Sometimes when friends initiate discussions on random statements by politicians or are incensed about matters of high politics, I express my irritation with a dismissive statement which I really mean seriously: I think the most pressing policy issue in India may be the lack of public toilets, or sanitation. So I read this old blog entry by Madhu Kishwar with surprise and joy.
But seriously, why do we not consider sanitation and the provision of clean, public facilities to be important? Sometimes my mother remarks that I have been very lucky in my life: all my jobs have been at places with good bathrooms for women. This is no laughing matter. When you walk from Pondy Bazaar on a parallel road to the one we live off, you can follow the stench of urine to find your way. The path has other names but I call it 'Moothram' (urine) Alley. Yuck, indeed, but I persist in doing so in the hope that it will continue to remind us of work we have not done. And all the polluters on Moothram Alley are male. So what do the women do? Women exercise supreme control to the point of illness and disease.
This is a serious issue. It impinges on public health, public decency, workplace conditions, tourism prospects and women's security. This last is not a trivial listing. Women cannot walk down public paths for seeing men line up against walls. That can bar many urban roads and paths forcing women to take the long route, walk further for the same purpose. In Delhi on the JNU road, men don't even see walls. It is disgusting! Men can 'go' free but women must avert their eyes at all times, just in case. And don't offer me street food anyone--I don't even sit by windows in cafes! (And let me underscore, I have choices, others don't!)
More treacherous are reports that come from conflict and disaster contexts, where displaced women are unable to safely access the toilet. They have to walk a long way to reach the toilet and then it may be dirty, lack water or privacy. Women also have to walk by men to reach the toilet and are subject to harrassment along the way. This means they end up waiting to gather a critical mass even to just relieve themselves or that they go out before sunrise or after sunset. Infection and disease follow not from the disaster, but from these secondary conditions.
Swachchha Narayani does not come a day too soon into our lives. And she is not the first divine entity to be summoned to this cause. Many walls in India bear tiled images of gods and goddesses in the good faith that their divinity will secure the wall from such abuse.
In my schooldays, we had a subject called Community Living in which civic values of many sorts were imparted as lessons--do not litter, observe traffic rules, say thank you and sorry and so on. With the introduction of television, we saw short Films Division products that reemphasised the same values. Where are these now?
In Tamil Nadu (and I am sure elsewhere in India), why is colour television more important than public health? And why is the right of males to urinate and defecate at their pleasure the most carefully protected civil right? Is this what will change if there were more women in government? I hope so. In this case, I am willing to start India's non-partisan version of Emily's List, the US organization that supports pro-choice Democratic female candidates' election campaigns.
In this country, there are many problems and many inequities, but in my view, this one stinks the most!
Tuesday, April 10, 2007
Friday, March 30, 2007
The role (if any) of public intellectuals (if any) in India
At the risk of this seeming like an Indian Express promotion blog, I want to point to two articles in that paper that raise important question about the role of intellectuals in Indian public discourse.
Pratap Bhanu Mehta, On their Marx, ready to bow, Indian Express, March 27, 2007.
Peter Ronald DeSouza, And miles to go before they wake, Indian Express, March 30, 2007.
For Dr. Mehta, these questions go back to understanding the role of the university in cultivating "the life of the mind," as he puts it. These are issues he raised several months ago during a debate in the editorial columns of the Indian Express (again) and Outlook magazine between him and Yogendra Yadav, among others. That debate was sparked by a disagreement within the Knowledge Commission about the efficacy of reservations.
What is the role of public intellectuals in any society, and what can it be in this one? More important, we need to ask what makes a person a public intellectual as opposed to an expert, a retired government servant, an academic or a senior journalist.
What do you think?
Pratap Bhanu Mehta, On their Marx, ready to bow, Indian Express, March 27, 2007.
Peter Ronald DeSouza, And miles to go before they wake, Indian Express, March 30, 2007.
For Dr. Mehta, these questions go back to understanding the role of the university in cultivating "the life of the mind," as he puts it. These are issues he raised several months ago during a debate in the editorial columns of the Indian Express (again) and Outlook magazine between him and Yogendra Yadav, among others. That debate was sparked by a disagreement within the Knowledge Commission about the efficacy of reservations.
What is the role of public intellectuals in any society, and what can it be in this one? More important, we need to ask what makes a person a public intellectual as opposed to an expert, a retired government servant, an academic or a senior journalist.
What do you think?
Sunday, March 25, 2007
1971
There is a new movie about the 1971 conflict, one reads, but that is not why I am thinking about the events of that year in South Asia. Last night, we were reminiscing about a little girl I used to know.
We were both little girls. Standard I or younger, St. Joseph's, RC Church, Bombay. She lived a few buildings away from me in the Port Trust compound in Colaba. Her name was Nafisa and we used to play together. The reminiscences began with my mother reminding me of how we would walk each other home. Nafisa would walk me home because I was not allowed to walk by myself. But neither was she, so I would walk her home. Then she would walk me back. The loop was endless till an adult accompanied us. Our laughter reminded me of something else.
Three girls, on the primary school platform, discussing the world around us with the gravity of seven year olds. Nafisa announced that they were going to Pakistan because they were Muslims. I did not understand the connection at all, but was impressed by her serious face. And so it was that one day we were walking each other home back and forth, the next she was making this announcement and then she was gone. To Karachi, I think. A few months later, there was war.
But 1971 in my life was not just about Nafisa and war. That hot May, we moved to a new home in Cuffe Parade, where tall apartment buildings had just come up. A few months later, we travelled abroad and my parents who never treated their children like retards took me along to see the places they always wanted to see. The United Nations Headquarters in New York, for instance. My introduction at the age of seven to the manifestation of one battle-weary generation's dream of lasting peace. A dream that captured and still holds my imagination captive.
Then Nafisa and her migration. Adult discussions about East Pakistan and the refugee crisis were in the air. I cannot claim to have understood much, but I can remember that there were surcharges on many things to pay for the refugees who were flooding West Bengal. We had to put extra stamps on envelopes, I seem to remember. And then Sukhdev's photographs of what he witnessed from his hiding place somewhere in East Pakistan, published in the Illustrated Weekly of India. No one else my age seems to remember them when I ask, but they were striking. My memory of them is not of detail but of the impression they made on me; they remain my first images of the horror of conflict after all these years.
And then war. Our buildings were five minutes from the cantonment and harbour in South Bombay and stood out like sore thumbs. We had sirens and air raid practice, black paper on doors and windows and stories by candlelight. But even the delights of daily story-telling did not obscure the fact that something horrible was going on. Everyday, fathers of schoolmates who were army or navy men were killed or went missing and we would observe a moment's silence. INS Khukri went down, and its brave captain was known to people in school and I seem to remember his daughter also went to our school.
Impossible to forget.
I carry the year with me everyday into every piece of work I do. For another generation, Partition was the defining influence but for me, it is 1971. And I am not alone, I think. I have met at least one person, growing up in Karachi, who could remember the mirror image of my experiences--school shutdown because of war, bombs on places we knew. Both our experiences are nothing at all compared to what thousands go through everyday all over the world, in the name of larger causes and principles, but this little teaser and its memory reinforce my commitment, even when I feel that my work really is irrelevant.
Postscript:
I included details here about Nafisa and school in the hope that somewhere she is surfing the net and finding this, so that on the brink of middle age, we can catch up on where we've walked since those endless excursions of childhood.
More ruminations in the same vein are to be found here. I am looking for links to Sukhdev's work and will add them when I find some that are functional.
We were both little girls. Standard I or younger, St. Joseph's, RC Church, Bombay. She lived a few buildings away from me in the Port Trust compound in Colaba. Her name was Nafisa and we used to play together. The reminiscences began with my mother reminding me of how we would walk each other home. Nafisa would walk me home because I was not allowed to walk by myself. But neither was she, so I would walk her home. Then she would walk me back. The loop was endless till an adult accompanied us. Our laughter reminded me of something else.
Three girls, on the primary school platform, discussing the world around us with the gravity of seven year olds. Nafisa announced that they were going to Pakistan because they were Muslims. I did not understand the connection at all, but was impressed by her serious face. And so it was that one day we were walking each other home back and forth, the next she was making this announcement and then she was gone. To Karachi, I think. A few months later, there was war.
But 1971 in my life was not just about Nafisa and war. That hot May, we moved to a new home in Cuffe Parade, where tall apartment buildings had just come up. A few months later, we travelled abroad and my parents who never treated their children like retards took me along to see the places they always wanted to see. The United Nations Headquarters in New York, for instance. My introduction at the age of seven to the manifestation of one battle-weary generation's dream of lasting peace. A dream that captured and still holds my imagination captive.
Then Nafisa and her migration. Adult discussions about East Pakistan and the refugee crisis were in the air. I cannot claim to have understood much, but I can remember that there were surcharges on many things to pay for the refugees who were flooding West Bengal. We had to put extra stamps on envelopes, I seem to remember. And then Sukhdev's photographs of what he witnessed from his hiding place somewhere in East Pakistan, published in the Illustrated Weekly of India. No one else my age seems to remember them when I ask, but they were striking. My memory of them is not of detail but of the impression they made on me; they remain my first images of the horror of conflict after all these years.
And then war. Our buildings were five minutes from the cantonment and harbour in South Bombay and stood out like sore thumbs. We had sirens and air raid practice, black paper on doors and windows and stories by candlelight. But even the delights of daily story-telling did not obscure the fact that something horrible was going on. Everyday, fathers of schoolmates who were army or navy men were killed or went missing and we would observe a moment's silence. INS Khukri went down, and its brave captain was known to people in school and I seem to remember his daughter also went to our school.
Impossible to forget.
I carry the year with me everyday into every piece of work I do. For another generation, Partition was the defining influence but for me, it is 1971. And I am not alone, I think. I have met at least one person, growing up in Karachi, who could remember the mirror image of my experiences--school shutdown because of war, bombs on places we knew. Both our experiences are nothing at all compared to what thousands go through everyday all over the world, in the name of larger causes and principles, but this little teaser and its memory reinforce my commitment, even when I feel that my work really is irrelevant.
Postscript:
I included details here about Nafisa and school in the hope that somewhere she is surfing the net and finding this, so that on the brink of middle age, we can catch up on where we've walked since those endless excursions of childhood.
More ruminations in the same vein are to be found here. I am looking for links to Sukhdev's work and will add them when I find some that are functional.
Monday, March 12, 2007
From India to Liberia
Indian women from the Central Reserve Police Force guard Liberia's first elected President, Ellen Johnson Sirleaf.
See report here.
See report here.
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