B in India

Final post: What have I learned?

2008-08-04T11:47:00.002+05:30

Incredibly, I will be leaving India in two days. That's okay, though, because I think I have reached my naan saturation point.

Results of fieldwork:

Big take-home insight #1: Ambivalence regarding minority politics

I'm very torn about the Gorkha movement, as I am about all the minority-language-group struggles I have been researching. On one hand, if the society around you has defined you in terms of your ethnicity, and discriminates against you on that basis, it seems entirely within your rights to resist that. And if the society around you is full of negative stereotypes about this category that they put you into, it seems natural and warranted that you would want to counter that with a movement highlighting what is good about your ethnicity.

I feel sympathy with these movements because the status quo is so unfair.

Then they go and run around burning the cars of the sons of the people who disagree with them.

So I guess I also feel ethnic identities are ultimately dead ends as a means to build a society. There is not enough room for flexibility and generosity of spirit. All the movements I have looked at always end up being kind of fascist internally and racist externally.

Big take-home insight #2: Lonely Plant is wrong about fare negotiations

Both the Lonely Planet and the Rough Guide I have consulted during my time in India advise you to always negotiate cab and rickshaw fares in advance. This is nonsense.

Remember your basic game theory: at the end of the ride, you are already where you want to go. The driver can either take the fare you offer or get nothing. The bargaining power is on your side.

Therefore, you should NEVER make any attempt to negotiate the fare before the ride. Just get in, stay quiet, and pay what you want at the end of the ride.

I've had tremendous luck with this. If the driver protests and won't take the fare, you set it the money on the dashboard and walk away. (Best to get out of the vehicle before offering the fare). As I've become more bold, I've stopped being bothered when the driver tries to hold initial negotations. Sample dialogue:

Me: "Can you take me to [x place, a measly 20 rupees worth of distance away]?"

Rickshaw driver: "100 Rupees."

Me: "No." [climb into rickshaw and sit down]

Rickshaw driver: "90 Rupees." [climbs into rickshaw and starts engine -- major tactical mistake on his part]

Me: "No."

[Rickshaw driver shrugs, begins to drive. When we arrive at destination, I offer the entirely reasonable 20 rupees and we go our separate ways. This has worked thus far.]

I always offer a reasonable fare. If I were a true economist I would try to offer nothing and see if I could get away with it. But, as you know, economics, the term for which is derived from the Greek for "if I had channeled my mathematical acumen into computer science I'd be a zillionaire by now", is a discipline full of small and bitter people.

My whole plan is, of course, subject to the caveats that (1) you don't want to do this in some dark and deserted place. Fortunately, in India it is never deserted. And (2) you don't want to be so grossly unfair as to bring the wrath of the crowd upon you. But no rickshaw driver is going to run after you on the grounds that you only paid him the normal price, rather than the grossly inflated white person price. And the law isn't on their side because they're supposed to be running the meter and because Indian policemen loath Indians.

Also, you have to have the correct change with you and you have to know the appropriate fare for the place you are going. The latter doesn't take too long to get figured out. But getting change in India is really difficult. I mean, heaven help you if you've just been to the ATM and all you have are 500 rupee bills (~$12). Those you can really only use at a bustling establishment, like a McDonald's or a store being run by Sikhs or Marwaris (they're like the Jews/Chinese people/Lebanese of South Asia). Maybe Gujaratis. But, in general, no one ever has change.

Liet motif of time in India: Poor people's fundamental problem = not enough money.

Big take-home insight #3: India’s identity crisis and the limits of my ability to understand this place

If you want to say something about what India ought to do or what's going to happen to here, you can't get all that far before you have to discuss Hinduism. Because not only are about 80% of the people self-described as Hindus, but also because many of the customs associated with Hinduism—caste in particular—are put in practice by non-Hindus: Muslims, Christians, etc.

But Hinduism is a really hard subject even for Indians. For one thing, Hinduism is really internally diverse, and there is a very politically-loaded debate about what being Hindu actually entails.

As far as I can tell, there is a correlation between education, income, and ambivalence about Hinduism and, by extension, Indian history.

I have to mention this ad for Maruti cars (one of two Indian car companies, though now partially owned by Suzuki) about which I could write an entire dissertation. It is the most amazing ad for displaying the ambivalence of upwardly-mobile Indians about India. The slogan is “India comes home in a Maruti-Suzuki” and the commercial is a montage of homecomings (in Maruti Suzukis) against a sentimental song about love of India.

But all the images imply this profound uncertainty about what the customer is supposed to like about India. Is India terrific because it is a rising world power, becoming richer, more modern, and considerably-more-Westernized than many of its post-colonial peers? That is, is India terrific because it is changing? Or was India always a pretty terrific place? Can both of those things be true?

The closing image of the ad, for example, is of a boy (in Western clothes and backpack) hitchhiking with a sign that says “Need to be home for Diwali.” In English. In the background, slightly out of focus, you see the old, rickety bus that he was taking, broken down by the side of the road, with Indian men in traditional garb milling about, unloading some of the baggage. Then a new Maruti-Suzuki pulls up and picks up the boy.

So, the protagonists in the image are these comfortable, middle-class Westernized Indians who hitchhike in English. Yet, this boy, on his way home from the college where he is learning terribly modern stuff, is intent on celebrating a traditional holiday. And a sort of stereotypical, dysfunctional, poor India is there in the background—looking kind of picturesque, actually—but is easily transcended thanks to Maruti-Suzuki.

Indian politics has a lot of references to this ambivalence.

For one thing, India had a famously secular set of founding fathers in the Indian National Congress and the Indian communist parties. They tended to be socialists and Marxists, so many of them were pretty skeptical about God, let alone religion. For that secular founding generation, India’s lessons for the rest of the world were evidenced by its leadership in self-determination of colonized people, the Gandhian model of non-violent political struggle, and non-alignment in the wars of the capitalist, Western powers.

To people who are Hindu fundamentalists, though, the Indian founders' secularism was basically hostility toward Hinduism. It is the case that the Indian constitution and legal code ban certain aspects of what-was-once-considered-Hindu culture, like untouchability. And, over time, socialism, secularism, Gandhian political practice, and non-alignment have all become a lot less popular in India. And there is the uncomfortable fact that the secularists’ version of why-India-is-a-really-awesome-place didn’t have very much to say about India prior to colonization.

There is also a history running back to colonial times where lefty, secularist Indian intellectuals respond to Western critiques of Hinduism by drawing attention to the aspects of Hinduism that look really good according to Western lefty, secularist standards and, particularly, the aspects that seem even better than old-timey Western traditions. For example, the tradition of renunciation of the material world is cited as demonstrating that this is a culture that is less grasping and economically exploitative than the Protestant-work-ethic-of-the-British-and-other-white-folk. A more contemporary example: the worship of goddesses can be cited as proof that Hinduism has better feminist bona fides than the West, female infanticide not withstanding.

In these treatments, aspects of Hindu culture that don't appeal to Westerners are often blamed on foreign influence. People argue the British made the caste system oppressive, whereas previously it was quite fluid, or that the Muslims are the ones that screwed up gender relations.

Yet, even if there is scholarly support for a reading of Hinduism that is not caste-discriminatory, is more gender equal, less racist, etc., the fact is that for millions of Hindus who practice now, those objectionable-to-Westerners aspects of Hinduism are part of their beliefs. I definitely don't have the expertise to say which interpretations of Hinduism are most consistent with the various texts and so on. But it does often seem that traditions and texts are being culled for whatever figures and traditions look right according to outsiders. Finding an "indigenous progressive tradition" is a little oxymoronic if you go looking for that tradition based on a foreign definition of "progressive".

The most prominent political defense of Hinduism against political secularists is Hindutva, often called Hindu fundamentalism; the movement developed as a response to Christian missionaries. But Hindutva, too, is often transparently over-compensating in its attempts to present itself as valuable according to outsiders’ standards. The most extreme example I know is the claim that the Vedas contain the secrets of quantum physics and nuclear weapons.

Basically, I think Hindutva still contains a lot of culling of Hinduism according to what will make India seem more impressive to foreigners, but with a unique take on what outsiders allegedly find inferior in Hinduism. Whereas India's founding fathers were very concerned with the negative views of caste, for example, Hindutva is quite concerned by the view, which the Muslim Mughal kings and the British colonialists shared, that Hinduism isn't very manly. So Hindutva is really hostile to a lot of the androgeny in Hindu tradition, and plays up the myths and traditions that surround men and military conquest. Not to mention the claim that Hindus have always secretly known how to make WMDs.

Now, it is possible that I am overstating the extent to which debates about Indian culture and Hinduism are shaped by defensiveness against Western standards; that could be a function of my own prejudices and tendency to overstate the importance of the West. If one believes, for example, that there is something inherently sensible about the equality of all humans then maybe the secularists’ rejection of caste doesn’t have to be categorized as Western-informed. But Indians do talk a lot about this problem of being seen as inferior.

Here, I have to mention my other favorite part of the Maruti Suzuki ad, at the risk of belaboring the point. An older gentleman is waiting impatiently outside his beautiful house, which is a sort of sleek, Nordic design, the sort of house Ikea would sell, if it sold houses. His wife stands nervously in the background. His grown-up daughter arrives (in a Maruti Suzuki), looking a bit sheepish. Then, out of the driver’s side of the car emerges a young man, who walks up to Dad, smiles and holds an arm out to shake hands. (NB: he offers a handshake. He does not fold his hands and make a little bow). Mom and Dad are immediately excited to see their daughter has brought home a future son-in-law, and all delay (which was definitely not any fault of the reliable yet affordable Maruti Suzuki) is forgiven.

The most notable thing about this young man is that he is wearing a Sikh turban. The Dad is not. Maybe the family isn’t Sikh. Or maybe their daughter has actually found someone to marry who is more devout than her parents. The marriage is thoroughly modern: it clearly wasn’t arranged, their daughter is apparently off living her own self-actualized life. Her beau is obviously Westernized, what with the handshake and the button down shirt he is wearing. And, yet, he’s completely at home in Indian tradition and, in fact, maybe even better able to integrate it into his identity than the future-in-laws.

Such is the promise of the future generations of India, which will be both more and less Indian than their parents. While still driving Maruti Suzukis.

Now, this is where it gets really weird for me:

I think that the process of trying to justify Hinduism and Indian culture to outsiders is demeaning and not necessarily helpful to India's national project.

But I'm not a cultural relativist. So I pretty much share the view that the good points of Indian society are the ones that look good by my lights (pro-female, universal equality of people, acceptance of homosexuality, etc.). And my wishes for India subscribe pretty much entirely to a Western leftist's teleology: get rid of arranged marriages, castes, excessive use of cardamom in desserts, and so on.

I don't think, as an outsider, I could ever develop a critique or view of Indian society that was more informed by its internal truths than by me trying to find my own values within Hinduism and other Indian traditions. I can’t pretend Indian society doesn’t seem really screwed up to me, but I also believe the conversation about this alleged screwed-up-ness is one to which I can't contribute very much, if at all.

Which, in turn, does make me think my ability to ever recommend or predict where India is concerned is pretty limited.

But I already have my whole second book—about this Maruti-Suzuki commercial—mapped out. So that should get me through to tenure.

In conclusion...

I have met one big goal with this fieldwork: I had no hypothesis about why some language groups get states and others don't when I arrived here. And now I have some hypotheses, which I think I can clarify and test. And I know a lot more stuff about India.

I've also become not-too-bad at cutting my own hair, had a chance to live with my younger sister again, and had fun writing this blog. So thanks for reading it.

xox
B (soon to be not in India)

A car being burnt outside my window

2008-07-26T20:16:00.000+05:30

Yesterday, someone in the crowd at one of the GJM's rallies was shot while protesting outside the house of a leader of the recently-deposed GNLF. That man's house and two cars were burned, and other GNLF-connected people also had their houses or stores damaged. I'm not clear on whose car I saw being burned. But, so far as I know, there were no people attacked.

A little visual meditation on the nature of the Indian state: Note the position of the police as the crowd rolls the car to where they are going to burn it.

Compared to what this area has been through in the past, this was really a pretty contained and limited episode of political violence. It was definitely obvious that (1) these guys were very knowledgeable about the safest and most effective way to burn a car. They had crowd control going and everything. And (2) the spectators were all quite calm -- there weren't even shouts of encouragement or solidarity, actually. They definitely seemed more like observers than participants.

And today things were very calm. The stores were open, the car removed from the road, the rallies back on.

Oof... I'll write something more complete about my take on the Gorkhaland movement later.

I actually only have 12 more days in India. I'm already supposing that I'll have to make a return trip, so I don't feel too panicked to finish things up. Nonetheless, it did sneak up on me.

As compelling a reason for a separate state as any

2008-07-06T14:34:00.000+05:30

Darjeeling really isn't much like the rest of India. For one thing, its not flat, hot, or particularly crowded. And there is much less rice, lots more noodles. Also, they tend not to use milk in their tea. (There is also supposedly some stuff about separate cultural identities and unique historical civilizations or blah blah whatever that my interviewees are always going on about.) But a REALLY important difference, and one that I am uniquely well-qualified to measure, is the region's surprisingly advanced cuteness technology.

This was first evident in the glorious array of umbrellas on daily display.

Then there is the broad deployment of pint-sized uniforms.

And, for another thing, the better weather and quieter streets mean that people walk their kids about in public quite a bit. There are even pony rides! Another impact of the weather seems to be that the town's indigenous cuteness production is oriented toward knitting children's clothing (note the pink striped sweater on the left in the pony-ride picture and the blue cap in the shot below).

Finally, many people keep pet dogs here, and those are pretty rare in the rest of India. Doma is the puppy who lives at my guest house. (Up close, she kind of has the face of the dog who guards the Labyrinth, from the David Bowie movie).

You may recall that in an earlier post I put forward a rough unified field theory of the commercial-availability of cuteness. In which the critical explanatory variable for high levels of cuteness technology was low birth rates. WELL: as previously hypothesized, Darjeeling is, in fact, near the replacement rate with total fertility of 2.1 children per woman, based on the 2001 census. This is well below the rate for the state (2.6) and far below India's national fertility rate of 3.2 children/woman, which, as we have seen, dooms much of plains India to its shocking lack of appreciation of stuffed penguins.

Albert has voted that we remain in Darjeeling for the balance of the trip.

The Indian Idol ripple effects continue

2008-07-02T19:18:00.000+05:30

When last I was in Darjeeling (November 2007), the Gorkha Janmurti Morcha (GJM), led by a firm supporter of Indian Idol winner and ethnic Gorkha Pradan Tamang, was trying to unseat the incumbent Gorkha National Liberation Front (GNLF), led by an old-timey guy who probably secretly misses the days of radio.

Fast-forward to July 2008, and the GNLF and its unhip leader have been forced to step off the political scene. And the GJM is now leading the charge for the creation of a Gorkha state. Technically, Darjeeling is in the midst of an "indefinite" strike, but this week is a "relaxation" of the strike, so things can go along as before. (What, you feel like that's fundamentally a contradiction of the concept of a strike? Well, mister, there is no place for your Western-centric purist notion of political tactics here in India. You probably think that a "relay" fast-unto-"death" doesn't make any sense, either.)

The GJM flag is up everywhere now, and there have been rallies held regularly to keep people focused on the cause.

The GJM presents a certain normative tension, something that strikes me when I read about many different mass movements. It is clear that many, probably most, people here are passionately in favor of the GJM and its cause. But despite and even because of that genunine popularity, there is clearly a lot of pressure to conform. There is a wing of the GJM for almost any identity you can think of: women, youth, students, truck drivers, private school teachers, hotel owners-- even a wing for non-Gorkhas. Other political parties are essentially non-existent, and anti-GJM posters are immediately torn down. The group is starting to enforce social reforms, like cracking down on alcohol use. The GJM is quite tactically focused on strikes and road blockades, so it issues all kinds of directives about when people can and can't work and travel.

It's probably true that if these measures were put to a vote they'd prove overwhelmingly popular. But it's also true these measures are being unilaterally announced by a small group of people who've never even run in an election. From one point of view, this all looks like a cynical strategy by the GJM leadership to remove any potential opposition, and from another point of view it is a spontaneous, grassroots development that is essentially democratic.

Today's illustration: the private school students' march!

Schools are actually on summer break, but about 500 students turned out this morning - running the gamut from age 9ish to 16ish. They were all in their uniforms and organized in pairs, the girls first, then the boys, lined up in the town square by school. Then a GJM leader said a few words and they proceeded on a little march through town.

My first thought was that this was the most adorable political protest I'd ever seen. It was a veritable sea of pigtails and pleated skirts. And, maybe I'm just getting pervy as I get older, but I think I would have had quite a bit more trouble concentrating in middle school if all the boys had been required to wear those cute ties, not to mention properly tailored pants. They looked so dapper!

There was nothing particularly menacing about the gathering, either. For one thing, it looked like a good way to correct one of the problems of summer, which is that you don't necessarily have all your friends together in one place as often as you might like. Second, attrition from the march-through-town was already starting within the first few blocks--I'm not sure they could have kept things going much beyond the first internet cafe they passed. Third, the kids were supremely undisciplined with the call-and-response they were supposed to be doing as they marched. I've seen a number of these GJM marches now, and about every 40 people or so there is supposed to be someone who shouts things like "We want Gorkhaland!" and then the crowd around answers "Gorkhaland! Gorkhaland!". And variations ensue. There are always some people walking fairly far away from any "caller" who aren't really shouting. And if one of the callers is uninspiring or stops shouting, that can result in a gap of about 40-50 people in the line who are just strolling along.

Well, with the kids, a few teachers had selected the right kid for the "call" part of the job -- someone popular but also loud. But most of the students put in the "call" role were blushing and muttering instead of shouting out their lines. And, I'm sorry to say it, but there was not a single girl in a "call" role who was doing an adequate job, and most were very giggly. Perhaps the neckties do have excessive swoon inducing properties.

So, this morning I was thinking the whole thing was pretty amusing and harmless, not too National Socialist Party Youth or anything, despite the uniforms. But then in the paper today there is a story about a teacher getting fired because his students told that parents that he had criticized the idea of Gorkhaland in class.

Young people engaged with the democratic process or totalitarians in knee socks? Can anyone really know?

Also, I think my book of Sudoko puzzles is a give away

2008-06-21T18:54:00.000+05:30

Hello from Siliguri! Crossroads of Northeast India and jumping-off point for Darjeeling, if they ever stop with their strikes

I’m going to write more about this town in a future post. It is a challenging place to describe. But I wanted to mention something super exciting: BOTH of my first two contacts here mentioned that I might be put under surveillance by the government while I am here!! Because this is a border area and the strikes are still on in Darjeeling (north of here) and they try to keep tabs on all foreigners in the area. Plus, it wouldn’t be too hard to follow me – I am the only white person in town, my residence is registered at the police station, and rickshaws trail me on the street as it is, hoping I’ll change my mind about walking.

Still, I believe that when certain facts inevitably come to public view, they will give me away as someone who is definitely not an international woman of mystery.
1. I have a really lame phone. Seriously, the Vodaphone guys were shocked by it – they didn’t say this to me directly but I know “purana” means “old” in Hindi.
2. I’ve been reading the Bourne Identity. I figure real cloak-and-dagger types probably get annoyed by all the inaccuracies in popular culture depictions of deep cover operations.
3. I checked my luggage on the flight here. Not conducive to quick get-aways.
4. I have a blog.

In limbo

2008-06-12T15:03:00.000+05:30

Harrumph! I'm stuck in Kolkata, again. Last fall I got stuck here for a day when I missed my flight because of general strikes against the West Bengal government (http://tinyurl.com/2rrnph); a week or so ago I had an unplanned two-day reprieve from research when the West Bengal government called a general strike against the central government and then the opposition called an "us too" general strike against the central government for the following day (http://tinyurl.com/5aavry); and now I'm stuck here because I missed my flight to Darjeeling. Because the Darjeeling-statehood party called a general strike and asked all tourists to evacuate, then relaxed their stance a bit, at which point the anti-Darjeeling-statehood party called a counter-strike (http://tiny.cc/ODl92).

I feel West Bengal is like a little bit of Latin America in India. Full of anachronistic leftism, overzealous civil disobedience, and totally loony, paranoid anti-Americanism. (I don't mind anti-Americanism, as long as it isn't too UFOs-and-second-gunman-esque. Saturday's interview was all about the Darjeeling agitation is a US plot meant to destroy the otherwise vibrant Indian communist movement and slow the global revolution of the proletariat. I think my Indian Idol theory is better).

The increased urgency of the Darjeeling statehood movement over these past few weeks is generally good for my dissertation -- more to observe. And I really appreciate that everyone here is working hard to make my topic policy-relevant. But it raises problems for me when they get over-enthusiastic and limit my ability to do my research. The general strike is not -- I don't think -- all that dangerous. But, while it's still being strictly observed, it isn't possible to rent a room in Darjeeling, move around, get food, etc. And, the reporters I've been conferring with me tell me, political leaders are keeping a low profile and won't give interviews during the strike.

Actually, that is something I didn't realize: the political parties are technically supposed to be inactive during general strikes, too. If a political party uses cars or keeps its office open during their own general strike, an accusatory article appears in the paper. This is surprising to me because, in my mind, (a) general strikes are inherently political - the one thing they are definitely not is a day off from politics and (b) general strikes are supposed to pressure the government by causing economic losses and inconveniences. But since political parties don't make anything or facilitate anything, what's so intimidating about them not working? The opposition strikes fear into the heart of the government by taking a day off?

The rest of India thinks Bengalis are lazy. I think they've probably just been enervated by sixty years of excessive general strikes.

Hello? Hello?

2008-06-10T13:10:00.000+05:30

I have often wondered why I decided I would do fieldwork, knowing that I don’t particularly like talking to strangers. But, now that I’m in West Bengal, trying to interview people in a place where I don’t have many contacts, I am realizing that there is an aspect to fieldwork I dislike even more than talking to strangers: talking to people on the phone.

My best college friend, Michelle from LA, could tell you about how little I like the phone. About how, when we were in college, I would go weeks without checking my voicemail. And about how I still sometimes do that. And about my tendency to not return calls for a long time even after I listen to my messages. And how my phone goes unanswered a suspiciously large percentage of the time. Large enough that, if you didn’t know me, you might start to suspect I was sitting by the phone and letting calls go to voicemail, just because I didn’t want to use the phone. But, since Michelle does know me, she is certain that is what I’m doing.

Now, I’m stuck here making tens of phone calls per day trying to get interviews. I just hate it.

First, there are all kinds of technical oddities with Indian phones—I can’t possibly get into it here, seeing as how the capacity of the internet is finite, but in India you have to dial the numbers differently for cell phones, land lines, long distance land lines, and long distance cell phones. And it has taken ages to master that. And, for whatever reasons, even properly dialed calls get dropped about 25% of the time.

Oh, also, West Bengal has no government phone directly. Full stop. There literally isn’t one, in print or online. In fact, the government of West Bengal website does not list even a single phone number. And, also, so far as I can tell, if you do call the West Bengal seat of government, there is no operator to help you if you don’t know somebody’s extension. The one time I’d like to speak to a person!

When I finally get someone on the line… Well, the next thing I hate is that nobody identifies their office when they pick up the phone. As in “Hello, this is the office of Mr. Singh.” Instead, they just say “Hello” or “Namaskar” or sometimes just “Ji?”—which is a polite form of “yes?” but still seems terribly abrupt to me. I mostly have the rhythm of asking whether I am speaking to such and such an office down, but initially it really threw me. And it is still bad when I’m being transferred. As in:

Me: “May I speak to Mr. Singh?”

Unidentified Voice #1: “Just a moment”

Unidentified Voice #2: “Hello?”

Now, at this point: how am I supposed to know if I’m speaking to Mr. Singh’s secretary or to the man himself? Because, it has gone both ways on me. Which means I’ve talked to secretaries and inappropriately used the second person and to politicians and inappropriately used the third person. I wouldn’t be quite as self-conscious about this were it not for the low quality phone connections. Which mean that when I get someone on the line I antagonize them for the first minute by shouting back and forth about whether we can hear each other. And then I antagonize them by not really having any idea who I’m speaking to. And I go on to antagonize them by not being able to understand about 40% of what they are saying. It doesn’t make me feel confident about asking for favors.

I get two kinds of “no’s” and I’m not sure which one I dislike more. People who have actually said “no” have been, frankly, kind of mean about it. I particularly dislike when someone posts their direct number online and then has this whole “how dare you waste my time?” attitude when I call that number. Because, listen buddy: I know you’re important. I don’t expect you to take your own phone calls. But how am I supposed to know that you’re using some perverse logic wherein your listed numbers are the ones you don’t want people to call?

The other kind of “no” is the handle-my-call-like-a-hot-potato between assistants. With transferring and retransferring, and “why don’t you call back” at this time or on this date. And I don’t really expect people to call me when they say they will, although I can’t help being a little hopeful when they give an actual time and date when they are going to call. Why do people have to embellish when they blow me off? It’s just mean.

What is totally mysterious to me, though, is trying to figure out when “yes” means “no”. In particular, the people who promise to get me meetings with or phone numbers of important people and then disappear. I think it is pretty common to have someone make a promise he does not intend to keep in order to avoid saying “no.” But why would you promise things above and beyond what I even requested? I guess it is about wanting to appear cool. Like telling the other 10^th graders that you have a girlfriend from summer camp...

Which reminds me: once, when I was in 6^th grade, I hung up the phone on someone who had called to ask if I wanted to go out with his friend, Carson. I thought it was a prank and they were making fun of me. It was only in the last few years that it occurred to me that they might have been serious and that, in that case, I may have been a wee bit harsh in my rejection. I believe that my current troubles probably relate to the bad karma I accrued from that early phone misadventure.

When I get back, I think I will get a Blackberry. Then I can enjoy the illusion that I don’t own a phone at all. Evil, evil machines.

The new baby!

2008-06-06T13:05:00.000+05:30

I have a nephew! Nathan Robert Thornburg was born June 4. His pictures are up at:

www.thethornfield.blogspot.com

Hurray!

Over the top is just enough

2008-05-31T14:17:00.001+05:30

It's just a couple hours until we leave Delhi, but there was one other set of photos I wanted to post. From a florist near my house where you can see the guys outside making flower arrangements, and they are using cans of spray paint to, quite literally, gild the lilies.

One of the things I find most striking about many Indians is that they just don't have share the NPR demographic's self-conscious, fussy, and ironic approach to public displays of consumption. It's a disarmingly sincere aesthetic.

There goes the neighborhood. Or not.

2008-05-26T16:17:00.000+05:30

I’m moving out of New Delhi this Saturday. And though I switched rooms once, I’ve been in the same building since I arrived here last July. So this is my last opportunity to show you pictures of the abandoned car that has been sitting on my block since I arrived.

I really regret not taking a photo of it when I arrived, so I could give you some sense of the rate of decay. But last July this tan Ford Falcon was clearly abandoned, old, and beaten up, but it was largely intact. Since then, the glass has been broken, some of the seats have been torn up, and paint was dumped on the car at some point. The car has also been used as a trash can, including one person who got rid of a small oil lamp – of the kind used for festivals and temple – by sticking it in the back window. Odd. But, and this amazes me, the car hasn’t yet been hauled away or completely stripped for scrap metal. Part of the engine block is definitely still in the hood, so you’d think there’d be something there a junkyard would buy.

This car is a good illustration of what I think it means to live in a “fancy” neighborhood in New Delhi. Because, on the one hand, no one in the neighborhood is sufficiently strapped for cash to haul the car away for scrap. And/or the private security guards at the adjoining houses scare-off any attempts to blatantly appropriate the car. But, on the other hand, there is no “not-in-my-backyard” outrage at having this mini-junk yard midst these very expensive homes. There are block associations in Defence Colony, but they don’t seem to have made this car a priority.

I’m definitely going to try to come back to Defence Colony one more time before I leave, so that I can see if anything new has happened to the car. But I don’t have any idea what would finally spur someone to take charge of getting rid of the car.

About 10 minutes on Wikipedia has led me to conclude that Ford Falcons do not biodegrade. So, I guess this patch of Delhi’s sidewalk is scheduled to for clearing circa 7.5 years from now when it will be incinerated along with the rest of the planet due to the expansion of the sun. Unfortunately, on balance, I think that’s going to be tough on neighborhood property values.

Killing Time. And Windows.

2008-05-19T16:40:00.000+05:30

Prior to these latest, nearly decisive, primaries, Barack Obama was pointing out that, in the time he’s been running for president, babies have learned to walk and talk. HA! What I wouldn’t give for a job-qualification process that short!

In the time since I started graduate school at Stanford, my niece was gestated, born, learned to walk, talk, and identify the principals from both Winnie the Pooh and Dora the Explorer. And now she is two years old and expecting the arrival of her sibling on May 31. And that baby will probably be walking and talking before I’ve actually finished writing my PhD. In fact, by the time this India project finally becomes a book, my little niece will probably be horrifying her parents by asking for precociously-sexual “tween” apparel and her own cell phone.

Which is to say: this has been a week of waiting—not without some interviews or fairly firm promises of the same, but lots of down time, nonetheless. I’m a little restless and concerned that May has turned out to be a low value-added month in the field. But, hey, minus the waiting and the dead ends and the interviewing of the entirely wrong person, what would I have done for a whole year in India, anyhow?

It’s also been a week of maintenance. Just as soon as I start writing about having perhaps underestimated the competence of the Indian service sector, events conspired to change my mind back. Our internet connection was canceled thanks to an Airtel mistake, and then reconnected only after five days and a heartbreaking series of phone calls, hours wasted on hold, totally pointless home visits, and general misdirection. A highlight: a visit from a technician to confirm that our connection had, in fact, been switched off. Because, obviously, if I were receiving internet access without an account and, thus, not paying for it, the first thing I would do is call and fraudulently complain about not having service. I also like to buy the unlimited-refill soda at fast food restaurants and then drink only one glass of Coke, just to game the system. But I’ve always been pretty edgy.

Also in the “are you !@#$-ing kidding me?” category of high quality workmanship is my landlord’s house. Because two days ago I put my hand through the glass in my extremely poorly made window. (I only got a little scratch, no problem.) The window, which opens outward, was sticking against the sill and so I was banging against the frame to get it open. And the heel of my palm rapped the glass. Which mustered all the resistance of a crème brulee. Actually, I think the reason that I didn’t cut myself is that I didn’t put my hand through the window at all. I gave it a smart tap. And the glass could apparently only repel force = f <>

This is definitely not a case of not knowing my own strength. (I am totally up to date on my “not much” status in that respect). Because two of Merideth’s windows broke the same night when they were banged shut by the wind. Terrible.

I like him even more than Christian Soriano

2008-05-08T21:41:00.000+05:30

The ultimate aim of this fieldwork is to provide the raw material for the presentation that will, hopefully, win me a job in a few years. I’ve decided to define that mandate broadly, so I can pick up some custom made business attire. To look snazzy when giving my job talks, you know?

I started thinking in the fall that I should buy a suit over Christmas break and then bring it back to India and have it copied. I mentioned this plan to a history graduate student here, and she had heartily endorsed buying an article of clothing in the US so that I could get exactly the same thing made in India. She, apparently, had no luck trying to take pictures and measurements to a tailor. Now, because she is a historian, full of advanced language skills and nuanced local knowledge, I took very seriously her account of what it was like to go to an Indian tailor. And I was very determined to find a suit that could be copied without any flexibility on the part of the Indian tailor; I even made sure my suit was all wool so that the fit would not depend on synthetic fabrics he might not have available.

In retrospect, the social scientist in me is ashamed to have been overawed by the humanities. (Extrapolating from an n of 1 – what would my committee say?!?) Because when I went to the fabric store/tailoring establishment (Delhi Cloth House & Garg Brothers Tailoring, in Khan Market, as recommended by Lonely Planet) they were just so entirely not overawed by the task I was requesting. The suit came out perfectly, probably to the point of constituting some kind of intellectual properties violation. Frankly, I am downgrading my opinion of the quality of the workmanship on Project Runway – and did I mention they use foot pedal style machines at this place?

When I showed them a dress shirt, the first thing the fabric seller says, without even touching the shirt, is that it looks like it has Lycra in it. And directed the fabric-bolt-fetching-assistants (that seems to be their main job) to fetch some poly/cotton blends. And here I was thinking I might not be able to get anything other than pure wool in Delhi – I guess it’s good that I at least knew they wouldn’t be raising the sheep out back.

Actually, Mr. Garg, the tailor, has been very patient with my naiveté regarding Delhi garment making. After I picked my suit up, we returned to the tailors and Merideth ordered a suit jacket and skirt – mind you, Merideth aren’t the same size and we have no pattern for a skirt, so this is a complete abandonment of the idea that one could only get exact replicas of existing clothes. While having lunch in the restaurant around the corner, we started to wonder if she should have asked for the skirt to be lined. You know, because women here don’t really wear skirts, so maybe the tailor wouldn’t realize that’s a part of Western business attire. And I convinced her to go back and ask. The tailor, with the munificence that is so becoming of the truly gifted, patiently said “Yes, of course, a skirt won’t work unless it’s lined.”

My experience at the tailor has prompted two things. First, extensive daydreaming about further clothes it would be fun to have made while I’m here. And, second, a bit of soul searching on the lines of “the soft bigotry of low expectations.” Being able to make something as well as these guys is impressive no matter where you are from. But I also think that over the course of the time I’ve spent here, I’ve drifted into assuming that many people in this city aren’t very good at their jobs, and kind of bracing myself for hassle and disappointment before any business interaction.

Of course, many of the holdups in navigating India involve differences of opinion about what doing a good job constitutes. For example, I would prefer to arrive at my destination in one piece, but the rickshaw walla would prefer to arrive there fast. So, I can’t fairly claim that he isn’t talented at driving his rickshaw even though I didn’t enjoy the ride.

Still, it seems like at most jobs—apart from the small businesses where the proprietor is always on site—hiring and incentives just aren’t particularly related to qualifications or even to effort. And who would bother to learn a job well under those conditions? To put it another way: there is a car dealership in Delhi which is named Competent. They sell a lot of cars, and so I think that name must resonate.

On a related note, I’ve become a bit slow with writing on this blog because I’ve had trouble coming up with topics. I hesitate to keep posting on the theme of the sublimely ridiculous or very weird aspects of India – I don’t want to be a hater. So this post is my salute to the small businesses of India, and my tailor in particular. They're kind of a big deal.

Answer in the Form of a Question

2008-04-17T18:48:00.000+05:30

I have three interviews tomorrow and I'm having trouble getting motivated to write my scripts for them. Because I really haven't come up with the script that makes my respondents, well, respond. At least to the questions I am asking. So, I present a Jeopardy like exercise -- what must I be asking to be getting these answers?

The Interview Script for the Answers my Respondents Give

Please share with me your views of Pakistan.

Could you explain in 300 words or more why the United States’ ongoing support occupation of Iraq renders my question irrelevant?

What would Gandhi want for your group?

Please tell me the history of the present controversy beginning in 1650 and do not spare the excruciating, dubiously historically accurate detail. And be sure to fade into unhelpful generalities as soon as your narrative approaches 1947.

Globalization is a US imperial scourge that has caused all India’s present difficulties. Please discuss.

What are the views of “the people”? Do “the people” want development, self-governance and dignity, or do they prefer corruption, squalor and repression? What evidence do you have for these preferences?

Is your situation in anyway analogous to that of the Palestinians? Why or why not?

I would like to discuss an apparently less-than-ideal moment in India’s recent history. Please clarify for me the uniquely profound insights of Indian statecraft that explain why the Indian government has always done the exact right thing at every juncture since its inception, including the instance I have just mentioned.

Is there a lot of corruption in India? And how have you, an honest man among thieves, been personally thwarted and held back by the wickedness of others?

Why don’t you explain to me how in India you have a bicameral legislature? Since, obviously, I could not possibly have bothered to find that out before our interview.

In what ways is the present crisis entirely the fault of the British?

I look down on Indians. Please offer me a rambling and extremely pessimistic account of your country’s cultural and economic prospects so we can bond over our shared disdain.

I look down on Indians. Why don’t you rebut my skepticism regarding your country’s cultural and economic prospects in a rambling and wildly optimistic explanation of how India will soon eclipse the Britain, China and the United States militarily, economically, spiritually, and culturally?

Could you just tie this all back to Pakistan for me?

Milkshake

2008-04-07T09:33:00.000+05:30

I suppose it is just typical of being an ex-pat that I vacillate between feeling impatient with India and wanting to stick up for it around other foreigners. No one is allowed to complain about this place but me!

Last week I overheard someone complain to a waiter about the lack of ice cream in her milkshake. One of India’s culinary quirks is that, unless you request otherwise, a milkshake doesn’t have ice cream in it. (I think the default shake is made from a sort of malt-powder and heavy cream. And, in further random speculations, perhaps this is because of the relatively patchy quality of refrigeration or because India’s “pure-veg” dieters, like the Jainists, don’t usually eat ice cream, since it contains gelatin. Which is made from horse hooves, in case you didn’t know.) In particular there was a lady at the Hilton who declared that ice cream is part of “what a milk shake is.” Not so fast lady! Granted, some things are not culturally relative (speed of light, core human rights, swooningly delicious qualities of tandoori naan) but surely every people has the right to define the milkshake for themselves? Why not just ask the waiter for ice cream instead of loudly dressing him down? Why get all high-and-mighty as though you have unique knowledge of the urtext properties of dairy-based desserts?

Exhibit 2: this column by Hendrik Hertzberg (http://www.newyorker.com/online/blogs/hendrikhertzberg/2008/04/hello-kali.html) where he gripes that Indian English isn’t that good despite most of the languages being Indo-European. (A misstatement which 30 seconds on Wikipedia could have corrected.) I hope Mr. Hertzberg knows 2 or more alphabets if he is going to be gripping about Indian English. And he posts this music video in Tamil where someone has added “English” subtitles – though, to both his credit and his shame, he wasn’t able to figure out that the singing wasn’t in English at all. Some of the homophonic subtitles are pretty raunchy, so the net effect is “your weird language sounds like a bunch of bad porn dialogue.”

But, speaking of pornographic images: for the last week of March I was in Orissa, home to several hundred Hindu temples. The World Heritage temple (“the sun temple”) is a good one to go see because at one point it was heavily damaged in a typhoon. As a result, the gods were removed and the temple isn’t in use as a pace of worship. I really don’t feel so great about going to a temple while other people are trying to actually be religious there—I feel I probably detract from the mystical ambience, what with my sweaty, dirty camping-gear-esque clothes and large camera.

The sun temple is also, as is reasonably common, covered in statues of people gettin’ it on. The standard “don’t be such an up-tight Westerner” explanation for this is that Hinduism embraces all aspects of life instead of being all prudish about sex and that this is a sun temple=creation =scenes of procreation. Which does raise the question of why there aren’t any other procreation-related aspects of life depicted—like agriculture or, indeed, children. There is another theory that the pictures were a sort of instruction manual for the all-male brood of Brahmins being raised at the temple. I’m not totally sure about that, since much of what the, shall we say, unusually proportioned stone statues are doing is not strictly realistic.

Doctrinal issues aside, the interaction of the racy temple architecture and the more-than-middle-aged local tour guide was highly reminiscent of health class, where you just don’t know quite what facial expression you should be adopting. The oddest moment being when the guide explained that many people come to the temple from all over Europe and they tell him that this next statue is “69. Very important position there. Very important.” I challenge you to think of an appropriate response to that remark.

Things I am learning working in Delhi's libraries

2008-03-12T22:44:00.000+05:30

Indian innovation with the decimal point continues. You may have been told, at some point, that the decimal system, with its use of zeros as place holders, was developed here on the Subcontinent. What you may not know is that exciting innovations in number-punctuation-hybridization continue in India’s system of university libraries. Where each institution – and sometimes each collection – is busy developing an entirely unique ordinal system. These innovations are possible thanks to a willingness to use multiple decimal points, high variability in the length of alphabetical and numerical strings between punctuation marks, special capitalization systems, semi-colons, and even quotation marks. Allowing endless organizational variety, with each library’s ordering system as unique as a snowflake. The most advanced systems seem to be based on fractal mathematics, containing as they do a persuasive suggestion of repetition and regularity while, in actuality, not corresponding to any pattern discernable through the use of primitive Euclidean mathematical tools.

My high school library was kind of a joke. I find the contents of the University of Delhi’s library, in particular, rather discouraging. Because they seem to be pretty short on the kind of sources that contain the sort of raw, complete information that is the straw for research brick making. Instead, the library is long on the kind of sources that give predigested and massively abridged summaries of various concepts. So, for example, the library only has a scattering of the annual reports of most government offices, but they have whole bunches of encyclopedias and Ready Reference guides.

What this all really took me back to is the days of writing research papers in grade school and high school – when research really meant looking up what somebody else already came up with. (Real research, of course, is writing what somebody else already came up with; realizing this only after-the-fact; and then inventing a reason why what you’ve done is, despite appearances, totally new). And it just sort of reminded me of all the things I thought were terribly intellectual when I was growing up – like Star Trek (watched by nerds = smart people = people who would know great art). Ah, youth!

Sometimes the best place to study Indian linguistic minorities is Dixie. Ironically, you know who has a complete run of the government report I was trying to find at University of Delhi? Johns Hopkins. That makes me feel very foolish.

Dust is dirt. In movies about searching out the secret to Jesus’s progeny or the Temple of the Crescent Moon, dusty libraries always have a powdery sort of look. A character pulls out an obscure book and blow on it, sending forth a grayish cloud of accumulated matter.

This is NOT how really dusty books actually work, at least not here. This dust is not some talcum powdering of antiquarian charm. This is grime. Blowing on this dust dislodges nothing. Though one’s hands and clothing (and backpack and school supplies and lunch) do become dirty when put in contact with such a book, the total quantity of muck on the book is only imperceptibly altered and much of the text remains obscured by brown film.

The great unsung heroes of the history of human knowledge are the indexers. Honestly, I don’t know how anyone ever found anything before electronic search. But what few scraps of information were retrieved in those dark times was thanks to the superhuman tolerance for boredom and/or crippling struggle with obsessive compulsive disorder of the press clippers, the book review filers, the bibliography annotators, and the reference editors of yesteryear.

Kathmandu and back again

2008-03-02T20:12:00.000+05:30

Last weekend I was in Nepal with my parents, sharing the last three days of their package tour through India. I was really looking forward to a couple days of five star living, and to seeing the mountains. Ironically, however, I caught a terrible bug from being in a hotel with so many darn foreigners. So for the better part of this last week I was in bed with the flu, wondering why I ever abandoned my sub-tropical, filth-infested home for the bracing mountain air.

One thing I have learned: it is impossible to overstress the importance of travel companions with a similar metabolic rate. That is, the tour group we joined up with was mostly empty nesters and, as a consequence, they have reach that stage where you totally transcend base physical needs, food in particular. So the tour included breakfast at the hotel but then no rations for the next 8 hours! Despite my best efforts to get a muesli binge in early, I was starting to get a little peckish by our second Hindu temple and was practically fainting away by the time we were given free time to wander through an authentic Nepali traditional tourist emporium.

From what I could see through the haze of near starvation, Nepal has plenty of interesting architecture and is generally more approachable than India. All of the temples were very busy, which is not the case in Delhi. We saw several little boys on the way to get their sacred thread tied on—which is sort of like first communion for upper caste Hindus, except with a parade. The parade includes people carrying all the things that will be offered to the gods on your behalf, culminating in the sacrifice of an animal. Which I was very anxious not to have to witness.

Also, there has been a shortage of petrol and kerosene for about seven months now in Nepal. Apparently, this was because the Indian government started refusing to let tankers travel through its territory en route to Nepal because Kathmandu owes the Indians money for petroleum shipping. The finances seem to have been sorted out, so oil was supposed to be on its way. But a city between the India/Nepal border and Kathmandu had hijacked two tankers in the preceding days to force them to deliver oil to their community rather than driving it all the way to the capital. So now no more truckers were going to come into Nepal without a security escort.

The visible consequence of this was huge lines of cars and motorcycles for blocks & blocks. The vehicles were left in line to hold a spot for however many days or weeks necessary. Similarly plastic kerosene containers were lined up on the sidewalk, hundreds in a row. Ropes were run through the handles of twenty or so jugs, to discourage scrambling of the order. Also, my sister and I saw some kids burning tires while taking a taxis. They weren’t being very hardcore about it, but that is still a personal first for me – seeing tires being burned in protest of something, I mean.

The Himalayas are amazing. While I might in years past have felt very unhardcore & tacky flying in a little plane to get a view of the mountain peaks, I was spared these thoughts by the many recent books on the Everest climbing industry (eg). There were a bunch of trekkers on their way to Base Camp actually. Yuppie scum - seriously, why even bother climbing a mountain if you are going to have Sherpas and oxygen. (I am starting to feel a bit defensive about how long its been since I've done any cardio.)

The temple square in Kathmandu.

A shrine in use as a vegetable stand.

28th Birthday in New Delhi

2008-02-17T17:22:00.000+05:30

I really wanted a margarita, so we headed for Ruby Tuesday's. (Surprisingly, Ruby Tuesday's has several New Delhi locations - who'd have thought?) It was a poor decision - the drinks weren't very good. But they did have real taco chips.

Keep your drink, just give me the money

2008-02-11T12:49:00.000+05:30

Do you ever have one of those conversations—when chatting with someone on a plane, traveling in another country, or talking to an elderly (read: socially conservative) relative—where you just stop giving your real opinions or reactions? Because you can’t be bothered to explain to this person why their whole world view is massively flawed? And then walk them through the refutations of all their inane counterarguments? And you feel some guilt about your Raskolnikov-esque intellectual arrogance and unassailable belief in the superiority of your world view? But, since your belief in the superiority of your own world view is, in fact, unassailable, there isn’t much you can do about it? And, plus, you just compared your liberal, anti-humanist, hubris to a Dostoevsky novel. So can anyone really doubt whose worldview is better thought-out here?

Being, as I am, a future PhD in political science [la-di-da tossing of hair here], I run into this problem at home when people start talking politics. But in India the problem is omnipresent because people’s social values are SO different from mine. It’s like I’m trapped at a six-month meeting of the Christian Coalition. Except with white guilt.

This has all been brought into focus recently because my sister Merideth is really into communicating with people. I have a long history of being less in favor of this than Merideth, going back to the days when I used to hide in our mom’s closet when strangers rang the doorbell. But I believe my position has become more tenable over time.

For example: two days ago, one of the neighbors from our building saw us at a coffee shop and sat down to talk. And asked us what our religious orientation is. Now, I have seen this man around the building before. And I blithely claimed to be a Protestant in order to avoid having a conversation. (I’ve given my landlord the run-through of my wedding. With Adam sitting right next to me. Like I’m going to have trouble lying about this?) But Merideth – bless her open-to-having-interactions-with-other-people soul – goes and confesses to ambivalence on this point. And then we have to hear his opinions. (He recommended we read The Purpose Driven Life. We could have been in Oklahoma!) Which, of course, spirals into him discussing his opinions of the moral degradation of the US in general. The part of me that has opinions gets prickly and defensive on this point and wants to argue that the divorce rate is probably unacceptably low in India. But most of me prefers to nod along.

And then there is the young chap who Merideth started talking to at a coffee shop a few days ago. (Without me. I wouldn’t have let this conversation start. I bought this ring for a reason.) This young chap primarily wanted to know all about American sexual practices. And why there were so many Russian women in “sexy videos”? Merideth apparently tried to explain that she found pornography objectionable. (Deaf ears, girl. Deaf ears.) And reported, in response to my concern, that the whole conversation had a big-sister-kid-brother tone to it. I told her I was sure that was how it appeared to her.

I feel vindicated by his persistent stream of text messages since that time. (Which, sensibly, are going unanswered). That is another problem with countries where people don’t date: the men have no idea (a) that the hurdles that must be cleared in order to have sex with a white woman are not quite so trivial as “sexy videos” might imply and (b) in which track league they should even think about trying to run the hurdles. And, naturally, it is really only men who approach strangers for conversations. Which makes it even more infuriating.

Would I be a bad cultural ambassador if my standard response to questions about my religious and moral views was “Have you even read Crime and Punishment?”

Parental Units: Incoming!

2008-02-08T16:46:00.000+05:30

So, tomorrow my parents arrive in India. Mostly, they are going to be on a package tour—starting Tuesday afternoon I can load them on the bus with the other tourists and they will be safe inside that magical tourist bubble where India is merely an “enchanting journey through exotic sights and sounds” or whatever. But they are arriving on Saturday night, however, to have some extra time to sleep off their jet lag and to see their daughters.

The travel agent who booked their tour could have, naturally, fixed them up with a few extra nights in the tour group hotel. But Delhi has very high hotel fees, especially now that it is tourist season. (Read: less than apoplectically hot). And the tour company, no doubt weary of complaints from scandalized Schenectady empty-nesters, insists that 3-star in India doesn’t mean 3-star in the US (which is completely true) and so refuses to book anything but 5-star Delhi hotels for its clients. And those go for about $400 per night, plus hefty luxury tax.

Now, I have a long experience with my parents and the thrifty vacation. They are really a do-it-yourself pair and tend to feel scandalized by the premiums that the tourist & recreation industries charge in exchange for convenience and ease-of-use. Their bête noirs are bellboys, doormen, taxis, and concessions stands. If my parents, lost in the middle of the Serengeti without food, water, or a map, were offered a taxi ride for a clearly-greater-than-marginal-cost fee of a hundred dollars: they’d keep walking.

So, there was no way my parents were going to pay a thousand dollars to spend two nights in Delhi. My mother’s words were something along the lines of “we’re campers: we’ll just sleep on your floor.” Not realizing that, if I could somehow get a running start, I could long jump the length of my room.

Anyhow, after a lot of avoiding the issue, I booked them a hotel a few blocks away for about $100/night.

But I’m nervous about the whole thing because, if you didn’t know India, you’d think the hotel was a dive. My parents are, truly, pretty good at going without creature comforts. But one thing I have learned from India is that one tends to judge the safety of one’s surrounding by the perceived affluence. And the perceived affluence of India’s mid-range hotels is, roughly, somewhere between shabby house-of-ill-repute and nice-ish crack den. And it takes awhile to convince oneself that it is safe to nod off within walls that are visibly molding. It doesn’t help that India’s under-employment & the family-run business culture dictates that every non-international hotel employs exactly seven times the number of employees that are strictly necessary. And so about nine listless, idle, twenty-something men are staring at you as you check-in, move through the halls, get breakfast... And then there is my neighborhood. Which is really quite safe. But, again, it takes awhile before you can look placidly out onto an alley strewn with smashed glass, dog and cow feces, garbage, weeds, old leaves, and shanty housing and think “Wow! There must be trees someplace!”

Basically, even though my parents will be fortified with the bracing tonic of having saved $800 from the grasping paws of the evil tourist industry, I’m afraid they will see the place and have a heart-freezing moment of “We’re going to die here.”

Or, worse, “We are not paying $100 a night to stay HERE!” And then insist on coming home with me.

Back at it

2008-02-03T10:55:00.000+05:30

Once again in Delhi!

I've been back for a week and I'm mostly resettled. Some things have been roughly what I have come to expect -- such as the comically epic process of getting the internet in my new room (4 days, 9 people, 6 house calls) -- while others have taken me a bit by surprise. For example, it is genuinely chilly here. I'm wearing my scarf as we speak. Who knew?

I have made one big change already: I am not rehiring the maid for cleaning. By the end of last year, the feeling of violated privacy was looming so large for me that I would only let her in to clean about once a week. And since she came twice a day everyday, that was a lot of time spent hiding. It also did not help that the maid who cleans this building frequenly seems to be enjoying a private joke in what can only be described as cackling. (I am going to keep sending my clothes out to be washed because I can just stick those outside my door and avoid too much interpersonal stuff).

Also, even though I was getting these twice-a-day, everyday cleanings for my money, I was not completely satisfied with the product on offer. Because there was no soap involved, more just rubbing the floor down with water. Which is really less like cleaning and more like diluting the dirt.

So, when I got in, I set out to really scour my apartment - I bought a western-style mop, surface cleaner, floor cleaner, dish soap, and air freshner, plus scrubbing items. It did occur to me, though, that my maid might have had a point in avoiding all of this stuff. First, I don't really know what's in any of these products. Probably one-part bleach, one-part DDT, and one-part that chemical that causes flipper babies. So maybe I'm not really making a net gain in the healthfulness of my room. Second, some of the surfaces in my room don't really seem to be meant to be cleaned. In particular, the paint (or white-wash) on the walls, window ledges, and doors starts to slough off if it is moistened or even subjected to modest friction. Again, is it really smart to go around wiping the soot off these surfaces if I'm also giving myself lead poisooning?

Still, why worry about what can kill you tomorrow if you can get rid of what makes you mildly uncomfortable today?

One further note on my new attempts to do more of my own home-making here in Delhi. I bought mint-scented dish soap during my shopping without really noting that there was anything unusual about that flavor. Because mint and cleanliness definitely go together in my mind. But upon further reflection, cleaning products that involve mint are usually for your teeth, like gum and toothpaste. I don't think I've ever seen surface cleaners or dish soaps in mint. And as soon as I started doing the dishes, it started to seem like a very strange choice. All my dishes smell like candy canes now. Not a bad smell, but one not what I expect from dishes after they are washed -- it if kind of like having plates that smell like bubblegum or chocolate chip cookies.

Little bird in China

2008-01-03T03:29:00.000+05:30

The Great Wall

In Beijing

At the Forbidden City

Olympic Friendlies and China's One-Child Policy

2008-01-03T03:28:00.001+05:30

I have wanted to write for awhile now about the Olympic mascots for the upcoming games in China. I have included here a picture of Albert with some representations of these mascots that greeted us on the way into a Beijing mall. I noticed them because they are (1) everywhere and (2) interesting in light of my ongoing observations about the un-cuteness of India. By the way, Albert was not discriminated against at any Chinese venue and received many compliments during his stay there. In fact, my hostess learned the word for penguin in Chinese as a result of the comments he was drawing. I, naturally, forgot the word immediately.

Anyhow, the spirit of the 2008 games is represented by 5 "Fuwa" or "Friendlies," each of whom corresponds to one of the Olympic rings, a particular set of Olympic events, and to a Chinese mythological creature. All of the Fuwa are children and have very diminutive names - Beibei, Jingjing, Huanhuan, Yingying, Nini. If you eliminate the repetition of the syllables in their names, they spell out "Bei Jing huan ying ni" or "Beijing Welcomes You." Pretty cute, huh?

Their official website not only explains what athletic events each Friendly represents, it also explains the particular virtues embodied by each Fuwa, each of which is also one of the five elements of nature (sea, forest, fire, earth, and sky). It is reminescent of reading the placemat at a Chinese restaurant to learn about the animal sign for your year of birth. Jingjing brings joy to children everywhere. Huanhuan is enthusiastic and inviting. (Have you ever noticed how certain words, like "harmonious," immediately make one think of text on Chinese culture?)

I could ruminate on the irony of the beaming Fuwa as the public face of an authoritarian country. But that's just a downer. Also, being back in India brings out my inner Barry Goldwater. All these hippies with their self-important searches for enlightenment. So I say: Down with "Free Tibet" protests!

Anyhow, I'm going to ruminate instead on the connection between the Fuwa and birth control. As follows: I have noticed an inverse relationship between country's fertility rates and the role of cuteness in their popular culture. I posit that as people have fewer children they have a higher probability of purchasing child-substitution items, like small dogs and cartoons. This drives up ambient cuteness, especially in retail. I believe that there is scientific evidence in favor of this mechanism. Because, per the NYT, the aesthetic phenomenon of "cute" is the result of our evolutionary affinity to the features of human babies, like big eyes and stubby limbs.

Consider the following evidence:

Mali has the world's highest fertility rate (7.38 children per woman). And levels of ambient cuteness are shockingly low. Granted, Bedouin chic has a certain romance. But it is emphatically not adorable. Also on the high end of the fertility range and the low end of the warm-fuzzy meter are Yemen (6.49) and the Democratic Republic of Congo (5.99). Paraguay has a medium high fertility rate (3.84) and the main cultural currents there are militarism and a German flavor brought by Nazis fleeing prosecution for war crimes.

Then we get to India, with 2.81 children per woman. And India, as I have pointed out, trails the rest of Asia in the cute column.

The USA comes in at a middlingly level of fertility (2.09). (The world median, by the way, is Israel with 2.38 children per woman.) In the USA, while cute things are generally available, we are by no means a world leader in this field. (Sesame Street not withstanding). Much of our supply of animated creatures is imported from Britain or Asia. And companies that should be putting R&D into cuteness, such as Disney and Mattel, are instead pumping out work that emphasizes glamour, wealth, and a certain precocious (and creepy) sexuality. (See: Bratz, Disney Princesses).

China (1.75) is about on par with Finland (1.73). And Finland is a leader in grotesque-cute, trolls in particular. And, finally, we get to East Asia, the world epicenter of cuteness technology: South Korea (1.28), Japan (1.23), and, with the lowest fertility rates in the world, Hong Kong (0.98).

Thus, the success of China's one child regime -- compared to the relatively modest reductions in fertility in India over the same period -- explains the two countries' divergent attitudes toward adorableness-enhanced individuals like Albert. And we can expect growing Indian tolerance for plush creatures as fertility rates here continue to fall.

Anyone who writes to tell me that development is an omitted variable in my theory is totally uncute.

India actually isn't much like China at all!

2007-12-18T13:06:00.000+05:30

I've been hitting the road in the spirit of truly comparative political science, going to last week to see my good friend and fellow field worker, Charlotte. I spent 8 days in Beijing. And now I can report back on all those "India versus China" comparisons one sees in The Economist, FT, and other papers. The outlines of the comparison that I had in mind going in: China is richer, but it's got an autocratic and corrupt system of government. India is poorer, but it's corrupt system of government is a democracy, so it might pull through in the end. (e.g. Thomas Friedman aka "that hack who has his own NYT colum despite the fact that he somehow thinks it is legitimate research to extract a whole theory of the Arab world out of happening to notice Chinese phone card salespeople" wrote on this point in 2005).

Still, even though I knew that these many journalistic comparisons all point out that China is the richer place (GDP/capita of about $7800 versus $3800 in India), I guess I still kind of thought that the presence of all these comparative pieces meant that the two countries were be more, well, comparable.

Now that I've been there, I'm amazed. Beijing is so fancy!!! There are so many skyscrapers and fancy malls. But it wasn't the private opulence that really struck me, but the lack of dump-like-ness that was so very un-Indian. We drove and walked over at least a fair portion of the city and I didn't see any shanty towns and only one beggar. The buildings are toasty warm , despite the snow outside, because of decent utilities. The roads have no potholes but do have sidewalks. And not just sidewalks but sidewalks with markings to aid blind people is recognizing they are coming to a curb. There isn't trash in huge piles anywhere. The buses are really clean and shiny. The cabs are all reasonably new cars and ALL of them use the meter instead of haggling for the price.

Of course, Beijing is also a showpiece city, especially with the Olympics coming up. The government no doubt threw a lot of homeless people out and maybe even razed housing to put up skyscrapers. And there are huge disparities between the city and the countryside. But even comparing oranges and oranges, India looks pretty bad. I live in India's capital and I've been to Mumbai, Kolkata, and Bangalore -- these are the cities that are getting India's new Chanel outlets, but they don't look like Beijing. And, frankly, India's government couldn't decide to raze the shanty towns of Delhi because of an up-coming international sporting event: doing so would create too much open space.

This is part of what makes political science so tricky. China scholars say their country is really corrupt. India scholars say their country is really corrupt. Scholars of both countries lament that the government is dependent on this corruption for stability so that even when the state wants to do something well, it often fails. But China's roads are SO much better. So, are China scholars just deluded about what actually constitutes "a lot" of corruption, sort of like when people in Florida wear sweaters because it is sixty degrees and, therefore, "cold"? Or is China somehow differently corrupt, in a way that makes its roads come out better?

Also, how do we figure out how important this "India is a democracy and China isn't" part of the comparison actually is? Particularly because both countries have a big gap between the laws on the books and what the judiciary actually does: so how much do the laws matter for the comparison? India is a lot more internally violent, though one can probably argue that China is more repressive. But both India and China get very, very bad marks from Amnesty International and keep parts of their country off-limits to foreigners, so how to know which country is likely to have more problems in future with internal stability?

I really want some of my China scholar friends to come here and tell me whether India looks like it is on track to be like China. China's GDP/capita is higher than India's. So maybe India is like China ten or fifteen years ago? Or maybe India is, as my boyfriend suggested, like "Bolivia if no one took care of it"? These options imply very different futures for my Indian friends.

------
Stay tuned for more on "India versus China: Is this Comparison Really Worth Making?" series. Because I'm out of time now but I still have to explain my whole theory of how China's Olympic mascots reveal the reasons for differential success in population control between the two countries.

The tragic decorating consequences of the fad for English language signage

2007-12-06T15:36:00.000+05:30

There is construction going on around my apartment and so I’ve been going to coffee shops to write quite a bit. Over the weekend, I wanted to break out of my Barista rut and chose to go to Brown Sugar, the other coffee shop that is less than ten minutes walk away. I really dislike Brown Sugar and wouldn’t have gone at all if it weren’t for the fact that they have milkshakes. My problem with the place is with the décor and becoming totally fascinated with what this décor looks like from the point of view of Delhi young people.

Let me pause to say Brown Sugar is extremely popular with the young, upper middle class Indians in my neighborhood. Big co-ed groups of them come in, wearing jeans and knit tops.

My immediate cultural reference point for “Brown Sugar” is the song by the Rolling Stones, which I always thought was supposed to be a (shocking in its day) ode to the joys of sex with black women. But my friend Ed tells me brown sugar is also heroin. Anyhow, parts of the Brown Sugar coffee shop make me think that the owners, too, associate the phrase with drugs. The sign outside actually says “Brown Sugar: Get Yourself Addicted.” And then, inside, there is a bead curtain as you walk in and the windows are flanked with about two dozen large, colored glass bongs. (I wonder if kids still call them that.) The coffee shop does offer hookas, so smoking is sort of an appropriate note to strike. But I don’t see why they just don’t display hookas. The marijuana theme continues, see below, but there is definitely no heroin chic going on anywhere.

But on the wall to the right is an indication that the owners might have the African-American and Brown Sugar connection in mind after all. There are framed covers of American LPs and these are a celebration of 70s disco and promiscuous black people. There are two albums by Boney M. (“Night Flight to Venus” and “Take the Heat off Me”) that are representative of the motif: check these out at http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Boney_M. (This article is interesting in its own right since this group seems to have been the German – West Indies musical ancestor of Milli Vanilli.)

Two points: first, this doesn’t work with the marijuana references. It’s a drugs-music mis-pairing here. They need some Woodstock and Grateful Dead posters. Second, why is there also a framed LP of The Sound of Music?

The mismatched cultural references continue. The actual music on the stereo is US maudlin pop. With an occasional bit of classic rock, like a Zeppelin medley. There are a fair number of those raunchy dance tunes by black girl groups (like that “don’t you wish your girlfriend was hot like me” ditty) but nothing that would qualify as hip-hop. Nor any disco. There is a lot of playing of boy bands and also those male solo artists who are essentially one man boy bands and, yet, the reduction in personnel in no way decreases their loathsomeness.

Then there are the tabletops, which are shallow wooden boxes topped with glass. And in each is a sort of diorama of still more mismatched cultural references. There are tables with seashells, rocks, marbles, trinkets. The other day, I sat at the sand and marijuana diorama. The table top contained regular sand, several stash boxes, and various pipes—again, "stash boxes" were what these items were called back when I was a young person. Busy being not cool enough to get invited to the house parties that actually had drugs at them. So I may be dating myself here.

All of the tables also contain (and the wall opposite the LPs is covered in) signs, buttons, stickers, cards, plaques, and magnets with various quips on them. The kind of quips you see on t-shirts sold on the boardwalk at Atlantic City, on greeting cards at the dollar store, and the coffee mugs at gas stations. Central subjects being beer, food/dieting, sex, money, aging, and gender roles. The sorts of quips that make you feel degraded just reading them. Some in the middle age despair genre: “Some people call it a six-pack, I call it a support group.” “When I die, bury me at the golf course so my husband will visit me 5 times a week.” “Thou shall not weigh more than thy refrigerator.” Some in the unreformed male chauvinist vein: “All women are bimbos, some just make better trophies.” Others in that phoney “Oh, snap!” vein of girl power: “Coffee – chocolate – men: some things are better rich.”

I feel a need to defend my country from this décor. True, each one of the horrendous errors in taste that makes-up Brown Sugar has been committed by an American. But no one American could commit all these errors in taste!

Every time I’m in there I get to wondering what this looks like if you are Indian. For one thing, I really have no idea what portion of the puns and sexual innuendos the average customer picks up on. Nor am I clear on which items seem funny or glamorous versus shocking or weird. What portion of the references and messages implied by this decor are intentional and which are just the unfortunate by-product of a decorating scheme that calls for putting up anything related to people who speak English?

I don’t know what I find most disturbing. To think that maybe these Indian teens think this is what America is really like and will grow ever more convinced that we are an immoral, petty, and soulessly commercial people? To contemplate the possibility that these are the parts of American culture that actually do appeal to these kids most -- that somehow they have seized on the very tackiest part of every popular sub-culture? Or that the steady training of Brown Sugar and like outlets might actually lead them to like this crappy decor? No matter what, I see nothing good that can come of that place. I believe it should be firmly stamped out, much like the opium dens that "Brown Sugar" may or may not be referring to.

The ugliness continues

2007-11-30T17:09:00.000+05:30

I am sorry I have not up-dated my blog in a bit. My steady sweetie was in town during Thanksgiving week and after he left there was an extensive agenda of pining and self-pity that needed my urgent attention.

I am afraid I have more bad news about India. I went back to the Taj Mahal last week—Thanksgiving Day, actually—and Albert was once again denied admission. I had thought the first time might have been an isolated incident of prejudice but, apparently, the fear and loathing of cuteness has struck deep into the Indian national consciousness. In fact, I had a small stuffed dog key chain in my backpack as well (his name is Norman) and he was also denied admission to the Taj. Totally unreasonable. Norman is maybe 2 inches high. What could he contain? And it’s not like they can’t give him a good squeeze and tell that he’s all stuffed with fluff.

So here Albert and Norman are. Looking at the Taj from across the river, barbed wire cruelly obscuring their view and symbolizing their ghetto-ization in Indian society.

As was noted by Nora earlier this fall, the cutest people in the world are the Japanese. And, so, in honor of a society that understands the importance of plush animals, the rest of this post will be in haiku.

Oh India. Why
are you so very uncute?
Penguin haters all.

Maybe all the air
pollution drags cute moods down.
The sky IS yellow.

Seriously, they
need to do something pronto.
The air is all smoke.

An Agra street kid
asked “which country” [are you from]?
I said the

.

And he replied with
“Me:

India

.” Cute because
was there any doubt?

When I ask “where from?”
most answer like I am nuts.
“What does it look like?”

No one says that. But
they do seem to imply it.
What is the reason?

Whites ask no questions?
That I wouldn’t know their town?
Or, why would I care?

It is a very
asymmetric way to chat.
Not this little kid.

Of course I would care!
He’s from India: I should
definitely know.

Haiku is the best
type of poetry of all.
Rhyming is too hard.

Do not write to tell
me I counted the lines wrong.
Syllables are tricky.

The Solution to all India's Problems

2007-11-17T12:42:00.000+05:30

Okay, I admit my invention for saving the roads of the third world was half-baked, but this time I am really on to something.

One of the questions I ask myself from time to time is whether India is going to make it. I mean, there is all this enthusiasm about India’s economy and its future as the call-center-and-biotech capital of the world. But India is still incredibly poor and all its public services are a mess: the roads, the telephone lines, the schools, the courts, all of it—and not just in the red tape sense. In the “does not exist as all because all the money was stolen” sense.

So I always wonder if India is going to get stuck at some point because of its miserably bad government. I wonder if India’s future looks a lot like Nigeria at worst or Mexico at best. There are some pretty rich people, there are quality corporations, and there is international investment. But people are poor in some many senses—they have no money, no access to health care or education, no protection from violence, no meaningful rights, and no reason to believe their children’s lives will be any different from their own.

I think India’s problems are manageable. I mean, India is lucky: it is a stable democracy, the government has quite a lot of money and a good credit rating; the military doesn’t want to run the country; and it currently faces no severe internal or external threats.

But India has NO rule of law. Say there is a murder. There are rules on the books about how that murder should be investigated, prosecuted, and punished. But the chances that things will unfold accordingly are, roughly, zero. If the victim is not very important, the investigation will be little more than perfunctory. If the investigation happens, it will be this sort of civil-rights-violation-bonanza of warrant-less searches and confessions under torture. In the event the murderer is identified, the police can be bribed to forget the whole thing. And, even if the murderer is identified and booked, the wait until any sort of trial can be years—decades for less-serious crimes. Civil cases are backlogged by, roughly, a human lifespan. The judiciary is under-staffed and judges are constantly being bribed not to do anything, witnesses get killed, evidence gets “lost.” It’s just disgusting.

The solution wouldn’t be so hard if politicians wanted to do something about it. India’s Central Bureau of Investigations and its highest judiciary are very good—the staff is paid a decent amount and is protected from being transferred, harassed, or killed. So, they do their jobs.

One thing that might help would be real public pressure on politicians to shape up. I think people lack a clear idea of what the alternative would look like. Citizens aren’t that enthusiastic about getting the police and the judiciary more involved in maintaining a decent society because they have no image of those institutions as anything but a bunch of crooks.

So, my idea is: Indian Law and Order!

No, I’m serious. India has no prosecutor dramas, in television or film. It has cops-and-robbers movies. But these are invariably about the gray area between the two. Mafia dons with hearts of gold and such.

What India needs is a show full of high-minded and righteous police and prosecutors. Who confront, in each episode, a “ripped from the headlines” story of brutality and corruption. But then they resolve it in the way it could be settled in a world of high-minded and righteous.

The show would begin with a parental yet passionate voice that would inform the viewers that in the criminal justice system they are represented by two separate, yet equally important, groups: the police who investigate crime and the courts who prosecute the offenders. Then the viewers would watch as the honorable, diligent, and muscular policeman used carefully collected physical evidence and legally obtained confessions to break the case. Then the incorruptible, clever, and shapely prosecutor would see that the dastardly criminal was locked away for ever. This would all take about 60 minutes (minus time for commercials) and the victim’s family would be crying gratefully as the judge announced the verdict. (No jury trials in India). The victim’s family would be mostly cameos by beautiful film stars and cricket players.

Also, in true Law and Order style, either the original or the spin-offs would be on would be on one or more channels at all hours of night and day.

I know this idea might sound trivial, but the idea comes from a study that shows that both male and female respondents' expressed belief in the acceptability of domestic violence went down in rural India as TV came into the area. The investigators believe that is because Indian soap operas show less patriarchal families. Maybe the respondents just learned from the TV that they should self-censor. But, still, changing people's minds about what's normal/cool/tasteful/upper-class is a real change.

Be Careful What You Wish For

2007-11-12T14:00:00.000+05:30

Wouldn’t you know it? I go to the protest safely, get back to Darjeeling City, have lunch, and get food poisoning. Just like Ghising, blind to where the true danger lies…

Also, I should never have made fun of India’s effete strike culture. Now Kolkata is on strike in earnest, and I’m stuck here for the next forty-eight hours. And I mean stuck here. At my hotel and its immediate environs. No vehicles today.

By the way, I have figured out why the change from Calcutta to Kolkata bothers me so much more than Benares nee Varanasi or Mumbai nee Bombay. It’s because English words just don’t begin with “ko.” I think koala and kohlrabi are the only two words in common circulation that start with “ko.” And those are hardly your good ol’ Aryan or Romance language nouns.

And no common English word begins with “kol.” I don’t have any idea how to tackle pronouncing that. I realize the intent is to revive indigenous traditions, but the whole point of a transliteration is to communicate how to say a word to people who don’t read your alphabet. And those people, even the kohlrabi and koala lovers among them, don’t know how to pronounce “kol.”

It doesn’t help that everyone says “Cal-cut-ahh.” I don’t know if that is because “Kolkata” is pronounced “Cal-cut-ahh” or because the name change hasn’t really caught on. I need some of those little cartoon speech bubbles.

Indian Idol Really Does Explain Everything!

2007-11-07T20:51:00.000+05:30

So, I went to the gherao and all was fine. PowerPoint-friendly pictures obtained.

There was a little change in plans overnight, actually. The GLF decided that they would do two days of gherao now, then take a break for Diwali, then finish up after that. The break for Diwali is, so say the leaders, in deference to the tourist industry. (Lousy backpacking foreigners. Messing with my field work.) This further illustrates my point about Indian civil disobedience lacking a sense of urgency. By the way, if you do not know what Diwali is you may want to refer to the episode of The Office that explicates the holiday in full.

The sit-in part of the gherao never really happened. The plan was to march from the city center to the headquarters of the district and blockade that. But the police had three successive roadblocks (complete with batons, riot shields, tear gas, and assault rifles. Singing: “one of these things is not like the others...”) several hundred meters away from the marchers’ target. I arrived at the roadblocks about 30 minutes before the procession did and was waved through, and was able to watch what happened from further up the road. For awhile the police were chatting with me and asking how their guns compared to those of US cops (I made something up) but then a supervisor shooed me pretty far away. But I still had an okay view.

As it turned out, there was nothing for the police to worry about this time. The protest got to the blockade, the leaders made some speeches, and then the group turned around and went to a different meeting point where more speeches were made. Then they dispersed, although the whole thing is supposed to repeat tomorrow.

This gherao, by the way, was even less like a proper sit-in than the semester during my college years when a bunch of students camped in front of the president’s office demanding that no sweatshops be involved in the manufacture of the school’s paraphernalia. Similar to recent events in Myanmar, after a few weeks the Yale junta rolled out its ruthless strategy for breaking the resolve of the valiant protesters: mid-term exams. And that was that.

On the other hand, judged by the standards of a political rally rather than as a gherao, the GLF effort was thoroughly respectable. Lots of call-and-answer chanting, sign boards, flags, the whole works.

My sister asked why they are protesting if they want the same thing their current leader does. (For those of you waiting with bated breathe for my dissertation, be warned that there are several spoilers below). The deal is that Subash Ghising, the man who led the GNLF’s drive for a state in the 1980s, has dominated politics for twenty years now, has been putting off elections for the post he controls for about seven years, and was for a long time beyond criticism because of his role as head of the Darjeeling movement. Sort of the Yasser Arafat of Darjeeling. Sans head scarf.

These new protests are basically being organized by politicians who want to oust Ghising. It is interesting that they cannot just protest against him on the grounds that he is not particularly skilled as an administrator, a crook, and a murderer, and instead they protest for statehood. I think one part of it is that a separate state is genuinely popular and by taking a more extreme position than Ghising (statehood now versus eventually) they are hoping to win away part of his luster as father of the movement. And then there is the fact that most of these politicians were in Ghising’s party up until a few weeks ago. And are mostly incompetents, crooks, and murderers themselves.

These politicians didn’t suddenly see the error of their ways – they saw an opportunity to capitalize on Ghising’s all-time low in popularity. And, here’s the amazing part: this actually IS because of Indian Idol!!!! Simon Cowell should be so depressed at the irrelevance of his show by comparison with the Indian version!! Kelly Clarkson notwithstanding, I don’t think American Idol has a single social movement to its credit.

To be more specific, Ghising has lost the hearts of the Darjeeling folk for his failure to support Darjeeling’s recent Indian Idol champion, Prashant Tamang.

You see, Ghising was out of the country during most of the competition. By contrast: You remember runner-up Amit Paul of Shillong? The Chief Minister THERE donated a bunch of money to the phone companies so that his constituents could text in their votes for Amit for free. Politicians elsewhere made a big show of selling their assets to sponsor free SMS-ing or gave cars, land, houses and so forth to the local contender. Indian Idol is serious business: 370 million votes were cast this time around. And Ghising just totally dropped the ball.

The irony of someone surviving seven years of postponing elections and then falling on the sword of a musical talent search is amazing, don’t you think? I guess we know what would revive public interest in Indian politics, though: more ensemble dance numbers.

POLL! Important Fieldwork Dilemma!

2007-11-06T14:25:00.000+05:30

Okay, quick, I need advice. A moment of fieldwork glory (or at least good pictures for PowerPoint presentations) is within reach. But I'm a wee bit uncertain as to whether it is a good idea to pursue it.

(Mom: don't read any more of this post. It will only make you worried.)

Tomorrow there is a gherao here in Darjeeling by the Gorkha League. Now, who, you ask, are they? To answer that question requires a journey back to 1985. (Which you may recognize as the year "We are the World" spent four weeks at number one on the Hot 100 Billboard.) That year a group called the Gorkha National Liberation Front (GNLF) started getting all feisty about wanting their own state, Darjeeling, rather than being a part of West Bengal. Actually, in a country less insanely violent than India, it probably would have been pretty alarming. Because the GNLF had little gangs of young men who would go around and collect "donations" and would get into fights with representatives of the ruling political party.

This being India, it was only a little alarming. There are plenty more unemployed young men where those came from, but these sorts of things can be bad for the tea barons. So the GNLF didn't win a new state with their agitation, but they got an autonomous district.

Fastforward, and now there is this new political party, the Gorkha League, that is taking back up the cause of having a Darjeeling state. Tomorrow, they are going to begin a 15-day gherao at the headquarters of the Darjeeling autonomous district. A gherao is like a sit-in, except that it is announced in advance. And you announce your quit date in advance. That way, there is no danger that your resolve will been seen to crack, as it might in an indefinite sit-in.

By the way, Indians have a way with this kind of face-saving civil disobedience. When I was in Kolkatta last week, for instance, the Communist Party called a one-day general strike but announced an exemption for the IT sector. The disappointment of the IT comrades at being excluded from the day of solidarity was probably not too severe, however. Because, you see, computer companies tend not to be hot-beds of anti-capitalist activism. So it was kind of the equivalent of not inviting the Prom Queen out -- you aren't fooling anybody into thinking you wouldn't be rejected if you tried.

To get back to the point: it is kind of possible that these Gorkha League sit-inners will get into a scuffle with the GNLF folks at some point. And one of my goals for this dissertation about violence is that I will never actually have to observe any of it.

I think I will go and have a look, see how freely alcohol is flowing and whether there are any women at all there (a good barometer of what the intention of the gathering is), and then go away with a few PowerPoint-friendly pictures if things look ominous. But, what is your advice: take the poll below, please!!! And feel free to add comments. I value your collective wisdom on this point.

Guwahati, the capital of the state of Assam

2007-10-25T13:17:00.000+05:30

Guwahati means "areca nut market," which is a literal, commerce-oriented name for a city that serves its economic function well enough, but doesn't have a lot of charm to spare.

Below is a picture of the Brahmaputra, the enormous river that led people to settle in Assam long ago. It really looks more like a lake, it is so massive.

There is supposedly a temple to Shiva in the middle of the river and a temple for Sati, one of the incarnations of his wife Parvati, on the far shore. But I couldn't see either from where I was. "Sati" is also the name of the custom of widow burning, in reference to a myth about Sati self-immolating in rage after her father insulted her new husband, Shiva. (Although, in her father's defence, how many people really hope their daughter will bring the destroyer of the universe home for dinner?) Shiva, in his grief over Sati's death, walked around India carrying her ashen corpse, and there is a temple every place a bit of her is supposed to have fallen. Assam's temple is where, well, Sati's girl parts fell.

How is it I feel both somewhat abashed about being too risque here, what with my exposed ankles, and also like I am constantly being exposed as a total prude, what with my squeamishness about a religion making reference to charred genitals?

Anyhow, the only really interesting tourist spot in Guwahati was Nehru park, which featured some typically patriotic things, such as this column bearing the symbol of India:

And a garden with bronze statues posed as if performing various traditional North East Indian dances:

And a colorful statue of a dragon, perhaps out of some local folktale...

About a dragon fighting a Tyrannosaurus Rex...

Even as both of them are being stalked by some sort of zombie bear...

Or ape, or maybe even a dog. And this zombie has a really impressive set of dentures.

The insanity of the very car sick

2007-10-22T14:46:00.000+05:30

Not everyone knows this about me, but I am an extremely accomplished inventor. Well, except that I never actually implement any of my innovations. But in the past I have invented an electronic Christmas registry service that malls should promote to parents of teenagers; a Tim Gunn Advisor Doll, inspirational tool for budding artists and graduate students alike; and a children’s party clothing/Halloween outfit/school play costume service that would run on the model of Netflix. My newest invention was inspired by the Shillong-to-Guwahati road, which I took yesterday, arriving in Guwahati. Where I still am now, as a stop-over point on my way to Kolkata/Calcutta.

The asphalt on that road is in truly dreadful repair. There are potholes that have appeared where the previous, underlying pox were not sufficiently filled in, so that the sides of the pothole reveal four or five different layers of asphalt that were laid down over time, like the stripes of sediment revealed by as a river cuts a canyon through millions of years of rock. There are new, sharply defined craters in the road, and others that have eroded into gently sloped lakebeds. There are places where the many divots in the road have spread out to meet each other, so that the whole of the road becomes an undulating asphalt surface. And there is a nice layer of gravel and dislodged road bits over everything, making the flat we got about 15 minutes outside of Guwahati all but inevitable. And, keep in mind: this is in a place where temperatures do not even fluctuate that widely.

Of course, this is not a particularly unique situation, within India, or the world. I am sure some of you who study other parts of the developing world are rolling your eyes, wondering what I am complaining about since this road was, apparently, at least paved at some point. And you are thinking of the faint footpaths that serve as the channels for moving humans—uphill both ways in the monsoon—in the places you have traveled. Thus: the need for my invention.

We all know that the state of the world’s roads is not the result of technology. Humans know how to build good roads. The problem is corruption in the process of building the roads. In many countries, being Minister of Roads is way better than some dead end job like running the Ministry of State. Huge amounts of graft go into making roads: the bribes that go into convincing the government to fund new roads; the bribes that pass in terms of who gets the contracts associated with that funding; and—most critical for the quality of those roads—the pocketing of most of those funds, so that all that gets laid down is a wee thin layer of gravel and tar that comes up several kilometers short of the span it was supposed to cover and begins to get torn up even as the construction workers drive home to enjoy a day’s half-assed job.

My idea: the government should mandate that roads be made out of some sort of lattice of cobblestones, except not cobblestones but something like cement hexagons. And the cement hexagons will all be made at only a few plants, where the government could monitor that the thickness of the hexagons was sufficient. (Maybe even foreign plants, if the economies of scale dictate this, but that could cause domestic outcry). This would be in contrast to making roads from gravel and tar, which can be manufactured in lots of places, making it more difficult monitoring whether the materials are well made, and whether the contractors are actually buying all they should be. So, when the Guwahati contractor orders the hexagons, it is easy to check that he took delivery of as many as he said he would, and to count the number of the blocks that are going into the road, as opposed to only being able to check on the thickness of the asphalt only after it has already been laid and only by cutting a little hole in the road. The contractor could steal hexagons and sell them on the black market, I suppose, or try to file some of the cement off the hexagons before he laid them down, but that would be, hopefully, more effort than it was worth. And it would definitely be less efficient an opportunity for corruption than walking into the gravel pit, ordering too little gravel, and giving the gravel man a small bribe to alter the invoice.

My idea is no panacea, of course, but what I figure is that it would at least help matters if it were harder to cut corners on the materials that go into the road. In some ways, I am just moving the opportunities for corruption around and up the chain, but I think I am also making them fewer in number. Also, moving corruption opportunities up the chain means, on the upside, that the central government has an incentive to implement the Hexagon Program, even if they are a bunch of louts themselves. Maybe the idea is net bad, though, since there is more money to be made at each point in the production chain (with just a few plants in operation) and thus bigger incentives for corruption. Probably, there would need to be a pilot study, perhaps in someplace like Zambia, which, one of my advisors informs me, only has two paved roads. Good to start small.

The scheme has other downsides, too. The gravel and tar people would now be selling to the hexagon-makers, who might be able to pay them low rates since they could not sell as widely. And, perhaps most troubling, I have no idea if this idea for road construction is technically feasible or remotely affordable. In fact, I am not even completely sure I have accurately described the components of asphalt under the status quo. (I could look on Wikipedia, but the connection here isn’t very fast). Still, I think maybe some engineering types can take my idea and figure out those details. I think it would also be good if they could make either the hexagons or the material holding them together act as a carbon sink, so that the road would be absorbing CO2 even as the drivers were producing it. So someone should really get on all of this.

So, economists, engineers, and development agencies of the world: I offer you another of my brilliant inventions. Free of charge. It is the least we creative geniuses can do.

Shillong Boy Amit: singing sensation? Or potential instrumental variable?

2007-10-14T14:57:00.000+05:30

Some pictures from the Khasi Hills of Meghalaya and Shillong, the capital of the state

The British had their regional colonial capital in Shillong - they, like me, were apparently completely enchanted by the brisk temperatures, overcast skies, and frequent drizzle. For people from England or Michigan, moist, cold weather is like a return to the womb. The British also thought Meghalaya looked a lot like Scotland, which I guess it does, in the vague sort of way that penne-is-to-Pad-Thai. But they proceeded to build a lot of exposed timber, "ye olde country shoppe" style buildings, like the church above.

In other important Shillong news, Amit Paul, runner-up on Indian Idol is a native of this fair city. And, oddly enough, the place I am going next, Darjeeling, is home to the winner of Indian Idol! Is, perhaps, Indian Idol success an important predictor of political mobilization for one's own state???? Or vice-versa???? Afterall, Indian Idol is based on the community working together to text message their local son to greatness. I just know there is amazing social science waiting to be done here. My advisor once used familiarity with Abba songs in a paper, so I think there is even a precedent.

And, then, I was Al Gore's Official Representative in India

2007-10-07T12:55:00.000+05:30

Back in Delhi, one of my interviewees, learning that I was planning to travel to Shillong, invited me to attend the 2nd People's Parliament of Meghalaya. It was billed as a sort of grassroots , alternative to partisan democracy, khum-bye-yah sort of event. To protest official corruption, deplore party divisions, and celebrate the wisdom of the people.

And, of course, I jumped at the chance. I mean, this is comparative political science bread'n'butter - the kind of firsthand political observation (and blurred, not terribly informative pictures) that I can trot out for years to come in order to demonstrate that I have the kind of deep cultural insight that can only be gained in The Field. (I mean, the internet cafe I am currently sitting in has a sign reading "No Porn Sites Please or Else" and featuring a clip art picture of someone pointing a gun at a kitten with its paws in the air. You just can't get that kind of "WTF?" moment out of a book.)

And, in fact, the People's Parliament was a huge success for gleaning comparativist cred, and I will devote a whole post to describing it later. But it also served as a chance for me to venture once again into the realm of American public diplomacy.

You see, the People's Parliament had bestowed this session's International Award on ex-Vice President of the United States, Al Gore for his work on climate change. They invited Al Gore to come and collect the award but, apparently, his schedule did not allow for it. They also invited the US Consulate to send a representative to receive the honor on his behalf. Not such a far-fetched request, since someone from the Calcutta office attended the first People's Parliament. (By the way, no other embassy sent an actual person instead of just a little message, so one point in the State Department's favor, anyhow.) But, here's the thing: the woman from the consulate arrives on the morning of the Parliament, and she will not accept the award!!

Does anyone who studies American politics know if this is normal? Is it expected that a Republican administration wouldn't accept an honor bestowed on a Democrat? Or was the snub specific to Al Gore, what with the continued bad feelings around the popular vote, Florida, chads, and the whole works? Or was it because the award was about combating climate change, a trend the present administration is hell-bent on accelerating?

That final hypothesis, in my mind, is supported by the consulate's message to the Parliament (read aloud during the ceremonies) which congratulated the people of Meghalaya on their success in preserving 79 sacred forests in their state but failed to mention the rally's statements on climate change. No doubt, the consulate's enthusiasm for conserving the sacred forests would have been damped if someone had mentioned that you aren't allowed to hunt or even ride your ATV in those hallowed woods.

So, again, I'm giving the US thoroughly middling marks for public diplomacy. Seems like a pretty shameful slight of the organizers. Although, it occurs to me that I would not accept an award on George W's behalf. But the mere thought of him makes the tears of rage well in my eyes. No one could hate Al Gore that way. His turn on Saturday Night Live was just too lovable.

Be that as it may, they had to give the award to someone. And that someone was... me. My qualification for that job being that I am a US citizen. In fact, I have even been to Tennessee. And so I was photographed receiving Mr. Gore's award from a Khasi syiem and will appear in the local papers as emissary of Al Gore in India. (Although, I highly doubt my name will be spelled correctly, so perhaps that will minimize any potential legal ramifications associated with impersonating a major public figure). The inconvenient truth in all of this being that I have never even seen Al Gore in person nor is my existence known to him. In fact, I wasn't even that enthusiastic about my vote for him in 2000. But nonetheless, I was Al Gore for the day.

I hope I will run into Rumsfeld sometime next year at Stanford, so that I can look at him with the haughty disdain of one who outranked him in the Presidential succession.

Off to Cloud City

2007-10-02T10:49:00.000+05:30

Hello on October 2nd, birthday of the Mahatma Gandhi! If you are Indian, admire non-violent resistance, or just generally feel Winston Churchill is over-rated, then consider taking the day off.

Tomorrow I am going to leave Delhi for the start of a six week jaunt through two places that have had movements seeking their own states. First, I am heading to Meghalaya ("abode of the clouds") which holds the first and second place world records for most rain ever recorded in one miserably damp place in a year. Meghalaya used to be part of Assam (as in "Assam tea") but it successfully filed for divorce. Second, I will go to Darjeeling, as in "Darjeeling tea". Then I will go to Kolkata (formerly, Calcutta), which is the capital of the state Darjeeling just can't seem to quit.

Meghalaya has a population of two million people, and it is quite a ways off the beaten track for most Indians. Like, quick: what's the third largest city in South Dakota? Because Aberdeen and Meghalaya have roughly the same degree of public visibility in their respective nation's consciousness. Meghalaya people often compare themselves to Native American areas, in that they were in India before the in-migrations/conquests of people speaking languages derived from Sanskrit. It is the Sanskrit-ites, with their many-limbed gods, high respect for cows, and elaborate caste system, that define a lot of what we think of as Indian. In short: in Meghalaya, they eat beef. I only hope they are in the practice of turning some of that cow flesh into something akin to a hamburger.

I don't really know what the odds are of that. Frankly, I have no idea what to expect in terms of how this will compare to Delhi and other parts of India I have seen. The area is definitely going to be a lot less developed and there will be fewer outsiders running around. So I will be saying good-bye to my all-day electricity and I don't know what to expect in terms of running water. On the other hand, the British let missionaries come into animist Meghalaya but barred them from Hindu areas. So, in some respects, westernization is supposedly high in Meghalaya: lots of speaking of English, lots of Christianity.

Oh, by the way, I am staying at the Presbyterian church's guest house. I anticipate having much to report.

If you're reading this, perhaps you, too, are procrastinating

2007-09-24T19:57:00.000+05:30

With the pace of my interviews slowing, I really need to be committing my thoughts to writing. So my goal for the coming week is to lay the story of each of my four areas of study out in words. But, as always when I am faced with writing, it is excruciatingly difficult to start doing it. It just requires so much concentration. You have to think really carefully about the sentence you are turning out while holding back the paralyzing sense of overload that will set in if you let yourself consider about how many caveats and layers and asides are going to need to be written and tied into this section in order to finally make your argument. Of course, as I write this from the air-conditioned comfort of Barista coffee shop, I can see a group of men squatting in the sun, using small hammers to split bricks into smaller pieces of rubble, and then tossing these aside so they can be mixed with cement in order to resurface some of the road outside. So I’m aware of how small these complaints are. And, yet, threatening myself with a life of brick-splitting is totally ineffective as a means to ending procrastination and inducing a start to writing my case studies. I mean, seriously, how could I be a brick splitter? I can’t even do a pull-up.

So I thought I would share some of what I’ve been doing to put off writing. I don’t flatter myself that this is that interesting, but it is all I have been doing lately. You’ll notice, first, how much I owe to the internet and, second, how field work is allowing me to spend more quality time thinking about American pop culture. I still don’t know the Hindi past tense but, by God, I know what’s new this year on FOX. You wouldn’t think somebody could become more provincial by moving to India, but the thought of a tired sit-com trying to pass Kelsey Grammer off as a ladies' man... well, it just feels like home.

Checking on Intra-India Airfares.
Time successfully diverted from writing case studies: 15 minutes.
Tangible benefits: Some. I am planning to leave for Meghalaya—one of my little areas that wanted to be a state—next week, and I do need to take a plane there. But I was ultimately too confused by the website to buy a ticket, so the benefits cannot be called high. Does anyone know what a “check” fare is? It is an economy class seat, but I am wary of ordering it in case it means something like “once you get to the airport, we’ll check if we have a seat available.”

Re-doing my website, www.stanford.edu/~blacina.
Time diverted: 10 hours.
Tangible benefits: Highly questionable. I was foiled in my idea for using my pictures as more creative design elements, and proved too lazy to try to add a discussion of my dissertation to the site, and thus it was not much improved. Also, this was a complete non-priority, as I don’t use my professional website in any professional way, except for when I can’t find my CV on my hard drive and so I download it instead.

Figuring out commute times between Stanford and San Francisco on public transportation.
Time diverted: 45 minutes.
Tangible benefits: None. I have done this at least half-a-dozen times now. Yet it is like I keep compulsively looking for some wormhole that will allow me to both live in San Francisco and make it to Stanford without sacrificing two to three hours per day. When I get bored of looking for places where the Caltrain takes advantage of rips in the space-time continuum, I sometimes switch to looking for a smart phone or ultra-portable laptop that would allow me to use my commute time to great effect. These can be pricey, though, so perhaps I will look into whether the North Koreans are selling any warp cores.

Listening to the Books on CD that I copied from the Menlo Park public library before I left.
Time diverted: Many, many hours.
Tangible benefits: High enough to ward off guilt. My current book-on-CD is on listening to and understanding opera, which I think will be good for me because I enjoy operas but my mind often wanders during them. Example: last year, my sister Merideth and I took this special trip to go see the LA Opera and I fell asleep during Tannhauser. But, in my defence, that was by Wagner, so whole civilizations had risen and crumbled back into dust in the time it took for the opera to finish.

Searching internet to determine what kind of bird the Road Runner, nemesis of Wile E. Coyote, is supposed to represent.
Time diverted: 5 minutes.
Tangible benefits: Nil. The answer, to save you the trouble, is that there is actually a bird called a "roadrunner" (Geococcyx californianus and, also, it's smaller cousin the Geococcyx volex) and it really does live in deserts. And can run at speeds of up to 15 miles per hour or more!

Reading all available blog commentary on latest episode of Top Chef: Season 3, which determined the finalists who will travel to Aspen thanks to the Glad family of products.
Time diverted: 3 hours.
Tangible benefits: Low. I know no other Top Chef fans here to spend time debating the show with. And I suspect my heart will be crushed by the eventual loss of chef-testant Casey and a resultant third-straight male Top Chef. On the other hand, I learned what sous vide means. If I ever cook something sous vide, then I can upgrade these “Tangible Benefits” to medium.

Eating Doritos, which are miraculously every bit as delicious in their Indian guise as they are when made in the United States.
Time diverted: None, really. I surfed the internet while eating them, so there was no additional loss of time due to the Doritos, except maybe the moments it took to open the bag.
Tangible benefits: Negative. My arteries were making small, unheeded cries of distress with every chip, and my fingers turned to that characteristic orange.

Looking through the Neiman Marcus website for a suit that I can buy, bring back to Delhi, and have an Indian tailor copy in several other colors and weights of fabric, turning me into a well-dressed professional for decades to come.
Time diverted: 4 hours.
Tangible benefits: Possible, if I actually go through with the suit-making plan and I am happy with the results and I get a job outside of Californiawhere suit-wearing will be required. Also, the website allows you to browse by fashion designer in a pretty efficient way and that was kind of fun. And it increased my enthusiasm for the upcoming season of Project Runway.

Cleaning Albert.
Time diverted: 10 minutes.
Tangible benefits: High for me. I think his fur looks much whiter now. Very low for him—I don’t think he enjoyed the vigorous toweling off that is so important after you moisten a stuffed animal, so that you don’t want to ruin the nice, plush feel of the fur.

Signing up for Stanford Commute Club.
Time diverted: 10 minutes.
Tangible benefits: ~$250! However, I am wondering if it is unethical to claim the benefits this year. I checked most of the boxes without compulsion (Registered student? Yes. Will not have a parking permit? Yes.), but wasn’t sure about the “will commute to Stanford” box. How often do I have to commute to make it okay to take the university’s money? I mean, I’ll be on campus a couple of times this year. Then again, if people don’t sign up for the program, the University might cancel it, thinking that the incentive to not drive to campus isn’t working. And that would be bad. So I’m really just doing my part, right?

It is only with a serious investment in procrastination that one can come up with thin rationalizations like that.

Fool me twice...

2007-09-18T21:24:00.000+05:30

You will not believe this: it happened AGAIN!

I can accept that anyone could interview the wrong person once. Probably even Barbara Walters has made this mistake at some point. But to do it twice. In the same week???? What in the name of all that is good is the matter with me????

I can hardly bear to go into this, but the gist is that there is a think tank in Delhi, with a gentleman on staff whom I would like to speak with. Retired general, used to work in some of the places I’m researching, terribly germane to my topic. But, unbeknownst to me prior to this afternoon, this think tank also enjoys the affiliation of an economist, whose name differs from that of the ex-serviceman in question only in that the vowel in the economist’s last name is “ai” and the vowel in the good soldier’s last name is “ay.”

You see where this is going? Not so long ago, I called up the think tank, asked the secretary to connect me to Mr. “ay”, went through my song and dance about wanting to meet up, set an appointment, and congratulated myself on another interview landed, not realizing I had been connected to Mr. “ai.” Granted, there were clues. I could have said “General” instead of “Mister” and perhaps that would have clarified things for the secretary—but I wasn’t sure if ex-generals still use that title. (Am trying to think of references to Colin Powell and am unable to pinpoint whether “General” is used.) I should have been tipped off by the jolly “I’m more of an economist myself, but I’ll be happy to talk to you.” I just sort of figured the good general had development issues nearest to his heart. I mean, he was never a politician, so maybe that was what he meant, right?

Fortunately, I figured this gaff out before the interview began—I saw the name on the door, felt my tummy travel to my toes, blinked several times, and then realized what had happened. And, again by the grace of the universe, Mr. “ai” has some regional economic interests, so there was the thinnest layer of plausibility about me seeking out his advice. And he happily recommended multiple works on federalism I might peruse. We both could have used the thirty minutes in a more productive fashion, but no serious harm was done.

Except to my confidence as a field worker. I don’t know if I am unfit for interactions with real people, or unfit to schedule my own time, or pathologically bad with names, or what. Realistically, I know I am a bit careless about names/dates/places/details in general. (I blame my high school history teacher, who taught me for 3 straight years and was very into learning concepts instead of facts. Damn holistic education.) But, right now, instead of being full of resolve to improve myself in this respect, I just feel ridiculous.

I think in all my future accidental interviews I will try to take more detailed notes. Then maybe by the time I’m done I’ll have enough for a whole parallel dissertation about “people whose names are quite similar to the names of people who are important to the study of Indian federalism.” Kind of a linguistics/anthropology hybrid study.

Off to drown my sorrows in bottled water…

Not what I meant to do

2007-09-16T14:51:00.000+05:30

I just set my new personal low for stunningly botched fieldwork. I am still, frankly, reeling.

As you know, I’ve been interviewing members of the Indian parliament lately. This has been going pretty well and has had the nice side-effect of quadrupling my consumption of very sweet and milky tea and various sorts of biscuits. In fact, I was considering myself practically a Girl Friday as of a few days ago. The interviews are fairly formal and they usually cannot be too long—one to one-and-a-half hours. And I try to write fairly narrow questions about specific junctures in the person’s life because I’ve found my “big think” queries don’t really go anywhere. And I’m mostly just hoping the respondent will drop one or two political factoids that will be helpful to me as they give me what is otherwise a fairly well-rehearsed line. (I will mention that it is entirely by design that I am doing rather cerebral interviews with not-particularly-representative Indians, as opposed to, say, trying to go into the Indian countryside to get an accurate sense of the life of the man on the street. The notion that I could possibly do the latter has always seemed ridiculous to me. Let’s face it: I am the sort of person who knows the names of many kinds of cheese and no professional basketball players. In short, I’m not even good at understanding real life in my own society, how would I understand it in India?)

I have, of course, wondered how honest my respondents are being. I definitely wonder if the people who seem sincere are merely the most accomplished liars, and I have similar questions about the respondents who seem dim or persistently confused in their facts. It is particularly difficult to square the people I interview with the rather nasty deeds ascribed to Indian politicians in general and/or to the respondent in particular. And questions in that vein are hard to phrase in a delicate manner: “so, tell me about the time you broke with your coalition partners and restarted a civil war…” or “How’d you get so good at bombing trains?”

My interview today, for example, raised just such a delicate issue, in this case because the politician I was going to talk to—let’s call him Mr. Morgan Thomas Mitchell from constituency X (Stanford Human Subjects would be so pleased with me)—had both his legs blown off when an insurgent group he once had ties to tried to assassinate him. I prepared for this interview earlier this week because I thought I was going to get in to see him on Wednesday. But when I got there I instead spoke to a secretary who found out what I was doing and then told me to go to the MP’s residence on Sunday. This actually put me in a pretty good mood, because if this Mr. Mitchell was important enough to have a secretary who screened his appointments (unlike the usual MP taking his own calls), well, who knows what fascinating political facts he’d have for me?

Interview day arrived, and I made my way to the house maintained by Mr. Mitchell’s state to be used as a residence for politicians and official guests. Let me note that part of the reason the corruption of my respondents is always a little hard to gauge is that they live in pretty modest circumstances. I mean, again with the upholstery ecosystem that could, at any moment, support the emergence of vertebrates. The whole place, like so many buildings in India, somehow managed to look simultaneously like it is still under-construction and falling apart from old age, and had the eerie-bombed out feeling of, well, a place where there are no signs of life other than men who are either repaving or destroying the driveway and a group of people who do not seem to have anything in particular to do except sit on the very dirty couches, waiting for the power to come back on so that the single fan will begin to make the dust stir again.

The same secretary I had seen on Wednesday showed me to a somewhat nicer room and sat down to take a phone call. I assured him that I knew I was a bit early and that I was happy to wait, and I pulled out my newspaper. Then the secretary said, “Well, shall we start?” And I wonder to myself, “Is he going to do the interview for the MP? Is he the MP? And, how can that be? He is most clearly not a double amputee. Is it possible that this is some kind of a con job, that I’ve been lured into an interview with an impostor? And who would try to impersonate someone in a wheelchair without attending to that small detail?” (Keep in mind, constituency X is in one of the scarier places I study and perhaps this is all some kidnapping set-up). I was, in short, totally flustered. In the best case scenario, where this guy is the MP, I have, first of all, been talking about “Mr. Mitchell” consistently over two meetings now, so it’s not like he won’t know I was mixed up and, second, I know nothing about this man. The guy I prepared to interview was not only legless, the political career that led his opponents to hire his estranged rebel supporters to attempt to blow him into his next incarnation was pretty distinctive—even in a pretty violent place like India. And, given my chosen interview style, I do not really have any all-purpose questions prepared. But, then again, I’m not completely sure that this man isn’t Mr. Mitchell because, after all, maybe the reports of the extent of the damage to his limbs were exaggerated or maybe I’d somehow become mixed up about that detail. In short, I had nothing.

The interview never really recovered. After an excruciating hour or so, I stumbled back through the Sarajevo-by-way-of-Haiti state house, and into the Delhi sunlight. I rode home in a daze, wondering with almost an idle curiosity what had just happened.

I am sure that someday I will find this hilarious, but the answer to the question turns out to be that there are two high-profile Parliamentarians in constituency X with rather similar names. One is Morgan Thomas Mitchell and the other is Thomas Morgan Mitchell. In fact, they are in the same political party. And, naturally, in newspaper articles there are often references to Mr. Mitchell, the honorable member from X, and it can be a bit hazy who the referent is. And, well, Mr. Thomas Morgan Mitchell is, it seems, still in his home state recovering from the rather nasty attempt on his life, while Mr. Morgan Thomas Mitchell and I just enjoyed some sweet tea, Ritz crackers, and not terribly high-quality discussion of Indian federalism.

Whoops.

Another day in India, another notice from my bank that my account is going to be frozen...

2007-09-08T17:09:00.000+05:30

Perhaps I should not have relied so heavily on the globalization of financial markets. But, on balance, I think it is still probably easier to periodically have no money in India than to open a bank account here. It's what the locals do, anyhow.

I have started my interviewing of Indian MPs. This is surprisingly easy to schedule because MPs all have not only their home phone numbers but their mobile phone numbers on the Parliamentary website. Second, they mostly answer their own phone, and always their mobile. Third, their secretaries are happy to give you other numbers you might try—say, if they are out of town—even before you have done your whole “bright young thing from Stanford” talk. Fourth, although they do go to legislative sessions, time constraints still seem largely soft. I get a lot of “Okay, do you want to come over now?” To which the answer is, “Well, no. You see, I was actually making this call not only unshowered and still in my pajamas but without having finished an interview script because I thought I would be begging your secretary for a date three weeks from now.” I don’t know whether to admire the accessibility of India’s political class, thank the dissertation gods, or to just ask the guy on the other end of the line “isn’t there something else you could be doing right now?”

When I’m not pursuing that, I’m still going to the National Archives. Next week, though, I’m going to try to get into the Parliamentary Library because I have about finished with what is really useful here. I only hope the library staff spends more time at the office than the MPs do.

…

Of the many dualisms India presents, one of the most interesting to me is the middle class’s enthusiasm for both imported technologies and a revivalist Indian folklore. The first is the kind of gung-ho materialism mixed with enthusiasm for scientific innovation that I associate with 1950s America. It’s the desire for home appliances, SUVs, slimming programs, and nuclear weapons. It is the enormous popularity of coffee shops despite the fact that most Indians—raised, as they are, on chai sweeter than liquefied CareBears—appear to dislike coffee and so almost the whole menu of such a café has to be devoted to ice cream drinks (YUM!). Yet all of that exists in parallel with an anxiety that local culture is being diluted and a resultant maudlin nostalgia for a potpourri of Hindu folkways. It has a certain vapid quality, incorporating only what is most convenient from the past, but no more so the chubby Pilgrim & Indian decorations of Thanksgiving.

Exhibit 1: Indian QVC has a special program devoted to the sale of household gods and goddesses (“This exquisite, individually numbered bronze Kali can be yours for not Rs. 2500, not Rs. 2000 but Rs. 1449. Now, we only have a few left…”) but, to avoid blasphemy, a very reputable-looking guru opens and closes each episode with a blessing, and makes short, edifying explanations of the spiritual import of the various items for sale. I should admit that by reputable-looking I mean old, with a long beard, and a yellowish-orange dot of something on his forehead. Whatever, I’m not a religious studies scholar.

Exhibit 2: Last week was Little Lord Krishna’s birthday and, to celebrate, a new cartoon about his childhood adventures was aired, in which he looked remarkably like a bright blue addition to the animated Gummi Bears clan. I have no idea if he had unusual powers of bouncing. I suspect not, as I seem to remember that the gummy berries so essential to bouncing elixir grew in deciduous forests.

Exhibit 3: This week I had a RiteBite Smart nutrition bar, which not only has PowerBar-esque packaging, it contains Shankhpushpi (“Over the centuries, this herb found in the northern plains of India is believed to help improve memory.” Though, since I’ll be lucky to live one century I’m not quite sure Shankhpushpi is going to work for me.); Brahmi, an herb to improve the intellect; and Ashvagandha, a root extract that will increase one’s sense of well-being. Makes that Vitamin Water you’re drinking seem pretty lame-o, doesn’t it?

Correction: I unfairly maligned Bank of America and I apologize. My latest email was a fake, I learned when I called in. Not only was Bank of America not trying to cut me off, this is evidence that their concern was, in fact, warranted.
I think there is a dissertation to be written about how Nigeria can possibly be so poor when the country has such a verifiably an enterprising people.

"Political Science and Beyond!"

2007-09-01T22:47:00.000+05:30

My post this week is from the Department of Unexcusable Self-Pity. Because (a) my tummy hurts and (b) all my political science friends are at APSA this weekend and I’m stuck here in stupid ol’

India

For the uninitiated, APSA is the American Political Science Association and when I say “at” APSA, it isn’t that everyone is on a tour of some august institution where the Association has, for example, a museum of famous political scientists through the ages. (Which is not to say such a thing shouldn’t exist, complete with gift shop. Imagine a Sam Huntington plush doll! It could even make inflammatory racial claims, totally uninformed by empirical investigation, when you pressed its belly!) No, what I mean to say is that all my political science friends are at the Annual Meeting of APSA, being held this year in Chicago.

Surely you can see the delights this affords? The aggregated awkwardness of hundreds of people who, out of all the options afforded by their greater than average intelligence, thought long and hard about where they would be most likely to succeed and chose the one career path upon which social skills have no bearing whatsoever.

The Meeting is also titled—and I wish I were making this up—“Political Science and Beyond.” Now, setting aside that the cultural reference this brings most strongly to mind is the catchphrase from a children’s film about talking action figurines, exactly what does “beyond” refer to? I mean, political science is not the most readily-applied degree. What beyond political science are we qualified to do? Is APSA going to expand into selling face cream? From now on, will they publish Perspectives on Politics and 1001 Gardening tips for faculty housing?

Examining the meeting statement, however, I see that “beyond” refers to the conveners’ aim “to embrace the extraordinary potential of linking political scientists with researchers, teachers, and scholars from other disciplines.” If they have specific examples in mind they are not letting on. The meeting statement refers only to the “cognate disciplines” which—seeing as how we are a “social science”—must mean anything informing us about “societies” or “science.” Which is, hmmm, let’s see, everything. That IS extraordinary potential!

One hypothesis is that the meeting theme has no significance whatsoever - the theme has to cover everything in political science, so it always ends up being vague. A second hypothesis is that the theme might be code for “Sure, what you do doesn’t really look like what I think political science is, but I'm still totally interested in [insert academic discipline].” Because, in the past, there was a lot of ink and maybe even a little blood spilled over what disciplines political science should emulate.

The back story, briefly: Fifteen or so years ago [correction: about 7 years ago. NB - correction strengthens plausibility of hypothesis] , a group of political scientists dubbed themselves the “Perestroikans” and attempted to split/take-over APSA in order to resist what was then a trend toward a style of political science more closely aligned with economics and psychology than with anthropology and cultural studies. A cause which, obviously, was of a moral and historical significance such that it could only be compared to the dismantling of the most extensive police state humanity has ever known.

Perestroikans—for reasons that mostly have to do with the kind of tenure battles that form the background of such happy tales as To the Lighthouse and Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?—largely lost. But this was no Tienanmen Square-style repression of such brutal force as to banish the movement from view. Rather, this was the tenuous and blundering occupation of Tibet, plagued with continued guerrilla violence. Thus, APSA, like a well-meaning and perhaps naive team of Norwegian peacemakers, watches uneasily over its oft-quarrelsome flock, appealing to mutual tolerance.

And to think that, budding conflict scholar which I claim to be, I am not there to gather data!

Further notes of correction: Perestroika began with an anonymous email circulated in 2000 (By the way, the phrase "FAILED Africanist" is a reference to my advisor) & its history is described here & here.
Perestroikans also self-style their movement "Glasnost," again revealing an admirable ability to give a detached assessment of the scope and import of the issue at hand, and have a sister movement with the even more tasteless name "Post-Autistic Economics."

Truly, hell hath no fury like an academic scorned by the more visible journals in his discipline.

Note on the Admittedly Less Exotic Local Fauna: Rakhi, the Indian festival of brothers and sisters, was August 28^th. The gist is that a sister ties a red piece of thread around her brother’s wrist, and then he gives her a present. Perhaps, for example, the gift of happiness, the gift of an i-Pod. (See picture)

The odd role of rakhi is that young women will “tie rakhi” on young men they think of as brothers in addition to their biological male siblings—the obvious candidates for this being cousins. But once a girl has tied rakhi on a guy, the incest taboo is sort of extended to that relationship. So, it can be a way to discourage a suitor – make him a brother and suddenly he has to defend your honor instead of continuing his attempts to sully it. There is even a TV show about it. It’s called something like Rakhi Sahib and the main character is the sort of typical “nice guy” who always ends up being the shoulder his female friends cry on instead of the one they date. Except, in this case, his crushes always tie the Rakhi on him.

Note on Life Imitating Art: Major R.A.M. Major was the last Political Officer to His Majesty’s Government in India to serve in Khasi State. But, obviously, his true accomplishment was to have the startlingly silly name “Major Major,” a la Catch-22.

I is for India

2007-08-26T17:45:00.000+05:30

Do you remember the times in Sesame Street when a muppet would sound out a word? Often the syllables of the word were themselves puppets and they would move gradually together as the furry monster progressed from “hah ta” to “haht” to “hot,” by which point the letters had joined and, possibly, done something to illustrate their meaning, such as glowing with warmth, to continue the “hot” example. In my declining Sesame Street years I wasn’t that fond of these shorts. You see, big all-day-at-school kid that I was, I’d moved on to whole-word, as opposed to phonetic, mastery of most of your three letter words. (With the obvious exceptions of all those three letter words you learn only once you start doing crosswords, like “emu” and “ort.”) But now sounding out words is my new favorite travel game and it makes my rickshaw commutes to the National Archives seem almost short.

I like to sound out Hindi words because, although my vocabulary is fleetingly small, I do know the alphabet. I am sort of proud of that because the non-familiarity of the characters makes it feels like I’ve mastered some super secret code. Super secret meaning, in this case, that it is just the 500 million or so of us who know it. What makes sounding out particularly enjoyable is that so many words in Hindi—especially the sort of words that make it onto signs, like “metro” and “gate”—are transliterations of English words. So I’ll be going along, sounding out words that mean nothing to me and then there are these great epiphany moments when a word pops out of the sounds. Example: I’ll be reading along “dah-lee-poh-le-s” and, ureka!, that’s “Delhi police.”

For illustration, I include here the two kinds of signs I can read. Albert is Vanna White-ing the first type, which is a sign that is actually in English. It says “A Block.” Which is right next door to where I live, on B block. The second type of sign I can read, like the road sign here, contains Hindi proper nouns. Everything on the line in English is reproduced phonetically in Hindi, including “Captain.”

It is very interesting to notice what gets transliterated versus translated. For example, if you are standing on the Metro platform in Delhi, enjoying the deliciously well air-conditioned feel of the place, a sign on the wall tells you, in Hindi characters, to stay behind the “peelee” line, using the Hindi word for yellow. But the train you are about to board is called the “bahloo” line, transliterating “blue” instead of using “neelee,” the Hindi word for blue.

So, that’s what I’m doing for fun these days! Field work is an endless party, I tell you.

Random note: I have moved on from digestive biscuits to Bounty chocolate bars. I’ve had them before but I had forgotten how vastly superior they are to Mounds bars, which use the same basic coconut-wrapped-in-chocolate concept. This is because, first of all, the Bounty candy bar is slightly salty, which creates a nice counterpoint to all that sticky sweetness. And, second, they are quite a bit fatter. Possibly, if I had paid more attention to learning the metric system in middle school I would already have known 1 bounty > 1 mound.

Random note 2: I think that anyplace that is in the tropics and does not have reliable AC should avoid upholstered furniture. It can’t be washed without encouraging what is already a latent tendency to mold and, as a result, becomes extremely dusty and grim-covered. In fact, I think the most important question for most home purchases in this climate is “will I be able to prevent this object from supporting its own ecosystem?”

Random note 3: I have a cockroach living in my bathroom. I’ve known this for about a week but I was content to peacefully coexist since (a) he only came out at night and ran for cover whenever I turned on the light and (b) I don’t like hunting cockroaches because there is the possibility that, in its panic, your prey will do something gross like skitter across your feet. I also don’t like dealing with their distressingly large carcasses. However, yesterday the roach ran into the cupboard beneath the sink and I shut him in there. I now wonder if that wasn’t a cruel thing to do as stomping on him would have been a quicker end. But he won’t necessarily be starving, since that cupboard was hardly an antiseptic environment. And, also, I think the only way to really kill a cockroach is with basilisk venom or fiend fire, so he’s probably just really mad at me and especially likely to do something upsettingly disgusting if I let him out.

Welcome to the Neighborhood

2007-08-26T08:33:00.000+05:30

This is the house where I live
The streets of Defence Colony - lots of trees!!
McMansion, India style
"Colony" refers to the fact that we are a (wrought-iron) gated community
And this is the major thru-fare beyond the colony

No, it's my turn!

2007-08-22T20:32:00.000+05:30

It’s funny how it is the littlest things that breed cultural resentments, at least for me. I disapprove, in principle, of the numerous times during my day that rickshaw drivers and shopkeepers lie to me about what various things cost. But I don’t get worked up about it. And as for the tremendous human suffering of the children begging on Delhi’s street, I feel more humbled than outraged—I don’t know whether I should think of such poverty as part of India’s culture or only as something that is, at present, central to its economic life but might, in future, be eradicated without requiring any great transformation of public values.

On the other hand, I feel no sympathetic allowance for cultural difference when it comes to the subject of India and taking turns. No words are too strong for describing my disgust at the lack of a Indian taboo against queue-jumping.

I regard cutting in line as an act of the basest treachery. Perhaps this is my elementary school self reasserting itself—it occurs to me that the last time I really felt the etiquette of standing in line was worthy of a moral treatise I was wearing a plaid jumper and pigtails. (By the way, in Michigan we stand in a line, not on it. When I first heard “waiting on line” during my first week at college I thought it was a case of internet lingo being transferred to the physical world as a sort of hipster trend.) But I stand by my third-grade self’s overall impression of outrage at line cutters.

As I see it, cutting into line (or onto, if you prefer) is a brazen signal of the cutter’s contempt for his fellow queuewoman. It is a flat denial of respect for her personhood. Jumping into a queue where one does not deserve to be signals a devaluation of the principles of equality and justice that calls into question the cutter’s fitness for a civil and democratic society. In fact, it suggests strong fascist tendencies, if not actual votes for the BJP.

Say, for example, one is standing at a clerk’s desk in the Ministry of Home Affairs while the clerk speaks at great length to a friend about the injections she is having done in order to deal with pain in her wrists and hands. And someone else comes up to the counter and, instead of standing behind you in an orderly fashion, proceeds to stand beside you, at the counter, obscuring the order in which the two of you ought, by principles of fair play and sportsmanship, to be dealt with by the clerk. Then another person comes up and he, too, bellies up to the bar! And it’s a pan-gender problem, as a woman now walks to the desk and likewise stands at the counter as though she might very well be the most deserving of out of the four of you for the clerk’s immediate attention. Then, when the clerk has finished giving her medical history, she simply looks blandly at the panel of us, waiting to see who will most aggressively demand her attention. This is rather than using the powers vested in her by the Home Ministry, which executes the law of the land on behalf of the august Cabinet of India, to coldly stare down the queue-usurping rakes and deal with us in the order in which we arrived at her desk. I shouldn’t overstate this—the Home Ministry has developed an extremely complex number-assigning system to try to deal with its visitors fairly, but clearly this is the thin veneer of bureaucratic rationalism imposed over a whole culture of wanton line cutting.

My landlady’s daughter-in-law, by the way, drove this point home for me when she told me about going to Disney World and being absolutely dumbstruck at how many people were in the park, with none of them shoving or butting into lines. It had never occurred to me to wonder at this. Who would dare shove in the Happiest Place on Earth? The combined disapproving shock hundreds of Midwestern moms, all of them wearing outfits bespeaking great moral authority, like unflatteringly high-waisted shorts with tucked in t-shirts, would be enough shame even the most hardened social misfit.

Apparently, in preparation for the Beijing ’08 Olympics, the Chinese government is having once a month standing-in-line practice days. Now, that’s the kind of cultural engineering I can really get behind.

Yes, behind. Not in front, cutting in where I don’t belong.

Blogger Internal Conflict Revealed

2007-08-18T18:46:00.000+05:30

So, I actually posted something for about 10 minutes yesterday, then, on second thought, decided it was too whiny and took it off my blog for fear the thing would start to read like one long gripe fest. (It's hard to write interesting entries without some citing some kind of adversity or confusion -- something to give a little narrative arch to the whole thing, you know?) But now, on third thought, I am thinking that the post is not so bad because it is more about what a nutter I am than anything about India. So, the post returns here, although admittedly edited somewhat to assuage my worries about sounding too much like a little black raincloud. (Anyone besides my sisters get that reference?)

Today’s post [read: Yesterday's post] comes from the department of things that are not as nice as I thought they would be. In this case: having a maid.

First, let me explain how housekeeping works in my building and, I believe, many other places as well. I live in a flat on the 3rd floor of a building—the landlord lives on the ground floor. She is a widow and her son lives on the second floor with his family and he is the property manager. There are maybe 6 or 7 tenants at any one time in the rest of the apartments in the building. The property manager and his family also have a little dachshund (not a redundancy: the dog is little even for a dachshund) named Mishti. Even more than the Baskin Robbins, you can tell my neighborhood is ritzy because there is a pet store in the market. A family has to have really arrived in order to have money to spare on economically unproductive creatures, like pets and daughters.

Anyhow, a team of housekeepers (an indeterminate number of whom live in the building as fulltime staff) descends on the building each morning to sweep the floors, wipe them down with water, dust the furniture, take out the trash, and do the laundry. In the evening, they sweep and wipe down the floors again, take the trash out again, and return the morning’s laundry. The sweeping, does, I grant you, seem a bit excessive to me and I can't help thinking that the wiping down with plain water is just a complete waste of time since, after all, Delhi's tap water isn't exactly fresh from a pure mountain spring.

One of the big differences with housekeeping in the US is that you are supposed to be there when they are cleaning & unlock your room for them—it’s no problem if you’re not, but your room doesn’t get cleaned. The cleaners do not want to risk being accused of breaking anything or kid/penguin-napping or anything of that sort.

I don't like this because I feel very uncertain of the etiquette of the whole thing. Every morning, when I’m bleary-eyed in front of the computer, eating my muesli, someone comes into the room and starts sweeping around me. Should I get out of the way or will that make her feel like she is bothering me? Also, I don't want to walk over the areas where they have just swept or swabbed, but I also don't particularly enjoy standing on the balcony until the floor is dry. I feel sheepish about the slovenly Western clothes I like to put on at home. I mean, damn it, if I can’t wear tank-tops and shorts on the street I want to at least have nice cool appendages in the privacy of my own home. But, then, here the housekeepers are, doing actual manual labor, with nary a clavicle or a knee in sight.

Also, does the laundry need doing every day? I don’t expect that! I thought about keeping my laundry hidden or something until I had built up a little stockpile. But that would be completely obvious once the housekeepers got the laundry, and they might not approve of me meddling with their system. And, sadly, my sweat glands do not allow for me to stop wearing fresh clothes each day, so I can't cut down on their work that way.

But what really touches on some neurotic phobia deep inside me, is that I just don’t like that the whole thing cuts into my sense of privacy. Twice a day, every day I have to make sure that my room and I are in a state that is fit to be seen by a stranger. The cleaner knows when I’m here and when I’m not, by what time I can be expected to have risen and showered, whether I’m reading or napping or writing on the computer when she arrives. (It’s worse than even Santa Claus!) But I suppose I am just being a crazy hermit. I mean, (a) I don't think the housekeeper finds me that interesting and (b) what harm could come of any observations she makes of my life? But I can't explain it, I just feel cornered everytime she arrives.

Obviously, I can't ask the housekeepers to stop coming, because it would be cruel to deny them of funds purely for the sake of my strange ideas about the sanctity of domestic space. But I can also report that trying to hide from the housekeepers is not a practical strategy -- I mean, sure, you can fail to answer the doorbell, put then you have to stay in your room until you are certain the cleaners are gone, and that can be very tricky to gauge. My current strategem is to scurry immediately to the balcony when the housekeepers arrive, but to take a book with me so that I don't seem as though I am trying to hurry them. If that fails to restore my equinimity, I haven't ruled out escape through the windows via rope ladder.

Report from the Yoga Mother Ship

2007-08-13T21:40:00.000+05:30

I went to a yoga class today, which is good because I have not exercised since I hit Indian shores. Somehow, what with being so sweaty all the time, my levels of perceived exertion here are such that finding a way to workout just hasn’t seemed a priority. Plus, I’d already ruled out the gym in my neighborhood on account of cost. But, finally, to yoga class I went.

As is always the case immediately after trying to get back on the bandwagon after a long hiatus, I am SOOOOO sore. It’s not even the next day yet and I hurt all over. I may have to stop typing because my arm muscles can’t bear the strain. Now, this yoga class was not too different from what one finds in the US, no doubt because I didn’t go to an ashram for the class but rather an ex-pat-oriented place. (My Sanskrit is not so good, so I felt a bit shy about showing up to do yoga with the monks; also, I think I may have been a British imperialist in a previous life and the monks might be able to spot that. I base the suspicions about my prior incarnation on the fact that I have eaten roughly three million McVitie’s Hob-Nobs since arriving here.) But either because of the heat or my sloth of the last few weeks, this class felt tough – I mean, how many times does the sun really need saluting? At the best of times, I can only get through about four rounds of Hola-al-Sols before all my “jumping my feet back into plank pose” starts to resemble a sort of sickly hop. Also disheartening was learning that, even for an ex-pat, I sweat a lot. In fact, I was the only person who left a little sweat angel on her mat after the lie-down-and-rest pose at the end of class.

…

It is very hard for me to believe this, but I’ve been here almost a month. Among other considerations, this probably means I should write to my advisers soon with an update (shudder). I don’t feel like my time has been frittered away, exactly, but I am not sure how impressed my rather hard-core committee members are going to be with what I’ve done so far. And, ahem, it doesn’t help that the two other people from my program who are here in India this summer got loads done. (No need to name names – the person who traveled across 4 states and compiled a cool one hundred interviews with peasants regarding their land disputes knows who she is).

My big activity to date has been interviews of policy analyst types at think tanks and academic institutions. Meeting the Larry Diamonds and Wesley Clarks of India, if you will. The accomplishment from this is that I now have a list of contact names of politicians and ex-politicians who could be primary sources for me. Rather than commentators, like my original contacts. Also, I’ve had lots of invitations to talks at various centers and of desks to work at, plus I now have a letter of affiliation with Delhi University, which is key to begging my way into national libraries. (Where, no doubt, “University of Delhi” will be dutifully penned into a Bob Crachet-esque ledger, so that record of my access of state archives can enter into the world’s largest security system to rely only on ballpoint pens).

So, these interviews have had the plus that the general hospitable-ness of the Indian policy community has been confirmed. The downside is my demoralization at the kinds of responses I am hearing to my substantive questions. My questions are partially at fault, and I’ve been trying to rework those and have definitely axed some of the ones I started with. But, gosh, how to say this without being snide? I guess there really is no way: people’s answers are usually kind of, well, wrong. Like the sort of thing I'd grudgingly give a B+ to at grade-inflated Stanford.

First, people seem to have this weird tendency to think that everything that has happened obviously had to occur, and everything that didn’t happen was always a lost cause. Which is problematic since stuff keeps happening, thus moving contingencies from “impossible” to “inevitable” with distressing frequency. Second, there is this general resistance to discussing why policies occur as opposed to whether they are a good idea. If I had a rupee for every time someone explained why something happened by telling me why that something was a good idea, I’d have almost twenty-five, twenty-six cents by now.

I think one of the exchanges at a recent interview pretty much sums it up. Quick background: there is this state in India named Bihar. Think of it as the Alabama of India—definitely a backwater, poor, rural, weird propensity for natural disasters. And in 2000 part of Bihar was split off and became the state of Jharkhand. And Jharkhand is like the Birmingham of Bihar. I mean, maybe it’s not the Upper East Side, but it’s still the richest part of the state and (this is where the metaphor really works and why I had to pick on Alabama) there is an important steel industry there which is most of the state’s economic base. (Nice use of Southern economic history trivia, no?) So it is sort of weird that Bihar/Alabama let Jharkhand/Birmingham go. I asked a question about this and I was getting the usual “inevitability” story as an answer. So I pointed out to the respondent that, after all, Jharkhand/Birmingham has been asking to leave the state since 1956, and why didn’t it inevitably happen sooner? And he stopped for a second, half-shrugged and said, “That’s true, politics comes into it too.”

There you have it folks, the thesis of my dissertation. When do new states form in India? (shrug) “It’s mostly politics.” Sadly, my committee will almost certainly want something more specific than that. Detail freaks.

Condi Rice's America

2007-08-06T19:35:00.000+05:30

I have a little update on US public diplomacy for you today.

You see, Delhi actually plays home to a branch office of the Library of Congress, charged with obtaining publications and dailies from Asian sources. And I wanted to find out if any of their acquisitions are available for perusal (the answer is no). Finding that out meant paying a visit to the Delhi America Center, the centerpiece of which is the American Library, whose mission is, broadly, “to promote a better understanding of the culture, history, institutions, values and policies of the United States.” These seem to exist at a number of embassies and consulates, actually, so that is something to bear in mind should you ever find yourself abroad without access to a Martin Van Buren biography.

Public Diplomacy: Team India can be proud—the library was very full and all the patrons were of South Asian extraction, although, of course, many of them may well have been US citizens, too. But the free internet and AC no doubt has some charms for locals.

I spent awhile perusing the shelves, wanting to get a sense of the image of America the State Dept was projecting. I was expecting something rather wholesome and folksy, lots of smarmy biographers of the Founders and what not. But somewhat to my surprise, the government’s preferred public face of America is pretty much an NPR listener: This All-American family owns a large number of books, mostly non-fiction, concentrated on history and world affairs. Their DVD collection is overwhelmingly produced by PBS and their interest in religious literature is entirely sociological. The collection contains such syllabus-friendly works as Dreier, Mollenkopf, & Swanstrom’s “Place Matters: Metropolitics for the Twenty-First Century” and Katznelson & Milner’s “American Political Science: The Discipline’s State and the State of the Discipline,” suggesting advanced degrees or maybe even an academic career.

Literature runs toward the classics, thinning considerably after about 1950, with exceptions made for such literary luminaries as Tony Morrison and John Updike. Our All-American family apparently has no use for Patricia Cornwall or, indeed, any book that one can purchase at an airport. They own many books on the Native American experience but only a few on sports, and these include such not-exactly-the-Budweiser-crowd titles as “The Thinking Fan’s Guide to the World Cup” and a biography of Arthur Ashe.

This felt a bit misleadingly high-minded but perhaps welcome as an aspirational statement. But I was very distressed by the way the lefty, intellectual portrayal of Americans stops short of presenting current events: there were basically no books on the war in Iraq. When you type “Iraq” into the catalog, in fact, you get only a few hits from the Congressional Research Service. The catalog can’t be that good, though, because their collection also includes Kenneth Pollack’s “The Threatening Storm” and a rather obscure edited volume on the merits of the invasion. But no “Fiasco” or “Imperial Life in the Emerald City.” Bob Woodward’s flattering early take on Bush is represented, but not “State of Denial.” (Notice all the puns about denial of this book’s existence that I could have made there, but didn’t). To be fair, they do have Richard Clarke’s “Against all Enemies” and a rather exuberant book on Al-Jazeera’s dominance in Middle Eastern media.

When one adds this lack of engagement with current debates to the rest of the collection, I think the government’s preferred public face comes off as something of a limousine liberal. Someone who probably hasn’t read any of the books he owns. But if he liked books, they would be serious books with a vaguely generous notion of the rest of the world. After all, the nanny is from Trinidad and she's been great, hardly ever asks for a day off.

...

In lighter news, I found some St. Ives Apricot Scrub today. I actually remember the first time I ever saw this product. My older sister must have just started taking an interest in cosmetics and she showed me the Scrub she had procured and explained the importance of adequate exfoliation. I was quite impressed, assuming that St. Ives must be some kind of high-priced Swiss import, the use of which was unbearably sophisticated. In retrospect, I doubt those exfoliations did much for me, not only because I wasn’t very faithful about them but also because the scrub used to come in a tub (like Noxema) and repeatedly sticking ones hands into the face wash seems sort of unsanitary now. Anyhow, this was all before the current hegemony of bath poufs and shower gel (for my male readers: a bath pouf is a bunch of nylon netting scrunched into what is vaguely a sphere, to be used for gentle removal of dead skin—ask your girlfriend or sister is bath poufs could be right for you) and I haven’t used Apricot Scrub in awhile. But I recently noticed that what with the heat and moisture and lack of poufs here, I’ve started to molt. Which is both itchy and icky. So I’m looking forward to getting back to the good ol’ days of St. Ives—if my blog becomes unbearably classy, you’ll know why.

I miss seatbelts even more than tap water

2007-08-05T13:39:00.000+05:30

Albert and I are in considerably better condition this week than last on a number of fronts: legally registered, financially un-pariahed, and reconnected by cell phone. With “settling in” having stretched almost to three weeks, it’s time for me to get to work. As theory begins to confront practice, however, I am feeling a wee bit daunted. Especially since, in my case, the theory was pretty much “I’ll figure it out when I get there” which means that my whole to-do list consists of the single, distressingly vague bullet point “figure it out.” Instead of talking at length about that, though, I’ll offer a little local color.

I definitely am warming to Delhi. I can have naan everyday if I want to, but there are also stores to buy peanut butter, wheat bread, and cheddar cheese. I can read extensive coverage of the Bollywood-organized crime nexus in each day’s paper and The Hindu (admittedly a Bombay publication) has a really excellent crossword. There are coffee shop chains that have infiltrated pretty much every major commercial zone in the city, so there is always someplace to go sit where it is cool and I can people watch and drink one of the creamsicle-like concoctions that I prefer to actual coffee.

The downside to Delhi is that not only are large parts of it outdoors (ridiculously shortsighted, obviously) it exists in a three dimensional space such that I have to move between different points in the city to go about my day. If someone invents a teleporter, Delhi will be awesome.

Because the traffic is outrageous even by third world standards. The informal bad habits – like the use of horns in place of turn signals or treating every traffic lane as if it were 2 or 3 or 4.5 or whatever else vehicle width permits – are combined with these mind-bogglingly dangerous planned features of the roads. For example, there are ramps on the highway that run in the exact opposite direction of the traffic, so that the driver is just supposed to get up to speed and then merge while veering across the oncoming traffic onto the proper side of the road. Less expensive than building a fly-over, yes. But bad for the blood pressure.

Then there is the condition of the roads. I traveled to the Taj Mahal two weeks ago in a rented car and, no sooner do we pull into Agra, than the driver runs into a large concrete block, which becomes wedged underneath the car and drags about two meters while on the undercarriage, making a white mark on the road like a huge piece of sidewalk chalk. Now, I don’t really understand how the driver managed to not see the hunk of cement. But I think it is also noteworthy that (a) this chunk of cement was a piece of the median that had made a bid for freedom and (b) despite the fact that several traffic officers converged on the scene to argue about something, I am fairly certain no one ever moved the cement out of the road.

Anthropology types would probably make some comment about how India’s roads are a chaotic yet organic ballet of noise and motion and, unnerving as it may be to Western sensibilities, the roads work according to their own subaltern logic of coordination matrices, or whatever. This is hogwash. India has terrible traffic statistics. When I first arrived, the government had just begun a re-inspection program on the city’s Blue Line bus system. (Some sort of sub-contractor, perhaps, since there is also a White Line bus system and seeing as how politicians have a generally antagonistic attitude toward the buses). As this was the issue of the day, the newspapers highlighting every accident involving the Blue Liners—and using such journalistically temperate phrases as “There would seem to be no end to the reign of terror” to do it. Purple-prosey as that is, I eventually started to agree since the papers were able to gleefully report on 1 to 2 new pedestrian deaths caused by Blue Liners every day.

But I reserve my real outrage for the motorcycles/scooters here. There seems to be some sort of law about drivers wearing helmets, so most do. But passengers never have them. So you’ll see this man driving along, with his wife and kids piled on a motorcycle, and he’s got the only helmet. The wife, due to notions of propriety, is riding side-saddle on the back of the motorcycle, possibly holding a baby in one arm. Another child sits between dad’s legs on the foot rest area of the scooter. And, if needs be, one kid can sit between mom and dad. And, again, only dad has a helmet. Such chivalry! Sure, your spouse and progeny are one unexpected bump away from being human jelly, but at least your wife isn’t destroying the family honor by straddling a cycle in public.

I often feel like I want to give the drivers of Delhi a firm scolding. But the fact that one does have to move around in the city means that standards start to drop quickly. I had to ride on the back of a cycle for about 5 blocks during the housing search. I almost cried I was so scared. And I think I’ve taken an auto-rickshaw ride with a driver who, in retrospect, I’m pretty sure was stoned. On the upside, Delhi has one of the nicest metro’s I’ve ever seen, although the coverage is limited. The exact same computerized voice which tells you to “Mind the Gap” in London pleasantly warns you, here in Delhi, not to touch unattended objects as “they may contain explosives. Thank you.” But I think it’s still safer than the streets.

Why Doesn't India have an Easy Button?

2007-07-30T20:38:00.000+05:30

Albert and I are finally moved into a flat instead of a hotel. Finding and moving into a suitable place was as much of a hassle as one might expect, but also had a certain urgency due to the fact that, by the terms of my visa, I had to be registered as a resident of someplace or other within 14 days of reaching India. Non-Pakistani foreigners with long term visas who register late pay a fine; Pakistanis have 24 hours.

With this tight schedule in mind, my first step on arriving in Delhi was to visit the American Institute of Indian Studies, where I obtained the names of two landlords who had furnished apartments to let, congratulating myself on being so far ahead of schedule.

Second full day in Delhi, I visit both flats recommended by AIIS and experience my first big wave of culture shock this trip. Now, I take a certain amount of pride in being relatively un-phased by the developing world and fairly hearty about bearing up to it. You won’t see me Purell-ing my seat on the train. But with both of the apartments I was shown that day I made the mistake of following my host into a room and then waiting patiently, not realizing that I was, in fact, standing in the space they were offering to rent me. The first apartment just wasn’t recognizably residential. For one thing, it was a room off of an NGO-office; for another, I failed to recognize that the couch type thingie was a bed. (Indians don’t tend to be 5’9”, I guess). The second flat was clearly an apartment, but it was in terrible shape: the kitchen sink and the bathroom covered in rust, broken furniture piled in corners.

At this point, I admit that I was led astray by my wimpy liberal notions of tolerance. I reasoned that my expectations about middle class real estate had been hopelessly skewed by my country of McMansions. Thus, on day 4, I agreed to take the shabby apartment and put down a small deposit. I cannot adequately explain this decision. The first apartment was really far out of the city and the second seemed like my only option. Also, I had a certain amount of Survivor: India mentality going through my head, and a kind of deluded idea that a couple of months of garret life couldn’t be that bad, just look at how it well worked out for Sarah in The Little Princess.

I owe a big shout-out to my friend Rik for talking me out of that apartment and urging me to contact a broker.

Wiser heads than mine having prevailed, I was in the situation of having burned up a week of my pre-registration deadline time in not taking an apartment. So I was feeling quite a crunch as I went into this last search-with-broker week. Things seemed like they might come together, though, when on Wednesday evening I found a place. It is actually really nice, in a very unintimidating neighborhood (we have a Benetton!) with plenty of space, a reasonably sized bed, and a general air of cleanliness. I was, and I am, very pleased with it. So I began to make arrangements to get all the papers in order so I could get myself registered by today.

Unanticipated minor wrinkle: I spoke of my faux marriage to my landlord, with the thought that this was important groundwork for passing off any future conjugal visits without scandal. But, as it turns out, when I sign a contract in India either my father or my husband has to be designated as the competent, rational, masculine persona who will be ultimately responsible for my womanly whims. Pretending to be married to your boyfriend is one thing—legally entangling him in developing world real estate markets is another. But I managed to airily write in my father’s name on the lease muttering something about my dad being my legal next of kin. At this point, I just hope my landlord is sufficiently naïve about American family law that this does not strike him as pretty darn fishy.

Unanticipated major wrinkle: I got a big discount in rent from my landlord by agreeing to pay the whole six months up front. No problem, right? I mean, we’re talking low four figures here, it is still early in the summer stipend, and I’ve been living in a backpacker hotel. All I need to do is get the cash out of my bank account. But it turns out that trying to do any form of financial transaction from India is like trying to hail a cab while wearing an “Ask me about the Crips” t-shirt. Suffice it to say, my PayPal account has been frozen, my check card shut off, my credit cards now work only intermittently, and, in case you were wondering, Western Union will not let you wire money to yourself from outside the United States. So, basically, the fraud alert systems of America agree that my spending habits are statistically impossible.

May I just mention that at some point in this perfect storm of lack of access to my money, my local cell phone got turned off? You see, to get a cell phone in India you need to fill out security screening forms and mine, apparently, have gone astray.

So, to make a long story short, this morning, still about $500 dollars short, I nonetheless convinced my landlord to hand over a copy of my lease, so that I could make the deadline (today) for registering myself. I go to the office, relieved that this whole crazy process seems to be drawing to a close, and, naturally….

(wait for it)

My registration was rejected because my lease has not been notarized. I give up!

Indian Anti-Penguin Sentiment

2007-07-25T11:03:00.000+05:30

I have shocking, no, APPALLING news: on Monday Albert was denied admission to the Taj Mahal!!!!!

How could this happen in today’s world? Maybe a 100 years ago but, surely, humanity has progressed farther than this? This is probably the most odious case of arbitrary and cruel discrimination in the history of the sub-continent!!!! (Not counting the ones involving humans.) Yes, Albert (or “the small toy” as the security guards rudely referred to him) was forced to stay in the coat check while I gazed upon one of humanity’s greatest artistic triumphs. Albert cried all the way home from Agra and today he mentioned he might go home early since he’s not wanted here. I bought him a small Taj Mahal snow globe keychain (pictured) but we both know the fact of the discrimination hurts more than missing the sightseeing.

Albert has several theories about why India is so backward when it comes to penguins.

Low appreciation of cuteness. Have you ever noticed how there are no adorable, Hello Kitty type cartoon characters from India, even though they purport to be Asians? I don’t see how they can ever catch up to China with this attitude.

Drugs. Like in that movie Traffic where the little dolls are made of cocaine.

Taboos on dark skin. Indians favor pallor. (In fact, I have been meaning to mention that L’Oreal Paris sells a face-lightening cream here with the distressing name “White Beauty.”) North Indians are less well-pigmented than south Indians and religious minorities are lighter than Hindus: thus, skin color is both politically and socially significant. Albert, who is dark enough to blend into Tamil Nadu in summer, believes he may have fallen victim to the color prejudices of the north Indians.

Tropical chauvinism. The belief that creatures from cooler areas are highly likely to attempt to subjugate the people they meet by initially establishing trade relationships, slowly encroaching upon local political and economic independence, and finally taking direct control. Albert has no idea where these nasty rumors get started.

Rabies precautions. Most animals in India are strays, after all.

I will guiltily admit that I enjoyed seeing the Taj Mahal for a second time, nonetheless. It’s one of those few places that are better than you imagine they will be.

This is also true of the 7^th Harry Potter book, which I read over the weekend. Highly recommended.

War on Terror, India Style

2007-07-20T19:21:00.000+05:30

I'm still living in a hotel at the moment - I picked a flat but it is not exactly move-in ready, so I've got a weekend of youth hosteling. So I thought I'd share a bit about Delhi's hotel culture.

Now, back when I was in my turn-down-the-high-thread-count-sheets-for-you hotel, I was not bothered by such unsightly blemishes as notices of the Indian state. Having moved down market, however, the first thing I saw above my new innkeeper's desk was a sign reading: "Hotel and Boarding House Owners - Use Caution when Registering Guests: THEY MAY BE TERRORISTS" That last bit is actually underlined, too, but blogspot doesn't seem to have that formatting option.

Frankly, the Indian government is fighting a war on terror that makes even that ridiculous "3 oz bottles in a 1 gallon zip lock bag" rule seem positively accommodating. Similar innkeeper signs were not in place when last I visited, which strikes me as a bit odd because there have not really been any big terrorist attacks since that time. They've also added new regulations for the insidious "Cyber Cafes" of Delhi. Not only must one submit a photo ID before using a computer, the shop must record the exact computer I use, my precise time slot on the computer, and my contact information in my own handwriting (so says the notice on the wall -- the clerk actually skipped this. He is watching a DVD, though, which I'm sure the Delhi police would understand). Oh, and in addition to all this annoyingness, as a foreigner I have to register myself with the government providing a notice from my landlord saying that I am, in fact, living where I claim. Then a clerk will come and verify that I am living at that address.

You might think that, given my interest in India's wars, I'd be more sympathetic to the notion that there might be a looming threat to the state. But all this recording of me is, as far as I can tell, at best designed to be able to find and prosecute me after the fact and at worst purely cosmetic. Because all of this info -- at the hotels, at the cyber cafe, and, I can only assume, in the back offices of the government -- gets entered by hand into these massive Bob Crachet style ledgers. Bigger than atlases and cracking at their seams, these books record row after row of visitors in largely illegible handwriting. Now what, may I ask, is the ace Delhi police force going to do with those? No doubt they are diligently filed somewhere for some poor future graduate student's coding project, but is this their plan for tracking those who might wish India harm? (Adding to the silliness is that among the acceptable IDs for these registrations is a ration card which, what with being attached to free food and all, has a fairly brisk black market circulation. Something like 80% of all circulating ration cards, in fact, are thought to be illegally obtained.)

I don't mean to make fun of the Indian state for its somewhat inadequate capacity. But this program has all the earmarks of mediocre governance: the generation of pork barrel jobs due to the program's requirement of thousands of hours of civil service time and the unassailableness of those jobs because, after all, shouldn't the state be fighting terrorism. But a nimbler program that aimed for less would almost certainly accomplish more. Stupid politics.

Not hailing a cab at Delhi airport: Priceless

2007-07-18T20:36:00.001+05:30

To me, the single most terrifying thing about India, the "that which must not be named" of a country generally considered a bit hard on yokels to begin with, is Indira Gandhi International Airport. And this is not just because of the Indian people's weird love-hate relationship with the woman who almost turned India into a dictatorship.

No, even more terrifying than the Indira's weird karma (although possibly causally related) is trying to get transportation out of Delhi's international airport. My good friend and my sister both had deeply traumatic experiences with a taxi-for-hire and/or a prearranged pick-up that never showed. The favorite scam is the "your hotel is no good"; "your hotel is full"; or even "your hotel has burned down" line, sometimes with a pre-arranged accomplice who will answer the phone and corroborate the story when your cabby calls what is allegedly your hotel - then, they take you to a very sketchy hotel indeed, where they get a kickback.

Knowing about these scams in advance, one would suppose that it would require only sufficient strength of will to get out of the predicament: just demand to be taken where you said you were going. My excuses for my inability to do this are threefold: (1) Sometimes the cabbies yell, and I feel suddenly very alone and very female. I don't think any of them would ever throw me out into the Delhi streets, but who knows? (2) Flights into Delhi from the US often arrive after 8 pm. So it's all dark and scary out. (3) The cabby is able to prey on the spirit-crushing effects of Delhi's weather. It was 98 degrees F when we landed - in that weather, I'd agree to almost anything to get back inside.

(An aside: today it topped out at 104. What absolutely baffles me about this place is that is has known continuous human settlement for millenia. And not just scattered pueblo outposts, like the Hopis in the American SW, but a really pretty big city. How is that even possible???)

All this by way of saying, I'm a bit embarrassed by my initial digs. Because even though lots of hotels offer airport transport, there is always a good chance nobody will show, as happened to my sister. So, I went high end for the sake of a really, really reliable airport pick-up, with my name printed on a signboard and everything. In my defence: it wasn't that expensive. Less than one would pay for a hotel in Manhattan, for example. Not in my defence: this is the most ridiculously solicitous hotel I have ever stayed in. As in, someone meets you at the car and shows you directly to your room lest you be too fatigued after your long (probably business class) flight to stand in front of a reception desk and sign your name. And a little mango pots de creme in your room as a welcome!

Don't worry, though. I am moving to a normal hotel tomorrow and, hopefully, within a few days into some respectably shabby flat with patchy electricity and a really short bed. Just as the field work gods intended.

Finally, an interesting note. The hotel here had a problem that dogged me last time, too: for whatever reason, they switched my first and last names. This has now happened to me enough times that I think it is basically a 50/50 shot in the average Hindi-speaker's mind which of these two silly words would be a first name.

FAQ: Why Am I Doing This?

2007-07-17T04:35:00.000+05:30

Hello from en route – have left Chicago, am in Newark, next stop: Delhi. I have been meaning to write some kind of summary of what I will be doing in

India

, particularly for my parents, who are somewhat resistant to the idea that a job could involve absolutely no structured tasks.

In rough order of anticipated use of time: sweating, asking myself questions about what the *%&$! I am doing in India, attempting to trick bureaucrats into doing their jobs, and working on my dissertation.

When I am working on my dissertation, what I will be trying to figure out is “when does the Indian government give the ‘okay’ to the creation of new states?” This is a little piece of a bigger puzzle, which is: “When do governments give into violence?” which is, in turn, a piece of a more important puzzle: “What kind of dissertation would get me a job and allow me to recycle my many existing literature reviews on political violence?”

A useful analogy: perhaps some of you know that in my home state of Michigan the Upper Peninsula of the state periodically threatens to secede from the rest of the state. The roughly 583 people in the Upper Peninsula would then go on to form the 51^st state of the Union, which they would name “Superior.” Similar things happen a lot in India. For example, the city of Mumbai (nee Bombay) is in the state of Maharashtra (don’t worry, there won’t be a quiz) but it was once the capital of a much bigger state. Then the Marathi people got sick of the rest of the people in the state and kicked the other part of the state out. Which, frankly, is what the Upper Peninsula deserves.

To continue the analogy, the Upper Peninsula wants to secede from the rest of Michigan because the people in the Lower Peninsula (the “trolls”) periodically attempt to restrict bear trapping. In much the same way, groups in India tend to want their own states when they feel their unique cultural heritage is under threat from the callous, non-bear trapping majority. Also, if the Upper Peninsula were its own state, the politicians in its capital (which would be Calumet, the city where the baking soda in a red tin with a Native American on the front is made) would get money directly from the federal government instead of having to deal with the odious Lansing middlemen.

Now, I really have no idea what the procedure for splitting Michigan in the US would be, but in India the procedure is that the federal government just has to decide to do it. So, my question is, when do they give in? And, most importantly, when do they give in after a couple of protests and when do they wait until after some mild rioting and when do they wait until after things get blown up and when do things get blown up but the government still never gives in?

I don’t know the answer to this question. What I am going to do to try to figure that out is to talk to a bunch of Indian politicians and newspaper reporters and bureaucrats and other members of the chatting class. My fears are two-fold. First, what if everyone offers answers that are obviously really dumb? Should I just make something up? Second, what if the right answer turns out to be something totally idiosyncratic (like, the Prime Minister’s favorite number is 25, so he decided India really needed another state) or really hard to measure (like, bear trapping is not as important as civil war, and that is why there is a West Virginia but no Superior)? Because, if it can’t be measured then there will be no chance to do statistics or experiments in my dissertation. And that is really bad for going on the job market because if there are no charts and graphs in your work people have to read the prose, and what hiring committee has time for that kind of crap?

Still, I’d like to know what the answer to my question is, so I’m glad I’m going. Ciao!

The Ring

2007-06-24T00:37:00.001+05:30

Here it is! For a cool $5.95 (plus S&H) my faux married life has begun! The ring is a little small, but, as a friend pointed out, that just makes it look like I’ve gained the inevitable post-nuptial weight.

As you have probably guessed, the ring is so that I can more credibly lie about my marital status while in field work in India. And not just because of the looks of terrified pity when I announce my age and lack of husband simultaneously. And also not just because I need to fend off sleazy requests brought on by the assumption that white women are essentially like a cross between a pornography website and a green card. (For these types, I suppose I can say that my husband, sadly, could not come to India in light of his ongoing jail sentence for aggravated assault). What I really want to fend off with my ring is requests for friendship from men who work in the tourist industry and who basically collect white pen pals.

This is harmless enough, I suppose, but the emails have two big downsides: they are (1) written in text-message-ese, in which I am not fluent, and (2) consist largely of motivational proverbs and requests for replies. I cannot bear to get any more guilt trip emails about why haven’t I written back to a rug seller in Kerala whose letters read like Stuart-Smalley-meets-MySpace. And, since such an email relationship—even though it most closely resembles eating fortune cookies—would not be appropriate between Indian males and married Indian women outside their own family, I’m hoping I, too, will be able to dodge some pen pals with references to my alleged husband.

The big downside to having a faux marriage is that it reminds me of a teenage girl practicing signing her name “Mrs. Gregory Smith” and making elaborate plans about a future with her crush in Algebra II. By which I mean: this seems like it has the potential to really freak out my boyfriend. I don’t know for sure, but I bet buying yourself a wedding ring fall pretty squarely in the “potentially interpreted as overbearing” category. No doubt, many a political scientist has had her heart broken with just such a misunderstanding.

More as I get closer to D-Day, July 16!