Tropical Storm Killed Hundreds in Northern Mindanao

My country, the Philippines is one of the most vulnerable to climate change. Disaster of this magnitude is not the first, but there is no telling if it will be the last. Please help the victims in any way possible wherever you are in the world.

Tata India. Mein ja rahi hun.

Mein ha rahi hun ( I am going.)

A few days ago Chitra, an Indian colleague, interpreted the lines in the back of my hands. She said that I like to travel but there’s always one place I would call home. And it is definitely not India.

In two weeks I will be concluding my love-hate relationship with India, my place of residence for 26 months, as I fly back to Manila mid-September. Yesterday, it being a holiday (Idu’l Fitr) I started sorting my stuff, decided what to bring and what to leave behind. As I neatly folded the clothes to pack I was melancholic. I always thought that I was very excited to go back home. I still am. Only, it is beginning to sink in me now that a different, thrilling, sometimes boring and at many times, frustrating phase in my life is about to end.

I always knew that my stay in India would be short and temporary. It might have been two years but the days, weeks and months flew by so quickly, even those days when all I did was wait for the night to come. There wasn’t a day that I looked forward to the end of my placement. I savored the good times while they lasted and braved myself into thinking that bad times would come to an end eventually.

Two years and two months ago I did a very similar thing of sorting stuff and deciding what would fit in my suitcase. That time, I think I was apprehensive rather than sad – new place, new people to work with, different culture, spicy food. If ever I was sad, it was because I would be separated from my son and my family for many months. But again, there’s internet and cellphones, and I knew I was coming back at some point and would be reunited with them. I would be home again.

This time I am more sad than apprehensive. Sad, because even if I didn’t really gain a family here, there are people I have come to love. There’s Anjalie and Bulbul, my landlord’s daughters who became a ‘fixture’ in our flat because they were there almost every night and regaled me with stories about their schools and urban view of Indian culture. There’s also the 1-year old Meethu whose one of the first words he learned to say was my name.

I don’t have very many friends in the Philippines. In fact even my Facebook friends number only 300+, and that includes the people I met here plus the unknown people I 'friended' only because we all played the same game app. I certainly have not acquired so many friends here, but many of the Indians I have met and interacted with made my stay bearable, if not very pleasant. There’s the Indian hospitality that is quite different from Filipino hospitality. They made me feel at home yet not entirely at home. No matter how many months I’ve lived here they still considered me as guest and ensured my comfort and safety. There is a considerable distance, a lot of it is due to language barrier but also because most Indians I met don’t socialize a lot especially after they got married, yet there is a connection which I would always cherish.

There was also the community of Filipino expatriates that became my refuge while in Chennai. Not only did I have the chance to taste Filipino dishes during gatherings but also allowed me to shift to my first and native language.

And there’s Michael, my fellow volunteer, travel companion, colleague at work, roommate, boyfriend. It’s not completely rosy but life was often easy when you know you have someone with whom you can split bills, or vent frustrations. It also helped to think aloud because I knew that somehow there is always someone who would hear me and relate with my experiences. And during worse times, there’s a shoulder I could cry on. I could also allow myself to be flippant around him, and only around him (or maybe Anjalie and Bulbul sometimes). Of course there’s the indispensable community of VSO volunteers. They reminded me I am not alone and that even if I didn’t regularly meet with them I always knew that one email and they would rally support when it got very tough.

It’s safe to surmise that volunteers do introspection, recount the experiences towards the end of service, assess the placement, ruminate what difference we made and what lessons were learnt. I am not there yet. I am simply pondering from where the melancholy emanated. I realize it is from the fact that it is home to the people who made me feel I belonged in the last 26 months, and that leaving means a very good chance that I will never ever see them again. I will not see Anajlie become a doctor, or Bulbul become an artist and entrepreneur, I will not hear Meethu learn to speak English. Soon many of the people I’ve met here will just be part of my memory, precious memory. With hard-to-pronounce names I may even forget many of them as soon as the plane reached the Manila tarmac.

Chitra may be right, there’s only one home for me , it is where my heart is and I am heading back there very soon. India may have never been home to me but a good part of my life had been lived here and I am thankful for the generally wonderful experience.

my second home in india

i should have done this a long time ago but i never had the chance to take snaps of my flat in delhi. blame it on my camera that gave up on me while i was still in chennai (i will also post photos of my flat in chennai, see the difference).


colors of kites and tibetan prayer flags come alive. make howling sounds during windy days.


this is the view from where i hang our clothes


if the flat looks like i am big obama fan blame it on my roommate mike. he's also responsible for all the posters of krishna, yogananda, jesus christ, etc.


other than my room, this is my favorite part of the house where i tried making indian dishes


the table and chairs are hand-me-down from a returned volunteer. went to her house, "dibs on the table and chairs".

i love the flat, love the landlord's family and love the free wi-fi and water supply. not all volunteers are as lucky.

Check your bill

Michael and I did our weekly food shopping at Reliance Fresh. We usually split the bill. I didn’t have cash so I told him we would use my debit card. Our purchases totaled 764.50 as displayed in the cash register, gave my card to the cashier, he swiped, gave me the bill to sign. I noticed that the total in the tiny sheet of paper was Rs.764.96. So I told the cashier about the discrepancy. With my limited Hindi and his limited English we could not understand each other. But there’s apparent nonchalance in his manner. A guy behind me understood what I was talking about and explained that the total was rounded off. The last time I checked my Math, you round off a decimal number to get a whole number.

We were about to leave. It was a mere 40 paise ($0.009 or about the same in peso) but I was fuming. Michael suggested that I talked to the manager. The manager came and I explained to him the situation. He gave the same explanation, bill was rounded off. WTF? ( i didn't say that) He said something about system of rounding off when someone uses debit or credit card. “Debit card is as good as cash, did you charge me for using my debit card?” I thought he said yes, so I told him I never knew of that policy in their store, we shop there every week. Right to information, hello. "If you are charging me for using card you should put a sign and inform shoppers". He said, “anyway, it’s only 40 paise.” Jesus H. Christ, who cares if it’s only 40 paise, they still charged me extra! His further explanation discombobulated me even more, that when someone uses card they have to put exact amount. Eh? That the machine automatically rounds off, that it’s a system problem. “System problem? How much are you taking from my account then?” I asked. He told me it’s whatever’s written in my bill."So again, let's get this clear, are you charging me for using debit card?", me. "No" manager said. "Ok, are you then charging me extra because of the problem in your system?” I think that pinned him down and just decided to give me back my 40 paise. It’s actually 46 paise to be exact. They don’t have coins under 1 rupee so he gave me that, I wanted to give him exact change but I didn’t have that either. He told me to just take the 1 rupee, which I did.

The other shoppers could hear us, while they watched and listened nobody seemed to care, probably even wondering why I raised hell over 40 paise. Even that guy who was standing behind me. Apparently, he knows about the system of rounding off. This is clearly a case of very bad customer service, and I can even say a way to rip off shoppers. I’m sure whoever is reading this gets the drift. While I am not surprised I’m still dumbfounded by how Indians just accept things like this. Most Indians do not complain, and because they don’t complain the system never gets corrected.

The highs and sighs of Varanasi (Part 2)

Update on this post: The fire used for cremation in Varanasi comes from only one low-caste family guarding the funeral pyre that's been continuously burning for thousands of years. And women are not allowed at cremations because they tend to cry. Their tears are considered pollutants. (Sources: Documentary on India by Michael Wood and www.factsanddetails.com)


Highs

After dozing off for 2 hours in Hotel Haifa, Mike and I set off. We had lunch in Vaatika Pizzeria located at Tulsi Ghat, an outdoor restaurant famous for its pizza and apple pie baked in wood-fired oven. We ordered thin-crust epinard (spinach)pizza. It was bland for my taste but the generous amount of molten mozzarella filled my mouth and offered a delightful change from our usual vegetarian diet in Delhi. Mike, who has been here before wouldn't leave the place without having the apple pie. I am not a fan of apple pie but this one had the right amount of sweetness that blended well with my Cafe Americano. Vaatika instantly became our official favorite restaurant in Varanasi.
Once sated, we took a walk along the ghats. What I only used to see on television I witnessed live now, Hindus fully absorbed in their (spi)rituals. There were people on the bathing steps of the ghats, women clad in their saris while the men were almost naked; they showered themselves with water from the Ganges River.
But it was obvious the river's purpose was not simply to wash away sins. It was also a source for daily subsistence. There were boats that take pilgrims and tourists to a cruise to get a view of the ghats from the river for at least Rs50 an hour per person. Hook-and-line fishers sat on their moored boats fixing their fishing gears, and children with improvised fishing rods trying their luck. One would think they were doing this for fun as they boisterously chatted and laugh at one another, a girl selling floating lamps told me the children's catch were brought home, cooked and eaten with chapati. I bought two floating lamps from her, an offering I was going to make for my dad.


We walked further and reached Harish Chandra Ghat,better known as the burning ghat where bodies of dead Hindu are cremated beginning at dusk. From a viewing deck we could see several funeral pyres. In some, we could make out the head of the dead. There's a separate pyre exclusively for the high caste and that created the biggest fire. The shrouded corpse is bathed in the river then carried on bamboo stretcher and transferred on to the pyre.
I shifted my attention back to what was happening at the riverbank, a few men sat on their haunches while their heads were being shaved. These men were the eldest male in the families of the dead. Together with the brahmin priest and a few other male members of the family they went around the pyre where the body of the dead is laid. At this point i couldn't tell whether it was the brahmin or the eldest male who lit the pyre. The pyre started burning, the mourners stepped back, the eldest male on his mobile phone. I thought he might be reporting to the rest of the family that the dearly departed's soul was soon going to be liberated. I did not see anyone actually grieving, and there were very few women, and definitely no women took part in the burning ritual.

Up the ghat was completely the opposite, it was filled with vibrant people oblivious to the fire and smoke emanating from the funeral pyres. The ghats were turned into a plaza where boys and men played cricket, college girls and boys met up and chatted, smaller children running all over the place, boatmen inviting tourists to take a cruise in their tiny dinghies.

From where Mike and I stood we could see the temples built further back in time, the once illustrious buildings are now showing signs of dilapidation but could still impress anyone and wonder how much wealth and spiritual devotion were put into building these temples and ghats.

There's more than 100 ghats alongside the Ganga, we figured we could see one or two more before calling it a day. We reached the ghat where pilgrims swarmed around a Shiva lingam, pouring water on it, rubbing it, apparently part of a ritual before they immersed themselves in the Ganga river.
It was also the ghat were I saw lit clay lamps floating in the river. I decided this was where I would let the lamp for my dad start to sail away. My lamp was blocked by a piece of rope connected to a boat, I gave it a gentle push so it could sail further away but some Indians who watched me said I shouldn't, that I should let the lamp float away on its own.

We had enough for the day. We went back to the burning ghat and from there climbed the steps. At the end was the temple where the Brahmin priests probably did their rituals. Behind it is a warren of alleys where almost equally old buildings stood. As in many places in India, it was hard to tell whether we were in a marketplace or a residential area. After many left and right turns we reached the main road and found the Bread of Life bakeshop, we peeked through the glass door and saw they had bagels. We now found a place for breakfast.

In the main road, you don't need to see the result of the 2011 National Census to know that the state of Uttar Pradesh where Varanasi is, is the most populous place in India. The street was jam-packed with people on foot, people on bikes, people on mopeds, people on rickshaws and auto-rickshaws, people in the sidewalks, people in the shops...they are just e-verywhere. It was daunting.
Our trip to Varanasi was timed with a khumb mela that started some days before we arrived. We were told that in the Main Ghat there's a one hour puja, 7 to 8 pm every night, where thousands of pilgrims congregated. Tired from the trip to Sarnath where Buddha did his first sermon after receiving enlightenment, we took the cycle rickshaw to the Main Ghat.
At the Main Ghat were thousands of devotees, pilgrims and tourists from all over India(from all over the world actually, said one local resident to me). Some pilgrims came by boats and observed the rituals from the river. There were priests who roamed around holding a plate with incense and kumkum (powder used for religious marking) and rupee bills and coins. One approached me, applied kumkum in my forehead, blessed me, then asked me to put money in the brass plate. I thought I heard him curse me when I didn't give money.
I have heard of large religious gatherings in India that became chaotic and caused stampede. I was worried for a minute, but thinking it was held outdoors where people simply sat down or stood at the steps of the ghat I calmed down. The ghat smelled of human sweat, incense and whiff of air from the Ganga. There was a cacophony of bell chimes, continuous incantation of mantra and private conversations that were not so private.

Despite absence of belief in any religion seeing a demonstration of religious fervor made the hair in my arm stood. I wondered what each one prayed for, which of the millions of gods did they pray to, what offense did they commit that they wanted washed away, how difficult was life for them not to want to be reborn.

The puja was over in an hour, the huge crowd thinned as everyone started to leave. We walked down the ghats to catch a boat that would take us back nearest to our hotel. It was dark and quiet now. There were only the stars and the remaining embers from the funeral pyre that provided light. I saw silhouettes of few men silently bathing. All I could hear was the gentle splash as the boatman's oar touched the water and faint human voices from afar.

There are other places worth visiting in Varanasi but I was content just seeing the ghats and the customs and practices that intrigued me when I was younger. It's a place where life and death are juxtaposed. It's a place not only for photo-ops but the place allows one to understand more if not completely, the Hindu culture. One may even find enlightenment here.

There are locals who strike conversations with tourists, many of them take this opportunity to practice their English, but a good source of stories if you are curious enough. I've seen Varanasi, I'm ready to go back to my country now.

(photos are by Mike's except the pizza and the shiva lingam)

The highs and sighs of Varanasi (Part 1)

Varanasi is one of the oldest cities in the world, and one of the seven holy cities in India. It is situated on the banks of the Ganges River. There in that river Hindus bathe, wash their clothes, swim, catch fish. Hindus believed that the river has the power to wash away their sins. Many Hindus dream of dying in Varanasi, they believe that if they died there they will get their moksha, their liberation from cycle of birth and rebirth… it means they will not be reincarnated anymore. I learned there that the notion of second or third life is not their desired destiny, “life is tough, who would want to live again” said Gopal, a resident of Varanasi, son of a Brahmin priest. It is a place where many Hindus dream to get their bodies cremated, and while majority of them died dreaming, many still made it.

Sigh

The trip onwards was not uneventful. Michael and I were still on the train’s wait list when the final chart was released. As we were already at the train station and this trip having been planned months ago, we decided to get on the train anyhow. Michael wrote about this in his blog too.

On the way to one of the holiest places in India, we encountered the unholiest people. First there was a man (or woman?) who tried to scam us by asking for advance payment for a hotel reservation. Then on the train, when we were already on board and apparently without confirmed ticket, the Train Conductor (TD) was very rude to us. When I showed the piece of paper in my possession (our e-ticket) he brusquely waved the paper in my face and snarled, ‘this is not a ticket’. Almost 2 years in India, 6 months in New Delhi, I have learned that it is futile to raise your voice when dealing with those in “power.” Their rudeness can instantly diminish your self-respect and could reduce you to a lesser mortal, at the same time make them feel supreme. Only, I did not allow him that. As he snarled at me I patiently endured and then calmly took my turn in explaining my predicament. I admitted to our own ineptness (not reading the note in the ticket that said the e-ticket is voided if we’re waitlisted, thus we should not get on board or pay the amount with penalty) and massaged his ego a bit. It worked. Although we still ended up paying for new ticket plus penalty and did not get our own berths, at least I was able to pacify him. Trust me, getting these people in ‘power’ to shut up and listen to you is a major feat already. That said, Michael and I were able to position ourselves peacefully inside the train… between the cars, him laying down on the floor, and me on a corner seat just outside a coach door. The train crew looked at us with sympathetic eyes, and in his pity he offered the one bunk reserved for the TD to us… for Rs500. And for my tiny seat, he wanted Rs100. Power he had over us, and power he wielded. We did not succumb.



When everyone was getting ready to sleep, I asked for blankets for me and Mike (remember that we have legit tickets now) but the same guy demanded Rs100. It was late, I was exhausted and unlike the issue with the TD this one was corruption, albeit at micro scale, and galled me. I cussed. I sat on my corner seat with my shawl and tried to sleep. Few minutes later, same guy woke me up and offered me a blanket. I refused, told him he couldn’t extract money from me. He offered it anyway, for free. I said thank you. I wore my sunglasses to shade my eyes from the fluorescent light kept on all night then dozed off but woke up every half an hour during the entire 12+ hour journey. At about dawn, one of the passengers who the night before was very nice to us, poked my sunglasses thinking I was asleep. I told him off, he was defensive, glared at me and cussed. At that point I felt like crying, how could these people be so cruel? I wish I could tell them, “I am a volunteer, I do not receive salary, I am trying to do something which you should be doing, helping your people.” I found myself suppressing my tears, I realized the enormity of problems in India. It isn’t just about poverty and marginalization, a lot of it has something to do with the way people treat people.



Our train reached Varanasi at 9:30 a.m.. I felt a feeling of relief and enthusiasm though still exhausted and sleepy. First thing I wanted was a nap. At the platform we were greeted by an man unknown to us who zealously guided as to the exit all the way to the pre-paid auto stand. To get to our hotel would cost as Rs70, this zealous man offered to take us to there for only Rs50. I’ve been in India long enough to know that this generous offer comes with a catch. The man wanted to take us to another hotel, cautioned us that our hotel could be fully booked. If we agreed, he’d get commission from his preferred hotel. We told him we had a reservation in Hotel Haifa. He glared at us and walked away. We went back to the original plan of taking pre-paid auto.

Comng home to my dad one last time

I didn’t think twice. When my youngest brother, Eric, informed me in September last year that our father was going to have an angioplasty I immediately wrote to VSO India and VSO Bahaginan that I wanted to come home. Eric said I needed not come home because it was not a very difficult procedure. I missed my son’s appendectomy last May; though I wanted badly to be with him but it was my son who assured me he’d be okay. My dad’s was different. He was 83 at the time and it was going to be his first time to go under the knife.

He’s been confined in the hospital ICU for two days before I was informed. My family is perhaps the calmest people I know, there’s always grace under pressure. I could sense that they were all anxious but wouldn’t try to infect me with the anxiety, when I spoke to them they just told me dad was sleeping or resting, and all. I didn’t get to talk to my dad, and I asked them not to tell him just yet because I still had to get exit permit from the immigration office. Before I even got permit another message from my brother came, dad’s doctors found 8 blocked vessels and had to go through coronary bypass surgery instead. I still haven’t spoken to my dad. After 4 days I flew back to Manila and went directly to the hospital. My entire family and my closest relatives were there.

Dad had already undergone the surgery and was under critical observation for complication in his kidneys in the ICU. He was awake but could hardly talk nor move with numerous tubes and apparatuses attached to his frail body. One thing my family was thankful for at the time was that he remained lucid. He recognized me right away when my mom asked who was standing beside him. With all his weakened might he burbled, “Len”. I looked around him and he’s got 4 monitors each serving a different purpose. It was daunting, I could not grasp the numbers on the monitors. My dad looked so delicate, but I felt in my heart he was going to stay with us for a while longer.

A couple of days later it was my turn to stay with dad 24/7. My mom came to hospital everyday but we didn’t let her stay overnight so she could sleep better at home. Filipinos are family-oriented that it is second nature when children have grown to take care of the parents, especially when they are sick. But it is also because there is always a shortage of doctors and nurses that families have to take care of their patients. Nurses are called only on exceptional situations. Dad’s doctors were very attentive to him however. His nurses loved him because he was very cooperative, they loved him to get better and they saw his will to do just that. And in spite of being very weak he made the nurses laugh. If dad weren’t a psychiatrist he could have been a comedian who could tell the same joke over and over and you’d still laugh. He competed with comic blabbers of my younger sister, Phobel, and chuckled at the simple note we told him was written in a get-well-soon card by his junior son (my sibling who wouldn’t say any affectionate word but would express love in many other ways). The note said, “Dad, Hmmm. Jon”

During the first two days that I was with him I saw his condition improved. One at a time tubes were removed and monitors shut down. He was eating well, he started craving for his favorite foods. My brother, Lamcel, brought him crispy pata (pork knuckles deep-fried to a crisp), he also started drinking coffee again. He asked for Coke, the nurse said I could give him just before his dialysis late in the night. Unfortunately, Lamcel found the Coke and drank it, not knowing I saved it for Dad. Then his cardiologist came and made him sit up with help from a nurse, me and my elder sister, Ched. On my third day with him, soon after his final dialysis he was transferred to the recovery room. Hopes leapt high because the doctor was talking about discharging him in three or four days. The doctor said his heart was very strong.

In the recovery room we watched TV together, I read him the newspaper, I told him about my life in India. Dad has let so many opportunities pass to go out of the country during his heydays as director of a mental hospital. As I said, there was shortage of doctors, and there was bigger shortage for psychiatrists; he was the lone full-time doctor in the government mental hospital for many years that he couldn’t just abandon his patients. So he was okay. He had coffee again and he had healthy appetite, ate more and more of the hospital food. My nieces, daughters of his favorite brother, came to visit. My youngest brother and I were chatting with them while constantly massaging dad’s legs. Dad would butt in our conversation when we thought he was asleep.

Dad was in a windowless room, he couldn’t tell day from night. I went to the nurse’s station and asked for a room with a view. I asked his cardiologist if I could put him on a wheelchair and we’d go out of his room so he could see sunlight. The doc was okay with it. He was looking forward to that.

But that night, he talked incoherently. My sister and I took turns attending to him. During my turn I dared not even blink my eyes lest I missed if he wanted something. In the middle of the night he wanted to get up, he said he was hungry. I made him a glass of milk and gave him cookies, then he wanted to sit up, then he wanted to go to the bathroom by himself despite the catheter attached to him.

The day that followed was very trying for all of us. I didn’t tell you that all those times he had bad cough and he had difficulty expectorating. A nurse came on a regular interval for his nebulization. Though an ordeal dad always tried to cooperate, but everytime a tube was inserted in his mouth down to his throat to spray some solution he cringed with pain.
Later that day he asked for all of us, he said he wanted to say goodbye because he was already tired. Eric and I were there. We both told him that our only problem was his cough. Eric, who is a doctor, told him he would do the nebulization himself, “I will make you well, Dad.” While I told him not to give up, that I came back from India to take care of him, that I would be there and stick it out with him. He succumbed to us, Eric asked for the permission of the hospital to allow him treat my dad. I and Phobel assisted him.

Dad wasn’t the type who would want to be a burden to anyone. Little did all of us know that so much thick mucus has already accumulated in his lungs that it became very difficult for him to breathe and oxygen was no longer reaching his brain. When all of us were there, mom, siblings, sisters-in-law, future brother-in-law, grandchildren, he went into deep sleep, so deep that Lamcel, who is also doctor himself, found odd. A doctor came and then the next thing we knew we were all back to where we started, waiting just outside the ICU.

Once again dad had so many tubes attached to him, monitors lit up anew. I looked at him and my heart bled. His breathing was belabored even with aid of an oxygen tank. I knew then that we were just counting days. But the doctors and nurses didn’t want to give up on him. We didn’t want to give up on him. And he didn’t want to give up on us. For few more days he stayed with us, he woke up and struggled and fought to live. Relatives and friends came to visit, though already enervated he tried to smile at the visitors. And if he could talk I’m sure he would crack another joke.

I realized that since I came home I was wearing surgical mask because of my cough and cold. I asked dad if he’s seen my face since I arrived. He shook his head, I took off my mask and he strained to look at me. I waved at him and smiled, he just kept staring, and then I put the mask back on. It was my turn to take care of him again, I sang to him songs he played in the piano, he looked at me and I knew he liked it. Trouble was, I didn’t know the complete lyrics, he gripped my hand each time I paused to think of the next line, I hummed every time I missed the right words.

Days became two weeks, he was drifting on and off. The lead doctor still wouldn’t give up on him. He said dad’s a rare case, his heart was very strong. He had an arrest, doctors revived him. Again, all of us were there, mom, siblings, sisters-in-law, future brother-in-law, grandchildren. It was time to begin accepting the fact that dad was going to leave us very soon. One by one we talked to him and said our goodbyes. I don’t know what others said, but I thanked him that I am his daughter and that I am proud he is my father. I was with him when he was last seen awake, I sang him songs, I told him more about India. And even if I am an atheist, I told him that there are millions of gods in India and my colleagues prayed for him, Hindu, Christians and Muslim, “imagine that dad, gods from different religions have already blessed you because you don’t have just a strong heart, you have a very good, and kind and compassionate heart.”

Those were the last words I had for him, I didn’t know if he heard me but I know that he knew I was and am very proud of him, that he continues to be my inspiration now that I am back in India to complete my placement.

P.S. Dad said before his operation that he would have steak when he got out of the hospital, but he couldn't anymore. He knew that "in heaven there is no beer," I hope they have steak there, at least.

A Fine Balance

Author: Rohinton Mistry
recommended for: not for those with heart ailments
Read in May, 2006

the book was given to me by madhav, my indian friend. no introductions about the book, just that it's one book that i should read if i wanted to know more about india and the caste system and other things that matter. the story is set during indira gandhi's regime. it is teeming with layers of decades-old oppresion and discrimination, aggravated by a repressing political climate.

i never really thought a book could break one's heart. this one did. if there's anything that would describe what a poignant story is, this one should. caste, class, religion, politics... made me think how unfair and cruel the world could be for some people.... okay, okay, given the population of india, millions of people.

i hate predictable happy endings... but reading this one i had wished so hard mistry would end it the way fairy tales do. read it and weep. never mind the typo errors.

Ladies' Special

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I commute to and from work everyday, one hour each way. On days that I travel with Michael we often take the metro train but the arduous walk and short mini-bus ride to the metro station has made me look for alternative way. The auto-rickshaw is out of the question because it would be way too expensive for my limited budget. I soon found out that there’s a bus plying the route from just across the street where our house is to where the office is located. My early experience of the bus rides was not very pleasant though, the buses are always crowded and it takes an adventurous spirit to squeeze oneself in and find the best spot to stand with the least chance of being elbowed, shoved or crushed. In one of the nights that I took the bus home, the bus being dominated by male passengers, a not so young man grabbed my behind as I inched my way out.

In Chennai, I was advised by my colleagues that next time some guy tried to harass me I should cry out and the people around me would come to the rescue. So when it happened to me in New Delhi I yelled and made a scene, but none of the men inside the bus did anything. Lesson 1, New Delhi is a dangerous place for women and men don’t care. But between taking the bus and walking in a sidewalk turned public men’s urinal to the metro station I chose the former; now every time I get off the bus I have to use my laptop bag to protect my behind. And then on one of those mornings when my alarm clock failed to go off I went to the bus stop later than usual and behold, the Ladies’ Special.

The Ladies’ Special is a bus reserved for women commuters. In the last couple of years women have come out of their homes and joined the labor force. Sexual harassment in public places rose. In November 2009 a survey showed that public buses were the most unsafe place for women in Delhi and so in January 2010 the High Court ordered the Delhi Transport Corporation to make arrangement for special buses for women. Now there are a few buses plying select Delhi routes that are off-limits to men. It’s not to say that the rest of the buses are off-limits to women in turn. The rest of the public buses lets anyone in anyone who can pay - there’s Rs200 fine for travelling without ticket (Php195 or S4.40)- but there’s 6 to 8 seats designated for women. Able-bodied men who are not beyond the age of 60 can be evicted anytime if they made a mistake of taking those seats.

It’s fun to be in Ladies’ special. It does not matter if the buses reserved were the old and rundown units . As soon as you get on the bus you feel a spirit of camaraderie. The ladies’ special is probably one of the noisiest cramped places I know of. I’m a feminist and I hate to stereotype but the women do talk a lot. Never mind if the conversations sound like just a loud buzz to me, and I don’t mean conversations between friends. Women in ladies’ special just chat with anyone, laugh with everyone. It specially becomes noisy when men would attempt to get on the bus and the women would chorus “Ladies’ special’ and shoo the men away. The men get off frustrated and women would grin or laugh. Now I don’t know what those mean. I’m thinking that the women are enjoying their privilege and the power to tell off men and claim what is theirs.

Photos 1)bbcnews.com, 2)mine, 3)mayank austen soofi at flickr.com, 4) youthkiawaaz.com