Happy 60th Birthday, India. What have you done with your freedom?

I've thought for a while about how to close this blog because this is my narrative of India and India does not get to choose how it ends, I do. The occasions of my departure from India and the Mataram's (motherland's) 60th birthday next week definitely call for tears, but should they come from pain or laughter? I don't even know. When things get so bleak we laugh uncontrollably, what kind of tears are those?

I don't blame anyone for feeling dissatisfaction that I can't answer the questions I have posed, but let me ask you, what am I supposed to do with a country that put the image of a man who died without any possesions on all its money? Then again, why should I ask you about India, you probably don't know much. You certainly shouldn't ask me. I'm a white kid who skulked around Delhi for a couple months, that makes me... ah yes, completely ignorant. Here's a better idea, let's ask India...

Mother India, when you are drenched in monsoon tears, why do you cry? Is it because of your hopeless poverty? Perhaps you cry because I counted hundreds of emaciated, partially clothed and naked people settling down to sleep tonight on a concrete highway divider in one of your wealthiest cities. Or, maybe you've abandoned these children of yours, Mother India. Instead you cry tears of exuberant laughter with the fashionably dressed youths zipping down this same highway, Bhangra blaring, in luxury SUVs. Mother India, do you find it easier to love these carefree and careless oligarchs to be?

The British can no longer tell you what future to make for yourself, mother India. You sent them packing 60 years ago. Although you shouted that the British oppressed you, you saw them off with a warm embrace. Did this parting hug tire your arms? Perhaps you have no strength left to shield your children. Is that why you cry, because you feel helpless to prevent the violent abuse of your Muslim and Sikh offspring? When your eyes' moisture breaks the banks of the Ganges as it is doing right now, is it because you find your minority groups increasingly ghettoized and marginalized? Or is actually because you cannot stop chuckling at how the Hindu nationalists have exposed the pretense of your secularism?

Mother India, what of the children you cast out in 1947? Have you filled the wells with your brackish sadness because your sons and daughters in Pakistan quake with fear of your nuclear weapons? Do you cry because the radiation from the Thar desert test sites burns you? Are you sobbing for the accident waiting to happen? Then again, maybe this atomic development makes you feel strong. Perhaps you cry because you laugh so triumphantly at the death you can bring to the children who abanoned you. Does the jolly thought of your new power induce these tears?

Mother India, I mean no disrespect, but you begin to look your age. Did you cry with anger as the chemicals suffocated your babies in Bhopal? Have the people-consuming factories poisoning your streams and the sputtering autos sullying your air driven you to tears? Mother India, when you seek shade in your once lush forests but find only dry stumps, do you weep then for your loss? Or are these yellow and brown clouds lined with silver and gold? Do you cry with delight as dollar bills flood your government vaults? Do you weep with relief at the sight of white faces returning to reap the harvest sown by your poorest children?

Mother India, what have you done with your freedom? Is your independence merely the freedom for a few of your favorite children to tread upon those you disdain? Is deliverance from oppression merely the means to oppress? Mother India, does your joy for the success of you sons blind you to the pain of your daughters? Mother India, do the mansions built by your wealthy children blot out the hovels of their poor siblings? Mother India, do the ringing vedas sung by your Hindu progeny drown out the fearful screams of your terrorized Muslims?

Mother India, what have you done with your freedom? How many more of your children eat better today than when the British sailed over the horizon? How many more of your daughters read today than the day mission schools started closing? How many more of your Tamils share power with their cousins from Uttar Pradesh? Some, yes, surely some, right? 60 years and a few more eat and a few more read and a few more decide. Is this the freedom for which you fought? Did Subash Chandra Bose lead his forces against the British just so you could rent Kashmir asunder? Did Tilak go into exile so Western firms could abuse the children of Bengal? Did Gandhi bleed to death so the SENSEX could set new records?

Mother India, what have you done with your freedom? Mother India, what are you doing to your children? Mother India, why do you cry? Has it all been a terrible mistake, mother India, or was this always the plan? Mother India, are you satisfied with your 60 years? Is there anything you would change Mother India? Mother India, what will you do now?

Two monstrous nuclear stockpiles: India and China

Hails, comrades. This is the first of my two concluding entries in this blog. The purpose is for this Slav to consider India holistically in light of both my education and my observations and, of course, to have the last word.

When I was born nearly 22 long years ago, my title could only have referred to the U.S. and the U.S.S.R. Times may have changed, but I've heard the more things change, the more they stay the same and though new missiles may sit in different silos and point in different directions, they're still capped with radioactive holocaust... a cheerful thought for a summer day.

I'm not really here to discuss that. If you want to hear about "grand strategies" and "geopolitical maneuvering" turn on CNN or Fox News. Every day these capitalist roaders inundate us with more useless garbage about the national competition between China and India and why Americans should fear both countries. Maybe I'm just terribly brave, but I don't really have time to fear the malnourished and the illiterate.

So, if I reject all this media hype, why do I want to compare India and China? First, they have the largest populations and both face similar problems as a result. Second, they have both experienced incredible economic growth lately (aka the rich have gotten richer and the poor, well, who cares anyway?) and may be developing American-style middle-classes. Third, I've now spent more time both places than most of the talking heads who make these dire predictions.

Despite the many similarities between the current developmental situations of China and India, the differences strike me as far more interesting, and I'm not just talking about what kind of sauce goes on one's rice. Being me, let's start with a bit of history. China has long had an unearned reputation in the West for being culturally monolithic. This is largely due to white people thinking all Chinese people look and sound the same. Early European sinologists had not the subtlety to recognize the intense regional variation across "China." In fact, many have argued that the idea of China as a single ethnicity or nation has no meaning until after the 16th century or later still, much later than many of us would think. Let us admit, however, that China has fewer major social cleavages (no major religious tensions and few large ethnic minorities), at least today, than India. India seems so fractious and fraught with religious and ethnic tensions that all Europeans often see is conflict. Once again, this intellectual extreme is inaccurate and ignores surprising unity across religious, ethnic, and caste lines as demonstrated by the diverse if corrupt Congress Party. Still, China, for a host of reasons many of which are connected to the common written language, has historically been far more unified than India.

This fact largely determined how European interaction first occurred. We often hear that China was never colonized, which is incredibly misleading. The Europeans and Japanese carved up China into various spheres of influence and controlled China's ports and shipping from the safety of their fortified from the early 19th century. The key, however, is that no single power could subjugate China. The British, French, Germans, Japanese, Russians, Italians, Dutch, Portuguese, and even good old Americans (all of whom usually fought each other) had to pool their resources just to lock down a few ports. Between them, they dismembered a relatively unified country.

In India, we see the exact opposite. The strong regional kingdoms which sprang up in the 18th century after the Mughal collapse (in the east: Bengal, northeast: Awadh, central: Hyderabad, and southwest: Mysore to name a few) had divided the old Empire. Their dominions took on more logical boundaries based around language groups. One cannot stress enough the primacy of India's regional cultures. To the extent one can speak of “Indian” culture at all, it is a development of the last 60 years. Even today, many "Indians" prefer to think of themselves first as Bengalis or Tamils or etc. Taking advantage of this disunity, the British picked off provinicial nawabs (governors) one by one. Some would argue the British did not simply unite India, they created it. No previous hegemon had ever gained control over the entire subcontinent. In China, shared language (at least written) and the civil service had been indigenous forces for unity. In India, the first shared language from north to south was and is English and the civil service was the one established by the British East India Company.

This distinction has been a crucial one in the 20th century. When faced with foreign invasion, the Chinese could rally behind what they at least imagined to be their shared past and culture. South Asians had to invent a new culture which embraced regions with few common features and also rejected the culture of their imperial overlords, a process which has yielded mixed results.

Now the question is what does all this mean today? Well, quite simply, China is wiping the floor with India by almost every quantitative measure from GDP to literacy rate. While China is far more regionally varied and locally controlled than most people realize, the chief ideology has almost always been determined at the center. Even in times of rebellion, the rebels usually just aped the “legitimate” dynasty. In 1949 when the Communist Party took power, it set about breaking a social system 5,000 years old, which it did with incredible success. I would argue this was a major step forward for the millions of Chinese peasants who had lived under the feudal yoke for a hundred generations, however, they had to replace Confucianism and the other traditions with something… a ha, Maoism or as it is more correctly known Mao Zedong Thought. We could bicker and argue about the virtues of this new code, but at least it was something. In 1980 Deng Xiaoping began sweeping Maoism away, but this time he offered no replacement. The Chinese had broken too many links to go back to pre-1949 ideologies, so they turned to the only avenue left, rampant capitalism. As the great socialist Deng said, “To get rich is glorious,” and I’ll be damned if that didn’t take off. That has given us modern China where nothing, not environmental disaster nor industrial calamity is allowed to slow the march of progress. For now, this has put China on top.

And while I joke about how much Indians love cricket and the extent to which the upper-classes emulate the British, India’s diversity (or disunity) has successfully resisted the more culturally Americanizing tendencies of global capitalism. Indian society still has its many religions to hold it together, not to mention huge kinship networks (such networks were dismantled by the landlord purges, land redistribution, and on-child policy in China). On the downside, India also has communal violence and vestiges of the caste system, but at least there are social forces at work outside the state. The British never really transformed Indian society, just a few specific segments of it.

At this point, China is hanging together by the will of the People’s Liberation Army. Most other social and cultural networks have dissolved completely. The fall, when it comes, will be ugly. In India, I often feel like not much would change tomorrow if the government disappeared. Sure, there would be problems (actually it would be interesting because the government doesn’t seem to do a whole hell of a lot now), but society would go on as it has, for better and for worse as I said before. Talking to people in China depressed me because of the obsession with money, and I’m not just talking about the poor in which case one could more readily understand. In India, people still have other goals and values and concerns. For me, that is the real difference between China and India today. Indians have identities in which the state and bank account play a minimal role, whereas that’s about all the Chinese have left.

Now playing: "The Internationale" - Tang Dynasty. Here is the symbolic last gasp of Chinese idealism. It basically fell in a bloody heap with the students fleeing Tiananmen Square. This is China's first "metal" band (I don't know if I'd call them metal, but they're sick anyway) singing the international workers' anthem in Berlin circa 1989.

http://youtube.com/watch?v=rx7A3UYKXj4&mode=related&search=

Weight Room Racism

I suppose it’s high time I was on the receiving end of some bigotry, but I can’t say I welcome the change of pace. Most places in Delhi, white skin assures you get hassled, but mostly by people trying to (over)serve you. One can scarcely complain about that. At a few places, mostly official-type places like the archives or near government buildings, public guardians (moustachioed police and decrepit archivists) regard white people with a certain amount of suspicion, but still maintain polite formality. Although one could go on for hours about how historical perceptions shape such encounters, language is the most immediate issue. Most Delhites know some English, and many even know enough to communicate with limited success. The problem is that none of them speak English as well as they think they do. As Russell Peters would say, they speak English very fast… as if they know it. They quickly become annoyed when I ask them to repeat phrases which to them seem perfectly logical and grammatical. My responses compound the issue because most Indians are still more accustomed to hearing British English and mine sounds relatively informal and, to them, incomprehensible (and no, I don’t think a Winston Churchill impersonation would help).

Also, a lot of places people love Americans, like Poland, where the only country they love more than Poland is the U.S. India does not seem to be such a place. People are often interested, but there is always some caution, more so than in China. Whether this is because we are Pakistan’s chief military financier or simply because I have no caste, I cannot say. Things go better for me with Muslims because they generally assume I am Muslim too. The beard helps and I throw in enough asalaam alaykums, insha’allahs, and a few other Arabic phrases to cover.

Nevertheless, one quickly notices that much more Caucasian-staring occurs here than one might expect given that white people have been strutting around India for 250 years. In China they have fewer white folks, but more reservations about staring. In India, there seem to be many fewer qualms about fixating looks. I hear tell this is especially an issue for female expats, though white people always tend to think non-white people are looking at them funny. As a rule, the fairer (especially blonder) one is, the more attention one receives. Dressing the part helps, but marginally. I wear pants to the archives and usually on weekend excursions as well, though it’s beastly hot. Unfortunately, “Dark Funeral” shirts don’t mask me nearly so well.

In the neighborhood where I reside, however, I’ve become slightly more casual. I’ll wear shorts around at night and the upper-class folks who live around here have dealt with enough white people not to be too impressed either positively or negatively. That said, once a day, all bets are off and things become extremely uncomfortable for me.

(When the very late monsoon rains come, this will all be underwater and a few hundred people are going to have to find some new shelter.)

After I get back from the archives, I have to walk the half-kilometer gauntlet to the gym. This is wearing on me. Granted, t-shirts with cut-off sleeves and nylon shorts stand out, but these people see me go by every day, and 7 weeks later, they still can’t get enough. Everyday conversations stop, groups of old men all turn towards me and follow me with their heads until I turn a corner. Women walking kabab-sized dogs zoom to the other side of the street. Children whisper. It is bizarre. The walk probably takes 4 minutes, it feels like an hour.

The worst part is yet to come; the gym holds no relief. In fact, I think here I will go so far as to use the word racism, because my experience seems analogous to experiences I’ve heard of from black Americans in predominantly white environments (Note: in 7 weeks, I’ve seen one other white guy who has come to the gym a few times). The first time I went in, the trainers wouldn’t let me touch anything without their assistance. Fine, new place, first time, I understand. 7 weeks later I find it weird that they keep trying to punch in my treadmill settings, which you don’t know, but ok. The equipment in this gym is decently bootleg, so it breaks frequently. When I am using a piece of equipment that gives out, I am subject to a broken-English Inquisition about just what I was doing or which button I pressed. Things break for other people and the trainers chuckle and shrug. Hmm…

The middle-aged women, who shamelessly flirt with the trainers half their age, flee the area when they see me coming and if they want to use a machine, they grab one of the guys who works there and stand behind him while he asks me how much longer I’ll be. That’s another thing, I’m always receiving pressure to hurry up and let other people use whatever I’m using, even when I’ve just started. When I have been waiting patiently for someone to get off their fucking cell phone and finish bench-pressing, no one seems to notice (note: as bad as Americans are with their cellphones, Indians are worse, way worse. People will seriously sit in the leg press machine and talk for 5 minutes while I wait). Whenever I start a set, a bunch of the younger dudes begin the staring again and I’m fairly certain it’s not because they want my number. They’re gawking at me, and yet they’re the ones wearing khaki pants and sandals in a weight room… ok… whatever.

Still, one could dismiss these events. Even taken together, they hardly constitute proof of racism. Now we come to the part that really earns my ire. Unaccustomed as I am to this climate, I sweat more than most Indians. I admit it freely. That said, I’m not the sweatiest person in the gym by a long shot. The 100 kilo, 50 year-old women sweats buckets just standing around. There are others as well. I have never seen one person at this gym wipe down a machine when he or she is done. Yes, that is not hyperbole, I have seen this zero times. The gym doesn’t have towels, as one might have predicted considering it’s in India. Nobody brings them either. Fine, I think to myself, it’s the Indian way.

(Raj Ghat, where they cremated Gandhi)

A couple weeks ago, the trainers started coming over to me from time to time, handing me a disgusting rag, and asking me to clean something I was just using. Though the rag was gross, I would normally have had no problem, but then nobody there ever leaves things clean for me. I have never seen them ask anyone else to wipe up anything. Today, however, was the last straw. One of the trainers interrupts me and asks me to step outside with him. This is odd, but ok, stranger in strange land. He informs me that I need to start bringing my own towel to clean everything I use. Let me reiterate that I’ve seen this requirement placed on none of the other perspiring folks (all Indian) who make use of the facility. What am I to make of this? Is my Slavic perspiration some how different from the South Asian variety? Will a drop of my ritually impure sweat damage someone’s caste status? These are all good questions which I don’t feel like asking people who speak poor English and are hosting me in their country.

(This was some kind of sacred pit of rocks next to where they cremated Gandhi. This kid was amazing. He climbed right into the middle and started tossing rocks out. No one stopped him for five minutes.)

Has the experience scarred me? Did I need this lesson to teach me about the pain of racism? Am I victim? No times three. Of course not, for me it’s just a pain in the ass, and even a bit amusing, though it really is a pain. That’s because I’ll be going home soon. What really sucks is when this garbage happens to one in one’s own country.

Apologies for the delay on this entry. I found myself without a whole lot to say last week. Expect two more entries, maybe three if I’m really quick, before I come home on August 8^th and shut this thing down.

Now playing: "Withstand the Fall of Time" - IMMORTAL. I have a nasty habit of leaving the country when all the kvlt Norsk bands play. Unable to make Immortal's first U.S. shows in 5 years, I've had to appreciate them on the internet. That's about one step away from getting a "Second Life" account I fear.

http://youtube.com/watch?v=erS48SL7o50&mode=related&search=

On milk and moustaches...

Despite my best efforts to truly understand the collective psyche of northern Indians, there are still two obsessions I cannot comprehend: milk and moustaches. Let's consider the latter first. Evidence would suggest that I am not adverse to facial hair, and indeed, I am not. There was even a dark month during my first year at university when I sported a soup-strainer. And even then, I knew it looked horrible. That was, in fact, the point: moustaches are funny. If you agree with this last statement, prepare to split your sides in India. My informal polling suggests that, at least in northern India, 20% of adult men are bearded (mostly Muslims and Sikhs), 45% clean-shaven, and a miraculous 35% have moustaches. That’s a whole lot of potential cops.

For centuries, Rajasthan has been known for its absurd moustache arrangements. The moustache waxing performed by the Rajput warriors, a hallmark of India’s chivalric aesthetic, would have made Hercule Poirot seem an awfully unkempt git. The great Mughal Emperor Akbar, known for his free-thinking tendencies regarding culture and religion, adopted this Rajput custom when he subdued the region in the latter half of the 16^th century. Shearing off the traditional Muslim beard of his forefathers (and progeny), Akbar took on the handle-bar moustache look. The only other man to ever successfully pull off the handle-bar moustache was not born for another four centuries in England. His name was Lemmy Kilmister and he played bass for Hawkwind and Motorhead, but that is something else entirely.

(One of these guys was India's greatest ruler. The other once penned a song called "Love Me Like a Reptile." Can you guess which is which?)

While moustaches have shrunk in the interceding centuries, they still remain wildly popular for reasons unknown. I’m not just talking about popular amongst certain groups. Think of an American film star with a moustache… difficult, no? In South Asia, many of the most popular actors have them, including Rajinikanth, the highest paid actor in India, who recently set a record for highest salary ever for an actor in an Indian film ($4 million for Sivaji, see picture below). Still a leading man at age 57, it is said Tamil women (notoriously starstruck according to Delhi sources) publicly swoon at the sight of his moustache. This all just goes to show that there’s no accounting for taste.

Speaking of tastes, northern Indian people love milk… a lot. No weather is too hot, nor illness too vomit-inducing to temper the passion for bovine lactation. Even in my bourgeois neighborhood, cows frequent the streets. They often just lay there blocking traffic. Many of us have seen California’s “happy cows” campaign to market the state’s dairy products; cows in Delhi are not too happy. For sacred animals, their owners sure let them get rather thin and dirty. When I wake up early enough, I usually don’t, I see children milking them. This begs questions about homogenization and pasteurization which are probably best left unanswered. One of the few shops in my neighborhood is a sort of outdoor “milk bar” (about as far from the Clockwork Orange version as one could possibly get) or one-stop dairy vendor. They sell dairy products exclusively, milk, cheese, ice cream, if you need lactase to digest it, they have it. Servants queue at a gleaming steel machine every morning with large jugs into which the household’s daily milk consignment flows, after the Rupees have been inserted.

I don’t get it. Aren’t these people supposed to be lactose intolerant? I have been led to believe that only northern European-descended folks (Jews usually excepted) continue to produce lactase throughout their lives. What the hell is going on here?

Also, who decided any dish could be improved by adding a tablespoon of fresh cream? Vegans, run for the hills, you are about to be deveganized whether you know it or not. There’s no point trying to explain that you don’t want a heavy dairy product with your lentils, it’s easier to explain to the Chinese that shredded meat is still meat (I don’t recommend trying this if it can possibly be avoided). Fortunately, vegan I am not and I cope.

Now, I’m afraid I must make a confession which forever prevents me from accepting/receiving acceptance in Indian society. Paneer (I’ve heard it called cottage cheese. Imagine if tofu was made from milk) is gross. That’s right, I said it. I’ve tried, Krishna knows how I’ve tried, to acquire a taste for paneer. It’s in so many dishes where one would not expect to find it. Maybe it won’t be disgusting if I mash it up. What if I only eat it mixed with palak (spinach)? It feels kind of like tofu, it can’t be that bad. I’ll just close my eyes. No, paneer is irredeemable. Americans, get this: you know murg makhani aka butter chicken? It’s rather a favorite northern Indian (Mughlai) dish served at your local Indian eatery. Over here, they have butter paneer. Just to be totally clear, that is paneer (cottage cheese) cooked in a sauce consisting mostly of butter and cream. I don’t know how anyone can eat that. I’ve eaten some weird stuff and Indian food is great, but I now have to draw the line at paneer. The days of “it’s not so bad” are over. Get that crap off my plate.

“Sir, would you like me to add paneer to that dish to make it extra delicious?” No, no I bloody well would not.

Now playing: "Killed by Death" by Motorhead. Here is Lemmy Kilmister in what is quite possibly the greatest music video ever imagined. Unfortunately, Akbar did not make any music videos because he preferred to keep it real.

http://youtube.com/watch?v=gV6noHEd6XE

Romila Thapar: Total Ripper

Back for the attack, as promised. Unfortunately, this entry is proving extremely tedious because I am writing about meeting one of the all-time most brilliant historians of India and cannot help but feel completely inadequate even discussing her. Nevertheless, one must persevere.

So, last week my family here in Delhi (yes, even white people can have brown relatives) invited me to dinner and casually mentioned Romila Thapar would be in attendance. Romila Thapar is to the History of Ancient India what Stephen Hawking is to physics or Eddie Van Halen is to the guitar. She did not invent it, but she reinvented it and made it much more intense than any of her predecessors. I have also read a number of her articles and her career-capping book for my classes, so I knew for myself that her reputation was deserved. There was no way I was missing the chance to break roti with Romila.

Then came the damned illness, but I was determined to get there even if it was in a litter. Thankfully, it didn’t come to that and, queasy though I was, I managed to make the trip up to central Delhi without attendants. Romila arrived last, but after she got there, the whole room gravitated towards her for the rest of the evening (except for when my “aunt” got into an alarmingly loud argument with her sister about the legal system). She may be 75, but she is sharp as a razorblade taco. Her manner is confidence incarnate, but without the arrogance one usually finds in such eminent persons.

Although I would have preferred the topics of conversation to involve more of Ancient South Asia and less of the relative merits of different whiskeys, I was one of only three people able to discuss the former, whereas everyone but me enjoyed weighing in on the latter. I have grown accustomed to this type of thing, but when you are dining with the world’s most knowledgeable historian on Ancient South Asia, is asking her what she thinks of bourbon really a useful question? Either way, I actually said very little even after this topic had been extinguished because what would have been the point? I can listen to myself anytime.

(Ok, this is one of many instances of Gandhi being sketchy. Isn't he basically saying women should try to cause their own deaths rather than survive rape? I guess he's just the NOT SO maHOTma Gandhi.)

As I sat there, I began thinking about how much history Romila Thapar had actually seen with her own eyes. She was born in 1931, during the height of the independence movement. She was not born in India. She was born in British India. In 1947, she was attending school in Britain and because she was the only Indian prefect, they made her raise the Indian flag and give a speech on August 15. That must have felt kind of awesome, to be one of the first people to declare that your countrymen had thrown off 190 years of oppressive rule.

The conversation dwelt on Indian politics for much of the evening and Romila explained how she had abandoned Congress after Nehru died because she thoroughly distrusted Indira and thought the Congress Party hypocritical and only superficially dedicated to secularism. Throughout Romila Thapar’s professional career and personal politics, secularism has been the guiding force. She watched with disappointment as Nehru’s dreams of religious harmony died during the 1970s and hit a nadir in 1984 during the anti-Sikh riots which followed Indira’s assassination. I had not previously known how pervasive the riots were in Delhi. Usually in India, such conflicts do not erupt into the wealthier areas of town. She said this changed in 1984 as Hindus and Muslims mobbed together in an effort to wipe out Sikhs all over India. Thousands and thousands died in all manner of horrible ways. The police often helped. Romila had to hide Sikh friends in various places throughout her house as the crowds scoured her upper-middle class suburb. Trying to understand India is not possible without reflecting on the horror of having to hide your close friends from lynch mobs. This is a much more regular occurrence here than one would care to imagine. Apparently, those riots are the reason the wealthier neighborhoods have tall gates now.

In addition to opposing communalism, Romila has also encouraged archaeological preservation efforts, a woman after my own heart. I conclude with her anecdote about what I dub the anti-Yanni campaign.

A few years ago, Yanni decided he wanted to have a concert on the banks of the Yamuna river right next to the Taj Mahal. (Editorial comment: Yanni is a total dick.) Although the government had enacted strict rules banning basically all activity in a 300-meter radius around the structure, local officials completely ignored it because of all the money they hoped to make, both over and under the table. About 10 prominent and concerned citizens including Romila go to the Supreme Court in Delhi to file a “cease and desist” motion. When they get to court, however, the judge asks about the actual measurements and they admit with embarrassment that they have not taken any measurements. The judge tells them that he is giving them two days to get measurements or he will dismiss the case.

Every other plaintiff bails on going to Agra due to some malingering that could not be moved except Romila. She calls up an architect friend and they grab a measuring tape and catch the dawn train to Agra the next day. They discover that not only is the facility the local government is constructing for the concert in violation of the zone (only a few meters from the base of the structure), but so is the access road they are building to the site. Armed with precise measurements, they return to Delhi that night and appear at court the next morning. Romila informs the clerk they are returning as instructed with all the information and the clerk replies that the judge has already dismissed the case. Yanni played his damned concert. I hope the food here made him really ill. That story sums up India rather well I think.

To review, Romila Thapar is sick. She also eats very neatly.

Now playing: A bunch of drum solos by Neil Peart of RUSH. Here’s one of many that hurt my brain when I try to comprehend them. I've heard it said that Neil Peart is God. This may be true, but if so, may I suggest that he is a Hindu god with many arms.

http://youtube.com/watch?v=kJRF0hD5TPQ

Picking a pocket or two (I hear you've got to)

Caucasian folks (even ones who look kind of Kashmiri but not quite even though they’ve been trying) have it rather easy worldwide. Let’s face facts, “globalization” is basically a euphemism for pervasive, white people mercantilism. So, while I have no grounds or desire to complain, one must observe that my pigmentation puts me at a disadvantage here in one major way: I am a marked man.

A few weeks ago I was walking down a major street in Delhi and maybe 50 meters ahead I saw a woman sitting on a curb grab her two half-dressed children (neither older than 5) and point at me. Suddenly they raced towards me and began tugging at my clothes, “Sir, please, sir. Hungry, sir. Very hungry.” They motioned towards their stomachs and mouths in case the message hadn’t come across, or I was French. As usual, I kept walking with my eyes straight ahead, but swiftly glancing downward every so often. I saw them look towards their mother as we passed her and she pointed at me again, more vigorously this time. At that point they stood right in front of me and stopped so that I almost tripped over them. I changed direction and they ran ahead and nearly tripped me again. This carried on for another minute or so until their mother released them from this familial obligation.

The tenacity exhibited by the juvenile mendicants made this instance notable, even in India, but in Delhi, people still have lives. Beggars, grifters, taxiwallahs, lawyers etc. usually give up without doing anything too outrageous. You aren’t worth all that much time to them. There are other fools and other ways of acquiring Rupees. They may be hungry, but they aren’t THAT hungry… most of the time. In Agra, this is not the case.

Delhi is a metropolis, though I wouldn’t call it thriving whereas Agra is a small town that happens to have a population of 1.5 million. The impoverished in Delhi are more desperate than people I’ve seen anywhere else in the world, Agra’s poor exceed them. People may be fewer in Agra, but the opportunities are fewer still it seems. Agra has two major industries of which to speak, plus the ubiquitous subsistence agriculture, tourism and chemical manufacture. For some reason, however, the latter seems to negatively affect the former, so growth in that sector has stalled in the last two decades. The end result is that the existence of most people in Agra is directly linked to how well they can part tourists from their money. And yes, in such a situation, things get ugly. It’s the kind of environment that destroys one’s rationality. A young man standing at the end of a block saw me reject 10 of his comrades selling identical whips (what would I do with a whip? I was told by one it would make a nice gift for my wife. Dear Allah.) without pausing, yet he still thought I might go for his pitch. This is desperation.

My surrogate parents, the Kapoors, told me that even when they go to Agra, brown skin and all, they face similar hounding. Apparently this only affects well-dressed Indians for the most part. I had hoped dressing down might take some of the pressure off. After all, nothing says, “I’ve no money to spend and wouldn’t spend it if I did,” like used, cut-off camouflage shorts and a denim vest with 6 weeks’ worth of India staining it. I did not find any of it made an appreciable difference.

The hustle starts before one even emerges from the train station. Over 20 taxi and rickshaw drivers surrounded me on all sides as I attempted to walk out, each assuring me his vehicle was the only reliable way to travel. Think about that. A whole train unloads, and there are 20 drivers pursuing me alone. I mean, I know I look good, but certainly not good enough to explain that.

Any street one turns down in central Agra leads to dozens more shop owners and restauranteurs (and their progeny) who all insist you really should discard your money at their establishments. Even worse are the guerilla salesboys who bring their decrepit merchandise to you.

Then you finally reach a monument. There is an entry fee. “At last,” you think, “free of the grift.” Wrong again. Sitting right by the entrance are a great many “licensed” guides who really don’t think you’ll know a floor from a ceiling if they don’t explain it to you. I tell them straight up that I’m a historian, but they are ready and reply that they know, “the history of the heart.” Perfect, that sounds just like something I can do without. Due to the inadequacies of the Archaeological Survey of India which I discussed in an earlier post, the functions of most parts of most of India’s historical sites are unknown, so “guides” usually make it up as they go. These fellows don’t find it lucrative to perch at the less popular sites, but don’t worry, security guards will happily show you down the only corridor in the building (which you can see), tell you the name of the monument (which you already know), and request a dollar for their invaluable insight. The most annoying of the guide scams is that many just start guiding you unasked and when you say you don’t need a guide, they either insist they are provided free with the ticket (they aren’t, and they demand payment when they have finished) or ignore you and keep trying to follow you hoping you will just give up and allow them to explain things. As with many scammers here, they tell you that you can pay them “whatever you want. You decide fair price.” Your initial payment, no matter how much, is not a fair price and they will decide to either badger you for cheating them (the audacity is incredible) or tell you about the eight or nine children they have to feed.

I’ve saved the best for last. The most successful grift of all is that of the tourist “emporium.” These shops look very official and the prices appear to be set. This is not the case. First of all, you’ve done something stupid to end up here. Either you booked a tour (never a good idea) or you allowed a taxi or rickshaw to take you there on the way to somewhere else, “10 minutes only, not for buying, just for looking.” The system of kickbacks for whoever brings you to the shop is well-established. The doorman writes down the driver’s number and he is paid a couple times a year. The remuneration for each extra person increases and they toss in some of their stock that hasn’t attracted tourists’ attentions. Once inside, the clerks are slicker and calmer than the street vendors. They exert pressure with much more subtlety. It is very easy for them to take things out to show you, but after they’ve started doing it, they begin to act as if it has been quite a laborious hassle and it would be rude not to make a purchase. These places sell all manner of garbage, but a lot of it is big-ticket garbage. Although they actually sell things, they are in many ways the biggest thieves of all because when one buys something like a rug or sculpture, even after bargaining, they ensure their profit margin is absurdly large.

It’s enough to make one sick… or it would be if we had any right to be sickened by it. How many of us are capable of passing judgement on Agra’s poor for trying to make a living, no matter how dishonestly. It is often said that manners cost nothing, but unfortunately the polite street vendor in India will never make a sale with all his colleagues rushing out to hustle each comer. There simply are not enough tourism-dollars to support everyone trying to earn their living that way. While I would agree that price gouging is no different from bag snatching, I would not blame the bag snatcher either. Although few of us have ever been truly hungry or without shelter, I’ve read they are powerful incentives to do just about anything. That does not mean we should allow ourselves to be treated unfairly, but we should also not meet such attempts with anger. Not only is it inappropriate; it is not productive. Also, we must realize when bargaining that the sticking point is often over a dollar or less in U.S. currency and that whomever we dealing with needs that sum more than we do. Vanity should not be allowed to drive us to absurdity. So, when you’re amongst people a poor as poor Indians and their ploys offend you, think about how grim their lives must be that this is their best option. That said, I have a lot less sympathy for the middle-class folks working the more upscale emporia. I know that in a capitalist system, there will always people willing to do that crap for enough money, but I’m not going to forgive the people who make that decision. They swindle for profit rather than subsistence. The line is rarely clear, but it is still important.

Despite my less than flattering description, I must say Agra has many fascinating and attractive sites. Check out the photos in this entry. I would’ve taken more pictures of the poverty, but that feels grotesque. A poverty tourist I will never be because voyeurism is just not my scene. Still, I wish I could show you all the things I have been describing.

One note about the Taj Mahal. Everyone talks about how great it is, so I naturally assumed it was not so hot. Surely, people resort to hyperbole to mask disappointment. Not so, not so. That place is sick. I take it all back. This is a good place to end this entry because it will bridge into tomorrow’s entry on dinner with Romila Thapar. I WILL actually post it tomorrow. It’s the least I can do after my week of digital inactivity. Oh, by the way, thanks to anti-biotics, youtube, some strange photos I was sent, and animal sacrifices I have largely recovered from my illness.

Now playing: “Kill the King” – Rainbow. Ritchie Blackmore on guitar and Ronnie James Dio (yea, Dio as the Latin for God, right on) soaring to mountainous heights of vocal intensity. Fact: I know a guy from Athens, OH who takes a lot of hallucinogens and his only goal in life is to get Blackmore, Dio, and Tony Iommi on the same stage for one night to play Rainbow and Sabbath songs. Cool idea, but I would feel totally ripped off if I had spent that much money on shrooms just to come up with that.

http://youtube.com/watch?v=HOVK4Q4jMhg

Apologies, comrades.

My Agra related entry has not been completed because of my 103 F temperature. On the plus side, the heat here means no blankets or supplementary clothing is required here to stave off the fever chills. I aim to be back with you tomorrow evening reporting on Agra and my meeting with Romila Thapar, as well as a bunch of photos. Trust me, you would prefer not to read the Lovecraftian character this illness has given my writing.

A final question: How amateur-hour is it to ask a respected historian in your field to take a photo with you?

Now playing: Wasting illnesses, though slight, truly belong to the Gothic. In this vein, I offer you Mercyful Fate at 1983's Dynamo Festival. The elegy is aptly titled, "Curse of the Pharaohs." Given voice by the unfadeable King Diamond, a treat for your ears and your immune systems; I feel better already: http://youtube.com/watch?v=nwvKIOUCEeI&mode=related&search=