Finding participation

Sometimes the best way to gauge something's presence is not to explicitly look for it's signs, but to see how far the thing it was supposed to curb has receded. I have been struggling since 6 months to even begin making sense of the extant literature on participation. I have looked through everything that I could lay my hands on. Literature from Political economy, social and rural development, workplace practices. All of these plus some more; cherry picking the ones with localized flavors peculiar to India's experiments with participatory governance. I have struggled to link participation as I have seen on field to the concerns that inform the very white, all-American experience that makes up the bulk of the field of organizational communication which is the particular area in which I will get my degree. Only, I was not convinced this is the story I wanted to tell. Given organizational communication's particular focus on paradoxes and ironies that can be identified in the way participation is enacted, I derived three research questions. Only, I was not convinced that my data could speak to those questions.

I went back to my transcripts and began taking theoretical memos. I began transcribing the last few interviews that were left. I came back with some new search words. I found a body of work that describes itself as political ethnography. I found one paper that attempted to locate the discursive construction of the state as was implicated in the way people chose to speak about corruption. That was the story I wanted to tell. How are people enacting and experiencing participation? The difficult part was choosing a narrative mode to tell this story. Working on a dissertation teaches you many things. Most of all, it forces you to assess your own capabilities of making sense of data. Are you asking the right questions? Okay, you may be asking the right questions in your head, but do these questions make sense on paper? How are you translating your ideas into questions that can be posed? Are you out to build theory or are you indulging in descriptive analysis? What is your strength? What will enable you to best tell the story that you have seen unfolding. Working with a keen affinity for qualitative research means that the chances of you being overwhelmed by all of these questions is significant. Qualitative research is loosely structured. It plays off on a very heightened sense of nuance. It is about a small sample of people and their experiences. How are they making sense of the world that you are interested in? And what is the best way to ensure that you make their voice heard.

I read a fabulously written dissertation this weekend when I was struggling with my unhappiness over the questions. The language play in it was delightful and it spoke to the qualities that an anthropological interrogation into a phenomenon could reveal. Yet, for all the wordplay, I found it overtly self-indulgent. The author's own delight in her obvious writing flair completely overshadowing the experiences of those who should be foregrounded. But, I am getting ahead of my own plot and story. I will speak more about this when I reach a comparative stage in my work.

The questions first. How do I narrate the participation of a village in governing itself. I looked for various ways. From the way three families had fallen through the cracks of officialese because they occupied land between two gram panchayats and hence belonged nowhere to the story about the reporter who killed the news of a two-year-old girl's death because the village did not want it reported in the press. How do I locate participation in these two instances? Both are instances of wanting to belong. The three families want to belong to a larger community so that they can avail of all the benefits that come with it. So, they fight and that is how they participate. The reporter thinks nothing of withdrawing his story because he wants to belong to his village and not be ostracized. This is not the only story that there is, so why waste good relations with your neighbors over this when there are other ways of being faithful to your profession. This is also an instance of participation. I could find no satisfactory way of tying all of this together.

I still don't know how far I am succeeding, but now my focus has slowly begun to zone in on examining the extent to which people's agency overshadows that of the state. If participatory governance is everything that it is cranked up to be, then how far does the presence of the state inform the daily lives of people? How far does the state's presence impinge on the normative ideals of participation. How is the gram panchayat being discursively constructed by the people in the interviews? I feel more comfortable with this mode of questioning. My confusion arose because I forgot the basic tenet of qualitative research. This is an emergent mode of questioning. "Let the theory emerge from the data" Cardinal rule. I taught this for three years. How could I fail to apply it to my own work when it was time?

This data is telling me that the gram panchayat is a problem solving institution. It tells me that participation that matters does not only have to be in governance. It can also happen by being present to lend your Hindu shoulder to your Muslim neighbor's corpse. For the widow with 7 girls, participation meant that her neighbors did not prey on her isolation or on any of her daughters after her husband died and so shame was not brought upon her family. Here, participation in governance translates to making appeals. To the state. The state has by no means receded into the background by handing over reigns to the people. It has merely assumed another form. This is a state-sponsored sphere after all. The state is still all about welfare. It is the patriarch to whom you address your demands. This addressing of demands is an important way in which participatory governance is enacted.  A very far cry from the more normative expectations that guided the passing of the 73rd and the 74th amendment. 18 years from that date, this is where we are now with all our massive caste, class, and economic problems. Even achieving this much is exhausting if you sit back and think at how India governs itself in the face of so many challenges of caste, class, linguistic, education, and economic disparities.

I was not doing justice to the data by trying to fit it into the available theories that have been derived from examinations completely foreign to the contexts that inform my own work. I want to tell the story of this village in western Maharashtra. This village that fights and disrupts the gram sabha in anger over the delay of a gymkhana for its wrestlers. Isn't narratives really the best way to go about representing their stories? The codes and categories that I derive will demonstrate their fair share of paradoxes and ironies, but is that what will help us make sense of how rural local self governance institutions in India inform the lives of its people? Ask yourself at every step - what is interesting here? What is the story that needs to be told? What will help? What is the data telling me? What will be a contribution to the field and to the lives of people? And then write.

Iss mod se jaate hain

Gulzar's lyrics stream gently through the morning fog that Austin is enveloped in today. Last night after working until late on campus, I walked to the library to borrow a book on him. PCL's checkout facilities operate until 11.45 pm and I fully intended making use of this. It also had "Because he is.." the coffee table book authored by his daughter Meghna Gulzar. I took that one and another book on Guru Dutt by Nasreen Munni Kabir. I felt I was one step closer to where I should be last night, so decided to get myself a little treat that I could indulge in on the bus. It is another matter that this step should have happened last semester. But, never mind. We shall take what we can. The one thing grad school teaches you is to celebrate every little progress you make. You also learn that your body and mind have a pace of their own, that ideas take time to translate into words, that you can't force them out prematurely, that frustration is something that has to be dealt with, that tears will flow, that self-doubts will plague, that one day it will be over, that one day it will be worth it (hopefully).

I began reading the book under the streetlight while I was waiting for the bus to come. I fully intended falling asleep as soon as I reached home, but the pages kept turning and it was only when I realized that I had a 7.15 am (ugh ugh ugh) meeting that I reluctantly laid it aside. Today the day began at 7.10 when I opened one eye and realized what a mess it was going to be. I bolted out with clean teeth and caught the carpool on time to make it to the meet. We adjourned early today. Turns out graduate housing issues the past few weeks weren't as complex to last the usual hour-and-a-half that they usually do.

This post is just to mark a feeling that I hadn't experienced since a long time. The book is no masterpiece of writing, yet, I drank everything up thirstily. It has to the best feeling in the whole wide world. When you are absorbed in a book. Of knowing the joy of reading. Of a reunion with a best friend. Of knowing that at that moment it did not matter whether you had any other friends or not. It was enough that the written word existed and that you could lose yourself in it and let your heart, mind, and soul be fed with some soothing balm.

Kriti bought a tiny magnetic bookmark as a souvenir for me from her Christmas break road trip. I hope my break from reading won't last much longer. It has been way too long already. The irony of being in grad school. Ha.

The shadows of coming events

In the minds of some it has already begun. Until now, that thought was my own.  Yes, the turbulent mix of  trepidation and eagerness that the thought arouses still belongs to me and me alone. But today I was made aware that the thought has now actively taken root in the minds of other's too.

When this thought would visit me earlier, it would sprout briefly at various different times before sliding back into being a tiny figment of an imagination. It did not have to come to life any time soon. It would seed itself when I would silently blink away the dryness that comes from staring at the screen too long. When I would look outside at the grassy rise and dip of the lawn or when I would enjoy a particularly quiet walk along the perimeter of the apartment complex's grounds. At times it would visit when I would look around my room and think of how the place I would next call home would look. Would it light up with plentiful sunshine in the day? What road would I walk to and fro from it? What thoughts would I think during those walks? Will I be returning home to someone or will I come home and switch on the TV to simulate human company? In this apartment that I now share, will the pot lucks and film nights continue? What jokes will be shared? What taboo words will remain unguessed? What dishes will be cooked? What gossip will I miss? Most importantly what are all those things that I know I won't miss?

Temporally, how soon I come face-to-face with these questions is still unknown. Yet, there are others who want to know and have requested that I keep them informed. They want to move in. In, to my space. Live in my room, use my big table that the previous owners had left outside the house, check their reflection in the full length mirror that I affixed on the wall when I first moved in. Switch on that tubelight that was put together by shopping around Walmart for many many different parts to banish the awful depression and homesickness that the damned yellow light of this country induced. Lounge around on the furniture that was painstakingly picked up by stalking the trash areas when other inhabitants were moving out. Yes, all those things put together over time make up my abode today.  

In my reply, I am gracious. I tell them that it is a wonderful thing that they want to take over the room after me and I genuinely mean it. I tell them of course that I would give them the heads up that they ask for. I even feel flattered. After all, not many thought moving into this part of the town was a wise choice, but now slowly, I see them all following suit. Surely it is not that I have started calling this home? After all I spent a whole eight months away from this room. I even let it out temporarily to a guest who loved it enough to put herself on the waitlist for her own apartment in the complex. So the thought of somebody else occupying this space is not a novel one.

I have always understood my time in this country and more so in Austin city to be temporary. In my careful observations of myself, I have found no natural inclination to be adaptive to this society or environment, nor have I felt any burning desire to fight my natural impulses to want to go back to where I come from. So, there is no great sadness to overcome. If anything, there is relief that soon I can reclaim for myself a life with some semblance of normalcy. It helps that personally these have not been the happiest days of my life. So yes, there aren't too many strong ties holding me down.

Yet, yet, yet. This was the first time that I had a room to myself. The first time I played house on my own. The first time, I invested and spent time in stamping my own personality on a space. The first time that I felt the value of having a roof over your head that you pay the rent for.

And now when they ask me when I plan to leave, I find myself hesitating just that one little beat before I answer. If they cared for subtleties, they would notice this. I will point them to this post if they ever ask. I will myself return to read this when these days will be so far past that it will all feel like a dream that was lived. A student way of life in a country far away from home. Once upon a time.

P.S.: The other times that I have written about the place where I stay is here, here, and here. 

Dr Strangelove

I just received an official email addressed to "Dr Mudliar". Besides being premature and IMHO  optimistic (though I am hoping it is a sign), it is also making me feel very masculine. Perhaps because Dr appears so similar to Mr. Also, this Dr Mudliar that this email is addressing seems like the sort of person who constantly twirls his mustache. For some unfathomable reason, he also shows a flamboyant preference for top hats and is usually dressed in suspenders. If you go knocking on his door, you will find him behind a huge gleaming wooden desk piled high with papers, books, nodding to the rhythm of percussion beats throbbing unobtrusively in the background. When you have announced your presence by clearing your throat a couple of times, he will push his chair away to peer at you over his half-moon rimless spectacles. Since, I know absolutely no one like this, I can only wonder at what on earth this stream of consciousness description is telling me about myself. Why a top hat of all things? This is a good time to reveal that in reality, all day long, I sigh over the gorgeous saris that seem to be the favored celebrity wear these days as updates from this account tell me. So while I daydream of being draped in vibrant reds, yellows, and pinks offset by cool greens and blues, and accessorizing with big bindis and heavy jhumkas,  I secretly seem to be having a mustache, top hat, and suspender envy.
I should be worried?

Grounded

I walked home barefoot today. It rained unexpectedly and I did not want my kolhapuris to turn wet and limp. Plus, unlike back home in India, I didn't have to think twice about litter and shards that will poke and hurt. My feet felt the smooth sensations of concrete, therapeutically pedicured themselves on the rough pebbles of the road, and willingly splashed into many puddles on the way to the apartment. I think they were rather pleased with what they felt so they begged me to dump my bag and go out play some more. The rain created a perfect scene for my own Cadbury Dairy Milk TVC moment of the day. Also, maybe this whole Vibram Five Fingers thing should be explored seriously. It's funny at how just doing things a wee bit differently from the routine opens up a whole new world of wonderful liberating sensations.

In another life, we were friends

In 2004, I met Farah Khan at the Taj Blue Diamond, Pune for an interview. This was immediately the day after the press had announced her engagement to Shirish Kunder. She was in town as part of the promos for Indian Idol and the Pune press was out in full force to get her reaction. I cornered her for a one-on-one in between all the chaos that usually surrounds star press conferences. She was gracious, very down-to-earth, friendly, funny, and made for a very entertaining session in all. One of the questions that I asked her was if her closeness with Shah Rukh Khan ever intimidated her potential suitors. She said that for anyone to be a part of her life, it was essential that they accept that Shah Rukh Khan and she would always be the best of friends. There could be no two ways about it.

It is always sad when friends break up. It is hard enough on a person without all the ugliness that surrounds a public falling out when you are a celebrity. I know this because my first time away from home in Austin also included a very ugly falling out with a roommate I was particularly fond off due to the unresolved issues we had over another roommate. Completely alone, sad, and thoroughly bewildered, I could not swallow a morsel of food for an entire week until worried I sought help from the university health services to see me through that episode. That winter ranks as one of the most horrible ones of my  life. I learned tough lessons about myself and was not pleased about a lot of things I saw. Given the abysmal maturity levels each one of us involved in that particular incident exhibited, it was a pity that no good could be salvaged from it except of course to be wiser and more patient with others as with myself the next time around.

The New York Times had a nice piece on how people outgrow friendships and decide to move on a couple of days ago. Here it is.

I thoroughly enjoyed Om Shanti Om, in particular the title song. It was as if the film industry was affirming their friendships in spite of all the differences and it was lovely to see people come together for Farah and SRK. Of course, I always point to Salman Khan in the song and say see how good a friend the dude is even to SRK even though they have such a history. Ironically, Finnair made excellent use of the song just a few days before all the feuding and the ugly jokes began. (Especially note how everybody made fun of Kunder for being lesser well known than his wife. And this from people on my Twitter TL who will go to town on sexual equality.) I am no SRK fan, but that film was a total paisa vasool entertainer for me. SRK and Farah did have a good thing going there.

This is not really a post lamenting their particular loss of friendship. I am not *that* filmy. This is more real life. It may or can happen to any one of us. When hurt by a friend, anger is the only defense most of us have as our immediate reaction. More so because *they* more than anybody else should have known us better than to do *that* to us. Resolve things up if you can or hold on to the good times and let the person go. Om Shanti Om.

A Post-It

As reminders for lessons that won't lend themselves to words.

Means, means? - How a village speaks

With every fieldwork site I encounter, there is an initial amount of time spent in grappling at the nuances of words and what they mean to the people where you are based. Not acquainted with the traditions of the Maratha community in rural Maharashtra, I tried not to show surprise when I first heard a woman talk about her 'maalak'. Translated quite simply, it means 'owner' or if you are an employee, your 'boss'. Yep, that is how women refer to their husbands. Plus, they blush and adjust their saris over their heads every time they say that. Conversely, but not surprisingly, the men do not refer to their wives in any way at all. When asked, "ghari kon kon aahe,?" as a way of wanting to know their family composition, they will shift in their chairs and softly mutter, "maajhi mandali" or "my group" that pleads with you to understand that it means "my wife along with children". Not once did any of the men say "maajhi baiko" or the usual Indian way of "my Missus." And yes, their is always some amount of shyness and shuffling of feet that both sexes display when asked about their better halves.

Then there is the 'battery'. "Do you have one?," I was asked on my first day at my host's house. "No problem, I have many." I answered. "Why do you carry so many batteries,?" she wanted to know. "You never know." I shrugged. "Well, take one if you are going down to the toilet," I was advised. "Huh?" I was stumped, but obediently went to fetch a battery from my bag. "What do I do with this in the toilet,?" I asked thinking maybe it had to be inserted somewhere." After a lot of laughter a torch was thrust into my hand and I was told, "here - battery." In that moment I felt like Helen Keller who has just been taught by her teacher to name the thing that flows out of a tap as - Water.

So, when that little girl wanted to know if she could lift my "sag", I had caught on to the linguistic rhythms of the village to decipher that she probably meant my bag. Any bag that can be slung over shoulders is referred to as 'sag' in the parts where I was staying. It is of course derived from 'haversack' that in a lovely game of English whispers traveled all the way to Sangli district in Maharashtra and inserted itself into the local vocabulary as the hip 'Sag'.

The thing that had me most stumped is their use of the word 'partition'. This was one of the more important words for me given that it cropped up so frequently in response to questions about what they did not like about their village. It took many questions to finally unravel that the word partition is closely aligned with taking sides in favor of different political parties. It is not a division of a physical structure, but the existence of social frictions. Partition, in this part of the world is quite simply used to describe the act of identifying with opposing political parties and the subsequent tensions it causes to the social harmony of their lives. It really is very logical when you sit down to think about it.

And then there are times when the joke is completely on you. At such times, you are forever grateful that you are probably (and hopefully) the only one who recognizes this. Often rural India's use of English betrays a sense of innocence that is far away from the worldly-wise ways of urban India. This is not to say that they lack in wisdom - far from it. Just that they sometimes use words in contexts that mean very different things in the milieu you come from. Add this to their eagerness to display familiarity with English to any city dweller and it is a perfect mix for situations that force you to keep a straight face. Like the time the taciturn, reticent, and very grey-haired chairman of the village's dispute resolution committee promised that he would identify two people who had approached the committee with their disputes so that I could interview them. At the appointed hour, he dutifully led one man into my room and announced with his usual stone faced expression, "Here is one client. I will send in the other once you are done with him. Don't worry, I will shut the door on my way out".

It was my turn to shift around in the chair and shuffle my feet after that.

Sivaji Ganesan vs. Salman Khan

My Pune-based atthai, like my dad and the rest of their family takes their craze for MGR and Sivaji Ganesan to various highs that fluctuates according to each person's eccentricity. For instance, this atthai resents living in her present apartment because Sivaji Ganesan passed away within two years of them moving in there. Likewise, each member of that family has many such stories. To be fair to them, so does the rest of the Tamil Nadu.

She came visiting this evening. I always pester her for stories about growing up in the Madras of yore, trying to understand how they all would have been as young people. All that has garnered fame far and wide is the PasaMalar between the 6 siblings and how my father in particular would rock the swing that his four sisters sat on for hours on end. As filmy as the film is.

Anyway, their matinee idol craze has often claimed innocent bystanders as victims and this is one such story. So, one fine afternoon when this particular aunt and another cousin were sighing in front of the TV set over Sivaji Ganesan and Devika's histrionics, one young man came visiting. Thoroughly annoyed and irritated at having to get up and serve him tea, the two dutifully deposited copious amounts of salt in his cup. Not even the thought of my very stern grandmother deterred the two young ladies from giving vent to their anger at this unwelcome intrusion between them and Sivaji Ganesan. The young man took one sip of the tea and understandably spat out everything.

I am quite shocked at what I heard today. The reaction of this particular victim is even more so. A few months after this incident the young man and my aunt found themselves married. After what seems to be an elopement. Though my aunt starts mumbling incoherently when asked about this.

See, the only thing I have done is written an unposted letter and this post for Salman Khan. I don't know whether to be sad or happy that I have inherited none of their madness.

PMPML Diaries

This post would not have happened were it not for two very persistent callers. While one knew of my whereabouts in Pune and was only trying to cut through my sleep, the other was more investigative in nature trying to ascertain my presence in Pune. Anyhoo, my jetlagged sleep being interrupted, I turn to the Internet to keep me occupied even as I resolutely refuse to start the task of going through my overloaded inbox. Too many emails screaming for attention.

Let's talk about local public transport. Unlike in Austin or even Chennai/Bangalore, in Pune, I give it a wide wide berth. Sadly, I do not stay in a part of the city that makes it convenient to travel by public transport. The few times I do, it is invariably to Pune Camp and back because the connectivity and convenience is good, but no further. For everything else, it is my trusted scooty. Button start and off I go. A four month break however, meant that the dear old thing refused to start this morning. The mechanic who offered home service (oh yes, the things competition can do for the good of the consumer) came over to take a look at it and sadly said that there way no other way but to take it to the garage to get the batteries charged and that it would take a while.

So, the eyes turned towards the red boxes of the Pune Mahanagar Palika Mahamandal Limited. Mom dropped me off at Pune Station and from there I had to catch a bus to get to Baner. So I went and saw and conquered nothing. The station stand has a man sitting in a jeep announcing the arrival of every bus, the places it would stop at, and to please give way to it if you don't want to be run over. All helpful and sage advise. I loped over to him and he told me which bus I would have to take to get to Baner. The Sangvi bus came after a good 30-minute wait. I tumbled inside and paid Rs 10 and after a 20-minute bus ride, it dropped me right outside the place that I had to go. The real drama began when I had to head back home.

Observations:
1. Buses don't stop at the 'stops'. The most that they do is slow down for a few nano seconds and you have to jump and abandon all dignity to scramble on. If you are used to the thoughtful halting of the CapMetro buses in Austin which then proceeds to kneel in order to save you the hassle of taking a bigger step to get into the bus or the super public transport of Bangalore city, then perish all thought of making it on to a bus in Pune.

2. It is okay to scramble on to the bus if the entrance is not jam packed. If it is, be prepared to have the men eye you with a lot of relish as you try to fight your way into the bus.
 
3. Be prepared to have the men eye you or bump into you totally by accident of course with a lot of relish any way.

4. Halting of buses at designated stops is solely up to the whims and fancies of the driver.

5. Buses won't stop if they are full.
 
6. Buses won't stop even if they are empty.

7. Your presence at the stop or waving your hand at an approaching bus is insufficient to halt it. You have to be suicidal and throw yourself on its path in order for it to even screech to a crawl a few metres away from where you stand. If you don't run fast enough to get to it, it will screech away as briskly leaving you in a cloud of exhaust smoke.

8. Peak hour traveling by PMPML is not for the faint hearted. Or for me.

9. I have the luxury of choice. The common person does not. Nor did my mother. I used to travel by bus a fair bit as a child. I have seen her carry my infant baby sister in one arm, her office bag, my sister's bag and my bag in another and brave peak hour bus traffic to get to office and deposit us in the creche near her work place. A lot of things about my mother make me go wow. Today, I was wow all over again for what she did and for all those Punekars who depend on the PMPML for their daily commute.

I waited for a full one hour from 5.00 pm to 6.00 pm to get a bus back to Pune station. Nothing worked. Buses wouldn't stop or I wouldn't be able to get my way in. Frustrated, I hailed an auto and made it back to the garage to pick up my two wheeler. No reunion could have been more joyful. 

The good part about my bus adventures is that a friend saw me at the bus stop just about the same time I saw his company bus zoom by and thought of him. Slipping into Pune unannounced means that friends sometimes catch a glimpse of you frowning away at bus stops, think a scary look alike of yourself is storming around Pune city, and dutifully call up when you are snoozing away tiredly. All good, old friends are nice to talk to.

I leave for field work tomorrow. This is the final wave of data collection that I undertake and I am excited to begin. I will be based in Sangli and all I know of the gram panchayat that will be home for the next 10 days is this - http://www.wikimapia.org/9028932/Kille-MACHINDRAGAD. I have my backpack, camera and audio recorder. The state public transport will be my friends again and take me to my destination. I will stay and sleep in weird places and wonder countless times why I do what I do. I will begin thinking in Marathi and no other language and completely transition to the spirit of rural political life in Maharashtra.

What does it mean to participate in governance? What does it take to stand up and be counted? What makes one person speak while the other will stay shut indoors? There are people waiting to be asked and stories waiting to be told. I begin my chronicling in 24 hours and am excited on what it is going to bring forth.

It has been a year since Gary Chapman passed away. This line is just to say that his presence is missed and he is fondly remembered.