the effects of such damage are experienced globally. It doesn't matter whether you live in a posh hi-rise apartment in New York City or a slum in an Indian or Pakistani city. We're all seated in a broken roller coaster carriage that can go off the rails at any time. We're all in for the ride. And unless we do something soon, it's not going to be a pleasant one at all. 

The Curious Incident of the Eunuch and the Mumbai Police Constable in a Local Train in the Night-Time

This is from Bombay, now Mumbai. Travelling in a local train one night, something curious happened. Curious not because it was unique; curious because I was not familiar with what was happening. In retrospect, I'm sure it happens on a regular basis. It's worth a thought, the sheer number of things that are so common in occurrence, yet we are not privy to. Sometimes because we're not around to see it happen, or sometimes because we just don't care enough.

At Mumbai Central or Mahalaxmi station, a couple of ' chakkas' (eunuchs) entered the second class bogey I was sitting in. It wasn't crowded, but there were a fair number of people travelling that night. They began their rounds with their quintessential loud claps and unwelcome touches, soliciting money (Rs.10 at the very least, though Rs.50 is the norm) from all those in the compartment.

A couple of stations down (I think it was Lower Parel), a Mumbai Police constable entered the compartment. It is likely somebody who got down at that station complained to him in view of other passengers and perhaps a senior police officer. Anyhow, he got in and insisted that the eunuchs get off the train at once. From the lack of enthusiasm in his voice, it was clear that he was following orders or doing his 'duty'. The eunuchs brushed him off, continuing with what they'd been doing. So, the constable repeated himself, a little more firmly this time. At this, one of the eunuchs turned on him and said, " Kya re? Tu humko bolta hai ye sab mat karo, to phir kya karein? Tu humko naukri dega, kya? To phir de na!" (What, man? You tell us not to do this, but what are we to do then? You will give us a job or what? Then give no!) This invited a burst of laughter, some derisive, some amused, from the passengers who had been able to hear this.The constable, clearly intimidated by this tirade, not to mention embarrassed by the laugher, changed his line of approach. In a subdued tone, he began muttering non-sequitur comments about 'duty' and 'not in my hands', etc. All this happened in less than thirty five seconds, which is how long local trains usually halt at stations. Before the train began to move, both the eunuchs as well as the constable got down. I don't know what happened after that.

**********

Why was this incident curious? Rather, why did I find this incident curious?
Because everyone involved had their own points of view that, objectively considered, had merit.
Let's begin with the passengers on the train (including me).

Their (our) point of view was, we definitely didn't want to be bothered by eunuchs, many of them (us) returning home after a tiring day in town (locals refer to South Mumbai as 'town'). We were indeed glad about the constable's insistence upon the eunuchs getting off the train. However, we couldn't help but be amused when the Mumbai Police (with whom the city has a love-hate equation), represented by that middle-aged constable with a paunch, was given a metaphorical punch in the gut by a person who, regardless of their conduct, was symbolic of the city's oppressed lower-class.

The cop had a point. Underpaid and overworked, he was part of a system that was unappreciative of his efforts and disrespectful to him. Now, a man slaps a man and they might fight, and they might sort it out between themselves. But a cop slaps a man anywhere, and the man is even slightly better off than the cop, and what happens?
The cop gets in trouble. And then there is the red tape they have to deal with. It's like giving a fire-fighter a hose, and telling him, "Look. Here's a hose, and you should use it to put out fires. But before you connect the hose to a fire-hydrant, you need permission from your seniors. Before which these forms need to be filled out. In triplicate. Oh, and if a fire happens somewhere and it's not your jurisdiction...heh heh, you get the drill."
Hundreds and hundreds of fresh police recruits were placed on security detail for the recent I.P.L. final in the city. What did they get for their efforts? No food, no water, no rest for hours and hours on end.
And we expect them to give a shit about two eunuchs on a train?
I don't think so.

Finally, what about the eunuch who spat venom on the police constable whom I have portrayed in a sympathetic light? If the cops' hands are bound, what can one say about those of the third sex ? My mother and other family told me when I was young, that eunuchs are 'shameless'. They go around troubling people; glorified beggars. They don't do anything of consequence, just harass honest and hard-working people all the time. They are often a nuisance, I'll admit (some 'eunuchs' are actually men with fully functional penises and no lack of testosterone), but is it really a question of shame? In a society like this one, where in most places, patriarchy is King, and 'queens' are frowned on...

**********

The crux of what I'm saying is, there are problems. I'm not offering solutions right now. 
Thing is, I don't think I'm in a position to offer any solutions.
What I can do, though, is tell you what's what, and hope that you will think about it.

That is all.

Life (Some Say Meh.)

Planned far ahead;

Didn't get too far:

Took a quick step forward;

Got hit by a car.

Lived for the moment;

Didn't get too far:

Walked at my own pace;

Got hit by a car.

Smile.

:)