Studying Communities

As part of my summer internship, I'm working with a professor from IIM-A, Dr. Navdeep Mathur, on a project funded by the Ford Foundation. We are studying the effect of displacement of the urban poor due to the Sabarmati Riverfront Development Project. As part of my preliminary field visit, we interacted with people who had been relocated into an area called Pirana. Some insights and observations:

While in the field, it is important for the ethnographer to gain the confidence of the people he/she is interacting with. Small gestures such as greeting them in their traditional language, bowing one's head, smiling, accepting things they offer (such as water or a drink), taking photographs of things they express desire to be photographed etc. will go a long way in making people look at the ethnographer as a friend of the community.

An ethnographer should also be able to appease people around him/her, especially when he/she has misunderstood or misjudged an event. When a mantally ill patient came to the shop near which we were seated, something we had said seemed to hurt the man. He explained his condition and told us his story and Binaji (the lady from the NGO, Action Aid, who was assisting us with the survey) apologised to him. This hopefully made him less hostile towards us. By patiently listening to the other person's narrative and expressing through body language that he/she is interested in their story, he/she can boost the confidence of the person being interviewed. This also attracts more people to come over and share their views and stories with us.

It is common when talking to people that they look at the ethnographer as a bridge to their solutions. They expect results, improvements, aid. A researcher is merely studying the community. He/she may be powerless in the face of reform, but his/her writing may be a tool that would enable the formation of the bridge that the people see him/her as. It is thus important that he/she explains his/her purpose of research and assure people that his/her writing would help have an effect on the educated class.

When talking to people, the ethnographer should be conscious that they are not subjects but real people, with real problems and emotions. It is important, hence, that he/she sympathises with them and is able to transcend the difference in educational qualifications, background and comfort zones to enable him/her to experience the life of the community he/she is studying.

I see the ethnographer as one who records the life of people, communities as they live, their traditions, their practices, their way of life, their work conditions, their family values and their response to the world outside their comfort sphere. He/she should be able to distinguish information that he receives from people as factual, real, impressionistic or biased. To enable a neutrality in recording, the questionnaire can be kept as close-ended as possible. Identifying oneself as part of the community and gaining the confidence of the people around can help record realistic notions but has ethical connotations attached to it. An ethnographer should also be able to keep his/her personal biases away from his/her work.

The Altruist Vs. The Moral Scapegoat

David Hume, in ‘An Enquiry Concerning The Principle Of Morals’ writes about benevolence. The nature of benevolence is such that only through its possession does a well-accomplished man be loved by all. It acts as a distinguishing feature and a factor of social approval amongst men who have are of ordinary talent and ability. The only way a man can truly enjoy the advantages of being distinguished in other ways, is by doing good. His high position invites envy and exposes him to danger and by providing shelter to his inferiors, he can protect himself. It is interesting to note that such an act of benevolence has a self-interested motive backing it. Thus, through the outer sheen of benevolence, one is acting with kindness for his own self-interest.

Hume remarks that no qualities are more entitled to the general good-will and approval of mankind than beneficence and humanity, friendship and gratitude, natural affection and public spirit, or anything that comes from a tender sympathy to others and a generous concern for mankind.

He places his next argument on the counter – just like everything is judged on its utility, so is atleast part of the merit attributed to the utility that the benevolence of the man entitles to others. The good that is done under his influence and the use resulting from his social virtues forms a part of his merit and a benchmark of his approval and respect from the society. It is evident that the society judges him on how his power can be of use to them, a clear indication of self-interest.

Many a time, further experience and sounder reasoning pave the way to reconsideration of the initial judgement about an act, based on the changed utility and result that it offers.

Thus, he concludes the paper saying that when one thinks abut a benevolent person, one carries the view of his character and disposition to their good consequences and look at the benign influence and the desirable end with pleasure and satisfaction.

In his appendix on self-love, Hume claims that there exists a principle that all benevolence is mere hypocrisy, friendship a cheat, public spirit a farce, fidelity a snare to procure trust and confidence. If one feels this way, it must be because he may have observed the false pretences among mankind and not feeling any resistance to his acting in such a way, rushes to the general conclusion that the entire species is equally corrupted and that men cannot be distinguished from one another as better or worse, because their various disguises and appearances are the same. Though this may be a harsh statement, it could be true to the lives of the people who have been exposed to the other, unkind side of the world. To a young, abandoned girl who makes a living by the road side, the world would seem as the place where the charity she received from majority of the population would be but the price they paid her for her innocence.

Another principle he talks about is that whatever affection one may feel for others, it is but a version of self-love. Even if one appears to be deeply engaged in schemes for the liberty and happiness of mankind, it is only one’s own gratification that one is really seeking. A person who believes in such a principle may be thought to be insensitive to the true sentiments of benevolence or have any regard for genuine virtue, but Hume says that it need not be so necessarily. But, after all, in friendship, is not one looking for companionship and an ability to understand one another, which arises from being able to mirror oneself in the other? Through one’s friends, one sees himself, through their eyes.

Hume admires the man whose self-love is so directed as to give him a concern for others and render him useful to society and despises one who has no regard for anything but his own gratifications and enjoyments. It seems clear from this that Hume’s primary evaluation of a man’s morality is by considering his ‘utility’ or usefulness to society. But I disagree with Hume here. I feel that if everyone pursues their own self-interest, the society would be more goal-oriented and independent. Everyone would grow together but individually. How peaceful it would be if people did not interfere with one’s personal freedom, as long as it does not curtail the others’.

According to Hume, the universal or partial selfishness of man has a consequence in the theoretical study of human nature and hence it is worthwhile to discuss it. The most obvious objection to the ‘selfish hypothesis’ is that it is contrary to common feeling and natural untutored thought. Hence such a feeling is something that arises form a metaphysical relation to a non-existent self-interest. According to Hume, it is yet to be proved that benevolence, generosity, love, friendship, compassion, gratitude are not selfish passions. But Richard Dawkins’ recent theory of the presence of the selfish gene as part of human biological structure could be used to counter this point.

Hume quotes the example of the mother who nurses her sick child, forsaking her health for the child that finally dies and whose death is followed by the mother’s, for explaining his view that it is difficult to see a real passion or emotion arising from an interest that is imaginary. Here, it is important to realise that the child is part of her. The mother looks at the child as an extension of herself and loves the child. She nurses the child because it is hers. Whether the mother would bestow the same kind of attention for any other child is questionable. This does not show the ‘selfish’ nature of the mother in a bad light, but in fact, highlights the value of love for oneself and significant others.

The hypothesis of disinterested benevolence, as distinct from self-love is a much more simplistic theory as compared to the second hypothesis that all friendship and humanity is but a version of self-love. Hume proposes that mental passions are of primary and secondary nature. Primary passions try to satisfy primary hungers while secondary desires act in such a way that the want and the actions are self-interested. To reap any pleasure from fame or pursue fame from motives of self-love and desire for happiness, nature must have endowed one with a basic (not associated to any general desire) inclination to pursue fame. If there were no appetites of any kind more basic than self-love, there would be not much for self-love to do, as one would have felt few pains or pleasures and no intense ones, and hence there would be little misery or happiness to pursue or avoid, as they would have already become part of the basic feeling. But if self-interest did not prevail, then, for basic survival itself, one would be dependent on another for even the mere question of basic survival. Also, one would not have to be responsible for one’s own welfare and this would lead only to chaos.

Hume ends by saying that basic passions and propensity that resemble one’s primary physical appetites do not arise from and are not versions of self-interest and that they may at times run against self-interest. He also remarks that a philosophy that did not allow humanity and friendship the same privileges that are granted to enmity and resentment is a malignant one.

Thus, Hume sees benevolence as the key to a man’s social success, the utility of his benevolence as the society’s benefit from him and self-interest as depraving and trivial. The triumph of the man who acts for the benefit of others (for his self preservation) is clear to the one who acts for his own good n the open. The altruist truly mirrors himself in others. And they say, mirrors don’t lie.

Cakes, pies, chappathis - unfair!

All men are equal. So why are some people rich, some not so well off, some uneducated, some handicapped, some challenged? Why does it need all kinds of people to make a world?

When I participated in a competition for identifying creative talents, there were many students who had been qualified for their skill in creative performance. Many of these children were blind or challenged in other ways and they sang, danced or painted, just like the children who had been gifted with all the senses. When a Manipuri boy was not selected to take part in the finals, he was so disappointed but he was not even able to express him anguish because he was dumb. When I saw him rolling on the grass trying to dispel his anguish, I realised that the world was not fair.

When the reunion meet for the same event was held about three months back, I saw one of the awardees, a boy studying in class ten, gifted with an amazingly mellifluous voice but with very poor eyesight, trying hard to read a book written in Hindi, keeping the book close to his eye, spelling out word by word. It seemed so unfair that what came easily to me, he had to struggle to achieve. Yet, we had been rewarded with the same prize.

Equality though a pleasing idea, seems too idealistic. How fair is it to give everyone the same share of the pie when their hunger is not of the same monstrosity?

I read somewhere that we must try to establish equality through equity. But for equity, the fundamental goal of everyone being treated the same seems difficult in a society such as ours with its multitude of caste and class differences.

A question that has always seemed to me very as one that could solve most differences between people today if it could be implemented in practice is that of caste differences being abolished. If everyone had the same opportunities, this would promote a sense of competition, which would foster growth. But once again, the seemingly unpleasant head of class differences pokes in and we are left voiceless again. What the rich man from the backward caste cant achieve with his caste identity, he would grab the chappathi of the poor man form the higher caste community using his class identity.

If only we could start all over again.

Lavender ... All alone

As I sat staring at the white walls that pounded me with their silent replies, I heard her smile. Yes, I actually said heard, because that’s the way with her. That’s actually what brought us together. But now she was smiling in her sleep. A crinkly sound like the tingling of the beads on her anklets. I turned to look at her – her dark curls framed her pale face and gave it a sense of etherealness. And she was smiling in her sleep – something she had not been able to do for about six months. She was getting better. I pressed her palm twice gently. She pressed mine back. It was a game we had invented to convey our love through silent understanding.

I stood up and looked at through the window at the placidity of the expanse that stretched across me. Just a movement somewhere, like an earthworm in garden soil. A woman, probably in her late sixties, was walking towards the entrance, carrying a basket of fruits on one hand and a Horlicks bottle on the other. Her age had granted a grace to her and it reflected on the way she carried herself and in her tasteful dressing. I turned away as my eyes met the still leaves and the listless branches. What a sense of balance nature is endowed with, I wondered. Hardly, rarely did She go wrong.

I unconsciously turned at the sound of mild footsteps, like the pattering of a drizzle on the soft earth. Through the slightly parted door, I saw the old woman walk into the opposite room. It did not seem unusual that a newly married and an old couple were brought together as neighbours into the same context at the same time frame. Kidney failure had brought along with it, not just stress but also perspective.

A gentle passion suddenly gripped me as I looked at the mass of waves on her head. I walked to her bedstead and sat by her side and gently brushed her hair.

As she slept by my lap

In an hour unusual for her nap

I looked at her, her hair, her eyes,

A gentle smile now would but suffice

The trust her fingers intertwined in mine

Spoke of her love, benign, nay divine

The quilt, covering just her ankles beneath

Told me she snuggled into my inner warmth

Her gentle murmurs as she slept

Proved our understanding indepth

Her lips slightly parted, eyes barely open

A realisation that comes not often,

That the moon that lovers rant and rave

Is not half as pretty as the fallen eyelash on my wife’s face.

*************

I stepped into the room to find him sitting up and singing quietly about Shiva. If only He heard him… “I’ve brought you fruits. From home – the plaintain tree has grown slightly in size and the hibiscus is just blooming. Soon, we can go back and watch our little babies grow.” “Chitra, I can’t see. Besides why should I watch them grow and turn their backs on us?”, bitterness tinged his throat as heaviness sank into our chest. Our son, Pranav, had settled in the U.S. after his technical education here and he was now so busy that he could not spare time to come and see his dying father.

Or so he thought. He would be by their side now, if only he had not died. I could almost hear his voice, “Amma…”.

It was a young man at the door, calling out softly, “Amma”. A man who seemed but more than twenty-five but whose tired demeanour made him look ten years his age. Hospitals are indeed the place to meet the aged, I thought to myself. I walked out the door to see what he wanted. “I think this fell out of your bag,” giving an apple to me. Indeed, it must have been the one I brought. “Thank you,” I said for which the young man gave me a warm smile. Suddenly, I froze – in front of me was a young man who looked very similar to my own son. In fact, he even smiled and sounded like him! Eager to not subdue the waves of motherliness that flowed through me, I asked him, “What is your name, son?”, for which he replied, ”Arun, amma”. Then, with some hesitation, he asked, ”How is Sir doing?”. “He is okay. The doctors are doing all they can, but he does not want to live…” my voice trailed away as I looked at the man. “Why are you here son?” “My wife needs to undergo a kidney transplant” Ah! The games that God plays with His children. Such a young couple, going through such difficult times at this age… “We are still looking for a donor,” and after a slight pause, he added, “Would you know anyone with blood group B-? It is such a rare group that we are unable to find donors”. A thought struck me. “My husband’s blood group is B- too. Maybe we can try to see if they are compatible…” Arun stared at me dazed. I added, “He does not have any vices and he is quite healthy – it is only psychologically that he is upset.” “But, but…” he looked at me expectantly. “I smiled and said, “Oh, we have no problems. My father-in-law was a surgeon himself. We have no issues with organ donation. But let us not be too optimistic. Let’s first run him through some checks.” I was surprised by my own courage – just looking at someone who resembled my son could evoke such a strong emotion in me. If only Pranav was around…

“Okay, Amma, I’ll take leave then. I’ll inform the doctors about your willingness to help us. Thank you so much!” he said as he turned and started walking back. Then, he stopped and said, “Would you like to meet Sneha, my wife?” . I nodded. “Please come this way” and he led me to room 309, just across the hallway. I entered to see a very pale young woman resting. Though pallid, her face glowed with the smile she welcomed me with. Her waist-length wavy black hair fell gently on her shoulders as she tried to sit up unheeding my dissuasions, but she fell back out of exhaustion and looked at me, mildly embarrassed. “It’s okay, Sneha,” I said, “I’m Chitra and my husband is admitted in the next room, 310. How are you feeling now?” She smiled back and said, “I’m doing well Amma, thank you”. Her voice was mellow but had a musical tone to it. Arun started telling her excitedly about how we were willing to undergo tests to see if my husband’s kidney would match hers. The smile and the enthusiasm that lit up their faces reminded me of the times when I was just as young as Sneha. Lost in my reveries of the path we had trodden together, with its share of thorns, I didn’t hear Sneha thanking me. “… thank you Amma, you don’t know how much this means to us.” I smiled back and said, “Wouldn’t I do it for my son?”

My little Pranav would love cars

His fascination was for stars

As a little kid

Parade as a policeman he did

Thought we maybe would

See him in the services, we could

Imagined him as a doctor

Maybe a researcher,

Could be an engineer

How about an actor?

Would he be a dentist?

Will he be an economist?

He should be happy always

And his success would amaze

Us, and the world around us,

But more than just success

What was more important to us,

Would be his happiness.

Many a dream did we have

Many a wish did we make

That one fine day

Will come our way

When our son will make us proud, we said

With his happiness sound

Never did we think that

Our only hope would sink,

As in a country far away

While his father ignorantly here lay

Would with an accident meet

And lie dead by my feet

****************

Isn’t it strange that we look around everywhere for something but it turns out that it was staring at your face all the time? Our case wasn’t exactly that but after the 6 months that we spent time and money looking for the perfect donor, it turned out that they were our neighbours! Atleast now, Sneha will be better and we can start the new edition of our lives. Raman uncle is very excited about his kidney being used to help Sneha. So much so, that they don’t want to take any money from us. It is almost like a family member donating his kidney. If only there was something we could do in return.

I hear Sneha opening her eyes. As I looked at her mild brown eyes, I remembered how I had felt when I first looked into them. Her patience, her tenderness and her silence drew me to her. As we joined hands, we looked out through the window at a future of togetherness, love and health. This time, it had lost its dream-like quality and was tangible – we could both feel it and we held on to it, tightly – we had waited long enough.

****************

He is not getting any better. We both knew that the end was close, but death is something you never can really prepare. Separation, loneliness, grief – completely alien feelings to him. Pranav leaving us was sudden and the shock had taken too much time to settle down, for grief to occupy its place. But now, another loved one – and so soon… I tried to blow away these thoughts as I stood at the window, the wind caressing my face, unable to smoulder the fire inside.

All he is holding onto is the hope that Pranav is coming back and I have no desire to cut the only thread that links him to this world. But for how long? asked the daunting voice.

Let me go see Arun. Watching him made me remember Pranav. It was somehow a tonic to my grief. I healed faster or maybe it was just a delusion. As long as he was here, I won’t feel the absence of either of them that much, but once Sneha is fine…

“Hello Amma! Come join us, I’m just squeezing some juice for us.” I sat next to Sneha and she reached out to hold my hand. “We’d really love to do something in return. Is there anything at all we can do? Please tell us Amma…” “You are like my son and would I expect anything in return?”

****************

The operation had been yesterday and now he was recovering. His condition was not too stable and the doctors had once again nodded their heads in silent misunderstanding. As I sat thinking how much joy one person could give another, he slowly reached out to hold my hand and we smiled, in quiet understanding.

****************

I held her long, smooth fingers and gazed at her nails. There were tiny patches of nail polish that glittered as it caught the lights. Lavender was her favourite shade and I would sit with her on Sunday afternoons, painting her nails as we talked about the dreams for our future –the walks we would take together, the places we would visit, the house we would build, the child we would have…

Her fingers tightened their grasp around me and I gazed at her. She was getting her colour and her appetite back. Though it would take her another six months to start leading a normal life, this was so much better than the weekly hurried rush to the dialysis centre, the food restrictions, and the tension of finding a donor.

It was now time to get back, start afresh with renewed health, hope and vigour. We’d fight our way back – we would show the world!

******************

Suddenly his health deteriorated. We didn’t know why. It just did. I held on to his large palms with a vigour that was new to me – a childish whim that if I let go of his palm, he would move away from me. Arun stood by my side and I looked at him. As the sunlight streamed in his hair was highlighted and he looked so much like Pranav. “What did the doctors say?” “Nothing… his health is okay… its probably just old age and that he is emotionally upset… losing hope… nothing I can do… Wait… there is probably something… that you can do.” I thought of it carefully. It seemed quite bizarre, yet plausible. Excitedly, I told him my plan.

******************

Set in the hospital room number 310. White starched walls, pale pink curtains drawn to let sunshine stream in. A picture of a quaint house perched on a mountain top adorns the wall. Mr. Raman is lying on his bed chanting slokas in a weak voice, while Mrs. Chitra is making apple juice. Enter Arun, dressed smartly in formals. He looks at Mrs. Chitra who smiles encouragingly at him. He then turns to Mr. Raman and starts speaking in a low, engaging tone.

Arun: Appa..

(Mr. Raman looks around confused, and then faces the source of the sound.)

Arun: Appa…

Mr. Raman: Pranav…

Arun: I have come back to you now, Appa. I’m not going back from now on.

Mr. Raman: Are things okay with you Pranav?

Arun: I’m fine dad.. How are you doing? I’m sorry I didn’t come and see you when you were unwell.

Mr. Raman: No, that’s okay son.. as long as you are happy, we are satisfied.. But what took you so long?

Arun: Oh, my office refused to grant me a holiday and after convincing them, it was difficult getting my visa and it took time for the rest of the formalities to get done…. (his voice trailing)

Mr. Raman(softly, his voice shaking in anticipation): So, will you be here from now on?

Arun(in a low voice): Yes Pa. (Looks at Mrs. Chitra) I have resigned my job…

Mrs. Chitra: Atleast, he has been able to make it…

Mr. Raman remains silent.

Mr. Raman and Arun continue conversing in between pregnant pauses and stifled hopes, they hold each other hands as Mrs. Chitra looks on with tears glistening in her eyes.

********************

I went back to Sneha to tell her how happy Mr. Raman was. Maybe it was a good thing that his vision was very poor. God was really a genius – he had actually created an innovative solution for every problem. I moved near Sneha’s bed to find her sleeping. “Mr. Raman thinks I’m his son. He is so happy now…. The doctors think that now that his hope is renewed, he should very soon be back on the path of recovery…” I whispered softly. She didn’t respond. I touched her cheek to find it cold. Stunned, I reached to press her palm twice and she didn’t respond. The lavender shades shone in the twilight that had set in.

Orange Liquorice Sticks And Red Cherry Toffees

I used to visit my grandfather’s petite little house every Thursday evening. I’d stroll through the woods, enjoying the slight breeze that caressed my face. It was a long walk but looking at the rabbits hopping, squirrels scurrying and the myriad colours and sniffing the fragrances that wafted through the air, it seemed to take just a few minutes. When I reached the little house, Grandpa used to be sitting outside, reading his book of poems, waiting to see me. We'd take a small tour around the garden and he would point out the new arrivals to our world - the saplings, the blooms, the dew dipped leaves and the baby animals. We would then go inside and I would sit on the little stool that he had carved out for me, while he sat on his grand old armchair. I would tell him about my lessons, my teachers, my friends, the bullies, the different things that happened at home and he would listen to me with his eyes wide open, in rapt attention. As we talked, he would pass on the red tin biscuit with an assortment of cookies - oatmeal, butter, cashew, salt and sugar and I would pick out my favourite oatmeal cookies, eat them all one-by-one and never leave one for him. Everytime, he would ask me for an oatmeal cookie and I would flash my "I'm innocent – I did not eat them!" look at him and say that there were none. He would laugh and I would laugh back. It was a ritual, a tradition we followed every time.

After cookies came two mugs of hot chocolate which we would eat sitting on the porch overlooking the garden. Grandpa would tell me stories of princes, princesses, castles, talking teapots and singing bears. I would listen, enraptured, transported into his fantasy world. When he finished narrating the story, it would take me a few minutes to stop thinking about the end - like the computer shutting down after a long hour's work. Those few minutes, grandpa would look at me, smiling to himself, a twinkle hiding behind his grey eyes. It never occurred to me to ask him why he smiled – I assumed that grandpas usually smiled at their granddaughters.

It would be time to go back home. Grandpa would take me back through a less scenic but still enjoyable route. I always looked forward to this part of the journey because my favourite sweet shop was on the way. We would stop by Sunrise and he would buy me my much loved orange liquorice stick and the red cherry toffees. He never bought anything for himself, but would lick my stick, smack his lips and say, “Mmmm….”. Then, he would walk along with me till the big banyan tree that marked the beginning of the street I lived in and then, would look into my eyes and bade me farewell saying “Goodbye child!”. Nothing more – no mention of the next meeting, no telling me how much he enjoyed (or did not enjoy) being with me… Nor did I. Somethings sometimes are better expressed through silence and the momentary meeting of eyes than garrulous eloquence.

But Grandpa used to never come home nor did he have pictures of us in his house. When I asked mother about it, she said Grandpa never wanted to be reminded of people. Though I did not understand what she meant by that, I did not ask her again about it because I noticed she had become pink and flustered.

I loved Grandpa. I don’t know since when. Is there a timeframe from when you can say you loved people? I don’t remember a time when I did not visit him on a Thursday. I don’t remember the first time I went to see him either. With Grandpa, it was always an eternal feeling, he was always there and I always loved him.

Which was why I was surprised when our Thursday meetings stopped. When mother told me a week before my ninth birthday that it was no longer necessary to visit Grandpa, I just grew blank. Something screamed inside my head the word ‘death’ over and over till the voice was so loud that I could but not blurt it out. It just rolled off my tongue as I stared at my mother. She nodded her head slightly and gently pressed my hand.

On my ninth birthday, unfortunately a Thursday, I received a parcel. Eagerly opening it, I found it contained my favourite orange liquorice sticks and red cherry toffees – enough to last me a lifetime – and a letter. I opened the letter to find a slanted, thin and slightly wobbly handwriting in a yellowing ruled paper. It said:

“Little child,

The joy you have given me over these years has been paramount. I have never mentioned it before but I awaited every Thursday with bated breath, hoping you would come. Seeing you skip near the oak tree made my day. I loved every moment I spent with you.

I am sorry I had to leave without saying goodbye. Death is a strange thing as you will realise when you grow up. It does not give you the time to express your love at the moment you want to most. It separates you from the most loved ones and takes you to a new place. I think I can take for granted the fact that now I’m in a safe place, but dear child, I miss you.

I will not be there to take you around our garden, show you the little gifts from God, eat cookies nor will I be able to spin you stories… ah… the enraptured look on your face… if only I could capture that for eternity…

What I can do is to leave with you my personal belongings and a photo of you that I cherish. My books, my poems and my little knick-knacks are all yours.

Thank you for not treating me as just another neighbour but loving me like your real grandfather.

Goodbye child!”