Indian Railways: a crash course in understanding India

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For twelve straight hours my home consisted of seat number 56, in tier AC 3, bogie B4 heading towards Kolkata and amounted to what I can only describe as shock therapy as one of India's ‘spoilt ones'. Starting right from the moment I got out of my air-conditioned SUV, the simple walk through the newly created security check reminded me of the herd. In automatic mode I was squished into a queue (I hate queues!), then my bags were flung into the x-ray scanner, without a second thought as to their contents, while the cop sitting behind the scanner was busy staring at any female form on the platform with looks that would scare Hannibal lector.

Once out of the x-ray check, I was confronted with Delhi's version of ‘mission impossible’ as I was afforded with a faint millisecond to pick up my bags and rush to the nearest exit or risk being trampled by the hoard behind me. My bladder of course does not enjoy any of this commotion, so the call of nature had to be answered. Enduring any public toilet in India is an adventure in itself, however if you have to use them in a railway station, your olfactory nerves will require some Israeli army training, if not do make sure to have a strong insurance plan, because this adventure is not for the faint hearted. Without even having to look for a sign, the distinct smell of urine directed me to the men’s room (on a practical point, thank god for the smell, as signs are non-existent). I will save you dear reader from any pictures of the pissua, which suffice it to say, had stains harking back to the days of the ‘Raj’, which I think was about the last time it was cleaned as well. After going through the horrific experience of feeling the drops of flush water mixed with my neighbor's water (how I wanted to cut my own legs off!), I was confronted with the seemingly innocuous task of washing my hands. Here I am confronted with a dilemma, weather to use the tap which runs at a drop per minute, or the one which is permanently flowing in a manner not dissimilar to Niagara Falls. In moments of doubt such as this, I tend to favour any waterfall, which reminded me of Holi (Indian festival of colors and water and an excuse to molest women www.saveholi.in). Just as I walked out drenched, an antique 1949 model of a government employee pulled out his hand and requested ‘3 rupees’. Indeed, if you carry a backpack, wear shorts and have a crew cut you are taken to be a member of the English-speaking specie. But being very Indian, just one look was enough to scare him off. Isn't this how every day-long journey should begin?

The walk to the platform is not that difficult except for the fact that my flip flops are not designed for such slippery floors (designed instead for the jungles of JNU), so it is akin to a balancing act, or figure skating for the more sophisticated of you. I was rewarded in the end with a safe arrival to my platform as opposed to a medal and a podium. Once on the platform, I must say it was not as crowded as I had expected (to my German friends, it was still more crowded than the Munich hauptbahnhof before a Bayern Munich match, but by Indian standards less crowded) and I could easily stroll around thanks to the location of bogies clearly indicated with digital signs (back in the day the tea vendor, book seller and coolies would have been the only ones to direct you in the proper direction). As a sign that some traditions have survived, compartments a1 and a3 are right at the beginning, followed by d2 and d6, making me remember that as ever the Indian railway flirts with the theory of chaos, much like the rest of the country.

At the bookstand I pick up a copy of Amartya Sen’s Argumentative Indian, a wise investment at Rs 300, not only because it’s a brilliant book but because it will soon shield me from fielding idiotic questions (keep on reading). So as I get all set to wait for the train, I find myself a sweet windy spot with not many people. Having barely put my backpack down a group of six bearded men with white round caps come by and proceed to sit on me as though I were an IKEA sofa. One of them even rested his back against me until I stared at him with a fixed gaze conveying ‘bro I am not a pillar!'. So as the available physical space on my left side became cramped and I was about to make a move sideways a saffron-tikka wearing family (exclamation mark on your forehead denoting you pray to one of the 1600 gods of what the English call Hinduism). So with the Quran being read on one side, the BJP being supported on the other and my atheist soul analyzing it all in the middle, I entertain a swatting game with a few mosquitoes that have never read about Gandhi or heard of his concept of Ahimsa just as the train arrives.

Once inside things appear to be taking a turn for the better with a comfortable seat and an upper side berth located, I send a few texts to the ever-worried family only a few miles away, update status messages on various social media outlets, flirt with my lady love, and find myself actually having a good time. But this was not to last as a fifty year-old woman sitting across from me suddenly asks out loud "Are you married?" I blatantly ignore the question until she proceeds to repeat it in Hindi, Bengali, Oriya (it's amazing how we Indians turn into UN-quality translators when questions of marriage arise). To add to this scene, her daughter is sitting right next to her. I could almost imagine a Hindu wedding in a train with the ticket collector blabbering all those complicated Sanskrit rhymes the priest undertakes (he says Om about a million times). Back to my own diplomatic conflict, I had to find a swift and effective reply, so turned to my phone and showed them my wallpaper exclaiming "In talks as we speak"  (damn am I good at dodging questions). Before another breath could pass I had Amartya Sen cradled in my hands to the rescue. O how I love you Sir, not only are you a brilliant writer, you have also saved single men from the agony of having to explain why they are not married.

Soup arrives, followed by dinner, which is quite tasty and clean so no complaints from this traveler. Then again put meat on my plate and I am as satisfied as a bear with a pot of honey. Mealtime was followed by the complicated task of folding myself into the upper side berth. Honestly these trains were not designed with a man of my build in mind but for dwarfs and midgets in my view. My upper body fits in just fine, but where am I supposed to put my legs? Many permutations and combinations later I figure this is a pointless task and proceed to sleeping with my arms and legs hanging outside the confines of the mattress. Kicking and slapping every passer-by as the night wears on, I spend the next seven hours in what I can only refer to as ‘the experiment of the bear sleeping atop a tree branch'.

The next morning starts off rather slowly, if you can accept a blocked toilet at such an early hour. But the breakfast did not disappoint, with a hot omelet and toast, which was enjoyed in my acrobatic position as I was still hanging on to my upper berth, as the gentleman below snored the route away.

Meandering from village to village, slowly yes very slowly, (three hours later than expected) we arrived in Kolkata. As a final goodbye, the gentleman on the lower berth managed to have a conversation with me, which I had successfully avoided for the last twelve hours. He was kind enough to explain the way to my destination before delicately cautioning me that "All these taxi drivers are thieves. Just take this straight forward route. Get out take a right, then a left, a right at the roundabout, leave the next three roundabouts, take a left, and then a diagonal right. That’s it, super duper straight forward, no turns." While coming to terms with the concept of a diagonal right and the directions buzzing in my head, my feet met with the hot platform and I soon realized that I had survived this incredible journey. Beyond anything my ordinary Delhi day entails, this journey on India's famed railways put me in touch with a part of this country I seldom interact with but which I am very grateful still exists.  Backpack in tow it was now time to jump into the madness that is Kolkata.

They Rape, we Watch, They Walk away

On 9^th of July a young girl was raped by 13 men on camera, the brutal tape was played across the country. All our Knights went up in outrage Arnabh Goswami, Barkha Dutt, Rajdeep Sardesai, Ravnish Kumar, Abhigyan Prakash wanted immediate police action, the national commission for women sent inquiry teams, Alka Lamba was seen hugging the victim into safety. All of us gender activists were going gung-ho on social media, investigating profiles & finding culprits.

And YES, we got them behind bars, tapped our shoulders & forgot about it ! Media had other issues like Kejriwal & coal blocks. We who sell ‘ gender activism ‘ for our living went on to our projects, proposals, capacity building, budgets, seminars & conferences. 

Well here is what happened on 9^th of july to that young girl ! Watch this video (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lOe19FJ4BFk ) & I urge you to just imagine this was you !,  your sister, girlfriend, wife, mother !!!!!

What would you do to these men ???? ( even fucking Gandhians would ensure they are hanged !!!!! ).

TAKE A GUESS WHERE ARE THESE 13 MEN TODAY ?

Yes the prediction is true they were ALL GRANTED BAIL !, no the media is not there ( we need to celebrate Yuvi’s return & Aseem Trivedi’s release). Outraged gender activists like my self want to crack open skulls of these bastards & are repeatedly being told by our bosses to calm down (so we put our rage in words & feel like shit !!!!! ). But that’s not what matters to me.

WHAT ABOUT THAT GIRL ??

What does she feel ? Those men tormented her, the whole country saw it ! & they walk free !!!!!! What legal system? What law? What society ? it’s the fucking height of hypocrisy !

Bastards of the Raj

Last few days have been rather interesting, for professional reasons I got an opportunity to spend a lot of time with some budding leaders & some national/international ones. Coming from a very liberal household, ‘ Nationalism ‘, ‘ Hindutva ‘ ‘ Religious fanatics ‘  are all pretty strange to me. But as life is a compilation of amazing experiences, the last few days have surely got me thinking in many ways.

One of the topics was the British ‘Raj’, and our thoughts about it. In my humble opinion the only reason majority of ‘ Desi Crowd ‘ is so angry with the ‘ English ‘ is that the ‘ Father of the Nation ‘ never disclosed his love towards ‘ Our Mother wearing the Crown ‘ (the intelligent will understand the metaphorical pun intended, the fanatics can shoot me if they want). 

Yup I am bravely referring to the man on every Indian currency note, Son of a senior Govt (yup his dad worked for the ‘ Raj ‘) official, educated in a fine law school in London. In fact all that he wanted in that train Cabin in south Africa was to be treated like a ‘Gentle Man‘ (a British concept).

So why do the history books make the breakup sound like a major achievement. Like seriously our constitution (which we apparently live by in India) Is a cut & paste of what Thomas Babiton Macaulay a British poet and politician penned down with a bottle of sherry on his way to the ‘ Indian sub continent ‘.

This is where the ‘hindu rashtra’ fanatics would start jumping up & down, claiming that its not true, and we all should wear saffron n speak Hindi. Well what about the rest of the country which is not ‘ Uttar Pradesh ‘ & ‘ Bihar ‘.  Yes there are other amazing languages in India too. But the way we communicate officially interstate wise is English. 

Lets just say you were proud to be Indian, well in that case since ‘ India ‘ is a very British concept (just like ‘ Hinduism ‘ yup you saffron fanatics, this term was first researched by a English scholar Sir John Woodroffe, who found its mention in some sanskrit literature ' Rajataranginis ' written by a Kashmiri gentleman Kalhana ), you could not be anti – English. Starting from the constitution all the way to Cricket, it has imprints of foreign influence. No matter how proud we are of our Independence movement, we cannot say the British left, governments might come and go, but cultures remain.

What we Indians love most ‘ Tea ‘ n ‘ Cricket ‘, could we be more British?

So why the anger? My guess is, the anger is towards the ‘ Raj ‘ our mother who never claimed us after we killed our Father. We feel like ‘ Karan ‘ (Mahabharat reference), the lack of belonging to the huge empire made us grow angry. Grow a fake pride against the inventor of most of our definitions.

‘ God save the queen, and once she is saved, please ask her to save us ‘.

Poor? Hungry? Let's talk about Equality.

My alarm rings at 6am and, like any self-respecting NGO worker who is always on the clock, I snooze for the next 30 minutes planning in the deep recesses of my mind how the day ahead will pan out. Today was the day. The day to head out into the hinterland and deliver out concepts of Gender (definitions/ stereotypes/clichés). Our team assembled, I was joined by Suresh, CSR's driver/entertainer, someone with a deep understanding of the needs of rural Indians who is always willing and ready to share his views. To round out our team was Vikram, our webmaster/gifted Athenian orator, hailing from Haryana, a state infamous for gender-based violence, and a living example of how one can change mindsets.

We were on our way to Moradabad (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Moradabad ), a city which retains a proud brass industry heritage as one of the country's largest exporters of brass handicrafts. As reported by the latest census, literacy rates are around 70% in men and 60% in women (rather high compared to the rest of Uttar Pradesh ), the sex ratio is 908 women per 1000 men. Altogether I went into this latest round of gender trainings with a positive and optimistic viewpoint of the city and its people, and assumed that our Gender Trainings would run smoothly. Basic concepts explained to straightforward people.

Upon our arrival in Moradabad we were met by our local partner organization SARD : Society for All Round Development, who piloted us through the city, driving through narrow lanes and what felt like a series of never-ending vegetable markets. We eventually arrived to the point where I had to leave the comforts of our air-conditioned car and face the reality of the blaring summer sun as I meandered through lanes, which just happened to be the exact size of my shoulder span.

The 500 meter walk was surely not intended for anyone with a sensitive olfactory system or with particularly high standards of hygiene. The small distance was dotted with twenty butcher stalls casual about waste disposal to say the least selecting the little drainage canals outside their shops while the heat and humidity ensured the flesh remains were colonized upon arrival. Finally, after ducking and diving my way through the lane I arrived at the training venue. I was relieved and tired. Damping down my sweaty brow, I looked up and realized that I was at the local madrasa. As I shook my head and stepped in, there was a power cut. Ominous you say?

Immediately upon entering the room, I noticed a pile of Qurans stacked high in the corner and a blackboard with sinuous Arabic lettering. The power cut on arrival meant no electricity leaving us in complete darkness in the room with the only source of light and ventilation being the little door through which I entered. Thankfully, the power cut did not seem to dissuade any of our participants and the room slowly filled up with a very diverse group ranging from dewy-eyed ten-year old boys to seventy-year old ‘maulanas' with many years experience as teachers of Islam.  I soon looked up and our little 20 sq meter room was filled to capacity with over seventy people with one door and no electricity.

When preparing to speak in front of large crowds there are only so many variables you can take into consideration. Did I know there was going to be a power cut? No. So I pressed on with my introduction to the group while beads of sweat trickled down my forehead leaving me after 10 minutes of cursory remarks in a pool of my own sweat. Setting the physical difficulties aside, we delved into the topic of 'Gender'.  I must admit that the group was very attentive and participated with great enthusiasm. We conducted a healthy discussion filled with smiles, laughter and agreement that there are different opportunities and expectations which come with being a man or woman and that these parameters are created, established and prolonged by all members of society. However, when the discussion turned to the topic of ‘Equality' the whole group suddenly turned silent craning their necks towards the elders sitting at the back, ‘the community elders', the ones with the final say. I had just been introduced to the judges of Moradabad's very own Kangaroo Court. 

You could have heard a pin drop in those first few minutes. The shock over the concept of gender equality was enough to drive these boys and men stone cold silent. The elders were gracious enough to smile, enquire after my name but then ordered me to continue.  When a trainer loses his authority it’s hard to conduct a training, however I made a light-hearted joke at the elders and did my best to continue. The training atmosphere had surely turned hostile but often one needs to make a point. So I continued on the topic of equality putting a simple question to the group: "What did they think about women having a job". Again a series of hushed conversations, silences and murmurs ensued when finally a young boy aged around sixteen answered, "Sir my Quran says women should always be dressed from head to toe otherwise it is a sin, since most jobs nowadays require them to wear western clothes they can’t do those jobs."  

I was about to involve others in the discussion when one of the elders sitting at the back interjected and warned me that "You should watch what you say, you are in a room where we teach our kids about Islam, a word against the Quran and you won’t leave this training on your own two feet". Shocked and dismayed, I thought to myself "Wow, this hundred-year old bloke half my size, actually threatened me". So I used the finest and only weapon available to me, humor, to break the ice quoting the famous Bollywood saying ‘Gabbar singh yeh keh gaya, Jo darr gaya wo maar gaya'  (no guts no glory). The group broke into fits of indulgent laughter and congratulated my defensive move with a round of applause. Realizing we had all reached our boundaries of tolerance both mentally and physically for the day I concluded the training.

Afterwards, our host organization was kind enough to serve us a generous spread of cold drinks and snacks while we exchanged stories of our experiences from a truly challenging day. I decided to take a stroll back to where I had left my normality. Walking back through the narrow path I was overwhelmed by a sense of hypocrisy. The group of men I had just spoken to had never experienced equality, did not know of rights because they had never exercised their own and live in an India where government provisions are a myth.  Their battles are for survival, their worries for how to feed their families and the only glimmer of hope they have in this battle, which they will eventually lose, is religion.

All the big words used in proposals sent to UN agencies are good and great for those who are fortunate enough to live in the comfort of air conditioned conference halls with purified/ ozonified/ reverse osmosis-treated bottled water. But for the majority of my country these so-called 'necessities' bear no meaning as their struggle is for survival not for class not for justice but the basic instinct to stay alive. As a result they will align themselves with anyone who shares, ensures and prioritizes that same basic ambition.

They did not sit in that crowded, hot room because they cared about Gender. They sat there because they knew they would be provided with a meal at the end. Trainings are a valuable exercise but I sometimes think we forget why some people choose to attend. Vast amounts of money is spent inviting trainers from the big cities and on refreshments for a huge gathered crowd, which is often unaware of the topic but is very aware that they will be served a meal if they stay until the end. It is a common practice I have seen across the NGO sector in India and it is a reality we must come to terms with.

Perhaps we ought to entertain the thought that maybe we need to spend more time and money on what people need and want rather than telling them how to behave. Also, if UN bosses spend more time in the field they would realize that it's not a lack of capacity but lack of opportunity that is the main barrier. They should invest this money in hospitals, schools and nutrition. I realize that 'our bosses' sit in their beautiful offices and are chauffeured from one strategy meeting to another while expecting that a new version of social change will automatically take place every year but the reality on the ground is more complex, nuanced and demanding. This reality is certainly worth looking into.

Poor NGO Types

I work for social change. When I started in this field I was often the butt of my own jokes and did joke about how I was always broke. Somehow it goes with the image, but the more time I spend in India working on civil society projects relating to women's rights, the more I realize how ridiculous it is. Sure we can all conjure up the traditional image of an Indian social worker,  'Khadi ka Kurta pajama', in our minds with a cheap Jhola bag resting on his shoulder and dusty kolapurri chapals on his tired feet. In addition to being obviously poor and hungry. Well I could not disagree more with that image. Yes, I believe in working tirelessly for the needs of others. Yes I believe that we all owe it to ourselves to make sure that our fellow woman and man is well taken after. But no, I do not need to be hungry and poor to help the ones who are. I do not need to live below the poverty line in order to help people who do. Just like I don’t need to turn into a maple tree in order to save one, or a woman to work for women's rights.

I ask you this, why on earth are the people who work for the good of others forbidden from enjoying a comfortable lifestyle? No one would ever question my lifestyle if I made millions by marketing the merits of poisonous products such as Coca Cola or tobacco but the second a social worker drives a car or eats in a nice restaurant she/he is considered to be dishonest. 

Had I been a doctor or a lawyer no one would question my fancy German car, or accurate Swiss watch, fine Italian suits or lavish holidays on some luxurious island resort with a hard to pronounce name.

When I asked Dr Anand Kumar a noted sociologist the same question, he answered "Society accepts preachers who are practitioners, be it Vivekanand, Gandhi, Mother Teresa or Anna Hazare. Socially cautious entrepreneurs like Ratan Tata, Narayan Murti and Azim Prem ji are all highly respected by all strata of society. Social entrepreneurs like Sunita Narayan, Aruna Roy and Vindeshwar Pathak are all examples of women and men who have broken away from the cliché of the impoverished individual working towards social change.”

Kuber Sharma, a modern day social activist, argues that "This doesn't exist in my world. I know that this lifestyle is something I don't survive in. Hence while I am not averse to working in the grassroots and have worked in little villages all over India, as a full-time profession I prefer a cushy Delhi office. No I still don't have an air-conditioned office, but at least I can be myself here. If clothes and gadgets will dictate what I am and how I think, then let people judge me."

Devendra Kumar, a development professional and also one of the first people who told me "I want to make money through doing good" (this was about 10 years back ), when I gave him a ring for this blog post explained that "Social work in India is still considered a voluntary action and not a professional one. This is a major downer for the development sector. The salaries of the social sector need to marginally match the ones of the corporate, then only can one expect quality social activists. We need to look into the development sector as a professional one if we want to bring about large scale sustainable development."

Manish Tiwari, a political journalist, argues that "If one was to create two categories of NGO’s the ones using the funds and the ones stealing the funds, the list of thieves would be miles longer (I could not agree more). This extreme disparity has led to the critical take of society. No one as such is against social entrepreneurship, but everyone is against con artists minting money in the name of philanthropy. 

Dr. Rohit Negi, who teaches Development Studies and also the catalyst behind this blog post, explains that “The origins of this notion are in Gandhian practice. Prior to Gandhi's entry on the Indian political scene, the leadership was largely elite, and they had very little pretensions of reaching out to the masses. Gandhi's message was to live and dress like those on whose behalf one claimed to speak, which is what representation--government or non-government--is essentially about.  Even today, civil society and social workers are viewed through that same lens: they must be incorruptible and lead what the larger society considers a simple life. Because, in part, non-profit also means non-well to do. That someone who is in the development sector, broadly defined, also make good money and live a more-than-decent life attracts allegations of impropriety, and undermines his/her credibility.  For better or worse, I believe this is a fact. There are obvious merits of holding civil society to a tough standard, but then it means that anyone who wishes to be in this arena with a degree of honesty needs to choose between the work and a comfortable life.”

So what happens to me? A guy with a technical degree who believes in viable social change . Do I starve to fit into a cliché ? Or do I battle it out , changing professional norms as I progress ? Or do I give up both and jump back into the corporate sector designing micro chips and selling them to the highest bidder?  

Old is NOT always Gold

28 years on this planet, have been working for the past 10 years, in various fields. Have made a few shifts from hardly paid student jobs, to over paid corporate jobs, and finally to the social sector (let’s not even get into the salary bit of it ) .

When I started working at 17 as a COBOL software developer for a firm which made Income tax calculating software for the ‘rich’ in south Germany. Everyone was highly impressed by the fact that a young Indian boy is helping them out. (For scandal sake I’ll say I was the reason for ‘ Inder statt kinder’ debate which led to MR Jürgen Rüttgers gaining some media mileage )

Now the journey has been amazing since then, and age was always on my side, and the older/wiser/grey hair or totally bald men, did not take me as a threat. Rather I was the rookie they were very happy to give ‘ Gyaan ‘ to. With all honesty I must say I really used to listen in back in the day.

Lately specially when it comes to plan’s of future, methodology to address the youth, what appeals to a nation with the majority of its citizens below the age of 45. I get tsunami’s of arguments always starting with the same tone of “What do you know about this? Back in our day…….” Before I lose my cool, I think to my self, well it’s apparently NOT back in your day, and for sure the ideas applied then were probably NOT good enough.

Now the social sector, like the intelligentsia, has ensure that it is a closed club. Both these club have a code language they speak in, which no body in the ‘real’ world understands. Well here is a BIG middle finger to both these clubs and every one in them, Your knowledge and ideas and work does not matter if it is not known/understood by the common person.

Putting it simply no one gives a fuck about what you did ‘back in the day ‘as its not about you ! & your club ! it’s about how a simple common person steps in for social change , to spread knowledge , in himself , in his environment ,Before global and local , it HAS to be personal .

But then again I have been around for 28 years, whereas you clowns have seen the planet go round for a longer period. Although it’s the quality of time which matter and not quantity !!!          

First Step

So finally over months of contemplation , and excuses I get down to writing , the last week has been an insane one nationally and personally . For starters India won the world cup :):) yes we did after 28 years , I still remember the highlights of the one in 1983 , and am sure will remember Dhoni's 6 , sitting next to lady love in a bar in Goa called ' Take 5 ' , what a feeling . Still hard to believe we achieved it . The second event happened in Delhi a 72 year old used the most non violent still effective ( at least in the indian scenario ) Fast until death for an anti corruption bill. I was at India gate right before our Govt accepted the demands of Anna Hazare and the Indians supporting him , thats also a moment i doubt i would ever forget , was in my Bolero , lady love by my side drove into the India gate parking and saw the crowd marching toward me. They were shouting slogans, holding banners  , but the most impressive or unforgettable memory is the composition of the crowd , it had the whole city in it, rich, poor , young , old , women , men , corporate sector , social sector , students and working class. Beautiful !!

I have been to a couple of demonstrations , but this was different , every member of the rally believed in the cause , was not there for any other reason but to support this positive movement of the people . Yeah sure there are cynics , and others who will look for whats wrong in this picture , and how it wont change anything , well I am proud to say i am not a part of that team. I think it did change something , if not a lot , my belief in this country and its people has strengthened. I dont think all our problems found a solution that night , but we took the first step towards that solution.