Wheels and class

There are many visible indicators of class and wealth in India. You can see it in the way people move, their body language towards each other, the clothes they wear (not just the quality or costliness, but the aesthetics), and in their faces (a browse through the faces on milaap.org, a brilliant site that facilitates micro loans to needy people in India, will show many people for whom the daily toil of life for millions of Indians adds decades to their appearance). And you can also see it in how they get about.

Transportation may not seem a particularly important marker of class or power, particularly in a country where millions identify themselves as poor by proffering a begging bowl. But as any country's economy develops, the need to move about - and the desire to do so in comfort - grows inexorably, and this puts massive stress on infrastructure and inhabitants. In Delhi, with its crowded roads and might-is-right traffic rules, traffic and transportation are becoming one of the most visible battle lines of class conflict. As the city grows, so does its inequality, and this battle looks set to go for a good while yet.

Take this story, for instance. Gaurav Jain, a 26 year old journalist, researching the lives of cycle rickshaw pullers by doing the job himself, was assaulted by a police officer for 'blocking the road'. Before I say anything else I want to say: kudos to Mr. Jain. Most of the time, Delhi seems to consist of a million or so "important" people and countless millions of others who get ignored. The cycle rickshaw pullers, the street hawkers, the hijras tapping on your car window at the traffic lights. Your average car-driving Delhiwalla barely seems aware of the existence of these people, never mind having such an interest in how they live that they'd be willing to take on a tough and - let's face it - demeaning job in order to understand it.

I don't say this to be critical. Anyone who has lived in a big city will understand that urban survival depends on an ability to act as if you're the only person walking down the street, standing on the train, driving to work. There are just too many people. We can't acknowledge them all. And the ones we do acknowledge tend to be those most like us, the ones to whom we can relate. So in Delhi it's no surprise that the aspiring middle classes pay scant attention to the poor guys slogging their guts out dragging a family of five on the back of their bike for 15 rupees. It's the way things are, and after living here a while you find your blinkers tend to come on pretty quick.

Anyway, back to Mr. Jain's story. Following the attack he went to the local police station to make a complaint, but was ignored. "It's strange how much a person's professional standing or profile can affect the way the law treats him", he said. Quite. Somehow I don't think his rickshaw puller colleagues would find it all that strange.

That the rich and privileged can expect better legal redress than the poor and excluded is no surprise. What was interesting to me was the reason for the attack: "blocking the road". Read: getting in the way of the car drivers, who are far more important than you.

This reminded me of another story that came out a few weeks ago, about the ongoing saga of Delhi's bus lanes and the objections from car users that they are causing delays. The quoted comments in the article lay bare the stark class divide here, and the assumptions made by the privileged about the millions of dispossessed Indians (on whom they depend for everything from domestic cleaning to shoe shining). "People" are being delayed by traffic jams because of the bus lanes, argue campaigners. "How does it matter if a peon reaches his office five minutes before time?" asks one. The apparently radical idea that "people" should also include those who use public transport has to be specifically pointed out by a professor from the Indian Institute of Technology.

It should be obvious that when only 10% of a city's inhabitants drive, yet the streets are already clogged to all hell, public transport has to be at least a part of the solution. But the fact that the bus lanes are fighting for their survival is testament to the disproportionate power held by those 10%. Of course, while they appear to be fighting for their own benefit, if they get what they want it will simply ensure a miserable future for everyone: a city even more gridlocked, fume-choked and cacophonous than it is already.

And this is what worries me most about the emerging battles around Delhi's transportation system. It seems to encapsulate a situation where growing inequality leads to class-based battles that belittle ordinary people and lead to the privileged taking decisions in their narrow benefit, rather than recognising the need for development to work for all, not just the "wealth creators".

The result, it seems to me, is usually a set of outcomes that are worse for everyone.  There are parallels to be made here with the increasingly unequal societies in the UK and the US (among others), which in the past 30 years or so have become massively richer, massively less equitable, and arguably a good deal less happy, healthy and secure. Repeating those patterns in a city the size of the Netherlands - let alone a country of 1.3 billion - is a scary prospect.

A Building Site in Bangalore

Spending all day on a building site in Bangalore may not be most people's idea of a reason to feel grateful for life's opportunities. But that's what I did on Wednesday this week and that's how it made me feel.

I was down in Bangalore supervising the pilot stage of a research project we are doing at the moment. I won't bore you with the details, but it involves evaluating an initiative undertaken by a local NGO to assess the skills of labourers working in the informal construction sector. There are a lot of people doing this kind of work in India - putting in long, hard hours - and they live a fairly precarious existence, traveling wherever the work is and with no contractual protections. They've very rarely had any kind of formal education and the skills they have have been picked up on the job, with no formal recognition at all. So the idea of the project is to recognise and certify their skills, facilitating access to work and further training, as part of India's wider efforts to train its population. As a policy specialist, most of my work is done at a computer or in meetings; it's not all that often I get to see what's happening at the ground level. This was a rare exception.

Building sites in India are, by and large, hot, dusty, noisy and relentless. There's often very little shade. The workers slog under the sun before squatting in the unfinished buildings to eat their lunch. Underfoot is pretty much a mass of rubble; strange struts of metal stick at random angles out of bare concrete staircases. Mechanisation is usually minimal; bricks are either carried up flights of stairs on people's heads, or hauled up by pulleys. This is not an easy existence.

In Bangalore, there was a girl in a red outfit with a toddler hoisted on her hip. She looked about seven or eight at most. My colleague from the local NGO asked why she wasn't in school; she ducked her head and wouldn't say a word. Her father explained that he couldn't afford to send all of his children to school. Some would get an education, some wouldn't, he said. She was needed to take care of her little brother. Like her parents, she will probably remain illiterate.

We interviewed a number of workers for the pilot. Of course I couldn't understand what was being said, but a translator was to hand. At one point, one said that "the big people" had come and asked him to take the assessment. Big people, I asked? He means the NGO folk, I was told. But we are all big people to him. We have an education.

I didn't feel like a very big person at that point in time; I just felt like a very lucky person. I wanted to ask, does that mean he sees himself as a small person? Is that just accepted? But I felt foolish. There's no way I can understand the perspective of someone whose start in life has been so utterly different from my own. And no amount of liberal hand-wringing about inequality or caste can change the fact that, for him, that's just the reality of his world.

Our research partner commented that he thought it was impressive that I was willing to come to places like this; most people wouldn't bother, he said. I tried to explain that I see it as an extraordinary privilege. In my work I've had the opportunity to meet village women in Ghana, labourers in India, policy makers and researchers from countries across the world. Every one brought fresh perspective to me and enriched my world. I know that the villagers and labourers will never have the chance to broaden their horizons in the way I have, and that their lives will likely be hard until the day they die. Meeting them, even briefly, is humbling and something for which I'm incredibly grateful.

Back home, my friends are posting about their excitement at being part of the Olympics, and I have to admit to feeling a twinge of regret at not being there to participate in the spectacle. But on the whole, I'm glad I'm here instead.

Holy Holi!

Welcome to my 100th blog post! It seems quite fitting that it should be about an event that I've been eagerly (and a bit nervously) anticipating for a good while now: my first Holi festival.

And what a crazy, fantastic day it was. My friend Gaurav, who sings in my choir, invited me, my mum and my mum's friend Jenny to his local neighbourhood, where the community was gathered in the central park to pelt each other with water and paint and generally let loose. We were all a little bit nervous to start with, not really knowing the rules or what to expect, but we'd followed closely the advice we'd been given: wear old clothes, oil your hair (my mum really didn't enjoy slathering her head in olive oil), and come well armed. I'd been shopping the day before for water pistols, water balloons and coloured paints - lots and lots of coloured paints.

Just as well really, since after a slightly apprehensive beginning, the local kids (and some of the local adults) of Som Vihar decided that pelting the foreigners with as much water and paint as they could throw at us added immensely to the enjoyment of the day. We gave as good as we got, naturally, but I think on balance I probably have to give the victory to the locals. In return, they cooked us some chicken biryani and Gaurav's grandmother graciously allowed us into her flat for tea even in our paint-covered states.

What makes Holi (at least in Som Vihar) so special? The innocence, the exuberance, the sense of a community coming together for simple fun. The breaking down of social barriers and hierarchies for a day. The sheer pleasure of a holiday without any of the pressures of Christmas. And, of course, getting to pour buckets of coloured water over total strangers.

My mum commented that it would do kids in the UK a lot of good to have one day in the year when this kind of misbehaviour and silliness is not only tolerated, but encouraged. I think it does adults a lot of good too. I've been pretty stressed with work of late and I felt a huge chunk of that fall off me the more the paint was piled on. We don't have holidays like this back home. Ours are full of pressure - where do we have Christmas lunch, did we get the right presents, is our New Year the Best New Year Ever, can we get off the M25 before the bank holiday is over? Holi felt like the exact opposite - the release of pressure by licencing mayhem of the best kind. And I can't think of a single day in the British calendar that brings local communities together so effectively - the closest being Bonfire Night, or at least Bonfire Night as I remember it from my childhood.

On Holi, tradition has it that normally rigid social structures are broken down. The roles and relationships defined by caste, age, gender and family structure are loosened for one day. I wonder if this is what April Fools' Day or Halloween used to be like in the UK, before they morphed into something less socially vital.

Anyway, a million thanks to Gaurav and the people of Som Vihar for such a wonderful day. I don't think my mum could have found a better way to spend her first full day in India than being warmly welcomed into a community like this. And I had an absolute blast.

Me and mum, looking colourful.

Mum and Jenny

When water pistols just don't cut it any more.

Gaurav, before he got pinker.

Mum clearly loving India so far!

An average-sized water pistol.

Som Vihar locals enjoying the day.

Gaurav with a Delhi-based German family we got chatting to - the only other foreigners there.

Gaurav looking mean and intimidating (except for the primary-colour plastic gun)

Yup, Man Utd get everywhere...

Enjoying some chicken biryani put on for the occasion. Someone had very recently yellowed me.

Gaurav checking his paint is in place.

The back of my head (showing evidence of aforementioned yellowing)

The aftermath of Holi on one of the local park benches!

A less than warm welcome

Writing this post makes me a little bit sad, because I really want to be more positive than I am going to be. One of the things I'd been meaning to do for ages is visit the Jama Masjid, India's largest mosque, which lords it in serene magnificence over Old Delhi. I had a few friends in town for a couple of days, so it was a good excuse to take a morning off from the daily grind and tick this particular box.

I'm never totally comfortable visiting places of worship as a tourist. I'm very aware that entering a place of such deep spiritual significance, while not being able to fully understand that significance, is a dangerous thing to do and something that requires great sensitivity. I think most people approach visits to religious buildings in the same way, anxious not to cause offence, aware that one might very easily do so through sheer ignorance.

Of course not everyone subscribes to this common-sense caution. We've all heard tales of the topless guys and the bikini-clad girls trying to access this or that holy site. I am sure that the folks at the Jama Masjid, which is maybe only surpassed by the Golden Temple in Amritsar as India's most-visited religious site, have seen plenty of such indiscretions in their time. Which may help explain why the welcome we received there was, frankly, the rudest and most hostile I've experienced in India.

It didn't start well, when I was (literally) yelled at to take my shoes off even while I was still on the steps up to the mosque. I'd been observing the locals, and saw that they climbed the steps, took their shoes off at the top, and then carried on inside. So it wasn't as though I was about to march in in my shoes; my ignorance just seemed to be assumed. There then followed an unpleasant exchange about the 200 rupee camera charge. I don't have a problem with paying this - a building the size of the Jama Masjid takes some maintenance and it's only fair that non-religious visitors should contribute to that - but I did object to the bullying manner with which it was demanded of us. This included it being re-demanded after we were deemed to have taken too long looking in our wallets for the required notes (about five seconds).

Once we'd run this gauntlet we were able to get inside and appreciate the gracious, wide open space of the interior of the mosque, and climb the tower for some impressive (if smoggy) views of Delhi. But again the visit was marred by being interrupted about eight times by scowling men who growled "ticket!" at us as if we were schoolkids caught in the corridor during class time.

By the time we left we felt thoroughly unwelcome, and I'm sorry to say that this rather overshadowed our appreciation of a remarkable building. To make matters worse, hidden charges emerged, including "shoe charge" (which we paid) and a charge for borrowing a sarong for my friend who was wearing shorts (which we didn't, since no mention had been made of a charge for this at the time). Again, these were demanded with a brusqueness that verged on the outright aggressive.

I think it was the first time in India that I've felt so very unwanted, and I think I can honestly say this was not down to any behaviour on our part (given the general caution towards visiting religious places I mentioned above). Maybe it is just down to the fact that so many hundreds of tourists come through here every day. On the day we visited most of the people at the mosque seemed to be foreign tourists. And I can see how this might be vexing, given that we are talking about a place of worship, not a tourist attraction. Of course tourists' needs take second place to people visiting the mosque to worship, and of course a financial contribution is entirely reasonable. But since tourists are - happily - able to visit, a smile or two would make the whole thing a far more pleasant experience - for both sides, I think.

Anyway, that aside, here are a few shots I took during the visit. As you can see, it's a beautiful and peaceful place. When you're not being growled at.

The mosque is drenched in sunlight and is apparently a good (though I imagine rather hard) place for a nap. Not sure what the American ladies made of it though.

Another good spot to sleep in the sun.

On the main steps up to the mosque

Ladies gathered under the call-to-prayer loudspeaker

Plenty of space to play

Young mosque-goer

Chatting in the shade of the mosque

Gathered round the central pool

The impressive main gate of the Jama Masjid, with the Red Fort in the background

There's a lot of floor to sweep.

Minaret of the Jama Masjid, Old Delhi in the background

Birds' eye view of the mosque's main courtyard

Posing with the main gate in the background

While the courtyard is an open, calm oasis, on the other side of the wall is the more familiar frenetic city.

Sleepy in the sunlight

And here are some from the Meena Bazaar, just outside the Jama Masjid, which always presents lots of interesting photo ops.

So altogether, not my favourite experience in Delhi. But you learn to take the rough with the smooth. It's a naive traveler who expects to be welcomed with open arms everywhere, and I got to enjoy some glorious architecture and some space to breathe in this normally shoulder-to-shoulder city. 

A day off in Shillong

Whoops! Just going through my old posts and realised that I'd never got around to actually putting this one (the last in my North East series) up on the blog. Still, better late than never as they say...

26 January was Republic Day in India, one of the biggest national holidays celebrating the country's independence from colonial rule. In Delhi it is celebrated with famously extravagant parades along the Rajpath, something I'd been planning to go to see when the time rolled around. However, in the event I was hundreds of miles away in Shillong, the capital of Meghalaya.

This turned out to be a mixed blessing. On the plus side, it was a beautiful sunny day and the air was gloriously pure in a way I'm pretty sure it never gets in Delhi. On the minus side, EVERYTHING was closed. Having failed to plan for this level of dedication to the concept of a "national holiday", I faced starvation for a while until I finally found an enterprising street purveyor of omelettes. Up till now I had steadfastly avoided street food in India in the (not unreasonable) belief that this was a good way to avoid the infamous Delhi belly. But it's amazing how quickly one's resolve can fold in the face of a 24 hour fast as an alternative. Mental note: next holiday, stock up the day before.

The other thing about Republic Day in India (or at least in Shillong) is that the cars vanish from the roads. Literally. While in the UK public holidays bring roads to a standstill as everyone tries to get away for the day, in Shillong there was an amazing (and ever so slightly creepy) reverse transformation: thoroughfares that the previous day had been stuffed to the gills with honking autos were suddenly abandoned stretches of empty tarmac.

Where'd everybody go?

Since urban India is pretty much a synonym for heaving, bumper-to-bumper chaos, this sudden silence and emptiness was kind of eerie. Until I found that every other street had been transformed into an impromptu cricket pitch, and the exuberance of the cricketers enjoying a sunny holiday was infectious.

A few local radicals, though, departed from tradition by - horrors! - not playing cricket:

(Note the half-timbered architecture which Shillong is famous for, although as the photos below show the modern city adheres to the boxy style favoured elsewhere in India in recent years)

Anyway, it was kind of nice to see India at play - and it reminded me how most of the time what I see is India at work. Here are a few more shots of my sunny, relaxed stroll around the quiet streets of Shillong.

Still open for food.

Colonial-era Shillong was built around a lovely little lake which today is preserved as a park. It was officially closed, but half the town seemed to have hopped over the locked gate to have a holiday stroll. So I did too.

I'm not actually sure what exactly this is! It was sat by the gate at the entrance to the lakeside park - can anyone enlighten me?

Even on a holiday, the entrepreneurial spirit is alive and well in India

They looked a lot less intimidating when they weren't posing!

Game over. Who's lost their shoes?

Shillong's cathedral, which looks like a mix between an English country pub and an English country church. One of those strange reminders that the English were once in charge here...it just seems bizarre now. Beautiful building though.

This rotting piece of clothing, strung across a fence by the side of the road, just caught my eye. I wonder who wore it and why they abandoned it here.

Yup, they spotted me.

Street kids in a poorer district of Shillong. The one in red - a boy I presume, though it's hard to tell - struck me as one of those children you see too often here, whose eyes are too old for their faces. He could only have been about six, but those eyes locked straight on me with a singularity of purpose that befitted a veteran of money-making. It doesn't get any less unnerving the more you encounter it. Some kids just have to grow up fast.

And some luckier ones get to roll down Shillong's hills on a skateboard instead.