Every year, when I arrive in India in the peak of the summer and settle in a hotel or rent a room, I look for a gym. I start my day with an hour-long work out in order to enjoy the air cooled by the air conditioner before I dive into the streets to roam, take pictures, meet people, and record interviews. Because of the separate hours for men and women in the smaller gyms I am able to communicate exclusively with women. They are different from the ones I meet in the market or on the streets. They are from the upper class. They have cars and chauffeurs. The younger ones prefer to drive themselves before they get married, but afterwards they hire someone they trust. They have full-time help on a daily basis for cooking and cleaning, for all kinds of shopping, including picking up medications, buying soda and alcohol, or making travel reservations. They shop while they are in the car by instructing the driver to pull over right in front of the shop, roll down the window and shout out what’s needed. 
The shopkeeper himself runs to serve the valued customer or sends someone else. Sometimes it is the driver who takes care of the order. However, if it is about a new sari or fabric for a new suit, she will leave the car and go into the shop herself. She can easily spend a few hours there. The shop-keeper spreads every fabric she turns her eyes to in front of her and tells her where it was woven, what its qualities are, how long he has been partnering with the producer, and what other patterns he has. In the meantime, the store helpers silently bring other samples, fold and put away discarded ones, bring hot tea or chilled Limca for the madam ji so she can be completely comfortable while examining the colorful sea of textile treasures.
About ten years ago, I was in Banares and during my stay there had found a really nice gym. The women came to the gym to hang out, chat, gossip, exchange recipes with each other, and complain about not being able to watch their diet since they were expected to be at the table and eat with everyone else. They would carry out some light aerobic movements, but without much effort or sweat, then they would do some exercises on the floor targeting the stomach muscles, which was followed by their favorite part, “the picnic”, as they called it. They opened their bags and took out small metal containers filled with spicy food which they shared while sitting on the training machines. When I was there they always invited me to join in, but I always refused. I always had my banana before the workout and never ate right afterwards. We started talking to each other, they asked me about my routine, my eating habits, the food I liked, etc. In a week or so we were discussing proteins, carbohydrates, fats, stretching and warming up, muscles and a balanced diet. I told them that I ate vegetables once a day, but boiled, not fried. They looked at me in disgust and I explained that I asked the cook to put next to the pot a small bowl for me and throw in almost all the same ingredients and spices that are needed for the traditional meal. In addition, they couldn’t understand how I could eat vegetables with no bread or rice especially around dinner-time. Their eating habits were very different from mine and their fullest meal was around 9 or 10 o’clock at night, depending on when their husbands returned from work.
Mona and I became friends. She stopped eating sweets and limited her roti and naan intake in the evening; she and her family were not rice eaters. Her in-laws were really tolerant and patient, she explained, but it was impossible not to eat with her husband and to cook separately only for herself, she told me. Even her thirteen-year-old daughter dropped the carbohydrates in the evening, because she was also quite heavy. Mona claimed that she did not like eating without bread and she ate smaller amounts this way. Mona lost about 6 pounds in 3 weeks and her daughter also felt the effects of the new diet. The only concern at home was that they shouldn’t lose too much weight in case the relatives and neighbors would begin to worry that they were sick or that the family was having problems. People could start gossiping and thus ruin their good reputation, which was necessary to ensure a good future for the daughter and a successful search for a suitor.
Mona had invited me several times before, but I always asked for a raincheck, because I had already made plans. However, one day I agreed to visit her at her place. After I was done with my workout, I took a cold shower — it took a long time for the water to warm up — and followed her down the stairs of the gym.
I noticed dark dried up red and brown stains on the walls at the bottom of the stairs, beneath a sign saying, “Spitting is forbidden”. Men from all classes generally chew paan, a small pouch of betel leaf wrapped around areca nut crushed into small pieces and mixed with slaked lime, aniseed and often tobacco as well. From time to time there is a need to spit the saliva that collects in the mouth and many men, especially those from the poorer classes, spit the red-colored saliva accumulated in their mouth anywhere they can. I am repulsed when a man will talk to me with his mouth so full of saliva that he has to keep his face up and lower lip extended forward to prevent the saliva from spilling out. The real enemy for the paan-eater is cancer of the tongue, mouth, pharynx or esophagus, but this is an addiction like smoking and hard to let go.
We had just come down when Mona muttered:
“Where is he? Where did he go? Why does he always disappear? It’s so hot outside. Why do I have to look for him? When is he going to learn?”
She was looking for her driver and the car. She saw the car a few feet away. The driver was sleeping. She angrily shouted his name and he jumped with a startled and guilty expression. He wasn’t expecting her to be back so soon. He rushed to open the rear doors for us. I was relieved that the car had an AC. The gym was in the center of Varanasi and I had crossed the city on a daily basis in an open rickshaw. At that time the main road was dilapidated, dusty, the air around it polluted by the exhaust fumes of cars and buses and malodorous because of the open sewers and garbage strewn about here and there. However, this ride was a good deal for the rickshaw driver because he was always paid more for pedaling back and forth long distances and for waiting outside in the heat. I tucked a handkerchief under my sunglasses in front of my nose and mouth. I had seen men when walking or on motor bikes use a handkerchief this way or women covering their heads and part of their face with a corner of the sari or the dupatta, the scarf, a necessary part of the salwar-kamiz outfit.
The road to Mona’s house went past a huge garbage dump. A few emaciated, lethargic cows and scrawny medium-sized dogs with yellow-rust colored fur were digging through the piles. I had noticed that stray dogs here always look alike, as if they belonged to the same breed. There was no sidewalk in sight, just a narrow lane in the dirt right next to the road and a tall walled fence on top with three rows of wire. I had walked by this dumping place several times and never found it empty or clean. I crossed on the other side to avoid the stench and the traffic of local people throwing nylon bags full of garbage, one on top of the other. The dump was piled up against the wall in an area 30 feet by 50 feet and was more than 6 feet high.
We turned right along the yellow wall and then to the right again alongside the same fence until we reached a metal gate. The driver announced our arrival with a honk and the gate opened slowly. The short gravel driveway, lined by symmetric dark green bushes trimmed in a rounded shape, took us to the entrance of the house in a semi-circle and we pulled over right in front. This area of the front yard was covered with light grey marble tiles leading through the marble stairs up to the door. Two elderly men came to open the back doors for us and greeted us. Mona handed one of them her purse and gym bag and the second one stretched his hand to pick up my bag, which looked bulky and heavy. I always had my documents, money and ticket with me, i.e. everything I needed to board the plane on my way back, and hence never trusted anyone with it. However, I instantly figured that it was going to be embarrassing not to give him my bag and I had to think fast to avoid any awkwardness, so I took out the fabric bag with my gym clothes from inside and handed it to him, explaining that I didn’t need this one for now, but that my camera was in the big bag and I wanted to take some pictures right away.
A young woman received us at the entrance door and asked if we would like something to drink, tea or a cold Coke or Limca. I opted for the cold Limca thinking how refreshing it would be if I mixed it with a little bit of gin. But I didn’t want to make a bad or rather, an unusual impression, since I was going to be perceived not only as a guest, but also remind them that I was a foreigner and an outsider. Although I knew they would be happy to serve it to me, this could still affect our exchange. Anyway, I felt the cold air from the AC coming through the open door, and had no complaints.
Mona’s husband was away on a business trip. He owned factories that made truck engines. They had houses in Mumbai, New Delhi and Mussoorie. When I entered the house I froze of amazement. The most stunning piece of art I had ever seen outside of a museum’s collection was right in front of me on a pedestal in a glass box in the middle of the foyer. It was a real-life size statue of a peacock with its tail spread out. Mona noticed my admiration and explained:
“It’s made of gold and real sapphires and rubies. “
“It’s unbelievable.”
“I know, but if people don’t ask, they wouldn’t know it’s so precious. But we enjoy it so much! The intricacy of the craftsmanship is exquisite.”
She invited me to come inside the living room. We sat in one corner where there was a love seat and a couple of armchairs upholstered in light beige fabric and crafted in a contemporary style. Next to us was a nice square side table covered by a brocade runner in golden, dark red, green and blue colors. A bronze statue about a foot high sat in the middle. It was Jina Mahavira sitting with one hand resting over the other on his lap with both palms turned upwards and his emblem, a lion carved into the blanket of his throne. A couple of smaller statues of a Yaksha and a Yakshini, semi-divine beings guardians of Jainism were arranged on each side. I forgot to ask whether these were real antiques or not. Sometimes rare and valuable ones can be found in antique stores and then later you come across something similar in a museum and discover that the original dates back to the 16th or 17th century.
I remember once I noticed an interesting statuette on a shelf in such a store. It consisted of the front legs and head of a horned bull with the back torso shaped in a weird flat box-like form. I turned it up and down in my hands. It didn’t have a lid and didn’t open. The bottom part was rough to the touch. I wasn’t familiar with any mythological creature of this kind and I asked the owner about it. He clarified that this was a scraper for soles and feet and that the wavy surface used to be much rougher and was actually worn out because this piece was at least 300 years old. If he was telling the truth, then the price he offered was quite reasonable. I had no way of telling. In a few days I actually saw a similar item in a museum and it dated to the 17th century. I went back to the store but naturally the piece had already been sold. Alas, I never had a second chance to own such an artifact.
Anyway, let me come back to my story about Mona. Her family lived in a mansion with about 7 or 8 bedrooms on the top floor and a beautiful large veranda on the roof. I got lost on the first floor after I was taken to the bathroom and had to find my way to the living room by myself. The back yard was enormous and almost had a forest in it of old tall trees with thick trunks. I recalled the area and asked her if they had tried to remove the garbage from there and clean it up somehow. She shook her head expressing despair. She sighed:
“We did it once, but had to pay a fine. Can you believe this? It isn’t in our property; this is why we need special permission from the municipality. Working with the bureaucracy is impossible. We really tried. We hoped to clean up and now we have given up.”
“Doesn’t the odor reach you?”
“No, it’s far. The leaves filter the air. That part of the garden we don’t use. What else to do?”
I had just sat down on the soft armchair when suddenly a puffy little dog ran into the room and jumped right into my lap. She had long snow-white curly and fuzzy fur and was wearing a pink collar with a bow on top. Mona called Lulu to come to her, but it didn’t work. My perfectly groomed and combed new friend was comfortable where she was and I didn’t mind it at all. I stuttered when I started speaking to her in Hindi. It was my first time. I thought that she definitely knew Hindi because it was the servants who cleaned her and groomed her and whose proficiency in English was usually not high. Often, in the rich neighborhoods I had seen at sunset a servant walking silently and somewhat awkwardly a white little dog exactly like Lulu. I wondered if they too were all the same breed. I noticed a large photograph in a frame on the second side table and a small model of a white temple. Anticipating my questions, Mona explained:
“Sometime ago Jains considered building marble temples the most important social work we could do. They belonged to them as much as they did to everyone else. My father-in-law, yes, the one in the picture, was a very religious man, although he was a great businessman. He worked hard to establish the company and with the first profit he made, he built a temple in the village where he was born in the Gwalior district of Madhya Pradesh, and this is it by the way.” She pointed to the miniature replica and then continued.
“He built a few more temples later on in different places. He was a devoted Jain, following all the rules of fasting in the body and in the mind. He was always reading, exploring and accumulating knowledge. He talked to us about the need to comprehend and renounce the causes of sin such as violence, attachment to objects, lying, stealing, dishonesty, anger, etc. He was a wise man.” Her eyes filled with tears.
“When did he pass away?”
“We don’t know. He might still be alive. He just left one morning and disappeared. We looked for him, asked around, had his picture in the newspaper. It was about two years ago. We knew he had gone to the forest.”
In several Indian religions the life of the male layperson is divided into four major stages or periods of about 25 years. The first two are related to society and family, the second two to renunciation and meditation. During the first stage, brahmacharya, the child grows up and reaches adulthood while engaging in education. The next phase, grihastha, is the family life of raising and providing for the children. The third period, vanaprastha, is the beginning of old age, when the individual leaves home behind, goes to the forest to devote his time to meditation, fasting, and purification rites, away from society and family in preparation for complete detachment. The last one, sanyasa, is asceticism, penance and meditation to achieve moksha, or liberation from the circle of rebirths42.
“Listen, we know we can never find him. According to unofficial data more than 5 million such sanyasi, or ascetics live in India nowadays. These days, however, we, the younger generation, think more and more about shelters for homeless people, schools and hospitals and less about temples and religion. My husband, for example, opened a hospital in Gwalior and another one in Indore. His brother is running one and a cousin the other one. I helped out a lot. I made posters and brochures and flyers and went to poor communities and let them know about the hospitals. But I wanted to do something myself. I had some money of my own. My kids grew up. What to do at home? Once I was on the train, dozing off, but for some reason I felt uneasy. When I opened my eyes, I saw an old man staring at me. I felt really uncomfortable. So, I went out of the compartment for a few minutes. Then I came back, but he stared at me again and I asked him why. He told me that I was one of those few people he had met who have changed their destiny because they gave much more than they took. Whether what he said was true or not, I don’t know, but this is something I remembered and it made me think about finding more ways to do charity work. Every time I feel tension or anxiety, I make food and send it to a temple or a dargah to feed the poor. This brings so much peace to my mind. A few years ago, I opened a school. About three years ago, I rented an old building one block away from here, had it fixed and started the school in it.”
“What kind of school? Which grades?”
“Elementary boarding school. It is free of charge. I never had second thoughts once I decided what I wanted to do. This is where my heart and my beliefs are. Poor kids need help to get out of the street, where they learn how to pickpocket, deceive and become criminals. There is nothing worse than that. But they need to survive, right? I studied to become a teacher when I was young. I have M. Phil. in Education and Ph. D. in Hindi Literature. I can do this, I said to myself. People now know I can do this. Now I am in the process of buying a piece of land. I will build a building for the school. The children will have a bigger yard and a gym. It will be difficult, but it’s all worth it.”
“Didn’t you have to deal with bureaucracy and corruption?” My curiosity was growing.
“Yes, hyenas are everywhere, but you can find your way in the jungle if you are alert. Can you believe that I even received donations and a government grant that I had never asked for. People trusted me. I trusted them and it worked out. Well, I had to hand in a few thousand under the table to find the right people, but I did. Now I am surrounded by them and feel pretty secure. It took a lot of effort and time. All my accounting books are open for anyone to see. They know I am not doing all this for money and there are so many people that have volunteered to help. It’s so rewarding.”
There are three basic types of schools in India – government schools, privately run schools, schools that are funded by the government for the most part but privately managed, and finally private schools with no help from the government. Many schools operating on federal funding in rural and especially tribal areas have substandard infrastructure. They have no electricity, no heating or fan, no blackboard and chalk, no seats, no water, no sanitary facilities, even no roof on top and often have shocking student-to-teacher ratio as well as multi-grade teaching, causing regular absences and high dropout rates. Private unaided schools are mushrooming at the primary school level all over India in the last decade or so. It is not clear whether it is a result of dissatisfaction with the government sector, however. New movies and new private schools — thousands of them are promoted on billboards and on TV commercials. There is no doubt that society benefits enormously from strengthening its educational system. However, private schools are accessible to people from the middle and upper classes because they charge high tuitions and thus restrict access to the poor. At the same time, many private schools are accredited with the help of under-the-table negotiations and their quality is questionable, because of problems, such as low teacher qualifications, lack of formal teacher training and subsequently, inadequate curricula and unsatisfactory teaching materials. This topped by the fact that the schools are English-medium ones, but the teachers are speakers of English with deficiencies and their local Hindi language is taught as a foreign language, it is clear that there are plenty of pitfalls to be aware of. Yet, they have better resources, a great many facilities and plenty of potential for improvement. Mona read my thoughts and continued:
“You know, I thought for a long long time about all this. And I met and discussed my ideas with many friends and people in this field. Then I made up my mind. My school is only for the underprivileged and it picks up children from the streets. It opens the window of knowledge in front of them to learn about the huge world out there along with its multi-layered reality and potential. Last year, my daughter started helping out. The children are crazy about her. She says ‘Mom, let’s open another school in our village.’ ‘It’s too early. Let’s have everything set up and running and then we will,’ I say. And I agree with the Congress legislating for social justice. We need to open the private sector to the poor. My daughter gets it! How come so many people don’t?”
She was referring to a constitutional amendment passed by the Congress in 2006 that requires private schools, colleges and professional training institutions to reserve a quarter of their seats for students from the untouchable cast or other socially and economically disadvantaged groups, a step needed to allow them upward mobility through education and regular income in the future. In addition, a central topic in the public discourse recently had been whether legal measures should be created to regulate the commitment to reservation in the private sector as well, including employment, capital markets, agricultural land, education and housing. Mona seemed to know very well what she was doing. I was certain that she would be successful in her endeavor and I wished her good luck.
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42 See for more Chaturvedi, Door P.K. Vishnu Purana. Diamond Pocket Books. 2006. 61-63, also Holdrege, Barbara. “Dharma” Mittal, Sushil and G.R. Thursby eds. The Hindu World . Psychology Press. 2004. 231-233 and Doniger, Wendy. The Hindus: An Alternative History. New York: Penguin. 2009. 164-212