A conversation with Kavita Ramdas

I am on a train to Amsterdam, on my way to a conference, when an Indian voice asks me: “May I sit here?”. “Sure.” I reply, and pull my laptop aside, creating space on the table in front. She is a middle-aged woman – in her mid forties, perhaps – with South Indian features, dressed elegantly in a jeans and poncho. She settles down in the seat across, opens her laptop, and begins to write. The train pulls away from the station; I see the sign Köln Hbf sail past my window.

I get back to the presentation in my laptop, looking up occasionally when the train crosses a bridge revealing a nice view of the Rhine with the cathedral spires in the distance. I am almost never the one to begin a conversation; I wait.

The ticket collector comes by. When he returns her ticket she says in a soft but clear voice: Danke Shön. Surely not a tourist; perhaps lives in Köln.

A little later, when our eyes cross, she asks: “Are you also going to Amsterdam?”

“That’s right. Do you live in Köln?”

“No, no. I live in SanFrancisco.” She gives a wide smile. “I was here to meet a friend in Köln, on my way back from Bosnia.”

“Bosnia ? That’s interesting. How is the country now? Recovering?”

“Very slowly. I was surprised at how poor the situation was. It was difficult to believe I was in Europe – the conditions are so primitive.” She looks out of the window, and I see her eyes water. She takes a napkin and dabs softly below her eyes.

“Do you live in Germany?” she asks. I reply briefly about the work I do, and the purpose of this journey.

“What do you do?” I ask.

“I work for an organization that raises funds for women’s human rights organizations in different countries.”

This was the beginning of a conversation that lasted almost three hours, until we parted ways at the Amsterdam central station. Although I soon found out – when she gave me her business card – that she was “President and CEO” of Global Fund for Women, it was only after I got back and googled her name that I learned she was a celebrity in the eyes of many.

I asked her about her work, and she filled the hours with fascinating details and insights…

“Bosnia is still in a sorry state. Most aid goes into the wrong places, like supporting a redundant political structure (with too many ministries) – so the real issues (like infrastructure, public health etc) do not get enough aid. The condition of women is poor – they do very basic work like knitting, weaving – and it was difficult to believe this was Europe, just a few hundred miles away from Germany. I visited a school where I found children segregated along the lines of 3 different religions – shocking.”

Later, on Afghanistan:

“I was in Afghanistan in 2003. Travel a little outside Kabul, and you’ll find complete wilderness – it is unbelievable how under-developed that country is. Most of the Western aid goes into the military or to beef up security for Westerners there. I learned from the locals that India had sent 50 Tata buses (which had been permitted by the Pakistani government to drive through), and these buses were the backbone of the basic transportation system in Kabul! I met some Indian doctors and nurses from Kerala who were doing a great job – and the locals would often ask why the West does not provide that kind of support…”

She spoke about her organization, which had funded projects in 160 countries. Since they covered such a large area, they mostly used the help of local NGOs and advisors to assess and fund the right projects. The amounts they funded varied, and they considered any form of application, in any language. She spoke of some projects, and of amazing people out there doing so much for others:

“We once received a funding application from a union of domestic servants in Chennai. Can you believe that? This organization was involved in educating domestic servants about sexual harrassment during work, about their right to a holiday each week, about their right to a minimum wage, etc. I couldn’t have imagined that such an organization existed in Chennai. ”

“In Nepal, we funded an organization that helps poor women in villages all over the country. It was started by an Indian lady who, when confronted with doubts from her women friends on how they could ask money from their husbands for a cause in Nepal, put down her gold bangle and said that each woman could start with what she owned!! The organization now receives most of its funds from within the country. Such a model is clearly what developing nations should aim for, where the aid for their institutions come from within the country rather than developed nations in the West.”

“In Cambodia, I visited a factory that employed girls aged 15, and the girls were happy they had a job. Interestingly, the factory was owned by an Indian who found it more profitable to invest there than in India.”

I asked her about fund-raising, and how had things changed over the years. Were there more people willing to give now than before ?

“Earlier there was a widely prevalent notion that one can donate only after acquiring a good amount of wealth. Now there has been a shift in this perception, and people realize that they can contribute in their own small way and make a difference. And our organization recognizes this – we accept any amount from any one, and we do not publicize our donor list sorted according to the amount contributed.”

What about people’s interest in NGOs as a place to work – had that changed ?

“I think there is a perception that people working in NGOs aren’t – or do not have to be – as smart as those in the private sector. That really isn’t true, you know. This perception has to change, for more people to venture into this area of work.”

On the role of religion in a democracy:

“Democracy and secularism go hand in hand. What is the point of democracy in a country that is woven around a single religion? In such a country, if you are from a different religion, you become a second class citizen.”

We spoke of Indian books and movies. She liked the works of Vikram Seth, especially his latest one: Two Lives. Rohinton Mistry was another favourite, and she had found Family matters – a novel where, unlike A Fine Balance, Mistry had to operate within the boundaries of that social circle – very enjoyable. “Isn’t it wonderful that so many Indians are writing so brilliantly these days ?” She found it amazing that movies like Rang De Basanti and Lage Raho Munna Bhai were being made, that Bollywood was adopting such themes. It was a positive indicator of the shift in our society’s taste and its awareness towards social issues, she said. She was thrilled with Omkara, and felt the director’s earlier movie, Makbool, was even better.

She talked about her family, her Pakistani husband who was a writer and worked from home, which had interesting consequences on their daughter: on a visit to Pakistan some years ago, their daughter went upto an uncle and told him that “he had cooked all dishes really well”. She spoke briefly about growing up in Germany when her father was part of the Indian commision in Bonn (which explained her excellent German). Later on, I found on the web that her father had been the head of Indian Navy and had fought two wars against Pakistan. That also explained the opposition she faced from him about her proposal to marry a Pakistani.

She reflected on the changing times, on how social interactions amongst children revolved around the computer and the internet. Her husband had once suggested that their daughter spend a two week vacation doing nothing. “He stresses the importance of boredom: only when one is bored one starts to think, to be creative.”

Later, when I thought back on this conversation, it occured to me that the reason we were able to discuss a variety of topics with openness and ease had a lot to do with our common cultural background. I am able to appreciate this better now, having lived outside India for almost six years: the ease with which we connect to others from the same culture is something we take for granted, until we find ourselves surrounded by people with whom we sometimes do not even share a language. And in such a foreign surrounding, sitting near four Europeans conversing in formal tones, when you encounter someone whose roots are not far from your own, the result is a memory that promises to stay with you for a long time.

By the lake

Lake Geneva, at Lausanne

Books, Theater and Grapes

Last weekend, between the 7th and 8th of October, we watched a play, stole grapes from a vineyard, and walked through long corridors lined with books from all over.

The play – “3, Sakina Manzil” – was by Ramu Ramanathan, a Mumbai-based playwright. It was brought to Frankfurt as part of the events surrounding the Frankfurt Book Fair, where India was the “Guest of honor” this year. Such events are rare in Europe, and I chose to add this evening at the theater to our weekend itinerary (Blogger Alpha and her friend S were visiting us on their Europe tour, and had to put up with such indoor events in their weekend sight-seeing agenda).

A play with two characters, “3, Sakina Manzil” is set in the 1940s, and centered around the Bombay dock explosion that took place in 1944. As I watched the spotlight move from one character to the other, as I heard them speak in that English we Indians have adopted and made our own, as I experienced the story unfold in the Bombay atmosphere with names, expressions, images that spoke of an Indianness I’ve known since childhood but miss now, I felt a wave of nostalgia flow through me, a wave that held me in a trance throughout the play. Later, S mentioned that it could have been shorter in places, but I had been unable to notice any of that. To me, it filled a large vacuum created, on the one hand, by limited opportunities for such “authentic Indian experiences”, and on the other by the increasing scope my work (an occupation that has little to do with the world of art I long to be a part of) is having on my life these days.

After the play, the author spent close to an hour answering questions. The audience was predominantly German, and it conveyed a warm appreciation for the play, significant understanding of the art and a great deal of curiosity towards the specifics of Indian culture and theater scene in India: “The woman in the play was shown as a strong character – were Indian women like that in those days?” ; “Why did you choose an unhappy ending? Wouldn’t it have been more popular among the Indian audience had it been otherwise?” ; “How many such plays are staged in Mumbai? What is the infrastructure? Is it possible to make a living out of theater?”.

Ramu Ramanathan answered all questions with a simplicity and clarity that reflected his down-to-earth nature. It was surprising to hear that although he had been writing plays for many years and staging them in India, none of his plays had been published (He spoke of an ongoing attempt since four years, with the manuscript going back and forth between him and the publishers who were asking for one change after another ). However, a Dutch translation of “3, Sakina Manzil” was on the pipeline, and it was hoped that this would spur further interest among foreign audiences (This was the first time they were staging it outside India). He spoke of the strong theater culture in Maharashtra (“There is a joke amongst us: you only need to scratch a Maharashtrian and he’d end up writing a play!”), and of a lifestyle that sometimes involved staging three plays in different theaters in the city on the same day, which meant the props had to be simple enough to be disassembled within minutes and packed into a van, a vehicle where the actors and playwrights lived while on the move.

All this served only to enhance my nostalgia; I consoled my mind telling myself that this intensity of experience would not be possible had I been able to watch Indian plays every other weekend.

* * *

Earlier that day we drove to Sasbachwalden, a small town in the Black Forest region.

We walked through mostly empty streets lined with pretty tudor cottages, crossing now and then a bubbling brook. Soon our path wounded around a small hill and ended next to a vineyard full of ripe grapes. The girls made most of the opportunity; I wouldn’t be surprised if Germany reports a small dip in wine production for the year 2006.

* * *

On Sunday afternoon we visited the Frankfurt book fair. The “India” theme was splattered all around: on posters, brochures, giant wall hangings displaying authors from the sub-continent, events with famous Indian personalities (we narrowly missed a press-conference with Mira Nair; other events, like readings from authors like Vikram Chandra, Pankaj Mishra, Vikram Seth, Shashi Tharoor, U.R. Ananthamurthy etc had been held through the week).

We had only a couple of hours before the event closed, and as I wandered through the halls the familiar feeling of cultural density enveloped me: I could not imagine another situation where one could get a glimpse of such a wide array of cultures in so small an area. It made you realize how much more there is to be seen, experienced.

Each year I come back from the fair with a list of books (only a list, as books are not typically for sale at the trade fair). This time one book caught my attention: Privacy, a collection of stunning black and white portraits of families in Delhi, by Dayanita Singh.

* * *

It was an eventful weekend, one that passed too soon. Alpha, true to the traits one sees in her writing, was full of humor. Her enthusiasm is infectious: there wasn’t a single dull moment throughout the weekend (which, with someone like me around, is quite a feat – you only need to ask my sister). She left behind plenty of laughter, and a book I’m beginning to love: Vikram Chandra’s Red Earth and Pouring Rain. Thank you, Alpha.

Reality in movies: Manufactured or Captured?

Yesterday at the library I found, among the stack of New DVDs, the “Apu Trilogy” collection from Satyajit Ray. I picked up the first one – Pather Panchali – and watched it later in the afternoon. It left a deep impression, and my mind kept going back to the scenes in that courtyard with Durga and Apu, their mother, father, the old lady, the kittens, the dog. It was as if Ray had opened a window into life in that family, for us to see, understand and empathize. Realism on the screen couldn’t be more real. And more poetic.

There is one aspect about movies portraying realism that has intrigued me for a while now: the impact of the movie seems to depend on whether the reality depicted on screen is manufactured – or seems manufactured – or simply captured. Watching Pather Panchali, I rarely got the feeling that people were acting: events unfolded at a natural pace, nothing seemed forced or exaggerated, and the characters – especially the children – seemed like those you encounter in street: ordinary and commonplace (and yet, through the magic of Satyajit Ray, very endearing).

I’ve felt similarly with Abbas Kiarostami‘s movies. Watching Ten, I could not for the life of me imagine that the child in that car complaining and fighting with his mother was acting. The feeling was stronger in A taste of cherry: if you’ve seen it, you would’ve probably asked yourselves if the director shot the whole movie ad hoc, with the driver picking up strangers on the road and filming their interaction through a hidden camera.

The power of such depictions of “captured reality” is immense; it disturbs you, and leaves you with a lasting impression. Which is very different from the impact of a “well-made” movie with healthy doses of “manufactured reality”. One may like such a well-made movie (an example that comes to mind is a movie I watched a couple of weeks back: Sophia Coppola’s The Virgin Suicides, which dazzled me, in a way), but in the end somewhere deep down you cannot let go of the feeling that all this is made up – manufactured for the benefit of your viewing pleasure. To me, this prevents a good movie from being great.

Kurosawa is another example. The villagers in Seven Samurai appear like real villagers, and their pathos seems real, not manufactured. One cannot say the same about the villagers in Lagaan. Again, the difference between good and great.

I watched Deepa Mehta’s Water some weeks previously. Thinking back, the parallels to Pather Panchali are noticeable, and so are the differences. The relationship between the little girl Chuhiya and the old woman who craves for sweets isn’t dissimilar to the one between Durga and her grand aunt; both movies revolve around a courtyard: one within a house and the other within an ashram. But Water, although delicate and moving, seemed manufactured in places, and the casting of Lisa Ray as a widow was inappropriate (Nandita Das would have fit better into the doleful atmosphere of the widow’s ashram).

How does it work ? What techniques do you apply to make a scene not seem manufactured ? When is it okay for a scene to appear manufactured ?

I need to learn to watch movies better.