The past few weeks have kind of been a blur of out, saying goodbye to other interns, working, and going to the gym with Ally. I am officially now the last American standing. Thrown in there were a couple of yoga classes, a couple of movies, a couple of Kingfisher beers, and a couple of failed plans for weekend trips.
Work!
One main project that I've been working on is a documentary about the big case where the court held that two pregnant women's fundamental rights had been violated (among them, Miriam). It was going to be a project with just me and Maria, which we would continue to collaborate on after I left. We've met with an Australian filmmaker a couple of times and have written a couple of script drafts. I've really enjoyed doing something creative for once, more than attempting to make legalese writing sound elegant. But this little sprout of an idea may be doomed by logistical constraints--we'll see.
I've also been contributing to a pending case which, as always here, concerns the government's failure to implement its social welfare schemes (resulting in, you know, death and stuff). I think I've gotten a better insight into what corruption on a mass level means. I looked at one study that the government commissioned through the United Nations Population Fund--and it turned out maternal mortality wasn't such a big problem here after all!
Play!
I recently went back to Gunpowder with Maria's visiting Israeli friend, Hannah, where we gorged ourselves on pumpkin curry, vegetable korma, coorgi pork (well, I ate the pork), and the bread that looks suspiciously like Moroccan msemmen. I've also spent ample time hanging out at Khan Market, which is supposedly the most expensive real estate in the world, yet still resembles a shady alleyway. Finally, on the night when my rather inspirational boss left recently (shortly before it became clear that our entire unit is now going to fall apart), we all went out to Cafe Morrison (as in, Jim), where there are free drinks for women on Tuesdays.
On Sunday, Maria, Hannah, and I all went and got ayurvedic massages. I can't think of a censored way to say this, so I'll calls it as I sees it: BS. This quack of a doctor, who reminded me quite a bit of my old buddy, ENT Man, took our pulses and made bold, Eureka-esque announcements about our body types, personalities, and predispositions. After I told him I had asthma, he informed me, yes, I had just the personality type that would predispose me to asthma (and hair fall, it turns out). And that I was impulsive, yet made firm decisions! But really, the way he made these pronouncements, kind of like a magician revealing his secret who expected listeners to faint with awe, was far too reminiscent of the real doctors I've seen here, and I'm guessing, as in Morocco, there is more of a culture here of doctors-are-magic-and-I-must-do-what-they-say. This has filled me with rage for some reason.
Anyway, after the "diagnosis," we were each taken into a chamber and "treated" by two young women who had been imported for their skin color from the region of Kerala, which is supposedly famous for its healing massage traditions. It was just weird, involved sliding around on a wooden slab, and didn't feel very good, so I am resolving never again to seek any massage that doesn't have the word "Swedish" in it.
Poverty!
As I was sitting and fretting about whether to get Thai food for lunch yesterday, Miriam and her mother and baby came in. Her mother couldn't eat the pastry I offered her because of her teeth, which look rather long and diseased. I figured they were here for something having to do with the judgment, of which they were the center. But they were just wondering how they could get a mosquito net because malaria and dengue fever are running rampant in the vacant lot where they live. Some office is supposed to distribute nets to people in their situation, so a coworker directed them there.
Miriam's mom has just come into the office looking very upset. The low-level bureaucrat who is supposed to distribute their rations to them is refusing to do so. A coworker is making a call. If it's this hard for them to get a few kilograms of rice, I'm not sure how getting the judgment enforced is going to go. Everything is hard for them, on such a small level that it's difficult to fathom how they've survived this long. And this is going to sound racist or bad somehow, but I've never been somewhere where people are so mean to one another. Here's a story about malnutrition in India, though I can't say I would have any faith in a parliamentary resolution: http://www.nytimes.com/2010/08/09/world/asia/09food.html.
Annoyance!
I guess I must accept now that my living experience with Pri has not been that successful. She didn't interact with me until it came time to pay the electricity bill (and who could resist me?) and I was really just a cover story for her parents so she could live with her boyfriend. Ah naivete, thou art always with me. In waiting for her to, like, invest in a fridge, I've basically been living like a squatter. I'm still glad I moved because it meant no commute to work and I like this neighborhood, but still, can one really trust no one when one goes abroad? A new girl moved in on Sunday, which I was peeved by at first because nobody asked my permission. But I actually kind of like her and the place is less creepy now, so so be it.
Next up, Pondicherry.
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