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The W.J. Clinton Fellowship for Service in India Blog: November 2009

Monday, November 30, 2009

Hitler’s not such a bad guy after all

After work the other week, I had a craving for chai (which, admittedly, is less of a craving now and more of a necessity to function) and stopped at my favorite provision store/tea stand to grab a cup. Ramesh, the store owner, and I exchanged pleasantries in broken Tamil for a bit before I turned toward the street to watch the late afternoon crowd. I absolutely love the tradition and the strange absence of it that is combined in a cup of tea. The crowd outside each tea stall encompasses both genders, all ages, and most middle-class professions, without outlining any rules for interaction between the diverse tea-takers. Some people will talk for an hour, some people will stand quietly, some will gulp their tea and rush on; there are no customs or expectations in any case, so long as you hand over four rupees with your empty glass tumbler. Even though my blonde head clearly stands out, I actually feel strangely comfortable swirling the coarse grains of sugar while quietly taking in the conversations and traffic around me.

My usual musing was disrupted by a coarse smoker’s gargle, that curious medium of phlegm and sandpaper-raw vocal chords.

“Hey, where you from?”

I turned and was greeted by the beaming smile of a portly middle-aged man wearing the ubiquitous brown uniform of an auto driver. I smiled and answered, preparing myself for the inevitable five-minute conversation about my work and the fact that, yes, I do eat and love spicy South Indian food. Happy for the excuse to practice my Tamil, I asked “Unga paera enna?” (what is your name, formal)?

“Hitler!” he rasped happily. I mean, I’ve met a few people here with some oddball Western names, but….seriously??

My face must have quickly shown how many mental cartwheels my mind was going through to process why on earth this jolly Tamilian man was so inappropriately named. He laughed and said, “English people are not liking my name, because of German Hitler long time ago. But people here are not knowing, so Hitler is okay in India.”

Hitler then proceeded to tell me about his life, his passion for working with kids (he apparently worked as an occasional driver at a nearby school for handicapped children), his handicapped wife, and his friend Steven, a Brit who volunteered at the school for some time. He punctuated all of his stories with blurry cell phone images of smiling kids in school uniforms, stilted formal wallet photos, and several snaps of Hilter and a laughing, skinny white guy. “Steven was like you,” he said, “always asking Tamil words. Everyone thought it not possible for white man to be friends with black Indian, but all wrong. Steven and Hitler are good friends, life friends. All life friendship, all life beautiful, yes?”

He beamed again, and I couldn’t help returning an equally wide smile. Planting our rupees down alongside our empty cups, Hitler made me take his number as we made motions to part. “When you not busy, you come see my school. See the children. Wonderful children, Steven’s children, you come see in free time!”

I said that I would, shook hands tightly, and began to walk down the street as Hitler called after me. “All life good life. Happy days!”

“Happy days!” I shouted back.

*******

A week went by as they quickly do here, my increasingly precious “free time” filled with work projects, dance classes, Tamil lessons, and Indian meals shared with friends and neighbors. I didn’t (couldn’t) forget Hitler, but stored his memory away with the many other beautiful, short exchanges that I have with so many amiable Chennians on a daily basis.

Rushing to the bus stand one morning, I was incredulous when I heard a happy yell in that unmistakable rasp:

“NIKOL! Vannakam! Hello, my friend!”

Cutting in front of several buses, a vending cart, and at least two cows, Hitler’s shared autorickshaw pulled up to the curb beside me. Both equally excited to have met again, we chatted constantly while the villages between my house and work passed by in a blur. Hitler turned back towards me frequently, somehow deftly dodging people, bikes, and animals at top speed (fast even by normal ly crazy rickshaw standards) while enthusiastically sharing his life story and philosophy. His happiness was infectious, and every schoolgirl and businessman that climbed into the auto on the journey was smiling when they dismounted. When we reached Injambakkam, the small community where I work, we of course went back to our favorite tea stall for another saccharine cup and equally enjoyable conversation.

When again it was time to part, Hitler repeated his invocation to meet his family and see his school. This time, I promised, and shook his hand with all I had to show that I meant it. He grinned and gripped back eagerly.

“I think God think very well of Hitler today, to see my friend again. I very thankful for good luck and wonderful life. All good life always! Stay always happy!”

“Happy days!” I replied as I waved, and ruminated on the phrase as I continued my walk to work. I have a lot of them here.

Posted by Nicole Fox

Friday, November 6, 2009

You Look Like a Movie Star.....an Ugly Movie Star

Every day I take a 30 minute rickshaw to work - usually these rides are uneventful, marked by abrasive rickshaw drivers with poor hearing.  Today, however, was the exception.  I started chatting with my driver and got his whole life story.  How old he is, where he's from, how many kids he has, etc.  We made I deal that I would only
speak in Hindi to practice, and he would do the same with English. Over the course of the ride, we kind of bonded.  I found out he's got a post-grad degree in economics and was a former professor in UP.  He moved to Bombay and became a rickshaw driver because of money troubles.  His brother was part of the anti-terror taskforce that acted during the Bombay terror attacks last year.   He is also a supporter of the BJP.

Anyway, as we were chatting, I asked him who his favorite actor was. He said Akshay Kumar - he loves him because he's a good looking man.

I asked him what he thought of Abhishek Bachchan.  His replied, "I don't like Abhishek Bachchan.  He is not a good looking man.  Ugly man.  He has a black face.   You look just like Abhishek Bachchan."

The conversation continued after this, but needless to say, it did not have the same warmth as before.

Thursday, November 5, 2009

Kovalam Narratives: Voices of Illness and Recovery

Morning begins with a 1.5 hour journey via two buses from the Brahmin heart of Madras to the small fishing village of Kovalam. You know you are nearing when you forget the trickle of sweat down your back and the college boys sandwiched against you who blast syrupy Tamil songs from mobile phones at 8 a.m. You only see blue, blue sea and sky, the ebony of water buffalo against ochre beach. You feel the salty sea breeze dry your face.

And you know you have reached when all you can see are ivory minarets and the cupcake-shaped tower of the dargah[i] rising above miles of fluttering green flags bearing the Islamic white crescent and star. The mothers and grandmothers, dressed head to toe in black hijab or in sequin-studded saris, descend down the bus stairs with children in tow or tucked in their arms. They float between the flower and food vendors towards the feather-shaped door of the dargah.

Here is the heart of Kovalam. The scene of sea, sky, and dargah fills me every day, and then I turn right and walk down the wide dirt road to The Banyan Holistic Health Centre, a community mental health awareness and treatment program[ii].

But this is just place.

***

Manu rests on his bed of wooden plank and weakly raises his arm, twisted and quivering from a stroke of four years past. A community worker from The Banyan and I sit on the floor of his home—a room half the size of my kitchen—and listen to Manu’s wife, Lakshmi, explain why she did not bring him to the Health Centre’s psychiatric out-patient clinic for the last month.

Because he has lost the ability of his hand, Manu is unemployed and Lakshmi has toiled to support their family. She spends her days making and selling pine oil and soaps, cooking, and caring for Manu. Their daughter aspires to be a computer scientist and studies for exams in the evenings. She does not help. Lakshmi says she needs to work constantly to pay her daughter’s private school fees, give the monthly rent, feed the family, and pay for Manu’s various medicines. She has no time to bring him to the Banyan.

The community worker asks her what medicines she has paid for, as Manu came to the Banyan months before and received free medication. A quack told the family he could cure Manu with an injection that would cost 15,000 rupees. The family paid. Lakshmi shows us a case of large, white pills and smaller, yellow ones. She has mixed the remaining Banyan-prescribed medication with those given by the quack, and cannot remember when she began to do this. With tears in her eyes, she says that Manu has not improved during the last four years.

In soft, rounded Tamil, the community worker urges Lakshmi to take a few hours off the next Tuesday and visit the psychiatric outpatient clinic. We get up to leave. Manu mutters that he is better and gripping the wall, shakily hoists himself up and walks, step by step to his house’s entrance. His warm eyes follow us as we walk down the path, carrying a shadow of his story.

These same eyes first meet mine, and then the psychiatrist’s, at the next outpatient clinic. During the clinical interview, the psychiatrist unearths more of Manu’s story. Following his stroke, Manu lost the ability to hold anything with his right hand. He could no longer hold the threshing tools and scythe that he used to plant and harvest rice. But his youngest daughter devoted herself to his care. She would bathe, clothe, and feed him. Two years ago, this daughter passed away due to an illness. The psychiatrist rests his pen and looks tired. “I can give him medicine to alleviate the pain in his hand and to stop his talking to the voices he hears. But that only goes so far.” A physical therapist is needed to train Manu to use his hand. An occupational therapist could perhaps design an agricultural tool for Manu to use, or perhaps give him training in another vocation.

The community worker suggests that Lakshmi come to the Banyan and train other long-term patients and women in the Kovalam community in the preparation of pine-oils and soaps, as another source of income. She also informs them of the Tamil Nadu Disability Allowance, a government-provided monthly stipend given to patients with mental illness and other disabilities.

Manu’s eyes tug at a place in me that I did not know existed.

And he is just one voice.

***

At the end of the AIF Service Corps orientation in Delhi, I wondered if mental health was worth devoting oneself to when poverty, lack of education, and the pressures of marriage and dowry still exist—all potential causes of mental illness that I have witnessed during the last two months. Why work to alleviate a symptom of these problems?

Manu is more than a patient, a voice. His mental and physical breakdown have grown out of a mesh of economic, social, and biological problems. Medicines will treat mental illness, but will not heal a broken mind. But what the Banyan is doing and still dreaming of—reaching into the realms of education, vocation, family, and religious structure to promote mental health—is what may ultimately heal and prevent the unraveling of the mind.

*Names have been changed to preserve anonymity.

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Posted by Aditi Ramakrishnan


[i] Dargah: a Sufi shrine built over the remains of a Sufi saint. While it is often confused with a mosque, some would argue that a dargah is quite un-Islamic. Muslims, Hindus, and Christians flock to dargahs to pray to the saint himself or to seek a path to God through his blessing. Strict Muslims may not go to dargahs for this very reason of praying to a being other than Allah. In Tamil Nadu, many with mental illness go to the dargah for faith-healing and spiritual treatment.

[ii] The Banyan: a Chennai-based NGO and mental health rehabilitation center primarily for homeless women with mental illness. The Banyan now consists of Adaikalam, a large rehabilitation center in Chennai, BALM (a research unit on mental health), and The Holistic Health Center and Community Mental Health Programme in Kovalam, Tamil Nadu. The Kovalam facilities include a general and psychiatric outpatient clinic, an inpatient unit, and a community for long-term rehabilitation for women with acute mental illness. As a Yale and AIF fellow, I am documenting the Banyan’s community mental health model in Kovalam and writing about perceptions and treatment of mental illness in Tamil Nadu.