Indias

 There is not just one India. And what I have been privileged to experience on my recent travels, there won’t be for a long time.

What is it that we do every day in cities? We wake up to an alarm, not the sun or our body clock. We rush to get dressed for work or the gym or whatever is the first appointment of the day. We spend our day in a controlled, man-made environment – air conditioning, phone screens, buildings, traffic, emails and meetings.

Two weeks away from this showed me something that I never truly knew about myself. I don’t dislike travel. Everyone is so gung-ho about travel and I always found it overrated. But that might be because for the 10 years I lived in Germany, travel for me meant visiting the city centre of another European city. Cute streets, a pretty church, a peaceful river flowing by, in essence a little “same same but different”. Without a car or a driving licence, those were the only trips I managed to plan.

Of everything that I saw in two weeks of travelling through Bengal and Assam, what stayed with me were two experiences. This is the first one:

The last day of our visit to a resort in the Sundarbans, where we had spent time on a boat on the river, admiring the mangroves and rising and ebbing tides, absolutely losing my shit with excitement at seeing a crocodile in a sanctuary that I was convinced was fake suddenly and slowly blink and then close its jaw, enjoying seeing my parents out of their usual parental roles, what stayed with me was this –

I got the chance to accompany my father’s friend to visit his “CSR project site”. I didn’t know what to expect, but I agreed to go along. We were picked up at the resort by an NGO worker and the community leader, excited and proud to take “a donor” to show him around the site. We made our way to a “nouko”, a fisherman’s boat that took us from one island in the Sundarbans to another. It was a wooden boat, no frills, no chairs, just us and thirty other people on their daily commute, with bikes, goats and all. Then we got into a “toto”, which took us on a narrow unpaved road deeper into the island. They explained on the way that the island was not a tourist destination; hence, it was not “developed” like the one we had just come from. For my part, I was loving this exceptionally “exotic” visit to somewhere off the beaten track, filming the journey and little huts with little pools in front of them.

We were informed that the CSR money had been used to set up a sewing centre in the community space. The fourteen women who had been trained to stitch reusable sanitary napkins were that day being “awarded” a certificate, as the donor was here.

We reached the community centre, a small mud hut. About twenty women and a few men were lined up outside. This is when I started burning with embarrassment as they greeted us with bouquets of wild flowers. We were ushered inside a little room lined with sewing machines on one side. A little ceremony was conducted and then my dad’s friend was asked to give a speech. He was expecting this and, of course, being extremely well-read and prepared, proceeded to give a heart-warming speech about the beauty of hard work, and how proud he is to be able to support this community.

At this point, my feeling of being a tourist turned into something else. Something sacred I can’t quite name. I turned off my camera that was filming this speech and got truly overwhelmed and engrossed in my surroundings. Unfortunately, at that moment I was also asked to follow up with a speech about what I do.

I stood up with immense embarrassment. There was nothing I could say to this group of women that would ever match the hardships they go through just to survive. I was not deserving of their reverence, the way they looked at me expectantly. I wanted to sink into the ground and vanish. But I realised refusing would only come across as churlish. I summoned my wits and limited vocabulary of formal Bengali and left them with a very brief message – I work in sports, a male-dominated field. And I do it because women can do anything. And they should always keep this in mind. Play, let their daughters play. And they can do anything. I sat down abruptly, burning with embarrassment, and glad that the thirty seconds were over.

However, straight away, things got worse for me, in terms of making me aware of my privilege and amplifying my discomfort. The women’s names were called one by one, and they were handed their certificates and a little gift bag (sewing implements). After receiving their gift, they dove for my feet. Nothing I could say could dissuade them from seeking my blessing. Again, I was embarrassed and dancing around avoiding their hands reaching towards my Nikes, like someone standing on an anthill. Finally, it was over.

Then my dad’s friend asked the ladies if they wanted to raise any issues or discuss anything. I was expecting no one to speak, to be overawed and silent, or even instructed by the NGO to appear grateful. But almost immediately, one woman raised her hand. With a little encouragement, she opened up.

The women had been making and distributing sanitary napkins to schools in this and nearby villages. But now, since they recently got electricity, they could spend more time stitching and wanted to learn to stitch more items. They also wanted to start selling the napkins in Kolkata or other cities. They wanted to make a little money to help their families. Their husbands did not have many occupations open to them besides farming and fishing. (I later learnt that many of the husbands are lost to tiger attacks while foraging for honey and crabs).

It was in that moment that I experienced deeply what I had only ever heard. Give a woman a little bit, and it awakens her spirit. She has ambition; she carries herself and her family with grace. It was a moment that will stay with me for a long time.

I was almost eager to leave, to be free of the feeling of discomfort. But no, we were first offered food. Having only a while ago stuffed myself at the hotel breakfast, I was literally unable to swallow more than a couple of morsels. I made sure I didn’t make the rest “etho”, contaminating the food by leaving it unfinished on the plate so it wouldn’t be eaten by anyone else and go to waste. I knew that what was served to us came from a lot of hard work. We were served bottled water, but earlier, one of the women had casually mentioned that they don’t have freshwater to drink. They consume saline water because that is all that’s available. I left the bottle unopened.

After this, I had an even more supremely awkward exchange trying to buy some packs of the napkins. I had the idea that I just wanted to help, somehow, desperately be a part of the solution, and couldn’t think of any other way. We are all so altruistic when it makes us feel better about our privilege. I refused to accept these for free, and told them I would show them to people in the city and try to help them sell them.

Finally, it was time to leave and my awkwardness had reached its zenith. But the problem was, I wanted to pee. I asked quietly and was assured with a resounding “yes, not a problem”. Two of the boldest women stepped forward to accompany me to the loo. As we walked down this little path away from the group, everything changed.

I was apprehensive about the loo situation and asked if I should maybe go in a field. They giggled like little children and shrieked, “nooooo, even we don’t do that”. “Why, will something bite me?” “Nooo, people will seeeee.” More giggles. In that moment, we were all just women, girls. We talked on the same level in the next five minutes. About how they had never got to meet someone like me from the city, and I likewise had never met anyone like them. We were the same age. They said they had never been to the city; I told them I had been very far away but decided to come back home.

The lady from the NGO took pictures of us chatting and laughing (great marketing moment), but I never got them, and I don’t need to have them. It was a private moment, captured in my mind’s eye. Just a few Bengali girls from different planets getting to know each other.

The loo, in a little standalone mud shack outside someone’s home, was one of the cleanest I had ever seen. They told me it was a neighbour’s, but they were looking forward to when they could build one too.

As we left the village and returned to the nouko, the community leader accompanying us got a call. They had forgotten to give me a present. Someone came down following us, and I was handed a bottle of honey. It was foraged and packaged by someone in the village I knew. I will consume it with guilt and awe, hoping that no one lost their life collecting it.

On the boat back, I learnt about the “Bagh Bidhoba”, the women who have lost their husbands to tigers. They were looked upon as bad omens and were shunted by society, so they lived together on the nearby island. (My privilege again reared its head, knowing that I had been hoping the whole time the previous day to spot a tiger, while safe on the boat). Most of the community CSR projects in the area now focused on them, leaving their neighbours neglected. It made me think how much a little bit goes a long way.

I had recently in Shantiniketan bought beautiful handicrafts for fifty rupees and a wonderful, original artwork for two hundred and fifty rupees. Less than the price of a coffee in a nice cafe in the city. There are two Indias, and one day, they must collide.