The afternoon was wasted as, at Dilip’s bidding, I attended a tedious Hindi meeting about JFM microplanning that was, to me, almost entirely incomprehensible. I am disappointed by my linguistic progress so far. Although my Hindi is probably better than that of the other foreign volunteers (with the exception, perhaps, of Rachel who speaks grammatically sophisticated Hindi in an appalling, apologetic accent) it is nevertheless faltering and woefully inadequate in many situations. I am lucky to have few inhibitions about speaking a foreign language, but this tempts me into making misleadingly impressive conversational opening gambits which are usually met with an impenetrable barrage of tenses and clauses laced with unfamiliar slang. The panic on my face betrays me, and the conversation reverts to English! In the more serious context of a development meeting, my panic soon turns to frustration, and I realise with sudden, pit-in-stomach clarity, that unless I can become nearly fluent in Hindi, there is no future for me in rural management in India. Outside, drinking chai and exchanging banter with passing acquaintances for which my command of the language is ample, the sharpness of this realisation is dulled and is at the risk of disappearing altogether. Lest I forget, here it is in writing forever: learn Hindi or go home.
I have spent much of today continuing with the microplan, and the report is now reassuring in its shape and size. I intend to submit the first draft to Dilip by the end of tomorrow morning. Certain points from our meeting yesterday are troubling me. He seems very happy that I should lift large chunks from existing microplans for other villages, particularly in the “Management” section, where the protocol for forest protection and resource harvesting is laid out, and the “Expected Benefits” section. He even suggests that the “Treatment Plan” – the business end of the microplan which outlines the technical steps, such as specifications of which trees to plant, what kind of enclosures to build – will be very similar to the technical plans in other villages’ microplans. To my mind this attitude defeats the whole purpose of microplanning, tailoring a plan specifically to the needs of an individual village. Otherwise you get a ludicrous “one size fits all” situation similar to one Ellen was describing where an NGO provided communities (in India? In Africa? The details escape me) with generalised “alternative livelihood schemes”, such as basket making, that may be entirely inappropriate to many regions if there is no market for them. This brings me onto another bugbear: why do all these “alternative income generation schemes” – making baskets, firing pots, quilting quilts – all seem so contrived? Everybody wants to farm and fish, but does anybody really want a basket?
I recall a conversation with a Frenchman who was working on marine conservation with an NGO somewhere in West Africa. A whole stretch of coast had been sectioned off for protection, thereby depriving a group of fishermen of their traditional livelihood. Responding to this, the well-meaning NGO set about employing these incapacitated fishermen to make short films about the problems of over-fishing and the need for conservation. Presumably there is a limit to the number of short films one can make about over-fishing and the need for conservation, and what plans the NGO had made for the barren period after the market for such films became sluggish or dried up altogether I did not find out. When there is a clash of interest between human livelihoods and biodiversity conservation, or indeed between human livelihoods today and human livelihoods in twenty years time, there is unlikely to be a single, obvious, wholesome solution. [13]
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We have a new volunteer called Amir - finally, a Muslim! - from the same college as Yogesh but in the year below. He is delicate-looking and rather shy and his natural expression is rather disdainful, although I think this is misleading as he has been friendly towards me so far. He put Anna’s back up immediately, however, by criticising her method of cooking aubergines, and she has been distinctly cold to him ever since! Yogesh made a point of introducing him as “Amir, my junior”. Year groups seem to be very important in Indian colleges and if I correctly interpret the reverent-sounding tones in which the IRMAns talk about their “seniors”, it works both ways. In fact, compared to the fairly free inter-generational mixing in my college, the Indian attitude seems rather Upper Sixth-Lower Sixth, but the sample size I have experienced so far is hardly sufficient for a conclusive comparison.
*
Last night the ever-effervescent Zelda threw a Thanksgiving party at her guesthouse, known since time immemorial as the “Love Nest”. It turned out to be quite an occasion, with plenty of good food, beer and merriment. With a deliberately ambiguous dress code of “Pilgrims or Indians”, I donned my customary lunghi and put a yellow shawl with red Sanskrit prayers round my head, while Ellen, Anna and Rachel were composites of the occidental and oriental Indian – salwar kameez and war paints! Priya came but was rather quiet, and Amir remained taciturn throughout, although he assured me afterwards that his preferred approach at social gatherings is to sit back and observe. Even Dilip came, although he seemed slightly baffled by the whole thing and looked relieved as he made his early departure.
The real stars, however, were the IRMAns. It was their last night and it felt rather like a leaving party, which I suppose it was. They were certainly on fine form: kindly Dhanwant and his bumbling friend Girish; forthright Lalita, who took one look at my lunghi and said “I bet you flicked [pinched] that, yaar?” and later berated me for being more interested in the beer than in her; her inebriated partner in crime Arun, whose supposed crush on me has become a standing joke amongst the others. After ten the evening turned unexpectedly musical when a number of people forced Zelda to sing for us. She sang something from Miss Saigon, with surprising passion. Or perhaps not surprising if one recognises the intensity underlying her sparkling personality. My own crush, the handsome Deepak, in a voice as rich and expressive as his speaking voice, responded with a ghazal, an Urdu love song, setting the precedent for an “eye for an eye” policy: a song from the firangis, countered by one from the Indians, and so on. Manon, a Parisian who shares the Love Nest with Zelda, thus gave us a Provençal melody in a deep and beautifully introspective voice, and Girish returned with a long ghazal, which some of the others joined in with. I deliberated between Bach and something lighter and opted for the latter, giving my second Indian airing of Flanders and Swann’s “Oh It’s Hard To Say ‘Hoolima Kittiluca Cheecheechee’” which went down rather more successfully than it did that candlelit night in Maal weeks ago!
Later, the IRMA “band” – including Girish, Deepak and Arun – treated us to a raucous rendition of something approximating to a song, my main memory of which is an entirely characteristic vision of Arun putting his head round a table leg and emitting a high-pitched “ooh”. Afterwards he explained loudly and lengthily that it was “all part of the song, actually”. The musical climax of the evening was reached after Zelda, Manon, Dhanwant and I spent 15 minutes rehearsing an American-Indian song for which Zelda happened to have the score lying around. We gave a dire, but hugely successful performance. Dhanwant, it must be added, had never read music in his life before and was consequently entirely useless, but it was very game of him to join in, especially as it meant defecting from his team. As a sort of encore Deepak sang three more beautiful Urdu songs, probably ghazals.
L-R Dhanwant, JG, Manon, Zelda - mid-performance
L-R Arun, Lalita, JG
It was a wonderful evening and a happy last memory of the IRMAns. Lalita and I met by arrangement for lunch today and had surprisingly tasty sandwiches from the nearby Celebration Bakery, followed by ras malai, a sweet, milky liquid in shallow little foil bowls bought from the corner sweet shop. She asked me whether I thought she conformed to my idea of a typical Indian woman and I told her that no, without a shadow of a doubt, she didn’t. “Ah, but that’s because I’m an empowered Indian woman!” she replied, and it was obvious that this was something that meant a great deal to her. I was also able to say goodbye to Dhanwant and some of the others including, I am happy to say, Karan, who said “I’ll miss you” and sounded very sincere about it. I never really understood him, but I suppose I may miss his utter otherness from time to time. “Your flexibility is appreciated” were his parting words. I very much hope to visit them all in IRMA in February.
Footnotes:
[13] In retrospect I feel I was unduly harsh on the concept of “alternative livelihoods”. Many NGOs are doing excellent work in this field and while there may well not be an elegant single solution to the problem how to empower the dispossessed or unemployed, NGOs working in this field always take market forces and supply and demand strongly into consideration.
Next Post - Monday 27th November 2006: Udaipur (will be posted Sunday 27th November 2011)
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