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In Auroville I take part in a three day cycling tour, and with the other 14 members of the group I visit an ecological farm, an organic processing unit, meet Martin that explains the vision behind Auroville, the radio station and more. What makes the strongest impression on me though, is the visit we make to a school run by an Indian woman who is a resident in Auroville. The school was initially started by a Brazilian woman that saw the desperate need to help the children from the surrounding villages (they're not a part of Auroville). Auroville was started in 1968 at a time when the newcomers didn't see the women a lot - they only had one saree to share amongst themselves in a household. The parents either couldn't afford an education for their children, didn't see the need for it or only sent one child - the oldest boy. This woman would sit under a tree and wait for the children to arrive, and slowly, slowly she built up the parents' trust and they could eventually move the school into their own buildings. She passed the work on to Aka, who could speak Tamil, and thereby communicate with the parents. Now the school is only for girls, between 14 and 22 years old.
Aka realized that the students had a hard time learning since they came to school full of the problems they faced at home. So they started to have conversation about what they were going through, and quite soon the teachers realized that the same problems occurred in most families. Most fathers were alcoholics, the girls were continuously yelled at by their mothers and the gender discrimination was severe. In traditional Indian villages, the oldest son is the head of the house in many ways when he is 15. And in this country 15 is not as mature as the 15 we are used to in the West (!). The girls will get married and move to the family of their new husband, and the sons will take a wife into the family home, and take on the responsibility of everyone in his family, including widowed sisters and in-laws. So the parents feel they have to treat the oldest son well, so that he will treat them well when they get old, there is no welfare system here. So if the sister wants to attend a school or other activity she needs the permission from the eldest boy in the house. If he is more strict than his parents would have been with her, than they just stand back and conclude that well, he is strict. Can you imagine the situation were a 15 year old boy gives rules to a 20 year old girl? And then consider the age for weddings is from 18, and most weddings are arranged by the family.
So the teachers in the school would teach the girls that they are equal to boys, and they have the right to be treated with respect. When they brought this new found knowledge to their homes, there was an eruption of anger and some of the girls were taken out of the school and others returned sharing the negative experience this had brought upon them. So the teachers now tell the girls to not share any of the conversations with their families. The parents think that the only thing they learn in school is practical skills (sewing, crocheting, typing etc.) and that they receive help in passing exams they have previously failed so that they can continue with higher studies. The hope is that slowly with each generation, some of the horrors that especially girls experience in this society will diminish and that the girls from the school will treat their own daughters better.
Because it is the mother that teaches the boys that they should not do household work, and that the daughters in the house is supposed to do the chores. And it is common for them to expect the girls to do a lot. They themselves had high demands from their own mothers, and when they moved into their mother-in-law's household they were often treated horribly. There is, in these layers of the population, not really a sisterhood between women. Off course there are millions of families across India were each individual is respected and loved, and where girls and boys alike are encouraged in their pursuits. One example was in the backwaters of Kerela, were we met the family with three daughters, and they were all the pride of the parents and their community at large.
That afternoon I am walking along the road in Pondicherry, where I have my accommodation this time around. I find myself in an area of town that I haven't seen before, and I see that I am in front of the hospital. There is a huge sign outside the maternity ward. There is a drawing of a girl and it says: Girl child is precious.
I have enough knowledge of this culture that it shakes me to the core. Traditionally a woman doesn't bring money to her family, so when she is married - when another family has to support her, her family is expected to extend a dowry. This can be the source of so much drama; there can be more demands after the wedding, families might have to sell their house or farm to be able to afford it and so on. So if a family is poor and only have daughters, it will be a catastrophe. The boys bring in money, the girl cost money. So it is still common that newborn girls are not allowed to live, simply because the family cannot or will not afford it, or that she will be a second class citizen and of no value. So in the maternity ward, parents are encouraged to keep the child. Girl child is precious.
I go for a walk on the sea shore, and soak up the last warm rays of the sun, watch Indian men do their evening exercise, which means walking fast back and forth on the road, either solitary or with a friend. Food, sweets, flower garlands and beaded necklaces are being pushed on anyone that is foolish enough to look in the direction of the people selling them. Families are walking together maybe to dinner in a nice restaurant, maybe just enjoying their time together. It stands out to me on this day.
It's time to go home, and I go through 'my' neighbourhood of French restaurants (remnants from the French colonization), Indian restaurants, busy traffic, beggars having gone to bed on the pavement for the night, dogs eating leftovers on the street, cows doing the same and people talking to each other. I am always asked for money by beggars and this far in my travels I know how to handle it - what to do if I want to give them something, what to do if I don't, how to not extend my compassion to far to guard my heart so I don't let the enormous misery overshadow everything else. Then I see in the corner of my eye, on the other side of the street, a man a little younger than myself, he is scooting himself forward, sitting on the ground. He is actually on his hands and knees. Literally. He sees me and immediately calls out, with an aching desperation I haven't heard before: Ma! When he says it several times, it sounds like Mama! The distance I've created is suddenly non-existent. He is calling out, going as fast as he can, his voice I will never forget. People look at me even more intently than usually. They don't comprehend the tears on my face.
A stark contrast appears the next evening when I go to the same sea shore to see the concert given to celebrate Republic day. Atop the roof of 'Le café' some Indian guys are doing some karaoke and the crowd is happy to be entertained. I sit down on a stonewall, high enough to see what is going on, but far enough away to not be too bothered by all the questions and stares. One Indian man is dancing in front of the crowds. He is sober and his eyes are closed, he is really getting into the music- not trying to make a display. Some kids are dancing with him, at first I don't realize it. They are children living on the streets, beggars, gypsies. Indian people seldom give money to beggars, especially children, because that teaches them that they don't have to go to school. This man is actually interacting with them, dancing with them, talking and lifting them up. They dance for more than an hour. The crowd is watching him, with smiles confessing their mixed emotions of 'he is making a fool of himself' and 'it is really entertaining'. I've never seen this before, to the higher social layers, the people at the bottom are usually invisible or a nuisance. I am really moved by this interest, this willingness to ignore such a big crowd, to give some joy to those children.
With a bruise on my nose, I get more attention than normal, and one of the dark faced girls comes over to me to ask what happened. She doesn't speak English and I obviously don't speak Tamil, so when she offers an explanation using body language, I nod my head in agreement. Eventually she jumps up on the wall to sit next to me. The rich Indian man standing next to me that has been trying to get my attention is a bit surprised at her audacity. We smile and talk in whatever way we can, and I am well aware that people are staring at this tourist who is so close to a beggar. We take pictures and laugh. Suddenly she slips one of my earrings out of my ear, and she puts it in her own ear. She wants me to take a picture of her. I give her my other earring, and she gives me to hold the two tiny little twigs she uses in her ears to keep it from closing. The earrings are no joke, and she feels like a princess, I take her picture and even the man next to me has to smile. It astounds me every time, how people living without anything, being shunned and sick, how they can smile like sunshine.
Pam, Amanda and Nicola arrives as an artist from Chennai is playing the most beautiful music from the rooftop. A kind of mix between traditional Indian and jazz. So good. It's Amanda's last night in Tamil Nadu, and we are going for a nice meal. All my meals in India has been nice. Very nice. But tonight, as we walk past the big crowd of celebrants and the decked out Gandhi statue, we decide to try the new fancy hotel. We get a table on the rooftop. All of us backpackers, it is a very different type of place than the ones we're used to. I try to not show surprise when the waiter places the cloth serviette on my lap. Later I realized that a female waitress came over just for that, and that the man waiting on our table the whole evening would never have done it. It would have been very rude for him to be so 'familiar' with a woman. So all of a sudden a respect for women. In India men and women are often segregated, in schools, ashrams and churches men and women sit on either side of the room. There are seats in front of the bus that a man has to vacate if a woman needs a seat. There are female compartments on a train - if she wants it, and a separate waiting room in the train station, as well as special queues at the train station, and women can generally just go to the front of any queue. This to make her feel safe. From harassment. From men. So I guess ultimately it's not really respect.
To make a long story short, we eat the best food ever, we have three courses each and drinks and fancy coffee and still the bill doesn't get even close to what we pay for a mediocre main course in our countries. As Nicola puts it: it is life-changing. The conversation moves to the Dalai Lama, and someone mentions that when he was in Oslo to receive his Nobel piece prize, that he sent away the expensive dinner and asked them to give the money to someone who needed it. Pam immediately feels bad about the luxury we have just indulged in...
This country is a country and culture of extremes and contrasts. Too many to count. Unless you're tucked away in an ashram or in a countryside village, every day here is an assault on the senses and the internal dialogue spins around the same topics, sometimes vocalized to fellow observers. The bottom line is, there is change in this world, and we are happy that there are individuals, schools and communities that actively work to better the conditions for people, and not only in this country.
A few days later I go to Chennai, and early one Friday morning I get on a train bound for Mysore. Tracy meets me at the train station - how great to know someone in India. We met in Kerela on the houseboat adventure.
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