Back in Montreal

Well, if the plane ride was not enough to return me to Montreal, the snow has certainly done it. Two snowstorms and some freezing rain in the span of three days has slowed traffic and helped to physically ground me in the geographic place I now inhabit. On Monday, I slipped and fell walking down the outdoor stairs of my house. When I recounted this to a friend he said “still working on your ice legs, eh?” And that is exactly what I feel I am doing, both physically and metaphorically. Learning to stand on my own two feet here in Montreal again. To help the transition, I decided to go for a walk on the mountain. Here are a few pictures:

As a blog-related side note, I hope to continue this little forum of thought, at least sporadically, so keep checking in every now and then!

we did it

Like many others, I could be seen crying my little eyes out yesterday. jumping for joy, inspired to believe in change, or at least, inspired to believe in hope instead of fear. I don't know if things will change much. But it is important to at least have milemarkers along the road. Moments when we can rejoice and believe for a short while. A day to be proud to be alive.

One small comment from a broadcaster here in India, before the election was called, as a picture of the crowd at Grant Park was shown:
"Well, we usually associate this type of crowd, this sheer number of people, with India, but it looks like today the Americans are in the streets."

I was proud to hear a citizen of the largest democracy in the world give that compliment to the citizens of my country of origin.

crazy train ride

On the train from Belgaum to Bangalore. It is a busy time of the year to be traveling: festival season. I have a confirmed seat: seat 22 in sleeper car 5. I arrive, put my luggage under the seat, and sit down. And I see/hear/feel that I have walked into a convention center: confusion reigns in berths 19-27. Those with waiting list tickets and reservation against cancellation tickets (one step up from the waiting list) crowd into our cabin. The conductor is there. The conductor is here. The conductor is surrounded wherever he goes because he is the one with the power to decide who will have a seat to travel on this train. He haggles with many, many people, who crush in on us from all directions, all hoping for a confirmed seat. He tells one man he is on the wrong train. He tells many others to wait. Tickets are shoved under his nose, he marks some with a pen, turns others away. The train pulls away from the station. It is 10:30pm and all of the seats have already been turned into beds. It is difficult to sit upright; we sit crammed into the berths, our heads crooked into the middle aisle, trying to avoid the ever increasing crowd.

A group of 5 people perched into the middle and upper berths, pulls out food: roti, sabzi, sweets, rice, milk and sambar. Woman with scarf tied on her head, in the middle berth, props her feet across the aisle to the other middle berth, sticks her head out to be able to sit up while eating. I am offered food. They even have banana leaf plates. The conductor returns, hounded by three people that hope to get a seat where the diners are eating. The conductor tells the impatient, unseated passengers, “ok fine, it will be your seat, but let them finish dinner first!” His hand goes up and in a small circle demonstrates the reality of what he is saying, showing the undeniable state of things and how rude it would be to interrupt, really. Respect for the meal, at 11pm on a train.

Mother and child bed down on the floor in the aisle between the two berths. I offer part of my lower berth to them, but mom refuses, saying her daughter is too shy. Mom is sweet-faced, daughter is dressed with a fancy barrette in her hair. Girl is uncomfortable, not wanting to sleep, but exhausted. They curl up together on a blanket, leaving dad to look for confirmed seats for them somewhere. To be one of the crowd of men hounding the conductor as he comes to our berth and leaves again, trying to solve problems.

Later, as I told this story to someone else, they said the conductor was most likely trying to take as many bribes as possible, prolonging confusion and chaos for personal gain. I didn’t see it, he seemed to be trying to do his job as best as possible, accommodate those that could be accommodated, manage the mob with equanimity.

In the end, we are ten sleeping in the berth. Three on one side, three on the other, three in the side berths, and one on the floor. Mother and child have been given seats elsewhere; instead it is one of the eating party who has been evicted from his upper berth who is now on the floor. He lays out a sheet, and starts snoring even before the lights have been turned off. Beautiful and amazing.

I put my headphones on at a certain point, in an attempt to sleep. Instead, it brings me back to the situation at hand with acute sensitivity. So many people, crushed together, all going to the same place. All going to different places within the same place called Bangalore. Coexisting just fine. Indeed, we all laugh and shake our heads at the one fellow who is actually raising his voice to the conductor. No need to yell, our faces say. The group continues with the meal. The woman with head scarf sees me seeing her, offers food again. I smile and say no. Keep smiling and she smiles back. We are all ok with each other. Coexisting just fine.

in the field again

It has been a month since my last entry and I feel I have built up so many things to say. The last entry is something I wrote a while back but have only now gotten around to posting. Since then, I have found it difficult to write about my current experiences. I feel I don’t yet have enough perspective to really understand my three weeks in the field, interviewing farmers and living with a family. But I will give it a little try and have to promise the rest for later.

I am currently in Bangalore again, finishing up a bit of the remote sensing work, but I leave again for the field tonight. Ah, once again, the lovely overnight train ride. I have come to feel almost as home on the train as anywhere else these days. Four months ago, before leaving for India, one of my main concerns was “Will I have a stable place to stay, I place I can feel comfortable in, a sort of home, a place I can be on my own?” And I can say, that like many things in research, I have not answered the question so much as redirected it. Instead of finding a stable place to live, I have learned to be quite fine with a semi-nomadic existence. I currently have my things spread between two places, but the number of places I regularly sleep are about five. If I am in the field late, I simply sleep at my interpreter’s house. If I am at my friend’s house late, I sleep there.

And the needs for solitude and independence? They have not disappeared, but I no longer associate them with the place I sleep. In the U.S. there seems to be a big emphasis placed on having “separate bedrooms” (how many times can I remember telling my brother he wasn’t allowed in “MY” room?) But in the places I have been recently, everyone can sleep anywhere and everywhere. Most of the beds are moveable mattresses, so they are rolled up in the day and can be rolled out just about anywhere at night. And at first, I really thought I would find this difficult, but instead I have found it sort of comforting and warm. There is a certain safety in numbers, I suppose. And not just safety from night noises and creatures (which might have been my main concern as a small child) but also safety from going too far into the depths of my own mind, safety from the loneliness that can be sometimes provoked by solitude. When surrounded by others, their perspective on life and simply their presence encourages me to maintain a certain level-headedness, and that has probably been a very good thing. By and large, I have appreciated my many “homes” and sleeping places of the last few months, even if stability has been lacking. And so, I am looking forward to tonight’s journey.

Since I usually am traveling on my own, I have no pictures of myself in a train. But I do have myself on a chakkeri, or bullock-drawn cart. We were hitching a ride back from the fields after doing an interview. The photo was taken before another four people jumped up into the pile of freshly cut grass. And we were pulled magnificently homewards by the amazingly strong bullocks. I felt on cloud nine.

A strange holiday

Dated 6 September 2008

I felt the need for a vacation. Vacation in the sense of “getting away”. From what? From work, I suppose, but more importantly, from feeling like a foreigner, from feeling constantly stared at, from feeling lost. Yes, I wanted to get away from feeling lost. But of course, it is hard to get away from being lost if you don’t know where you are going. That will only serve to make you more lost, really. But luckily, with money, you can make a plan to go somewhere where people can pretend that you are no longer lost. Can stare less avidly perhaps, make pretenses of not seeing you anymore as the foreigner you are. Yes, I am talking about going somewhere to be a tourist, somewhere where I can use my money, and thereby be accepted for what I am and no longer questioned: a rich white tourist. No need to be curious and stare anymore.

But of course, I didn’t make the plan, I didn’t make the reservation. I tried, first to go to a small eco-lodge, high up in the Ghats. Family run place, with western-style organic sensibilities, a place where I would still put the money down so as to be treated like a human being with an identity of “tourist” (albeit “lefty tourist”), but where it would be easy to believe that people were just being friendly and wanting to make a difference. But they were closed for the month of September. Too much rain, too many leeches they said. Oh…. Leeches. Right.

Second plan was a quickly made one: go with friend to another resort in the Ghats (slightly more commercial) and live in a treehouse for two days. Eat, sleep, and maybe go on a few forest walks. Maybe go to the river and swim. But the friend backed out and I didn’t have the courage to go alone.

So what to do then? How to protect myself in my “going away”? How to hide from where I am without the help of a friend, or without the help of a secluded place of similar worldview? I can’t imagine going to a beach at goa would be very relaxing alone, as a young white woman. Yea, definitely no. and where else can I go? Hampi is lovely I hear, but overrun with tourists and difficult to navigate without your own transportation, says the guidebook. Maybe just go to a swimming pool in a hotel in Belgaum? But they will be populated by businessmen, sitting around the pool….. oh, that will only firmly ground me in the place I already am in, in the place I am trying to get away from. So what to do?

In the end, I take refuge in work. I go to Dharwad Agricultural University and make the library my swimming pool. Sit among phd theses and outdated books. Revel in the dewey decimal system and the card catalogue. Try not to move around too much, or even look up too often because that brings me back to where I am. I get stared at as I go and take more books off the shelf, as I go to bring books to be photocopied, as I go to drink water. Realizing only after I have drank 3 cups of water (Indian-style, not letting the communal cup touch my lips) that the “reverse osmosis” filter is not plugged in, and therefore, is most likely not working. Hoping that I won’t regret that later… pretending to just not notice.

And at the end of the day, as the library was closing, I walked back to the international students hostel, looking forward to my dinner, and then to watching a movie on my laptop. And what a strange dinner it was. I was led by Balu, the night guard of the hostel, to the guest house, where, around a oblong semi-circle, 24 plates were laid out, salad, shenga chutney, and holgi already arranged on the plates. Waterglasses filled, everything in order. But no one there, no one eating. And at the far far tip of one of the sides of the giant U shape, there was a single placemat. No plate, no waterglass, nothing. And that is where I was told to sit. A plate of food was brought for me, and a glass of water. Everything brought by the only person there, the cook/waiter. And I ate heartily, as he walked out of the room, through glass doors, and waited outside. Ate everydarnthing on my plate. As I have every meal every day here in India. As I do most of the time, but there is something so especially rewarding about eating up every grain of rice with my fingers.

But what a strange, almost mystical experience to eat alone in a giant silent room, with places for 24 next to me, empty. Just serving to echo my position, my loneliness amidst so many people. My alienation on crowded buses, even as I am wedged into the middle seat, being touched on both sides. Yet still so alone. It was really a lovely metaphor for my “vacation”: surrounded by the signs of people everywhere, but totally alone. Alone in my head, oh so alone in my head. And then, tonight, my computer decides that it will go back to being silent, no sound, and so I don’t even have the company of a movie. Instead, just music on the little ipod fake. And my own words to somehow fill the gap where other human beings should be, where I am used to having them. There are even two twin beds in this guest room. And every now and then, the date of departure enters my head, as I realize and remember that this is a temporary permanent state. I sing out loud. Reassure myself that I am here and now.

a photo essay

This week I feel a few photos are in order, after the wordiness of the last entry. Comments are below each photo.
This is what I look like as I play badminton at the court in the phd students quarters. Yes, I might look very attentive, but that does not mean I am very successful at actually hitting the birdie. But the other students humour me.

A visitor to my room one morning! Hanging out on my only kitchen equipment. Sorry Annie, no collecting this one, I just left her alone and she was gone by evening.

Yes, I am indeed wearing a saree. Which is a lot of work to wear, but luckily I had about 5 different people help me get it on. They kept correcting each others mistakes. But it was a pleasure to wear such an elegant outfit for an evening. My colleagues from CISED are with me in the photo, also dressed up for the night.

What the student dining hall looks like during our "candlelight" dinners (i.e. when there is no power.) Very romantic.

Pinning up mango leaves over the doorframe for Lakshmi festival on August 15th. Mango leaves are hung over the door frame for most major festivals and left there until the next festival. I was visiting my colleague in Mysore for the holiday (which was also Indian Independence Day).

How eby got REALLY comfortable using the “Indian” style toilet

In the middle of the night at my interpreter's house, I woke up to go to the bathroom. To get to the toilet from the bedroom where I was sleeping required approximately 30 steps, perhaps a few more if I stumbled in the dark house. Not a terribly far distance……but I soon learned that distances can grow with time and state of mind and body.

So I woke up and headed for the toilet. I had been regaled the entire day with more food than I thought I could possibly eat. At each house we had visited in the villages we had been offered (practically forced) to have at least a large snack, often a meal. I figure I had probably eaten about 5 meals. So waking up in the middle of the night, I wasn’t worried, I figured I had just eaten too much and that my morning constitutional was just a bit impatient. I went back to bed and about 20 minutes later, had to return to the toilet. Still, I wasn’t worried. Eating spicy food, lots of oil and sweets, it was NORMAL that there would be a haste to my digestive system that was not always there. (read: eby is in denial) I went back to bed and tried to go back to sleep. And all of a sudden, it seemed that there was a chill in the air. I looked around for a blanket to add to the sheet that was covering me, but no luck. I didn’t feel quite desperate enough to wake someone up to give me a blanket. So I laid in bed and shivered. Literally. For almost three hours I laid there, vaguely aware of the passing time and letting my body move at will to keep me warm. And slowly, slowly, I started to realize that I wasn’t feeling very well, and that I might be sick. But I kept telling myself that once I got a nice warm blanket, I would be right as rain. Optimism that I would later realize was evidence of just how out of my mind I was.

By 6, when others woke in the house, I did finally ask Amma (the word for mother in Kannada, and what she insisted I call her) for a blanket and stumbled back to bed. At this point, trips to the toilet were about once an hour, at least, and I was fairly certain I had a fever. And everyone in the household knew that they had a sick stranger on their hands.

Soon the theories of what was wrong with me, as well as the attendant remedies, started to accumulate.
First: you must have been in the sun too long yesterday, so why not take some tea this morning and take rest? (Rest was clearly all I was capable of doing, but I had a feeling it was a bit more than just the sun.)

Second: Ah, your stomach is not used to spicy Indian food, so to settle it you should drink a cup of tea mixed with ghee (clarified butter.) (Wow, that sounded revolting... luckily I was so weak I couldn't show my honest reaction to such a suggestion.)

Third: Someone in the villages put the evil eye on you, and we should exorcise it with smoke from an oil lamp that is waved in a circle three times in front of you. (This was eventually tried... I figured it couldn't hurt, unlike the previous remedy.)

And of course, as time progressed, and I only seemed to get worse, the remedies became more and more insistent. And the offer (threat) to bring a doctor became louder. I have a great memory of lying in bed, hardly able to sit up, with the entire family in the room arguing in Kannada about what to do with/for me. The reason that it is a great memory is that in my feverish state I believed that I could actually understand what they were saying. HA!
I had oral rehydration salts with me (ESSENTIAL traveling companion) but the bulk of my first aid kit, including my emergency antibiotics, were back at my hotel room (dumb, dumb, dumb). My interpreter offered to go to my hotel room and pick up some stuff, which I agreed to. When he returned I was able to take my temperature....over 103F (39.5C). Hmmmm, not good, really not good. Though it did explain some of the crazy dreams I was having every time I closed my eyes.

And this is where I would like to say that I am happy to know that the body and mind somehow become incredibly efficient at doing what is necessary to survive. Not that I was that far gone, don't worry, but looking back on everything, I realize that I was remarkably level-headed about finding the help I needed. Case in point: I didn't call my parents. In fact, it didn't even enter my mind to do so, because I subconsciously knew that it wouldn't help, it would only make them and myself more worried. Instead, I called my supervisor, who was in India at the time, and asked to talk to his wife who is also on my research committee and who has a lot of experience being sick in inopportune places (like a remote village in Peru). I knew she would be level-headed, and that she was. She talked me through taking emergency antibiotics, even calling the McGill travel clinic to ask questions for me. She gave me a few crucial symptoms I should watch out for (“I don't mean to scare you, but you should tell the family taking care of you that they should take you to the hospital if you find can't move.”) She was great.

But at 8 pm that evening, my fever was inching up again, and I finally let the family bring a doctor. The doctor prescribed a different, heavy-hitting antibiotic, and a few other things. And I accepted. He asked if I wanted to go to the hospital and as vehemently as possible I said NO. So he said, “Fine, but if your fever is not down in 12 hours, that is where you are going.” But very fortunately, 12 hours later, my fever was indeed down, I had slept for 6 hours straight (no bathroom trips!) and I felt I was out of the woods.

I spent the next three days with my interpreter's family, recovering under the wonderful ministrations of Amma, Appa, Tungi (word for younger sister in Kannada), and Toma (word for younger brother). The doctor had told the family to feed me a lot of tender coconut water and when I could eat solid food again, to start with gunji (overcooked rice with lots of salt). These two items were quite possibly the most amazingly delicious things I have ever tasted. And what a blessing to be able to sit up and eat them, ever so slowly. Nothing like getting sick to remind us of how wonderful it is to be healthy.

Reading this over, I realize that I have made an attempt to dramatize a rather unpleasant, but in the end, not terribly dramatic or unique experience. In itself, getting sick was definitely yucky, uncomfortable, and for a few short moments, even frightening. But overall, it was just getting sick and it was accompanied with getting better, and therefore not really a momentous occasion. But that is where my story so far falls short of explaining the real experience I had in those four days. The real lesson I learned was founded in my environment and in the development of human connections across barriers of language and culture. I fell ill while staying in a house of people who until then, were relative strangers and who are now, I am privileged to say, no longer such. Before falling ill I had felt uncomfortable and alien; felt that I was an imposition. I had been having a hard time adjusting to being cooked for and served and housed and welcomed so warmly, hugely, without hesitation everywhere I went that weekend. Meals were served to me and the men first, and only after I had finished eating did the women, the amazing cooks, eat. And I felt I had to reject that part of my cultural surroundings; I was always trying to at least carry my plate into the kitchen, to somehow help out, to somehow not be the guest that I was. I felt frustrated that I was put on such a pedestal, hungering angrily to be treated as an “equal” and regular human being.

But once I was sick, some rigidity in me, this frustration that was not allowing me to accept who I was and where I was, somewhere it broke. And at the same time, my presence as a guest was also shed, as I became somehow, just for three days perhaps, a habitual part of the household. At 8 am and 8 pm, a little before my scheduled antibiotics times, Amma or Tungi would come and ask me if I needed anything, and it took me a while to realize that they knew I needed to eat with the pills, and so they were wondering what they could prepare for me. I felt so lucky to be there, to be taken care of in this generous way. As I felt better I was able to sit and talk with Amma and Tungi, the two who were home during the day with me, and even watch a movie in Kannada with them, laughing along and trying not to make them translate every sentence. I felt privileged to really become a part of family and daily routines, even if only for three days, and even if their routines had been disrupted due to my presence. Being sick forced me to just be there, to be there to see things like brother and sister arguing with each other and Amma telling them to shush. See Appa leave for work, and then come home later. Hear the sounds from the kitchen and walk to the bathroom for the fortieth time with no shame.

Each time I said thanks, they said “no, no, formalities are only for strangers, but you are family.” And being sick, being vulnerable in that way, perhaps does make it easier for people to accept you as just another human being, as part of family in a larger sense of the word. I was no longer defined primarily by being a foreigner, but rather by being ill and incapacitated, which is a great equalizing force. And so in the end, I feel lucky to have fallen ill in that particular household at that moment in time; it would have taken me much longer to listen to my surroundings if I hadn't. I learn each day.

Field Visit #2

Taking GPS points in a banana field....

Tom, i made the photo big just so you could see my grimace.

Last weekend I went to Belgaum city again, for a second visit to my field area. During my first visit, I had already met three wonderful people who will all be my part-time interpreters. Therefore, my most important goals for this visit were the following:
1) Find place to live for when I return in September for a longer stay
2) Determine how I will transport myself and said interpreters to villages to conduct interviews with farmers.
3) Test out my interview questions with a few farmers to see just how dumb and poorly phrased the questions might be.
4) Start to narrow down my selection of possible villages for my study.



On all fronts I have made progress. One of my interpreters has helped me find a nice room I can rent in the back of someone’s house in Belgaum city. Very safe, clean and private, three good things for living and working. I have determined that the inter-village bus system, though complicated, can probably be managed just fine and should be able to get me most anywhere. And, Dad, the price is certainly right: about 57 cents to get to the first village I traveled to, about two hours from Belgaum.



I conducted interviews on three different farms over two days. Of course, they were more like focus groups, since at each farm one farmer would quickly grow into a whole crowd. These farms were run by joint families, so uncles/cousins/brothers/etc. all came out together. Nothing like the attraction of a foreign woman asking dumb questions and walking through fields! Better than television any day! I must admit, at one point I felt fairly intimidated by having literally 8 men all staring at me, waiting for me to ask a question that would be translated into Kannada for them to respond to. And then after a lively discussion, I would get back a one sentence answer from my interpreter. Talk about gatekeepers of meaning…. This will take some time to learn how to deal with, I figure.



And on the final front, I did do some reflecting as to where would be most appropriate to conduct my little “pilot study” research and I realize I still have more reflecting to do. My supervisor calls this an “iterative” process.



All in all, my two days spent in two different villages were pretty amazing and wonderful: spending the night in the home of one of my interpreters in one village, four of us sleeping in the same room, walking with farmers through fields, getting fed lots ands lots of delicious food, watching my host milk the cow and the water buffalo and then being served the milk (after boiling, of course), borrowing a bicycle to ride out to one farmer’s fields (oh, heaven to be back on a bike!)…. The list goes on.



On the other hand, things are not very rosy for farmers right now. The monsoon rains have all but failed in this part of the country, and things are dry, very dry. And though the farmers I talked with were wealthy enough to have deep borewells for irrigation, they were unable to run them sufficiently long, because they were only receiving about two hours of power a day. This is because power shortages throughout the state have been high, due to low rainfall and therefore diminished hydroelectricity capacity. Everywhere I have been the last few weeks, including Bangalore city, have been having at least a few hours, sometimes almost half the day, of power outages each day.



Upon my return to Belgaum, another interpreter’s family invited me to have dinner with them on Sunday night. I agreed, and I also, reluctantly, agreed when they insisted I spend the night. “Too late to take you home!" they said, and I suppose they were right. And let me tell you, my dear friends, it is a d#*% good thing I agreed…oh yes indeed: check out next post, coming shortly....

In India now. Feel like I have been here since December. As someone here remarked, “it's like you were gone for a vacation, only a short while.” Shows how easily time bends in our minds. The future seems so far away, and the past so close.

It also feels I have been here a long time because I have had a jam-packed first few days. Friday and today (monday) were extreme workdays. Remote sensing on a superhighway with no speed limits. Except that that metaphor gives the impression of progress, of which there was astonishingly little. So perhaps it was more like remote sensing as a boulder being rolled up a hill, again and again and again. Sliding down each time. No wait! It was what it really was, no metaphors necessary: a giant map in which I am very very lost.

Shrini, the coordinator of the project I am affiliated with, told me today that I am the only person he has never seen relaxed, that I am always tense or hyper. Which makes me realize I perhaps need to approach this a different way (ya think?). Because lordisa, I certainly don't want to only be stressed or hyper. No, no, I need to step away, step away from the remote sensing.

Which is what I did over the weekend. I went to see a movie on Saturday night. Tingya, a Marathi film with English subtitles (thank goodness).

Here is my onion analysis of the movie:

Skin: the story of a boy in love with the injured family bull that must unfortunately be sold to the butcher to pay off family debts. (oh terribly tragic! Boy cannot bear it! Boy runs to nearest village to get a doctor to look at bull, comes back with doctor and very bloody feet! Oh, even the stoic father is sad!)

Next layer: Agrarian crisis in India: debt is destroying families, breaking the boy's heart, making the father contemplate suicide, and tearing the mother between husband and son. (Political context: since the late 1990s, almost 100,000 farmers in India have committed suicide, the Left attributes the suicides to the cycle of debt caused by the commodification of agriculture, the integration of farmers into volatile world market and the deathgrip of debt to agribusiness companies)

Inner onion: Ah, the circle of life continues. Bull is sold, but one year later, family cow gives birth to new male calf. Boy rejoices, father and mother smile at the bittersweet irony. Film ends: zoom in on neighbour who is very pregnant....oh the metaphors!

All in all, an interesting movie.

And then, to top it off, I went to the first ever Bengaluru Pride Parade on Sunday. WOWZA! It was quite a fun time, a lot more people than I expected. Perhaps 1000 in total. Here is a little information about why that is really amazing (from http://bengalurupride.googlepages.com/)

In India today we are closer to where Pride was when it started in 1970 (in the USA, reference to Stonewall). LGBT people face a lot of harassment from the police. Lesbians are subject to violence and even forced to commit suicide by their families. Gay men are blackmailed by organised rackets that involve members of the police. Bisexuals are denied the chance to express same sex love and forced into opposite sex marriages. Transgenders are routinely arrested and raped by the police. Same sex couples who have lived together for years cannot buy a house together, have a joint bank account or will their property to each other without being challenged by their families.
All this is possible because Section 377 of the Indian Penal Code treats LGBT people as criminals. A case currently being heard in the Delhi High Court calls for this law, imposed on us by the British, to be amended so that it no longer applied to consenting adults. This very small change will not remove all problems for LGBT people, but it will be a vital step towards affirming that we are equal and accepted citizens of India.
On June 29th LGBT people in Bengaluru, Delhi and Kolkata will march in the hope that this change will come soon. Kolkata first did this in 1999, and has done so every year since 2003. Today in 2008, Pride is going national as a sign that the time for national change has come.

There were lots of people marching in masks, and many people hid behind their placards when someone would try to take their picture. On the other hand, many others welcomed photos, and even requested them. I went with a filmmaker and carried his bag while he filmed. We tried to do a few interviews at the end, but the drumming was too loud. Oh yes, there was drumming and dancing. And slogans like “I am proud to be a lesbiaaaannnn!” I will send a link to the film when we have finished editing. For now, here are a few pictures:

Aren't these two just lovely? Note sign and mask in background

I am not hiding. I am not invisible.

Dancing!

These two asked to have their picture taken. I was happy to oblige.

mmmm. ah.

A day of smiles of so many meanings.

i have succumbed to technology or welcome to my blog

Dear friends and family,
Well, you called for a blog, so you will get a blog! HA! And I will begin on the plane, just to make sure I don't procrastinate it into oblivion.
As many of you may know, I felt it was hard to leave Montreal yesterday. I have been enjoying my time there over the past few months. The warm summer weather is not nearly as easy to leave as was the piles of snow I left last December! But as I sit here on the flight from Paris to Bangalore, watching “Geovision” and working on my proposal, I realize I am looking forward to the work waiting for me when I land. I don't know a lot about how the actual research process will be, but the one thing I know for sure is that it will be different from working in my cubicle in Montreal. And I look forward to the change.
A side note about “geovision,” a wonderful part of flying these days. Instead of watching bad plane movies, I can watch a map with the progress of the plane charted across it. So I am able to connect what I see out of the window of the plane with a political boundary. With a name of a city, a body of water, a mountain range. And interspersed with the map that zooms in and out are satellite images of various interesting features near where the trajectory of the plane crosses. Such as the Indus Delta in Pakistan, which is the current feature. Earlier in the flight I had a spectacular view out the window of the plane of Romania, the Black Sea, and then Turkey. Geographic connections that I had never made in my head before, that yes, of course, Romania and Turkey share an inland sea. And the mountain ranges that we have crossed! I realize how little real understanding I have of any place that I have not been to. Which is a good thing, really.
Ah, plane meal two has arrived, must put this little story on hold.