Primary Ponderings on the Punites

Presumably the people of Pune are similar in many ways to their fellow country folk but as I have not ventured far from here at this stage my following observations may be of limited relevance to residents in other parts of India. I am also aware I have only been here a matter of weeks so what follows may be merely the ramblings of a culture shocked westerner trying to process an alien world. I may well establish more enlightened views before I depart this astounding place.

The people of Pune are lovely; whether they are being friendly and open or dismissive and bossy, you immediately feel as though you are a long standing and accepted part of their world. They leave you in no doubt that you have every right to be a part of their lives and that they are all the happier for your presence. Their manner is simultaneously formal and familiar; reserved but genuinely warm. On the whole, everyone displays very good humour, from the mothers in the playground, to the wallahs and rickshaw drivers, to the beggars. People look out for each other and protect the vulnerable, particularly the young and disadvantaged. While everyone appears to have an opinion on everyone and everything, levels of tolerance are surprisingly high. No one frowns at a squawking child or shoos a stray dog, there is a general acceptance of all things’ right to a peaceful existence. Of course, co-existing with the people of Pune is not without its frustrations, certainly for us and presumably for them as well.

The tendency of locals to stare at westerners is one of the first things you notice on your arrival here and one of the most initially challenging aspects we have encountered. There is no subtlety in the manner in which you find yourself visually scrutinized. Most people stop whatever it is they are doing to devote all their energies to examining you from head to foot. As you walk past, they will either walk with you or turn their body to face you front on for the maximum time. At the school site, it is not unusual for scores of workers to down tools and just stare for the duration of a visit, even if you are only a speck in the distance. No wonder the school is taking so long to complete, there is a constant stream of western visitors disrupting progress. Presumably when we move out to site, things will come to a complete halt. Most stares are merely curious, but some can be amused and affectionate or conversely, bemused, even scornful. But whatever the case, the reality of being constantly gazed at can be tiring and even stressful. As a mother with young children, I am actually quite used to averting my eyes from pointed stares and glares (they are fairly plentiful in East Malvern, particularly from pasty middle agers who would rather children didn’t clutter the footpath), so I have long been in the habit of tuning out and looking straight ahead. However, the children have taken longer to get used to being the subjects of constant observation and have all expressed a wish to be invisible on more than one occasion.

We have found that any staring situation is immediately rectified by engaging the starer with either a smile or a wave. This is happily interpreted as an open invitation to come over and shake hands with Chris and the boys, pinch Eliza on the cheek and reach out to Sebastian in the hope of a touch or possibly a cuddle, I might get a courteous nod, if I am lucky. The children are dutifully counted and then Chris is asked to confirm the number of children.
Chris: Four children.
The locals: “Four children!” then nods of approval among the gathering crowd, “All yours?”
Chris: “Yes, all ours.”
This is met with smiles and giggles, “You are very blest, Sir.” On one occasion, a group of young men gave Chris a round of applause. Chris was chuffed, perhaps there is magic in four.

As a western wife and mother, I am constantly approached with offers of assistance to clean my house, wash the clothes, iron the clothes, or look after the baby (the most frequent offer). Kirsty was walking along the other day and someone offered to clean her ears –this rates as the most unusual service thus far offered to any of us. Pune is filled with service providers and when you live in an apartment complex like Hermes, you can pretty much employ the services of someone for every conceivable need. All manner of things can be delivered to your door, from restaurant meals and alcohol to vegetables and crockery. I answer the door sometimes once a day to a new person offering some kind of domestic service. When I am down in the playground, the local mothers interrogate me about who I employ for what and then berate me for not using their cleaner or ironing person who is much better / cheaper/ punctual, and anyway, why don’t I have an ayah (nanny) for Sebastian? I love the mothers in the playground, aside from always looking so sumptuous in their saris and smelling deliciously spicy and perfumy; they are very warm and engaging and always try to include me in their conversation, albeit after they finish discussing me. When I haven’t met them before, they are very careful to clarify I speak no Hindi or Marathi, or very little, and even test out a few phrases on me before they feel comfortable to launch into a full scale analysis with each other about my every aspect. Having arrived at an assessment of the westerner between themselves, they then turn their attention back to me and very patiently and kindly speak in English if they can, partly so I do not feel excluded and partly so I can provide any further required information.

I am trying to get some grasp on the language and I have a picked up a few useful phrases along the way. The problem is, different parts of India have different dialects and while most Indians speak at least a little Hindi, they have trouble understanding Hindi spoken by anyone outside their state, including other Indians. In Pune, if you can not speak Marathi (the local dialect), your next best bet is English because the locals are far more likely to understand an Australian speaking English than an Australian speaking Hindi. Additionally, many locals like to practice their English with westerners and this reduces the need and the opportunities to speak Marathi. For example, every morning I take a walk up the street to the stall of a man who sells milk, bread and newspapers. Every morning I buy the same thing; six white rolls. (We have discovered these crusty rolls, not unlike ciabatta bread in that they are crusty on the outside but far more plump and fluffy on the inside. We eat them fresh each morning with butter and vegemite. Yum.) Anyway each morning our conversation goes like this:
Celia: Krupaya malla 6 (point to rolls) dia (I have no idea of the correct spelling but this roughly translates to ‘I would like 6 rolls please’) I really don’t need to say this because I buy the same thing each day and the man always has them ready for me.
Wallah: You are wanting 6 rolls, Yaar. (He doesn’t need to say this either because he already knows that is what I want.) I then hand him the equivalent of 50 cents and he hands me the rolls.
Celia: Dhanyawad
Wallah: Thank you and Good bye.
Every morning, I stubbornly request in Marathi and he stubbornly responds in English. Still, at least we understand each other.

Communicating with Punites is straightforward in most instances and is becoming increasingly easier. We figure the head waggle means neither yes nor no, but rather represents that 2 people are ad idem – a meeting of the minds as it were. It seems that when you ask something such as “me za toe Kalyani Naga” (I am going to Kalyani Naga); the rickshaw driver figures you do not need his permission, only his understanding. If he waggles in comprehension, he is willing to take you. If he says no, he is not. However, a head waggle does not necessarily mean he knows where Kalyani Naga is. If you suspect he is somewhat confused about his destination and you will know this by the fact that he starts shouting out landmarks to you he thinks are in the general vicinity, you must provide him with further direction. To confirm he knows where to go, he says “Acher” (‘I understand’) And you respond with, “Tikka,tikka!” (Whatever that means). If no “acher” is forthcoming, suggest he confer with the person in the next vehicle (although, in all likelihood they will have been listening to the whole exchange and won’t require an invitation to proffer their opinion).

While the English language is very popular in Pune, both in conversation and in signage, certain liberties are taken with it, making it in some instances virtually incomprehensible to locals and expatriates alike. Daryl and Jenny noticed a sign outside a bookshop that stated, “For Curiosity, Park Here” (Presumably it was a car park for book browsers, although it may equally have been a popular rendezvous for staring at westerners.) We also noticed a rather pessimistic sign on the way back from Lonavla that stated “Specious Place for Weddings”. There are certain road marks in Pune that bear a close resemblance to those found in Australia but have a substantially different meaning. Pedestrian or Zebra crossings are clearly marked on most of the main roads in Pune with a series of parallel line stretching across all lanes. However, unlike in Australia where such crossings require drivers to give way to pedestrians, in Pune these crossings appear to mean “Pedestrians, if you must cross the road, we would rather you did it here and this may maximize the possibility of vehicles slowing down a bit or at least swerving around you, if the driver is so inclined.”

The people of Pune can present as fairly impatient. This quality is quite bizarre in a society where the majority of citizens feel absolutely no obligation to be punctual or even to honor appointments. Prospective families book tours at the school and then either do not show up at all or appear 90 minutes late with every expectation that the staff will wait around for them in 35 degree heat. We booked a car and driver one day to pick us up at 9.30am. When he didn’t show, we made do with a rickshaw (and have been making do ever since). The driver rang us at 11.30am because he had just turned up and couldn’t understand why we no longer wanted his services even though the day was half gone. Be that as it may, once the locals actually appear, they want attention / service/ a ride now, now, NOW! Taking an elevator is a case in point. The lift will be full and its destination may be the top floor of a shopping mall. On reaching the top floor, the lift door opens to the sight of a group of shoppers wishing to descend. The reasonable course of conduct would see these potential descendors stepping aside, or at least waiting until the occupants of the lift, had stepped out. But no, the usual course here is for those wishing to descend to immediately jam themselves into the lift with the existing occupants without providing any opportunity for the latter group to alight. There follows a very uncomfortable and time consuming shuffle and squirm as the existing occupants, having found themselves pinned against the back wall of the lift, make their way slowly through the pack of now very annoyed descendors. This occurs every time and presumably has done for years with no one realising the efficient benefits of first clearing the lift before re-filling it. This impatience also manifests in check-out or register queues where, particularly women shoppers, will not hesitate to avoid the line by striding past it and then squeezing in behind the check-out person and placing their basket at the front of the conveyor belt. This little maneuver is undertaken with complete confidence because the line jumper quite rightly assumes that the locals in the queue will be too busy gossiping about the westerner to notice and the westerner will be too amazed or befuddled to object.

While the presence of western women can result in the locals averting their eyes shyly or even ignoring the woman if that is easier, western men are sought out, particularly by local men, to speak to and compliment. Chris and Cam have found this a rather uncomfortable, if flattering, experience. There is a fellow who works in Pune Central who often runs up to Chris shouting, “Hey Tom Cruise, Tom Cruise!” Cam reckons this guy is deluded but this is probably because, but for the nose, Cam fits more neatly into the Tom category than Chris! Chris was conducting a school tour with two prospective fathers last week when one of them said to him in no context whatsoever, “By the way, you have very beautiful eyes!” This stopped Chris in his tracks and he mumbled something about his wife being very fond of them. Mind you, some of the local women have had a bit to say about the boys as well. Michael was interviewing an applicant teacher when she asked him mid interview to guarantee her that neither Cam nor Chris would make a pass at her if she took the job. She had seen their photos on the website and had apparently concluded they looked like a couple of likely lads. Michael immediately gave her this assurance as he quickly ushered her out the door with a “Don’t call us…” wave and a smile.

The most confronting aspect of Pune is the abject poverty of some of its citizens. There are shanty towns dotted all over the place and they are more concentrated around certain parts of the city such as the train station. ‘Destitute’ does not adequately describe the situation in which these families find themselves and yet, by international standards or even by the standards of other parts of India, I suspect the poorest of Pune have more than some. Many of these people are clearly very sick, hungry and in need of assistance. It is incredibly frustrating and distressing to watch them in their futile attempts to seek some shelter from the heat of the day, let alone protection from the squalor in which they exist or the filth of the water they are forced to consume. I watched in horror one day riding past a slum in a rickshaw as a mother held her Sebastian over an open drain while a frightening substance poured forth from his bowels. It is these people who sit in my gut and keep me awake at night. Their circumstances are hopeless and yet they are valiant in the efforts to exist with dignity. The adults greet each other with a smile and cuddle their children with affection. The children play nicely with each other and are careful not to get under their parents’ feet. Despite their desperate circumstances, they are excellent role models for human interaction.

But perhaps the situation of the poor is not entirely hopeless in Pune because they are to some extent protected by their fellow citizens. Locals are very generous and tend to share what they have. As in most parts of the world, this generosity abates in direct relation to the amount of wealth an individual possesses but certainly the grocers will not hesitate to hand over a succulent mango to a thirsty child. In many ways, life is very precious here and is treated with great respect. I walked past 4 men on MG Road seriously intent on trying to revive a rapidly expiring pigeon by fanning it and sprinkling it with water. Similarly, one morning when we were walking through our local village, Chris accidentally tripped over a stray puppy and while it was not hurt, its yelp caught the attention of everyone within earshot and several people came over to check on its welfare. Chris is now the village pariah.

The locals also employ the services of others for virtually everything from shaving, to shoe cleaning, to car washing to, it would seem, ear cleaning. They tend to shop in the local villages rather than at supermarkets and malls and this provides direct support the local, often very poor, community. Pune has a significant working class and middle class and the poorest are provided with some buffer against their circumstances by the readiness of these classes to provide employment for even the most menial tasks. Some tasks are paid in kind. Each morning in our apartment complex a group of ladies come to each home to collect the garbage. They sought through it for recyclables and anything of value and then dump it at an allocated site. Presumably they are allowed to keep what they find for their efforts and trade it with recyclers. I was mortified about this on my first morning here, but I have since realized, this is considered a fairly lucrative earner (Chris has seen some of the garbage ladies involved in physical fights over disputed turf). Indeed, if I don’t have my rubbish out by 8am, the door bell rings and I am greeted with an annoyed direction by my allocated lady to hand over her garbage. Mind you, she was very happy with us the morning after we hosted a gathering to watch the Australia/ Japan World Cup soccer match, there were plenty of recyclables in her booty that day.

We have taken our lead from the locals and can see the value of employing someone for most things is obvious and very worthwhile for all, particularly if it spares someone from the indignity of begging. The boys who shine shoes, as well as doing a good job, provide an essential service to all professionals on the dusty roads. Similarly, the craftspeople who fashion simple trinkets out of wood catch our attention. They provide valuable consideration for any payment they receive and if they are savvy, as they often are, they will take advantage of having your undivided attention to practice their English because some fluency in English improves their chances for better employment. A cleaner or gardener with regular employment and on an appropriate income can support up to twenty people. So the filter down effect of direct employment can be far more effective than any government assistance to the poor. Chris does not agree with me about the motives of the working and middle classes in employing the poor in this capacity. He thinks their motivations are directly linked to caste and are principally about re-enforcing the notion that there is someone beneath you to do the things you refuse to do. As he rightly reminds me, child labor in sweat houses is endemic in India with children as young as six taken from their families and locked up making matches for an absolute pittance in an effort to re-pay family debt. Obviously, exploitation is alive and kicking in India and the level of extreme poverty and desperation make the very poor vulnerable to any rogue out to make a quick quid. But I do not believe this attitude is reflective of most of the locals. I may be being idealistic but I think the tendency to readily employ anyone who can provide a service is altruistic as well as convenient, at least to an extent. This is a city where people readily engage in conversation with the occupants of the vehicle next to them whenever they are stopped at a red light. Everyone is amiably connected to someone else, there are very few isolates in Pune and consequently it is a city where you feel very safe. People present as genuinely concerned about their fellow citizens and display a generous attitude towards each other. As Cam pointed out, “Where else do 6 men show up to your house to repair the TV?”. TV repair (or the installation of an air conditioner in our case) is clearly a job for one person and indeed, you only pay for the services of one technician. But if work is quiet, he will bring his 5 colleagues along and then split the proceeds. This type of attitude makes for a very social and happy workplace as two men work on the unit and the other four stand around chatting, winking at Sebastian and offering the odd bit of sage criticism to their workmates when appropriate.

The beggars in Pune appear to be in a category of their own, for the most part, anyway. Having been here for several weeks now, I have become very familiar with many places and local landmarks. I have also noticed that I encounter the same beggars at the same posts every time. Begging appears to be more often a business in Pune than the impulse of a desperate person. In fact the destitute in Pune, far outnumber the beggars and the two groups differ a surprising amount. For a start, many of the professional beggars appear better fed and better dressed than the occupants of the slums, or indeed many of the working class. I noticed a woman begging at a rickshaw the other day and as she lifted her arm, the rolls of fat on her back were very obvious beneath her sari. The occupants of the rickshaw were locals, and while they usually ignore the beggars completely, this family were staring somewhat incredulously at the woman as if to say, “We’re not sure what you think you are doing as you clearly enjoy a better paddock than us!”. There is also a certain amount of theatre associated with begging in Pune and some beggars are more inclined to keep up their guard than others. The typical gesture of a beggar in Pune is to look very forlorn and to place a hand to mouth and mumble, “Baba, Baba, I am very hungry Baba”). There are two women who hold prime turf in Koregon Park just outside Café Coffee Day on Pizza Corner (westerners galore). They stand in their bright saris with their well fed babies on their hips. In fact, one of the babies has been casually sucking on a bottle on two occasions I have walked past. For the most part, they chat away happily to each other and shout greetings to familiar passers by and their pretty faces dimple with smiles and giggles. Then a westerner approaches up and this is the scenario:
Lady 1 to Lady 2 (in Hindi): “Anyway, I says to Ashy, I says, ‘Darl’, I says, ‘Love’, I says, ‘Pet’…….” Both ladies notice westerner, faces drop into forlorn mode,
Both ladies (in English) to westerner: “Baba, Baba” and gesture hand to mouth. The westerner ignores them, as he has been instructed by his travel agent to do, and strides by.
Ladies scowl, then brighten, re-position their babies and Lady 1 continues (in Hindi), “So I says to Ashy….”. Am I being insensitive? Probably, but the question of what to make of the beggars is a puzzling one.
Chris comes in contact with a woman near his work who he refers to as ‘Madam Koutafides’. She will be sitting at her post in the shade on the pavement with her baby and at the first sign of fair hair, she is up and sprinting; baby tucked under one arm like a football, the other arm pumping or outstretched as she fends off traffic and would be obstructers. With skirts gathered and high knee lifts she bounds ahead of the westerner by half a block to allow herself time to position herself prostrate on the pavement lying directly across the westerner’s path looking forlorn raising hand to mouth and breathlessly puffing “Baba, Baba …”
On one occasion we were walking down MG Road when Chris, who was holding Sebastian in his right arm and had Charlie by the hand, took an enormous spill, as he tripped up a curve. Charlie took the brunt of the fall and hit his head. Concerned people came running from everywhere to check on their welfare; they were all fine as it turned out. At the forefront was a woman who I recognized as one of the local beggars. She was talking to Charlie in perfect English and directing him to follow her finger with his eyes. She was extremely helpful and very self assured. However once she had satisfied herself that Charlie was fine, her face dropped into forlorn mode and she began the familiar “baba” mumble. We gave her some money because she had been very helpful and had a right to request a gratuity in the circumstances. I said to her, knowing her English was good, that she didn’t need to beg, we would pay her for her assistance, but her eyes glazed over and she refused to engage with me. It is very difficult not to get frustrated with the beggars when so many of them are blatantly putting one over you.

All the same, our children find the beggars particularly distressing. There is a family who beg outside Barista with the same composition as our family and Eliza struggles with the realities of the “sad brown family”. She and the little girl are fascinated by each other and they gaze into each others’ faces with the window pane the only barrier to their noses touching. Their boys play construction games with cups and pebbles on the side of the road and Charlie stares at them enviously. I look at the mother nursing her baby boy and wonder how she can bear watching her sweet, tiny, daughter approach strange white men. Patrick argues that they are hungry and we have money and they clearly don’t, so we should give them money. To him it is straight forward because he thinks the man sitting a little distance away in the shadows is their father who, but for the fact he is poor, would be kicking the ball with his sons like Chris does with him. He possibly is their father; it is more likely he is only their creditor and anything they earn he owns.

On the whole, begging seems a futile exercise for all concerned other than the rarely sighted organizers of this racket. Even if there was any point to it and the children shoved at strangers actually received the benefit of any subsequent donation, as residents it would be most unwise to start handing out rupees if we wish to have a reasonable existence here. If it became known that we relinquish if hassled, we would be hounded from one end of town to the other and quite rightly badgered about why we gave to him and not to her? The locals definitely know who the resident westerners are. (Sally once walked into a shop and was asked if she knew the Australian man with four children). The other issue with the professional beggars is that they can be quite aggressive in their demands. They will roughly grab your arm or that of your child in an effort to get your attention or perhaps even intimidate you. Libby once had the stump of a beggar’s arm thrust in her car window and in the midst of him insisting that she give him money and her insisting that she would not, his stump ended up in her mouth! (Chris told me about this incident five minutes after I stepped off the plane and I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry).

Having said all this, there is the occasional fragile beggar who appears very genuine in his or her request and plight. Ironically, I have handed over money quite comfortably on some such occasions because I suspect they have fortuitously stumbled on a gap in the professional turf and that they will be moved on their way by the organizers before they can tell their neighbors. I’ve only ever seen these people the once, and I really do wonder what becomes of them. I doubt my donation impacts one way or the other, even if they do get to keep it, but sometimes the act of handing over the contents of my wallet seems overwhelmingly right in the circumstances.