Desicritics Author: Deepa Krishnan

Alone, White, and Female in India

Deepa Krishnan — Wed, 17 Mar 2010 10:53:23 EDT

On a travel forum recently, a young Polish woman asked: "I am planning to go to India and would be grateful if you could tell me whether it is safe for me to go there alone. If someone has any experience in travelling on his/her own, please post your comments"

Lots of people offered her advice; most of which centered around dressing modestly (preferably in a salwar kameez!), not getting too familiar with strangers, avoiding isolated areas and dark alleys, and so on. Among the many people who offered advice, there was one gentleman who suggested she carry pepper-spray. This led to a protest by some others - What?? Pepper spray!!?? Why are you scaring tourists away from India??

Co-incidentally, I had just been reading a city magazine, a 'Women's Special', with a whole page devoted to staying safe in cities - and among the five things they listed was pepper spray!

So what's the right advice for this lady? Should she stick to big cities? Are they safer, or are they more dangerous than smaller towns? Are some states safer than others? As I heard various points of view, I felt obliged to conclude that there is no single truth when it comes to female safety in India.

But that doesn't mean there are no conclusions to be drawn! I travel alone, frequently, to different parts of the country, and from my own interactions with men, I find that some parts of the country are disconcertingly hostile to women and disparaging of their bodies, whereas other places are a delight.

I was in Orissa recently, and I have to say I did not encounter one single lecherous man; it was a fantastic experience. I have spent two years in Calcutta, again, without so much as a single nasty incident in spite of late nights and odd hours.

I would rank Uttar Pradesh, Haryana, Rajasthan and Delhi among my list of difficult places for solo women travellers. (I have not been to Bihar, but I confess I have no great expectations from the state that produced Laloo Prasad Yadav). Other than Orissa and Bengal, I would rank Kerala among my nicest travel experiences, followed by Tamil Nadu, Andhra Pradesh, Karnataka, Maharashtra and Goa (in no particular order). I have no experience of the north-eastern states.

Of course, this is all based on personal and anecdotal stuff, and is therefore open to bias, but I suspect many Indian women would agree with me. If you don't agree, that's fine too. There is no necessity for consensus here. Irrespective of which state is better and which is worse, what I'm trying to say is that there seem to be some regional trends in the behaviour of men towards women.

I am puzzled by these differences. Surely we are all not that different from each other? Maybe it’s just that places which are more hidebound and stuck in the dark ages are more difficult for women? With a social structure that does not value women, it is that much more difficult to get the basic respect you deserve. But Tamil Nadu with its high female foeticide doesn't value women either...so it's hard to explain why I feel safer in Chennai than in Delhi. Again, this is also a sweeping generalisation. Some parts of Delhi (and I am writing this sitting in Delhi) are extremely safe and very nice to be, and some very nice guys I know are from Delhi. But I don't feel the same "body freedom" in the crowded lanes of Chandni Chowk as I do in the equally crowded Pondy Bazaar or Bhuleshwar or Gariahaat markets. Why? I wish I knew.

Sigh - so - going back to the young Polish woman - while there is no single truth about the Indian men she will encounter, the fact remains that she is likely to go through some not-so-pleasant experiences if she is travelling solo. Let's face it, this is a difficult country for single white women to travel. The average Indian man assumes that white women are alley cats and are potentially available - why else would they flaunt their bodies in public places, right? To add to this is the depressingly common lesson which most young men receive at the hands of their older friends - that's it's perfectly alright to ogle and whistle and grope and treat women badly. Indeed, it is very *masculine* to do so, as Hindi movies so brilliantly illustrate. It's not just white women who get the lecherous idiocy - the same disgusting treatment is accorded to very modestly dressed local women as well. It's a grim story, and one that always makes me want to decimate the entire male race :)

To the lady who asked the original question, I say, pack that pepper spray, girl! You may not need it, but you'll feel better with it in your purse.

Valentine, Schmalentine

Deepa Krishnan — Sat, 14 Feb 2009 05:59:15 EST

At breakfast yesterday, my daughter put down the newspaper in irritation.

"What's all this fuss about saving 'Indian culture', anyway?", she said. "Shouldn't we be more worried about poverty and hunger?"

She was referring to the ongoing brouhaha over Valentine's Day. The press is full of it - there are those who say festivals like these are foreign transplants, which destroy Indian culture. There are those who stoutly defend the right of people to adopt whatever culture they like, whether it is Western or otherwise.

It's not just Valentine's Day, but also other Western influences that irk many Indians. Many of us are bewildered by Bollywood videos of near-naked women gyrating to 'disco' songs. Where did these come from, we wonder, these images that are almost soft porn? While the lyrics are Hindi, the setting is undoubtedly Western. The actors toss down tequila shots, the music has strong Western influences, and there's not a salwar kameez in sight.

Parents and teachers are also coping with the spread of McDonalds, the increasing absorption with skinny bodies, the new mall culture, the alienation of children from their traditions, the growing incidence of divorce, the popularity of chat sites...somehow, all of these are perceived to be the results of the increasing influence of the West (read America) on the world.

My husband looked up from the sports section that he was reading.

"I can see why they want to stop this Westernisation", he smiled. "I half want to stop it myself!" (this from a very liberal man who loves jazz and the blues and thinks no party is complete without scotch whisky!)

"Ah?" I said, vastly amused. "And why is that?"

"Cultural exchange is great", he said. "But this is all so one-way! How come so little of Indian culture gets exported in the other direction?"

I thought it was a very interesting perspective. If the West celebrated Indian festivals the way we celebrate theirs, perhaps people wouldn't feel so threatened? Perhaps if Holi became a popular world festival, we'd learn to take Valentine's Day in our stride!

Anyway, this whole conversation went on and on, the three of us argued the merits of preserving and documenting culture, the rate at which cultural change happens today, historical trends, and all sorts of other interesting things. Finally, we all agreed, like the sensible family we are, that change is inevitable, and we must change with the times; adopting some changes and ignoring some.

Last night, my husband boarded a flight for Chennai, where he is spending this weekend with his parents. Today is Valentine's Day. I haven't wished him, and he hasn't wished me. Looks like I'm not changing my ways on this and neither is he.

No Valentine-Schmalentine for THIS couple!

The Storyteller And His Audience

Deepa Krishnan — Fri, 26 Dec 2008 05:27:28 EST

If you are visiting North India, you will probably come across a kathak performance somewhere.

The word kathak comes from the word katha or story. Kathak dancers are traditional story tellers, showcasing legends through music and dance. A kathak performance teaches as well as entertains, using a rich and sophisticated poetic literature in Sanskrit and Brajbhasha.

I spotted this kathak dancer at an upscale hotel in Agra. He was on a little stage, dancing to a piece of recorded music. His audience was a bunch of foreign travellers, several of whom had just made the 5-hour drive from Delhi, and were now relaxing at the bar watching him over their beers.

The dancer told the story of the blue-skinned God Krishna and his lover Radha. It was a beautiful story, embellished with subtle glances and elegant footwork. In the story, Krishna and Radha meet in the forests of Vrindavan, he plays the flute for her, and even the birds and the deer stop to listen to the magic of his song. She quarrels with him, over the attention he pays to other women. As he cajoles and teases her into forgiveness, she becomes lost in his leela. In the eternal all-consuming fire of her love, she forgets herself and merges into the divine.

The story was well told, but the audience understood absolutely nothing.

I was not surprised - the song was meaningless to them, and the vocabulary of the dance was entirely foreign. How does someone from a strange culture understand the symbolic mechanisms that dancers use while switching roles? How do they understand what the arched coquettish eyebrow, or the sideways glance, or the delicate flick of the wrist means, when they don't even get the context of the story? Not surprisingly, at some of the most sublime moments of the performance, the audience merely stared into their beer mugs or looked around for the bartender.

The real tragedy of it was that the performer was quite competent, with at least 10-15 years of rigorous training behind him. In spite of people moving around, or ignoring him completely, he danced with grace and dedication, as if he had all eyes upon him. I felt so bad for him, I wanted to run away and hide somewhere.

That night in my hotel room, I asked myself - Why does this happen in India, this trashing of our art forms until they become a pathetic mockery of themselves?

I realized that there are multiple issues, some of them quite complex. But I believe our lack of respect and value for our art forms is definitely one of the problems. The hotel staged this performance in their lobby, in a noisy area near the bar, perhaps because they had no other venue. But because it was presented like that, as an optional "cultural" show with drinks at the bar, the dance became a trivial tidbit, a take-it-or-leave-it affair. There was no formal introduction to the performer and his background, no explanation of kathak traditions or gharanas, no story outline – as a matter of fact, there was even no seating around the stage for anyone who wanted to watch the whole performance. It is as if the hotel had decided already that this was a boring performance, and not worth the effort. Naturally, the performance just tanked. When you yourself treat something like trash, it is very difficult for others to treat it with respect.

Contrast this with my experience in The Oberoi Bali. The hotel arranged a Balinese dance show with dinner, a rendering of some scenes from the Ramayana. They had amphitheatre style sunken seating for those who wished to view the show. For others, there were tables set discreetly so that every single person had a view of the dance. The waiters were quiet and hushed, you could order food and drinks, but it was clear that there was a performance, and you had to give it due respect. On every table, there was a one page description of the show, describing the acts that it was broken into, and giving a brief summary of the storyline. I’m sure we didn’t understand all the nuances of the performance – but we enjoyed it because of the way it was organised.

Some would argue that it is not the hotel, but the artiste who is responsible for audience delight. If the audience doesn’t like something, then either the dancer is to blame, or the dance form itself is to blame. Why was the kathak dancer not able to have any impact on his foreign audience? In spite of the poor seating and noise, could he not have drawn the audience towards him? Could he not have told them the story before dancing?

Unfortunately, our classical performers are not geared to explain their art to people from other cultures. The Indian art tradition assumes that audiences come from the same broad cultural milieu. It presupposes a shared cultural background where the stories and legends are commonly understood. In addition, the classical dance forms also assume that audiences understand the format in which dance is delivered, for example, the way in which sections of story/emoting are interspersed with sections of pure rhythm/dance. The other problem is purely practical - I very much doubt the dancer had the necessary English-speaking skills to explain the origins of kathak, or its morphing over the ages, to a foreign audience.

My personal view of the matter is that in our country, it is not practical to leave the matter to the artiste. Most Indian performers, including those from both folk and classical traditions, have poor/basic English education levels, with little or no exposure to overseas audiences. Their skill lies in their art, and not in the packaging or marketing of their art to overseas visitors. In my mind, it is very much the responsibility of the intermediary – for example, the hotel, or the tourism development board or the tour company arranging the performance – to ensure both the dignity of our arts as well as an enjoyable experience for the tourist.

As someone who is part of the tourism industry, I will do my bit to make things better. But I suspect it will take a while to get to the point where "cultural" performances don't make me squirm.

Bazaar Walks: Today at Dadar

Deepa Krishnan — Wed, 3 Dec 2008 07:46:05 EST

I went to Dadar today, to chalk out new routes for a Dadar Bazaar Walk. Here are impressions from today's walk, clicked on my Nokia E90.

At Phule covered market - crabs for sale
There were mussels, dried fish, bombil, and all sorts of other fishy treasures on sale. The fisherwomen as usual, had tongues as sharp as their curved fish knives. I was asked if I wanted to hold a live crab. My hurried refusal led to much merriment.

Resting after the morning's sale
See the green and maroon khun blouse? The fabric is probably soft and comfortable after repeated washes. Have you ever tried a khun? It is an absolutely beautiful brocade. Rich as silk, soft as satin, with the coolness and comfort of cotton - what more could a woman ask for! This is me, in case you're curious, in a glorious golden khun.

Outside the covered market - Goddess in Finery
Someone please, please tell me what's going on with the coconut + eyes + jewellery + new clothes thingy. I'm dying to know. Is this Lakshmi? Durga? Some other devi? I wrote about it earlier as well. I know this mystery woman is a goddess that the fisherfolk worship.

The Goddess obviously has a thing for bright skirts!
Lots and lots of women were buying things from these stalls. We asked them, but got incomprehensible answers. "It's for puja", they said. All I gathered was that there was a festival this month.

I call him The Yam Accountant.

She was concentrating on making a "veni" - flowers for the hair
The flowers come from the wholesale market nearby. If you want to see what the finished veni looks like, I have a photo here.

Plastic covers for computers and television sets
So it's not just Goddesses who like colour - see how the Indian love for colours transforms even these practical covers into a feast for the eyes! Near the plastic covers, green bangles (favoured by married women) are stacked in a basket in sets of twelve.

We stopped for lassi and snacks at a nearby restaurant. I had misal-pav, a brilliant Maharashtrian invention that doesn't get the press it deserves. Misal is a tangy spicy dish, eaten with bread. In my hurry to eat it, I forgot to click a photo, but if you want to see what misal is like, there's a great photo here. The most satisfying part of the misal is when you dunk the last of your chunky bread into the last of the gravy, and polish it all off with a final tasty mouthful. Sigh.

It is clear to me, people. I have inherited my mother's love of bazaars.

Children With Learning Problems - It's the Schools, not the Kids, Stupid!

Deepa Krishnan — Tue, 2 Dec 2008 08:24:25 EST

It's a problem fairly common in schools, but we don't know how big it is. It has solutions, but we don't know how to implement them. All we've done so far, is sit by, and let children blunder on.

I'm talking about kids with difficulties in reading, writing and math.

No one really knows how many children in India have learning disabilities (LD), but it looks like a staggering 20 to 50 million might be affected. And still, there are very few schools that have any mechanisms in place to identify children with LD, or offer remedial therapy. The real tragedy is that LD children are not "stupid" - some of the brightest minds of our time, from Einstein to Edison to Pasteur, have had LD.

This Saturday, I went to an LD conference at the Hyatt, a gathering of educators, teachers, researchers and parents. The conference was hosted by Tata Interactive Systems, as part of their CSR initiative. As several speakers presented their thoughts and experiences, I learnt a lot about LD.

What I found most frustrating was when I realised that the real problem is not with the kids. The real failure seems to be of school boards, administrators, and teachers. A survey of school teachers across CBSE, ICSE and SSC schools in Mumbai, conducted by the Bombay Teachers Training College, shows very low levels of real awareness amongst teachers ("Oh, I didn't realise, you mean like Taare Zamin Par?").

If those who are entrusted with teaching our children are themselves blind, then where do the rest of us go?

For the past 2 years, my mother has been tutoring a little girl from the slum nearby. Pranali has problems with the Marathi and the English alphabet. She's also bad with numbers and multiplication tables. But she's a very bright child, with twinkling eyes and winning ways, and can recite poetry and lessons beautifully. My mother's patience, her fair but firm handling, and her genuine love are making Pranali blossom. The child loves coming to our house, loves to write her squiggles, and is almost tragic in her eagerness to please. If my mother moves away to another room, the girl follows her. "Mi ithe basu ka?", she asks......"Can I sit here (near you)?" It is like a flower finding the warmth of the sun and wanting to bask in it forever. It is the first time the child has found love and understanding, instead of strict balwadi teachers with frowning faces.

Last year, she passed her second standard exams, and has now moved to the third standard. To help with her third standard Marathi lessons, my mom enrolled for Marathi language classes nearby. I am amazed at my mother's dedication. "I promised Pranali's mother", my mom said. "So I'm going to do the best I can."

When I compare this with the thousands of other children subject to the tyranny of indifferent balwadi and municipal teachers, I'm telling you, it's enough to make me cry.

There are some small glimmers of hope. The B.Ed curriculum just got modified to include lessons on learning disabilities (finally!). At Sion Hospital, Dr. Kulkarni is doing some outstanding work in testing, diagnosis and remedial therapy (that's her in the photo below, a small grey haired lady with an iron will). Parents in Bombay are increasingly driving change at schools. Some schools already have counsellors and special needs educators, and more schools are waking up to the need. Last month, the school I went to, SIES, appointed a counsellor and is going to have a Special Needs Teacher from the next academic year.

There is progress, yes, but it is frustratingly slow. Several questions remain unanswered - for example, is there lower dyslexia in studying Indian languages than in English? Are Devnagri graphemes easier for those with dysgraphia? Does living in joint families, where there are different speech cadences, make a difference to infants? Does losing traditional lullabies result in increased LD? Do Indian girls have more LD, given the potentially lower attention in childhood? How early can we diagnose LD in India, and through what mechanism? Does improving balwadi nutrition programmes offer high rewards in improving performance of children LD?

Many questions come rushing at me when I think of the social and cultural issues involved in something as complex and widespread as LD. Every one of these could make a significant research topic, if only the funds (and the academic will) were there! I am deeply grateful Tata Interactive is putting not just money, but also thoughtful and invovled effort behind this. More power to them.

Chocolates - A New Desi Delight

Deepa Krishnan — Wed, 26 Nov 2008 10:27:09 EST

It is now official, folks. I have no backbone.

There I was, watching the History Channel, when they suddenly sprang a programme on the history of Chocolate. Fifteen minutes into the show, my backbone gave way, and I raided the fridge, desperate for anything, just anything chocolatey.

Here's what I found in the fridge - handmade chocolates from Ooty.

The purple ones were minty, and the square ones had all sorts of exotic spices and dry-fruits in them (I didn't stop at one, of course).

The cocoa in these chocolates is grown locally, in the spice plantations of Ooty. The cocoa tree is quite happy to grow interspersed with other trees, so it's perfect for Indian spice plantations where it grows between rows of palm, arecanut and other trees, and provides an extra source of income.

Chocolate is quite a newfangled thing in India. Before 1965, the cocoa crop was not commercially produced anywhere in India. Then thanks to Cadbury India, cultivation began in Kerala, and from there, spread to other states in the South (as a matter of fact, in many places, the cocoa tree is actually called the ‘Cadbury’ tree!)

Although chocolate has been around only a few years, we're already inventing a whole new cuisine around it. Homemade chocolates (which all the honeymooning couples at Ooty go ga-ga over) are just the tip of the choco-craze. Every time I visit my local mithai shop, I see proof that we have happily combined traditional Indian milk-sweets and spices with this new upstart ingredient from South America. Have you tasted chocolate burfi yet? Or hunted down a chocolate laddoo recipe from the internet? How about chocolate peda then? Or “Jain” chocolate mousse!

Even at the poorest end of the spectrum, chocolate has made a conquest - when my maid had a grandchild last month, she rushed out of the house, and came back with a gift pack of Cadbury's Fruit and Nut for us to celebrate.

I'm telling you, there's a chocolate revolution happening in India. It's sneaking up on us, bite by heavenly bite, we just don't know it yet!

I'm off to raid the fridge again (told ya - no backbone!). Almond drops, anyone?

I Begin to Understand Mithila Painting

Deepa Krishnan — Sun, 9 Nov 2008 00:10:09 EST

On a wall in the Delhi Crafts Museum, I spotted a series of paintings done in the Mithila folk style. This is traditionally an art form done by women, painted on the walls of houses, in celebration of major events such as births, marriages and festivals.

Even from afar, the murals were striking. They were large, almost 6-7 feet in height, and spread across the entire wall in a series of arches. Each arch contained one painting. This one below, for instance, shows the Goddess Durga astride her tiger, framed inside an ornamented arch.

The colours were bold, and the flat filling-in of colour made the paintings visually stimulating. Below the painting, the artist had signed her name: Shrimati Mundrika Devi, from a village called Jitvarpur in Madhubani District, in the state of Bihar.

When I looked a little closer at the painting, I found myself loving the "double-line" approach. All the outlines were double lines, with the inner portions either left blank, or filled in colour, or filled with little lines. Here's a close-up of one of the small ducks at the top of the mural: see how the double lines and colouring contributes to the rich detailing? Every object in the painting, from the smallest flower, to the largest human, was painted with the same careful attention.

After five minutes of staring closely at small aspects of the painting, I found myself slipping into the shoes of the painter - what was she thinking, Mundrika Devi, when she drew these? Were the walls of her home also filled with these paintings? Did she lose herself in the lines as she painted, did she forget to make dinner? Or did she, as she cooked and tended her house, look again and again at her creation, mentally adding little details?

The more I visualised the life of the painter, the more the painting appealed to me. This was not "Art" as a leisure activity for those with spare time and money. This was art entwined in the daily life, in the very heartbeat of a woman.

This past week, I have been eyeing the walls of my home. I want to do this too, to fill my living space with vibrant strong lines and bold colours. I want to spend time working and reworking pigments, rushing about from corner to corner of a wall, adding a tree here and a bird there, stepping back, drawing again, wandering into the kitchen, wandering back to my walls...working on my email, but wandering back again, always to the colourful wall.

It seems to me that what I really want is to be seduced into a beautiful trance, by the creative and very personal process of decorating my own home. Perhaps that's what Mundrika Devi wanted too.

The Man Who Lived in Interesting Times

Deepa Krishnan — Sun, 21 Sep 2008 04:44:06 EDT

I was strolling through the Qutb Complex with my friend, when we came across a little octagonal tomb set prettily in a separate courtyard.

There are many grand monuments inside the Qutb Complex - the tall Qutb Minar, the grand Quwwat-ul-Islam (Might of Islam) mosque, and the ornate Alai Darwaza. Most were built in the early 13th century, by the Slave Dynasty. But this small tomb was added later, in the 16th century.

Who was he, I wondered, this man whose tomb lay next to some of the grandest structures in Delhi? Why was he such a big deal? A Sultan perhaps, or some great nobleman? I looked at the inscription - this was the tomb of a priest, a man named Imam Zamin. It took quite some reading before I found out who he was.

Imam Zamin was a Sayyid, a word that is used to describe male descendants of the Prophet Mohammed. The Sayyids trace their lineage back to Hassan and Hussein, the two grandsons of the Prophet, starting from the 7th century.

In the sixteenth century, Sayyid Imam Zamin came to India from Central Asia (Turkestan), during the Sultanate of Sikandar Lodi. In his book The Delhi that No One Knows, R V Smith says that the Sayyid was appointed Chief Imam of the Quwwat-ul-Islam mosque, and that Sikandar Lodi looked to him for spiritual guidance. The Imam, who was a Sufi, preached disregard for worldly achievements, asking Lodi to strive instead for unification for the divine Oneness.

Smith also says that Imam Zamin didn't like the political intrigues in the court of the Lodis. I am not surprised. Sufism is the most mystical aspect of Islam, and Sufi saints are renowned for turning their faces away from the material world.

When Babur (the founder of the Mughal empire) defeated the Lodis, he visited Imam Zamin, to pay his respects. Babur's son Humayun also held the Imam in high honour, and it was in Humayun's reign that the Imam's tomb was built. When Humayun briefly lost Delhi to Sher Shah Suri, an Afghan, Sher Shah also came to seek the Imam's blessings.

I find it fascinating that here, in this little corner of the Qutb Complex, there was once a man who saw so many kings rule and die. What an interesting life he must have led! I can imagine him sitting in his dusty courtyard, with the mango trees in the background, listening to the call of Delhi's peacocks, while empires rose and fell and new rulers prostrated before him for his blessings.

Photo-essay: One Morning in Dharavi

Deepa Krishnan — Mon, 8 Sep 2008 01:20:12 EDT

It was 7:00 a.m. I had dropped my daughter at school, and was driving home past the Bandra Kurla Complex, when I saw a tower of thick smoke rising to my right.

"It's coming from Mahim", I said to my driver. "Do you think it's a fire?"

"No, it's from Dharavi", he said. "I've seen it before."

I had seen smoke at Dharavi earlier, but today it was exceptionally thick and dark. I thought we'd take a look. Sometimes early morning disasters don't get reported in time; perhaps I could stop for a quick check.

We drove closer. The smoke seemed to be coming from a residential area of Dharavi. I knew there were thickly populated bastis on the left on the road, where most of the recycling work gets done. We often take tourists to some of those places, and I thought to myself, what if it's one of the recycling compounds? They have enough inflammable things in there to start an inferno.

When we got closer, I realised it was coming from the opposite side of the road, from the marshy land opposite the hutments. It seemed to come from a line of trucks parked on the road. There was none of the panic and shouting associated with a fire.

We stopped for a closer look. Here's what we saw - in a clearing behind a low wall, a big rubbish heap was being burnt. Maybe they were burning the left-overs from the recycling factories - the thick smoke told me it was probably at least partly plastic. A young man was sitting there - he didn't move at all in the 10 minutes that I was there - I got the feeling he was watching over the fire. There were two bullock carts, transporting oil, the bullocks resting in preparation for the day ahead.

I realised it was just another day in Dharavi. Nobody gave a damn about the dense smoke, although my chest burned from just 10 minutes exposure. Just across the road from the burning, the daily routine had begun. The water tanker had arrived and big plastic drums were being filled for the day.

About 100 metres away, the shanties were already abuzz with activity. Little shops were open, and people were walking in the narrow lanes.

And naturally, since this was 7:00 a.m., every available inch of open space had been converted into a toilet. Little kids sat unmindful of passing traffic; while grown men found convenient bushes behind walls. The women, of course, had risen much earlier, while it was still dark, so they could have some desperately sought privacy.

My spirits sank at the sights I'd seen - we're talking of Shanghai-like towers and skywalks and bridges, when we can't even get running water and toilets in place?

I drove past a busy central thoroughfare and spotted several bright-eyed children going to school. Some of them were walking with siblings, others were riding pillion on their father's motorbikes. Many, especially the little ones, were walking with their mothers. I saw mothers carrying schoolbags and tiffin boxes and bright plastic water bottles, walking in that determined way that only mothers have, hustling their kids to school in time! After the depressing sights I had seen, the sight of these young kids was like a ray of sunshine. Here were children just like the ones I saw at my daughter's school; here were mothers just like me.

Still further down, I saw the Lijjat Papad van making its rounds, collecting papads and distributing fresh dough for making more. I thought of all the papad-makers I knew, women who supported their families through papad co-operatives. It lifted my spirits.

It's not all bad, I told myself. There are good things too. Even among squalor and depressing conditions, Dharavi always manages to show a little bit of its bright side to anyone who cares to see. I remembered my meeting with ragpickers from Dharavi a couple of years ago. They were sisters, giggling and collecting trash at Horniman Circle.

I chatted with them only briefly; but talking to them changed me, transformed me from an outsider to an insider. As long as we don't turn our faces away from the reality of Dharavi, as long as we see commonality and shared humanity, there is hope yet - for the people of Dharavi, and for all of us in Mumbai who live with it.

Book Review: City of Fear by Robin David

Deepa Krishnan — Sun, 6 Jul 2008 02:15:09 EDT

My friend Shoba was in Bombay last week, and she invited me to a book reading at Crossword. It was Robin David's 'City of Fear', set in the backdrop of the Godhra Hindu-Muslim riots.

I don't particularly like book readings. I speed-read most books, letting the story and the mood come to me in flashes. Except when I'm telling a bedtime story, the idea of s-l-o-w-l-y reading a book aloud doesn't hold much appeal.

But Robin David's reading held my interest, mainly because it was a first person account of the 2002 riots in Ahmedabad. What better way to experience it, than by listening to the author tell it in his own voice? (That's Robin in the centre of the photo, in a black T-shirt.)

City of Fear is set in Guptanagar, a Hindu area of Ahmedabad. On one side of Guptanagar is the Muslim locality of Juhapura. Robin and his mother live in a house on the border of the two localities. As communal riots erupt, the area is placed under curfew. Robin is Jewish, and therefore an outsider to the Hindu-Muslim conflict, except for one little technicality - he is circumcised.

The fear and anxiety of living in a curfew area come through beautifully in the book. Robin worries about running into a mob, about having his pants pulled down, about being hacked to death. He quarrels with his old friend Jayendrasinh, a staunch Hindu, who refers to Muslims as 'those bandiyas' (referring to their circumcision). His Hindu barber, with whom he has a long-standing relationship, turns hostile after failing to understand the difference between Judaism and Islam. His Parsi friend witnesses the stripping and brutal killing of Geetaben, a Hindu woman with a Muslim husband. Even walking through the neighbourhood is difficult for Robin - groups of people cluster outside houses, eyeing strangers with suspicion. He makes it a point to wave to familiar faces, so that he can pass safely.
In the charged atmosphere of rioting Ahmedabad, Robin is unable to stay secular - he must take sides, just to survive. As relationships fray, and old friendships are betrayed, Robin and his mother leave their home in Guptanagar.

City of Fear is more than just a first-person account of how riots de-humanize people. Robin manages to weave several other threads into the story. He writes about the devastating Gujarat earthquake in 2001, just a year before the riots, and how it damages his house. It is this double-whammy of destruction, one natural and one man-made, that drives him from his Guptanagar home. When he moves with his mother to a small apartment in a 'safe' area, they have to leave behind not just old memories and bric-a-brac, but also their dog Ora. Living in the apartment is particularly difficult for Robin's mother, who develops a fear of heights after the earthquake.

Another recurring thread in the book is the concept of home. Where does Robin belong? Where do the Jews belong, in a country that doesn't even know they exist? Robin tells of their family's repeated migrations to Israel - they come back every time, convinced that they belong in India. Guptanagar is their home, but the riots destroy that sense of belonging. In leaving Guptanagar, they lose more than just a home.

The book also is a painfully honest account of Robin's life, his girlfriends, his relationship with his mother, and his awareness of his body's defects. At times, the navel-gazing can be a bit tiresome, but that does not detract from the impact of this very readable book.

At the book reading, someone asked Robin why he wrote this book. "A lot of people say we should forget the past and move on", he said. "But some things cannot be forgotten. They should not be forgotten." As someone who lived through similar riots in Bombay, I couldn't agree more.