A Language, Everybody's

First language, second language, third language. English medium, Hindi medium, Tamil medium. Mother tongue, too. What is this whole deal about languages all about? Right from school and at home, there has been a constant demand to learn and preserve "our" language. Which one, I am still to figure out. I studied English, Tamil, Hindi and Sanskrit at school. Malayalam for a very very brief period, which completely equals my knowledge of that language. I have relatives in Karnataka and Maharashtra which has helped me pick dollops of Kannada and Marathi words. Since Andhra was just a political boundary away from home, easily one's environment had Telugu speaking people too. Invariably, from the Tamil parodies too, I did pick a few Telugu words. What more, you ask? I will tell you.

Fortunately or unfortunately I could never pick up Hindi in the two years I studied it at school. My college days in Delhi were my Hindi classes. Again, fortunately or unfortunately, I had friends from Bihar and Bengal to Punjab and Rajasthan. In the end my Hindi too became a kichdi of distinct Devanagri-derived languages. A tinge of Bhojpuri, a liberal dose of Lucknawi, a garnish of Punjabi and viola! As a friend of mine remarked, "bhasha ka balatkar ho gaya."

In India this is nothing new. We are a country defined on the lines of language and nothing else! Of course, now newer and more complex political reasons call for separation of states, that's a whole different deal. It literally speaks volumes, that boundaries began where a language ended. It was a matter of connecting with the others by a common tongue, to make the people of a land one's own.

So with a mash of many languages, predominantly only English, Tamil and Hindi (the rest I realise do good only for my self-esteem!) I came bag and baggage to Haryana. First thing the Director at SCRIA warned me was that I would find the people and their language rough. I could definitely adjust, I then thought. A couple of months down that day, every tenth word in my spoken language is Haryanvi. It was a necessary and desperate move to communicate with the people. Nothing like a common language to be the ice-breaker, I realised.

And then, this happens. I was attending a Gram Sabha, where 40 men and only 2 women had turned up. This from a voting population of 1800 odd. Post the Sabha, I was generally talking and interacting with the members stating the necessity to encourage the participation of other villagers, especially women. As it always happened, after my speaking to them, they bombarded me with a barrage of questions. Marital status. Check. Family members and annual income. Check. How come I know their language? Check. The crowd soon dispersed. One old man stayed back. He sat next to me for a minute and just smiled. I asked him if he wanted to know anything about the Gram Sabha or Panchayat. He carefully ventured, "unn paeru enne?" What is your name. I was pleasantly taken aback.

Like a mad monkey I just kept staring back at him, beaming wide, forgetting the courtesy of answering his question! "Yashaswini", I replied after a full minute. Then he went on to say how he was in the Army, had friends from South India and had himself stayed in Tiruchirapalli for 2 years in his youth. Closing his eyes momentarily to recover from his memory, he counted "onnu, rendu, moonu.." as he slowly showed them with his fingers, accompanied by a toothless, proud grin. He escorted me back to the bus-stop, shouting to just anybody on the way, "yeh hamari bhasha bolti hai", "yeh hamari ladki hai", "hum sab ek bolte hain"!!

Former Subedar Jagdish Singh had made my day. At times in the past I have struggled to explain to the villagers here, where Chennai is. Using Tirupatti Balaji, dosas or Sridevi as references, I usually manage. To hear Tamil this far away, I simply did not see that coming. I can see this reciprocated in the villagers when they hear me throw in few desi words in my language. The support staff at SCRIA dropped their formal demeanour the day I asked them to speak with me in only Haryanvi. Now they treat me like family. One of their own.

These instances reminded me of times in Delhi when I would just stop to listen to random people conversing in Tamil in the Metro, even missing my stop. There was even that once when I followed a Tamil family discretely through the stalls of the International Book Fair, so that I could hear more of the familiar words. One another villager here told me that Tamil sounded to him like few stones rolling in an otherwise empty tin can. I laughed it away. I myself had thought that the locals were always fighting and ready to throw a punch. Such was the language, rude and rough. Now, I do know that the tone is just the same whether they are affectionate or aggressive. So too each one his or her prejudice.

In all these moments- the several "Hindi-is-the-best" sermons I have heard, Jagdish Singh counting to three, the support staff giggling at my comic attempts to speak Haryanvi- I see only one thing. A need to bond with the rest through the spoken word. This is the language that is everybody's. A language that makes a mother understand the baby's gibberish. A language that we reciprocate in a foreigner's  namaste. Communication is for transaction of information. Language is only a vessel for the emotion. We all have the same emotions. Everybody has a language.

Ek Paed. Ek Jeev.

Over a vast green meadow, there was one huge tree. Just that one huge tree. The lush green grass seemed to be glistening always and it looked like the sun beamed forever over the meadow and the Big Tree. The Big Tree was a creation of splendour. Gigantic and solid, the massive brown trunk supported the thick canopy. The top had a million branches and even more twigs. The dark brown of the trunk was set out against the yellowish green carpet of the grass and the shining dark green of the leaves. The sky of blue and clouds of white made the scene look like it was a master piece of a Genius Painter. The canvas was indeed a marvel.

The tree breathed with life at any point of time. The trunk's hollow had hundreds of birds nesting in it. The canopy had thousands and thousands. What was unbelievable about the birds was that no two birds were alike. So many wondrous hues and sounds, the Big Tree was a riot of colours and chirps, a carnival of its own. There was a bird of every feather and a bird of every colour. Even in the night there were birds that sat up. Their glowing eyes made the Big Tree look like a hive of fireflies hanging beneath a glorious night sky.

The fruits on the tree were enough to feed its birds and the birds on the tree were enough to take care of one another. The seasonal rain and occasional rainbow nurtured the tree and made the birds flap with joy and chirp with awe.

One bright summer's day, there was a twig on the tree where there was quite some excitement and happiness. The birds were aflutter, chirping in all enthusiasm and remarking with new found joy-  "A young 'un had hatched out of its egg!" However, the other branches were oblivious to this branch's excitement, but that was how the Big Tree was-- huge and birds bustling about with their activities. The Father and Mother decided to call their little one 'Ek Paed' after the one Big Tree that was their all.

Ek Paed was a chirpy bird from his birth. Ek Paed flew up and down the branches just as soon as his tiny feathers became new wings. Ek Paed was also really mischievous. His parents were never surprised by the complaints that they got everyday. Sometimes Ek Paed stole a fruit, sometimes he teased other birds. Sometimes Ek Paed whizzed from behind younger birds and sometimes he cracked jokes on others. Some other times Ek Paed would just go away without telling his mother and simply perch on a branch and watch all the other birds. How ever he was and whatever he did, Ek Paed remained the darling of his parents and neighbours.

Soon Ek Paed had to go to school. At school Ek Paed saw and befriended a hundred other birds. Every morning he had some excuse to avoid going to school. But once he got to school, he played all day without a care and never wanted to go back home. Ek Paed used to chirp the whole while and he always had funny things to say. His beak was firmly shut only when the teachers spoke to him, but the mischief in his eyes told more. "He skips classes", the teacher birds complained. Though they could never hold a grudge against him because Ek Paed had the most endearing smile that the birds in that part of the tree ever knew. He had charmed both the teachers and students alike.

As he grew, Ek Paed developed interests in bird games, became a busy bird, volunteered regularly for good causes and started behaving like a bird on his own. His naughtiness and good humour never diminished one bit, though. He had a prank up his sleeve and a twinkle in his eye always. His jokes kept his bird friends laughing and wherever he went, he could connect with all the other birds. He was a cheeky bird, but never did anybody mind. All the colour and chatter from Ek Paed kept his immediate surroundings lively.

It was time that EK Paed's education got over and that he sought some work. These issues troubled him little. He knew that he was not like any other bird and he simply did not want to go scurrying in the bird race.

On one winter's day, Ek Paed and his friend were flying to college. The Big Tree was as usual, characteristically at any time of the day, swarmed by other busy birds flying up and down and in and out of the canopy. Just a few branches away, on the way, a big and hard-looking bird flew right into Ek Paed. His friend swooped the other way, but EK Paed was hit.

Ek Paed fluttered for a moment, the big bird passed without a hassle and his friend helped Ek Paed straighten his wings again. Few seconds after setting off, Ek Paed screeched, gave his friend an innocent smile and with the same old twinkle in the eye, he flew off in another direction. Away from the canopy.

Ek Paed's friend was shocked. Ek Paed's branch and twig, Mother and Father, teachers and friends, relatives and all the other birds on the branch waited and waited. Some were angry that he flew away. Some were sad that he was gone. Few of them calmly perched on the twig waiting for the sun to set. There was so much noise and clatter, silence and sorrow, the branch felt drained by the night. Still a few birds sat up, as usual, waiting in the dark.

The grim hours of the previous day gave way for the next. Anger gave way to sorrow and sorrow to pain. Some birds were broken, all of them bereaved, it was a separation none of the birds saw coming. There was so much chaos inside and outside but not one bird chirped. The rest of the Big Tree was oblivious to the pain of Ek Paed's absence, but that was how the Big Tree was-- huge and birds bustling about with their activities.

Ek Paed's near and dear birds just knew that wherever he was now flying, he still had the twinkle in his eyes and a laugh in his chirp.

Ek Paed had left behind just  as many colours as he had taken away with him.

Ek Paed was always a bird of the Breeze.

In loving memory of

S Deepak

(20/6/1992 to 7/12/2012).

A friend whose liveliness, warmth and humour added many temperatures to the melting of the pot.

A Lamp whose flame sought confluence with the Bigger Fire.

Travelling travails in an Incredible !ndia.

Hanging on to dear life; journey in a traditional tempo.

It was just a couple of weeks ago that I had to go to Bawal, a neighbouring block, for an RTI camp. Between Rewari and Bawal, there is a state two lane highway, that is lined with trees and often breaks towards small villages in the distance. A typical Haryana state highway is just like the veins of a leaf. One straight road, that has multiple smaller roads shooting from it in the opposite directions. And while I call it a two laned highway, it is only equivalent in width to one half of Delhi's Barakhamba Road or Bengaluru's MG road or Chennai's Nungambakkam High Road.

While going for the camp, I justtt managed to hop on the last step of the bus and it got moving. The nick-of-time boarding was not due to my running late, it was due to the crowd.

I managed to reach the doors of the bus quite ahead of other passengers. Seeing the older people and women carrying luggage scrambling after me, I gave way to them first. However, a large number of other men too pushed forth and managed to hop on before I did. As I amusedly looked on, the conductor's shrill whistle shook me out of my thoughts and I stepped on to the footboard. The bus chugged forward. I weaved my way through the standing crowd and managed to plant myself right at the entrance, but at least well within the roof of the bus and on the aisle.

The immediate crowd around me was a mother standing with her baby in her arms, a milkman who stubbornly refused to move his cans from the way and two men, one with a backpack and the other with a basket of plastic wares. My standing position could have easily been registered as a feat of yoga where I on a mat and breathing slowly in solitude. Body twisted at odd angles, one hand was reaching out towards the nearest bar for support, while the other was clutching on dearly the jhola that had my diary, my cellphone, my wallet, my all. After some heated exchange in Haryanvi between a lady who was seated and a college student in the front, the latter offered his seat to the standing new mother.  Noticing my plight, several other comfortable passengers asked the milkman to make way for me so that I could seat myself on the cushioned gear and engine space at the front. Phew! After completing a 2 metre hurdle race, I got myself firmly plonked on top of the rumbling gear box. My grin of relief was immediately washed away by the bristling driver who asked me to duck the whole while not to impend the side-view. The remaining 30 minutes of the drive was an amazing people-watching experience, though my vision was from only the waist level. (More on that, later)

After the camp was over, one of my co-workers offered a ride on his bike till Rewari. There was another co-worker too who had to take a bus from Rewari. "Ajjest karlenge", they said.  So we made a cautious triple-seater journey on the way back. The bumpy highway made for excellent moments of thrill, just as the passing trees and birds gave an authentic "Incredible !ndia" feel. It was like the popularised Swades still where an America-return Shah Rukh Khan was sharing pillion space with Makarand Deshpande as they criss-crossed an arid landscape on another villager's bike. This is also a still that has been popularised in the latest Incredible !ndia tourism  ad. A single foreign woman is seen riding pillion with two other villagers pointing to this and that on the way. 

It was nearly 5.30 pm when I had to take a tempo from Rewari to Khori, my village. If my day's travelling experience was anything to go by, I should have seen what was to come next. Winter being the season, everything winds down with the setting of the sun. I could see the sun very well edging towards the end of the Western horizon, it was nightfall beginning. I had missed the 5.15pm bus to the village and the only option was to get back in the tempo. The tempo that was almost ready to go had two spots vacant- one besides the driver and the other to sit on haunch heels at the back. Not a woman on the vehicle, the driver was considerate enough to offer me the seat beside him. "Ah, luxury!", I thought looking at the space crunch behind me. 15 men squeezed together in the space meant for ten. Just as the motor revved, a harried man came along and asked if the tempo was headed towards Khori. Immediately the driver saw his opportunity to gain the extra eight bucks and asked me to step aside for a moment. The harried man immediately sat where I was earlier seated and I looked on confused. The driver adjusted himself a bit, the new entrant shifted a little more and I was pointed  the corner of the seat. And very soon the machinations in my head began working, debating if I had to really take this ride or if I could afford to wait for the next one, by when it would surely be dark? I hopped on again, firmly clutching on to the sides of the vehicle. I was seated parallel to the side rear-view mirror, one half of me nearly swinging outside the frame of the tempo.  The journey started, the night started, my prayers started. The twenty five minute ride seemed like an eternity and I just wanted to make it back to my room safe.

The road was just as bumpy and dusty. My overworking head was hallucinating the piercing glares of the men behind my back. Just as the Khori bus-stop came close, I asked the driver if this was the final stop or if he would be taking passengers into the village (atleast one km away) too? The adda, was to be the final point he said, however he was willing to drop me off at the railway crossing further ahead. And true to his word, he dropped me, and only me, closer to the village and waved me off with a smile. On the other side of the track was the road leading to the village and I just had to beat the 200m quick. That I did. As I crashed into my room with relief and exhaustion I chided myself for not trusting my fellow passengers. In retrospect, I see this cynicism towards humanity, a suspicion of people's motives, something that is largely a part of an urban upbringing. The rural people are so generous and unassuming, I wonder why their city counterparts are burdened by nagging doubts every waking moment of the day. Some, even in their sleep.

Double decker buses are passe. Even the modern tempos support a first floor.

Just the week before that I was on a two-day trip to the Braj-bhoomi. Backpacking and wandering through the winding streets of Mathura, Vrindavan, Gokul and Goverdhan over the two days of Diwali, I experienced both the highs and lows of being a single girl travelling alone. Not that anybody made any untoward advances, but one had to be on high-alert the whole while. Just as much as kind  the rickshaw and chai-wallahs helped me plan and spend a good two days milling with the festive crowd, I was also the subject of many furtive glances, subtle leers and lecherous looks.  And this finally brings me to the point of this post. The new Incredible !ndia ad.

The ad shows a single woman travelling alone and experience the "real" incredible !ndia. Sleeping in Rajasthan's royal bed chambers, frightened by the same people's kadak moustaches, sneezing across a courtyard where women are sorting red chillies, etc. True just not Taj Mahal and Qutab Minar and Kerala's ayurvedic spas make India incredible. These- triple rides on bikes, space crunches in the public transport vehicles, a benevolent chai-wallah guiding you, and India's every readiness to welcome and treat a guest with reverence- make it incredible. But a single foreign woman. Alone. Really?

Even after making ample contacts and knowing the local language, my travel experiences have not been devoid of stress and caution. Be it in Chennai's residential streets, Delhi's wide campus lanes or Haryana's bumpy two-lane highway, one eye had to always be on the lookout, a hand ready to deal with any untoward incident and a voice ready to shout for help.  The famed night life and secure environment for women in Mumbai was witness to molestations two New Years ago. To drop all worries and meditate in Benares, might be all picturesque and alluring. What the viewer might not register is that a cameraperson is at least company to the woman in the shoot. How easy and possible is it for a woman to travel alone in a land completely unknown? Devoid of local contacts and knowledge of local language is it possible that India can seem just as incredible? This could be any country in the world for that matter. Trust issues aside, logistics aside, that one final question for the day remains.

It is difficult, but not impossible. Even liberal Indian parents think twice before sending out their daughters on such a journey. The question is out of place for a village girl who has not even been to the town market sans any company. The frills and thrills of incredible India is definitely not for the lonely traveller, especially female. We easily discount in the discourse the incredulous India. This package promises lechers, leers, ill-intended jostling in the crowds, flashing and a obscene commentary. These are true personal accounts from my own experiences and friends'. There must be a constant broadcast to the near and the dear updating of one's location, place of stay (and new company, if any found) and next place-to-be. The no-baggage, no-worries woman traveller is unknown in India, yet. When that day comes, I would volunteer to shoot the incredible !ndia tourism ad myself. 

Winter- its oops and dawns.

The grandeur of the night sky, I wrote about a few weeks back, is an incomplete truth. When the night slips away and a serene moment of absolute silence grips the whole place at dawn, the sky becomes such a fine cloak to all the sleepy inhabitants beneath it. Since the sun chooses to say "Hello" a little  later these days, with my wake up alarm still stubbornly stuck at 6am, I get to observe the beautiful twilight in the morning. The stars are still around, a few of them at their shining best. The clouds of white are blurry lines across a black-becoming-blue sky. There are tinges of orange and crimson peeking at the corners of the cloak. This, this one moment, before even the birds begin to chirp, is the pinnacle of the grandeur.

Sesame fields set against the Aravalli hills on a foggy morning.

 It is SO difficult to prop oneself out of the bed from beneath the warm and cozy blanket when the air outside is a chill six degrees. However, the minute I soak in that image from my backyard, the laziness astonishingly makes way for rejuvenation. Add to this beautiful scene, the calm trees and the earlier brown-then-green-now yellow sesame fields. I stare at a postcard every morning. In silence.

There is a message that is written all across the card, unseen to many, but it eggs me to do good that day. Then gradually the confident orange strides in, the last star manages to give a wink before fading out and I splash my face with cold water. My fingers and face freeze from the rude shock, it is time I shifted to using the neem twig toothbrush, I decide. (The village folks have their indigenous and healthy ways to conserve water, keep themselves warm and healthy- I make a mental note.) 

All inspired and thoroughly awake, I look forward to the day's events. As is with everything else, there are only two things that could happen, things could either go uphill from there or downhill. The first thing that makes me lose that spring in my step is definitely the morning newspaper. In specific, the disappointment with what is happening at the Parliament. The winter session is a week old as of today. The number of full working days out of five- zero, zilch, shunya. In deep thought as I sip on the garam chai, I wonder about our leaders and the people who choose them. Mirroring the highest house of democracy- the Parliament- the Haryana state too holds winter Gram Sabhas. Starting from November 27th the slew of Gram Sabhas are scheduled till December 15th.

Slightly digressing, I should describe here an imagery I had of the Panchayat. Blame my upbringing, surroundings or the company that I keep, I have been nurtured on movies- Tamil, English and Hindi. Anybody who has even a narrow past with Tamil movies maybe familiar with the many Panchayat scenes that the industry throws at us. Gripped in all anxiety, fear and curiosity motley villagers gather under the shade of a huge (gigantic, in fact) Banyan/Peepal tree. The 'Nattamai' of course is the ever-rich dynastic hero/father of the hero (why never a woman?!). Only he sits on an antique chair, of maybe the most expensive teak, embellished complete with lions' heads at the arm rests. He is, quite naturally, surrounded by cronies/other powerful men, whose only work in their entire lives (as we see through the movie) is to nod in agreement or echo His Highness' words. Then, there will invariably be the one accountant/bodyguard/secretary/younamewhat ready with a book/spittoon/book again/younamewhat by the side of the all-powerful Nattamai. After patiently listening to both sides of the case ( Why is it always a case, never a discussion or meeting?!) a beatific Nattamai is now shown with lines so deep on his forehead, the villagers- I am surprised- do not get out their tilling equipment! This moment is notoriously accompanied by a background score that peaks towards the end, after which, the Nattamai thunders with his earth-shaking decision. The consultant-cronies and villagers sundry express shock/consent/satisfaction/glee depending on whether they are paid well/crony/averagely paid/crony again. Anyway, nobody opposes it. After zooming in and out on all their reactions, the scene..

Since Google failed me in providing you with an authentic Nattamai scene, I present to you a close substitute.

 cuts to Haryana, November 27th 2012. First stop is at the Rewari Block Development and Panchayat Office. Sunny morning, a cluster of chairs is placed outside the office. The officers plonked on them seem at utmost leisure, an honourable mention must go to a lady who was knitting a sweater. It is 11 in the morning, there are half a dozen empty tea-cups by the legs of the chairs already. Four of them seem to be keenly discussing the upcoming wedding of the Block Development Officer's son.  Nobody could provide the Gram Sabha schedule for the villages in the block, that I asked for. Worse, nobody was even interested. They had to be at one meeting each, by call of duty. When the winter sun beckons, they care only to crack open groundnuts. So the 11 o'clock Gram Sabha session was "washed out" in sooo many villages! 

2 o'clock. I am seated in the temple premises of Sundroj. The Gram Sabha should be underway any minute. Half an hour later there are 9 people on the temple floor- five women (from SCRIA's sangathans) and four other men. Not even all the Panch turn up. The meeting starts at 2.35 pm. The new Panchayat Secretary is initially seated on a chair (giving all the airs of being the boss, contrary to her role as the Government Servant) and the men are seated on a mat, facing away. Then bogged down by our gaze, the Secretary shifted to the durrie, while the Sarpanch still sat stylishly cross-legged on a chair. (The Gram Sabha's egalitarian dictum is that everybody is seated on the same level.)  The women are huddled together and worrying about their buffaloes. No kidding. The only thing that thundered here was the wind against the drying Peepal tree. So feeble was this meeting, no discussion on development activities, no discussion on social evils, nothing! I cursed those movie directors who had spun a dramatic yarn around a somber proceeding.

(L to R) Panchayat Secretary (with register), Sarpanch, one of the five women.

Sarpanch striking a pose.

Are we ever surprised at a child taking to its parent? Same goes here. Parliament does not function. Panchayat does not function. The cat on the temple's parapet was more active than the villagers who turned up. There was not a buzz in the village about the Sabha. The announcement was made the previous night at 8pm after the villagers had shut their homes to the outside world. (The rule states that the announcement be made at least 15 days in advance.) My co-fellows in Odisha narrated many incidents of Palli (ward) Sabhas where there were huge gatherings and mad chaos to demand answers regarding development. Maybe, as one of my co-workers at SCRIA pointed out, Haryana has comparatively less incidence of poverty and hence the people do not bother to fight for their rights, just as much. Turning up on the pitch counts, I retort. Oops, that is simply asking too much!

I am expecting more of these instances in the coming days..

It simply nailed the purpose behind my work, more than ever. Strengthening Gram Sabhas and the 3-tier Panchayati Raj system is going to be a tough journey. However, when the foundation of self-governance is well-established, the democracy functions well by default. When all these India-China debates come up, my mind always chooses to pick the one trump card India has got. We are a democracy. That is the brahmastra in our armoury. If the warriors are asleep, what power has the missile got? If the citizen remains inactive, it translates to the breaking down of "participatory democracy". The missile too rusts, as it rests. Slowly digesting the events of the day as I trudged my way back to Khori, I saw the sun set behind the Aravalli hills. The sesame fields were gracefully acknowledging the passing breeze. Man, woman, bird and animal were all returning to their homes. The day's activities leave dust and restlessness in the air. There is a lot of dust and it has to settle. The exhaustion of the day is only momentary. As the world around me wound itself down, I reminded myself that dusk is only an earlier dawn. Just as grand as ever.

Tomorrow's another day. May our democracy prosper, I pray.

Marriage on the mind*

*Disclaimer: Mind- not mine.

The First.

 There was palpable excitement within me. The canopy of the huge tent was still being tied to the poles and yet to be lifted from the ground. The moment I was waiting for was another two hours away. The team here was scurrying about giving final touches to the preparations and decorations. It could not have been a better day, the weather pleasant, the sun bright and a cool wind in the air. Twenty days of restless wait would see its climax in the lawns that was to seat about two thousand people. A folksy Haryanvi song was being tested on the sound system and the gates were just pushed open. Came first, a woman, alone, in a bright red saree. Her smile, even brighter. A shy 'namaste' to me, the stranger at the entrance. Came next a tempo, seven women descended with three kids jumping out after them. A curious glance at me, the beaming Madrasi at the registration desk. And then, one by one they trickled in, tempos, cars, mini-trucks and buses of Haryanvi women. The Aam Sabha was getting a festive feel about it.

I was at a desk the whole ten days before it, studying about NREGA, RTI, Panchayati Raj Act and SCRIA's approaches. This was to be my first interaction with the villagers. There was a definite apprehension about the moment, but a whole lot of eagerness too. When the count of women was just about a hundred, it was evident to me that I was their amusement. Some unabashedly pointed fingers at me and gushed to their friends, others simply followed my movements with their gaze. Slowly the nudges were noticeable, and then the occasional smirk or nod. Finally, one of them picked up the courage and asked me that one question.

The Second.

Twenty days at SCRIA and I had met few dynamic and empowered women. Some of them were SCRIA's success stories themselves, and all of them were SCRIA's change agents. It was a two day residential training camp on leadership amongst women and the role of a woman leader in a Panchayat. I gave everybody my quick introduction- name, place of origin and qualification- right at the start of the camp. At lunch time, about five of them paced up with me on the way to the dining area and earnestly began to question me about what I was doing in a village and why so far from my family. Quickly chipping in each one of them spoke about their family too. Just as the conversation was petering out, one of them shot the same old question and doubled the salvo with a powerful new one.

The Third.

November was two weeks old. Sanjay Park's benches were still cold. The sun teasing us from the behind the clouds, was a kill joy on a misty morning. It was a day of purpose. There were women from seventy villages of Rewari assembled. "Phool nahi chingari hain, hum Bharat ki naari hain." The slogan raised like a war cry definitely opposed their image as a flower (phool) and established the presence of a spark (chingari) in them. The 150-odd women took out a rally and submitted a memorandum to the District Commissioner asking him to order the timely announcement of Gram Sabha meetings by the Panchayats. Exhausted from all the sloganeering and tiring walk, I was slowly making my way back with the women. After holding a conversation on how courage matters to make a difference, the topic steers to how far my home was, how many people I had at home. Of course by now I knew that the best was yet to come. Question no.1, question no.2. No surprises, been there, asked that. But wait, there was a third too!

------------------------------

In a bus. In a train.

On the road again.

In October. In November.

On every field day, I remember.

In sincerity. In enquiry.

On top of their mind, a worry.

In workshop. In campaign.

On a hunt for answers. Again.

"Madam! Aap ki shadi ho gayi?"

"Jiji, Aap kab shadi karoge?"

" Ki Haryanvi chhora se thari shadi hovegi?"

Now nearly two months in rural India, I consider it is routine questioning. Funnily, I had assumed it to be a woman's preoccupation only. Men too have asked me these questions! Sometimes even before we are introduced to each other. Sometimes just after hours of conversation. Sometimes girls of my age put forth the question out of curiosity. Sometimes old men do it to express their disapproval. Some middle-aged women do it with business-like fashion. Some reticent young men obviously do it with bashful indulgence. 

The final question is the worst. "Will/can/would I marry a boy from Haryana?" If I answer affirmative, I have horoscopes of eligible young men neatly lined up before me. If I answer negative, they take it as an offence and immediately ask if I do  not like the Haryanvi people. If I remain silent or laugh away the question, some suggest that I probably have someone in mind. Unless they do know of a guy with George Clooney looks and a Rajinikanth persona, I am not keen to indulge their interests in my matrimonial prospects! Over the couple of months, my answer has evolved to an awkward skyward gesture and a "nothing is in my hands". The pleased fatalists recede with satisfaction.

However these funny everyday moments made me wonder in retrospect, why every conversation of mine had to have this component?! Why marriage? I have been asked about my caste. Understandable, in India's every divisive society. I have been asked about my finances. Understandable, in today's need to categorise the marginalised and the powerful. What has my marital status got to say anything about me, my work or my family?

According to the census report in 2011, Haryana has 871 women for every 1000 men. Girl children between 0-6 years for every 1000 boy children is a miserable 840. This effectively means that there is indeed a shortage of brides in the state. According to few other reports in the media, brides are being "b(r)ought" from other states, sometimes even as far as Assam and Kerala. The child sex ratio is a sharp indicator of things to come. In another 15 years, the bride-shortage problem in Haryana is bound to worsen. This piece of analysis comes after the observation that the sex ratio has bettered over the last decade. Statistics apart, the prevailing situation speaks something about women's situation in the state.

If chowmein and mobile phones are good reasons for a girl to get raped here, the society is composed of nothing but "desperate" young men in the 20-28 years age group. This is not to imply that women above this age range and men above this age range are any less the victims or oppressors, respectively. Every mother is keen to get her son married. Every father is tensed to keep his daughter safe. So they make a deal- engage or get their children married as early as 15-16 years. Sometimes 10-12 years! The son has a wife and the daughter is away from "society's malevolent gaze". An unmarried girl of 20 is a rarity in the villages here and as the elderly women sharply remark, "Aapke umar mein toh do-do bachche honi chahiye!" Tragically this also translates to a girl child being pulled out of school by fifth standard, eighth standard if her parents are slightly more liberal. Once married she is shackled by household chores and choked by the ghunghat. Can she even dream of a good job elsewhere? And finally, marriages have to be splendid affairs. Even the economically backward save for it all their lives. The girl has to have all the "stri-dhan" at the time of her wedding. A girl child, then, is a liability for the villager. A case of equal right to property or prevention of women against domestic violence is simply not even in the same pin code.

And hence, the wretched cycle continues. Statistics to tragedies to statistics again. Marriage is an uneven playing field for the gender debates. My South Indian looks do not make me an alien here as much as my 'abnormal' status of being unmarried and away from family. I cannot read minds but when I am asked if I am STILL unmarried I can see where the line of thought comes from. The mind is a mine-field, treasures and treacheries co-exist. When the questions pop these days, I see the elephant sitting in their living room. It is marriage on their mind. Always.

Postscript: My sunset curfew keeps me safe from the 'unsafe elements' of the society. Any concerned/over-worked kith or kin is requested to show full graciousness and leave this matter un-debated. Also, I am not accepting any proposals, yet.

Dare to catch those forty winks.

Bapoda is a village in Hansi. There is nothing spectacular about the village, no eventful history, no geographical wonder, no pilgrim/cultural spot,  no famous resident, not even a great eatery that can find a mention in some travel magazine. However, it should be on the list of anybody who wishes to see the "real India". Why, you ask. Here is why. Bapoda has no Panchayat! It is a village and it has no Panchayat. India, the world's largest democracy is merely so on paper and we are all aware of its many failings. This was one.

Steering away from the topic, I would first like to throw a little light on what role the Panchayat has in a democracy. Once this is clear, the curious case of Bapoda will strike just as unnatural to you as it does to me now. Primarily, Panchayati Raj was not a system formed with an idea of laying foundations for a "participating democracy". It was the best possible measure for our policy planners to obtain the public's fullest cooperation in the development programmes. India, rural or urban, minus the rising shrill voices of the "civil society", has been a participating democracy only during times of elections. Most of the voting population is unaware of its elected representative at the Municipal Corporation, Panchayat or at the Assemblies. The participation ceases with the ink on the nail and the daily dose of news one gets from the media. In an ideal case, this is just what the citizen ordered for. Reality, sadly, is a nothing but a greater irony. Constant PILs, RTI applications and "sting operations" are the many ways that we choose to watch over the government. It is the need of the hour because in India today, if the citizen sleeps, the government cheats. When we wish that the government stays awake to watch over its citizens, the government only puts the citizens under surveillance. Draconian acts on freedom of expression, restrictions on the Right To Information and a Big-Brother attitude have simply killed the spirit of democracy. It is here that the Panchayati Raj acts as a breath of relief to over seventy percent of India's inhabitants, the rural folk.

The village panchayat is the first level of a three-tier Panchayati Raj system. At the base of the three tier is the village. A cluster of villages come under a block, many blocks constitute a district. The Block Samiti and the Zila Parishad are the block and district level governance bodies. The fundamental purpose of the village panchayat is to look into the village's everyday affairs- problems, social evils, development works, public welfare. The Panchayat must also hold mandatory Gram Sabha meetings for all of its voting population in an open, public space. In Haryana, it is atleast three such meetings in a year. In Rajasthan, it is mandatory to hold four meetings. It may vary across the different states of the country. Keeping in line with the age old depiction of the gram panchayat meetings, it is a gathering of the villagers where anyone can raise any issue, debate over it and/or seek information about development works in the village. There must be atleast ten department officials present in the meetings. This includes government appointed officials like the Anganwadi worker, Nurse, School Teacher, Public Works Department worker, amongst others. So, there lies the beauty of this system. You have a problem with the elected class monitor, question him when the class convenes, with the teacher presiding over the matter. He has to give justified answers to keep his post, otherwise an appeal can be made for his suspension or expulsion from the post. That is how democracy functions. Ideally.

When several of us, mostly urban, citizens take to the net to oppose our government or smirk over satirical jokes delivered through SMS, we can not participate in the state assemblies and question the MLA in the well of the house. (Ward sabhas do happen. Where and when are some of life's unanswered questions.) In a Panchayat, the Gram Sabha gives the villager an opportunity to do just that!! How wonderful is that for "participative democracy"! Unfortunately, in many villages Gram Sabha meetings do not happen. Sadly, in many others the population does not turn up for the meetings. Lastly, in Bapoda a Panchayat does not even exist. No Sarpanch, no Panch, no Panchayat Secretary. Nobody to answer the villagers. Nobody to look after the NREGA programme, nobody to get the drain repaired. Nobody to monitor polio vaccination, nobody to check on the school's mid-day meal menu. If anybody has a problem, they write to the Block Development Officer. If he has the time or if the applicant has the money, the matter will be looked into. Law functions just by existence on paper, there is no government at the local level.

Bapoda's ineffective democracy (or the lack of it) stems just not from the government's absence, but also from the citizens' indifference towards the system. Caste politics have led to multiple coups and no Sarpanch in the last ten years could complete a term. To avoid all the chaos and anarchy, Bapoda decided not to elect a Panchayat at all. The old man, the young chap and the busy mother all have the same one reaction when asked about the Panchayat- a careless shrug. "If the conscious political elements of our country cannot grasp the significance of the Panchayati Raj, much less the people at large." And Jayaprakash Narayan's words seem true even four decades after he made his point, even after the 73rd amendment was introduced nearly two decades ago. Bapoda puts forth that very important question in a democracy. 

Who sleeps peacefully while the other watches over? Who can afford those elusive forty winks? Citizen or government??

"And the truth is, there is something wrong with this country, isn't there? Cruelty and injustice, intolerance and oppression. And where once you had the freedom to object to think and speak as you saw fit, you now have censors and systems of surveillance coercing your conformity and soliciting your submission. How did this happen? Who's to blame? Well certainly there are those more responsible than others, and they will be held accountable, but again truth be told, if you're looking for the guilty, you need only look into the mirror."

V in 'V for Vendetta'

I saw Bapoda. I saw myself in the mirror. I have the faith, I am gaining  the strength. Time for transformation. Time to see the REAL India.

Dialogues outside, Debates inside

Svashaasan Jan Chetna Abhiyan (self-governance public awareness campaign) has got me criss crossing Haryana's country sides in the last two months. Bhiwani and Hisar districts, the last month. Sirsa and Fatehabad districts, as I type this. The landscapes gradually change, the slang and flavour of Haryanvi changes, culture changes and of course, people too change.

Interestingly, the changes in the people I meet are only by degree and not of quality. The objective of the campaign is to enhance people's participation in Gram Sabha meetings, especially women's. The Panchayati Raj Act was introduced as the 73rd amendment in our constitution in 1994. Eighteen years past the momentous change in our system of governance, I am finding that as much as it is a process of providing information, it is also a case of questioning attitudes and challenging mindsets. By reproducing a couple of the conversations that have had an impact on me, I intend not to pass a judgement but simply share my experience.
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It is a dusty afternoon, the sun does not show any respite. It is just our second day, out of four, in Bhiwani-Hisar. Agroha Mod is a bustling junction, tempos and buses vying with each other to pick up the village-bound traveller, with family and baggage. Shops aplenty, line the busy intersection- fruits, tea, hardware, car accessories, veterinary medicines, everything. A motley team of us six volunteers sets out to obtain the fleeting attention of the travellers and shop keepers. In the course, I stop at a hair saloon for men. Sitting and relaxing on a swivel chair, at supreme ease, seeming miles away from the very hustle and bustle of the junction, is Omprakash.
I pass the hand-bill on the Act and move on. This middle aged man calls me back to obtain more information. After all, he was in Hisar, a place now famous as RTI activist-turned-politico Arvind Kejriwal's home town. Information on Gram Sabha, I provide. And I continue,
"Nice to see you take so much interest. Could you please take these two posters and put them up in your village?"
"oh ok." He takes them most willingly and starts to examine the contents.
"Wait! One seems to be on equal women's participation. I can't put that up. What work do they have in a Gram Sabha meeting?!"
"They are stakeholders in the village's developme.."
"They need to sit and make rotis. They've got nothing to discuss", he cuts me indignantly.
"They have their own problems and issues. They need to also know what the government is doing for them", I venture.
"They have no separate problems. We can speak for them."
"No, sir. First tell me, who gets the water?"
"my wife", pat comes his reply.
"Have you asked her once if she's had any troubles getting it from the well."
Omprakash opens his mouth, nothing comes out.
"You do not even acknowledge that she might have her own problems. You will discuss her problems?! Thank you for your time, I'd like to take the posters back."
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Inside the villages here the mohallas (communities) are characterised by the population that resides in it. Some reflect poverty- mud houses, kutcha lanes, et al. The wealthier ones showcase the might of money through  mansions, SUVs and fancy clothes drying on the line. In one such mansion resides Shruti Beniwal. It is a fort, actually, complete with a basketball court and a terrace garden. Extravagance, a trait similar to Sirsa's (in)famous son- Gopal Kanda. Shruti could easily be Anushka Sharma's doppelganger. Pretty, young and charming, she is the Sarpanch of Dadhba. She's an exception by age and gender in all the villages on the campaigns. Treading unfamiliar territory, I probe,
"Do you convene and attend Gram Sabha meetings?"
"no, no! I stay in the house. My husband does that. I just sign on the register", she gushes dutifully.
Excitement quickly replaced by severity, I ask "so what work do you have? Do other women approach you with their troubles?"
"Nothing. Women come to me, here, and discuss their domestic issues. My husband sorts it out for the men."
She was referring to the darbar-like set up that was in motion for the men in the front yard.
I pose my final query, "You've studied till...?"
"I'm 12th pass", the new bride replies with pride.
I leave the premise wondering if a veil exists in forms beyond just a cloth.
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The conversations keep flowing. Sometimes it happens where elderly men play cards, sometimes it happens by the hand pump where the ladies fetch water from, sometimes it happens at the tea stall, sometimes it happens through windows. Everyone of them sparks a debate in me, few of them engage me in a debate with the team. In hindsight, I realise that these short interviews have revealed to me more about these people than they might have wished to expose....

Train. Tractor. Crane

Aravalli hills bordering the village, miles and miles of recently harvested bajra fields or freshly sown sesame fields, short trees, thorny bushes and a single railway track- these are the images that greet me from my boundary wall. The expanse is very typical of village-centred Hindi movies that one might be accustomed to watching. What makes it special for me is that it is now my home. One morning, just as the rising red sun signaled the beginning of a new day, I managed to capture this scene from my backyard. I thought to myself that it was an interesting confluence of nature, man and machine. The thought stayed with me for over a week and everyday it matured. The body of which you will read in the following passages.

TRAIN. It is a commonly publicised fact that two-thirds of India's population is a floating population, that which is constantly on the move. The enormity of the fact sinks in when you just think how many passengers are in a train and how many trains are running across the country at the moment. Incredible, isn't it?! Just as the lines that crisscross our palms and determine our destinies, if one is to believe the palmists, the railway lines, too, speak a lot about our nation, then.

For some of my field visits in the neighbouring districts of Mohindergarh and Jhajjhar I have had to travel by the local train. My brief (20 minutes to 2 hour) journeys in these trains have provided me with insights about Haryana's people that I could not see so explicit during my other interactions with the locals. Rural Haryana has a heart, a large and magnanimous one at that. "Aaja! Baith idhar." On a berth that can comfortably seat three adults, six manage to find place. On a bike that can safely carry two adults, three adults and a goat find space. In a tempo where twelve adults can sit, thirty four manage to find space! Clinging by sheer power of their biceps (only well developed by buffalo's milk), these men (and sometimes women, too!) travel with such élan, I am continually awe-struck when I take to the roads. I am amazed not by the strength of a populace on a vehicle, but by its immediate response to make space for one more of its kind!

Back inside the train, again. From media to Mahabharat, from criket to Kejriwal- in my short, congested encounters I have managed to hold meaningful conversations with random strangers. Twenty minutes may not mean much while valuing the depth of a conversation, but twenty minutes could be an eternity for that city dweller who has never had the time to smile at a co-passenger. Greetings are mandatory here, not by rule, by custom, by tradition. It is a shame, an insult at other times, if one cannot reciprocate a smile or a namaste to the very people who made space for you. In that context, my twenty minute journeys here have had more meaning  than my 40 hours ordeals between Delhi and Chennai during my college days.

I learnt to see that the people around me are messiahs of a culture. I am learning to look beyond what may seem obvious or natural. That which runs on a copper track, loha-pata-gamini, is no mean carrier of passengers and goods, it is a peep into the living trends of a place. It is a TRAIN.

TRACTOR. I live away from my village- Khori, on a road that connects Khori and its single-track railway station. All around me, in every direction, I can see only fields. The nearest building is 20 minutes away by foot.  I wonder if the aerial view would look like a chequered math note book of a child. Except that it would seem interesting, all brown and green. The only break in this image would be the farmers and their tractors. Tractors are the very proof of mechanisation of traditional activities. Like stethoscope to doctor, tractor to farmer. They are solely the property of their respective occupation. Medicine and farming.

Farming. An occupation that is decreasingly becoming viable. An occupation that is increasingly becoming polluted, like everything else. Some statistics that have plagued my being for a while are to do with farmer deaths.  Right from unfair pricing to harmful consequences of Genetically Modified farming, this class of people are bearing the brunt of a lot of problems. In an overwhelming number of interactions with farmers, I have come to understand that most of their children/grandchildren no longer want to continue farming. It is understandable. If the government supplies electricity only between 9pm and midnight, it is dreadful to irrigate one's field on a winter night. Not every young chap in the village is ready to bear such drudgery.

The sight of a tractor, then brings me back to a barrage of unanswered questions on farmer welfare and what the country needs to do keep them happy. The tractor also reminds me of my past indifferent urban life  when not once I had bothered to enquire where my food came from or how much was it priced at. Finally, the tractor makes me question the impact of technology's advance on nature and the relevance of organic farming in today's scenario.

In Bhiwani's cotton fields, I saw for the first time a farmer ploughing his land with the help of a camel. Not a bull. Not a TRACTOR.

CRANE. The freshly ploughed earth, meticulous lines running across the soil and small bunds that demarcate individual property. Such geometric perfection means nothing to these birds, that converge at the plough of the tractor to quickly peck on the numerous worms that the tool unearths. They are in their true and natural element.

The "badlands" of Haryana, as the description goes these days, has made me a victim of strict timings. I have a sunset curfew and any after-the-dark outing has to be in the company of a known and trusted local, male preferably. It chains me and every evening between sunset and bedtime I am left to ponder on all of life's important questions, including if and when Sachin will retire. When I step out of my room, devoid of human company for miles on the road, I am witness to nature in all its glory. My chains come undone so gracefully, just at that moment.

The crane, the barbet, the sparrow, the dove, the parrot, the peacock, the wheatear, the drongo- they all dot my landscape and make my days and more importantly, the nights, infinitely grand. And the kingfisher, too. The ones that can still take to air, that is. From a congested day to a starkly lonely night, my environments become paradoxes every twelve hours. I eat my dinner listening to the sounds of silence. Not Paul Simon's hit single. The symphony of the croaking frog and buzzing insects do not find a match in any stalwarts compositions. The dance of the leaves and the rattle of the twigs is a duet unparalleled.

I relish those moments here, when I can just stop and stare at how graceful a bird takes to flight. I savour those hours, when not loneliness but solitude is bestowed on me and I can enjoy the grandeur of the night sky. Bright spots on a velvet gown. In the city, the accustomed buzz of the air-conditioner was my lullaby. Stars were an unfound treasure in a polluted sky.

So when I find myself in the midst of nature at its best, I now have all the time in the world to stop and look and admire that beautiful white bird. The CRANE.

That picture, that morning, put together some interesting elements of my new life here. I am certain that the thought and its many forms will strike me again in the coming days. Maybe every day. For now, it will be train, tractor and crane.

Postscript: I could have asked and answered the same questions in the city too. It is simply that rural India has given me a chance to show new sensitivity towards everything in my environment- man, machine, nature. I am thankful for that.