Saturday, March 12, 2011

Observation: Field Notes

Location: a cafe on campus
Date: January 25, 2011
Time of Observation: 11:30am-12:10 pm

11:30am: I walk into the C Café in H Hall, having finished teaching the class I am a T.A for. I spend a lot of time here because most of the classes of my minor are located in this building and as an international student, this place brings me great comfort in allowing my difference to blend in and normalize in a sea of difference. This space dims my sense of otherness. I sniff and realize it doesn’t smell like a café. It smells like – nothing, not snow, not coffee or food. It feels a bit sterilized and this somehow feels like a negative so I acknowledge that I am not feeling very friendly towards this city today, since the sun has not shone for 2 days now. Its cold, damp and grey outside and its cold and grey inside: some of us have kept jackets, coats and sweaters on despite being indoors.
This is an open space with no enclosing doors; rather it functions, literally and metaphorically as a connecting passageway on the ground floor of the building that houses several departments like Foreign Languages, Comparative Studies that also act as bridges and connecting passages. This function is underlined by 2 interactive technological boards on 2 ends of the space, with the words for welcome written in several languages on it.
The walls are a neutral beige, broken only by the deep orange warmth of the space that proclaims itself Javamaster, stocked with coffees, muffins and lunch. There is a large blackboard (a floor sandwich-board) with the winter hours of operation written on it. That and a fridge in the corner with a poster for soup that announces ‘Its simply sensational’ looking like it was blown up from a Good Housekeeping magazine from the 80’s, are additional signifiers of it being a café. I look around for an empty chair in the very full room.
The room is filled with silver colored metal chairs and tables, their steely metallic coldness tempered by roundness. Round tables, chairs with round-edges further softened by latticelike work – a grid is there, but its open, allows for space to breathe. The furniture, like the space, makes it look businesslike but friendly.
Three tables along the sides of the wall leading to the snow-covered courtyard are higher with tall chairs (like at a bar) allowing the corner tables to not be hidden. it also breaks up the space to not be monotonous as do the pillars that break up the hallway to look more like a room.
In advertisement of its multicultural and educational nature, there are 6 wall TVs in this space, all playing different language channels. Right now there is football on the Al-Jazeera news network on the TV above me, a Japanese children’s show on another, a Spanish-language game show on the third, with lots of blonde people hugging a lot. One TV has departmental announcements on, and one is switched off. The sound is off for all of them but people’s eyes drift to the TVs closest to them now and then.
11:32: I seat myself at a corner table (one of the high ones) feeling lucky because it is the only table available, its 2 occupants leaving just as I walked in. I pull out my computer to take notes and wonder if people will notice me looking around- if they do, will they perceive me as distracted, curious? Would they care? It doesn’t look like it. I catch the eye of a couple of people but receive no visible reaction. The smell of my Vietnamese sandwich wafts up at me as I open it up and begin to eat and observe.
11:35: The café is full, with every table occupied. There are groups of people at most of the tables, many of them looking like study groups. I infer this from the books and computers at the centers of the table and the fact that they are all in conversation with each other, with frequent references being made to the books and computers. A couple of people are sitting having conversations with their coats and backpacks on like they are just about to leave but they don’t.
Each of the 3 tables (like mine) has single occupants, reading or typing. One has earphones in. My eyes move around the room and see one deliberately careless looking young man talking in a group also has earphones in... is that polite? That would make me irritated if I was talking to him and he had earphones in. I feel a bit old in this stern judgemental idea.
11:43: Very few people are eating; some have coffees in the dark brown cups with the flimsy lids provided by the Javamaster. Some have coffees from other places (i see 3 Starbucks grande coffee cups). What does that say about the quality of coffee here?
I shift my focus to the people passing through the café-passageway. People are moving through in a steady stream but the low buzz and drone of conversation (and perhaps the greyness) makes it feel like there is no rush. 3 red caps, 4 black puffer jackets, a pink bomber jacket, 4 blondes, 3 Asians, 1 South asian, 2 people clearly above 6 feet, 3 muslim women with hijab, undergrads, grads and 1 person sending vibes of of-course-I’m-faculty walk through. I wonder how many of these passers by belong to or participate in the departments housed in the building, and how many are using the building as a break from the cold walk to pass through to or from the Oval. I wonder how many consciously absorb the constant performance of multiculturalism that this space is.
11:50: Someone I know walks up and says hello. He can talk endlessly and pointlessly so I excuse myself by saying I am doing an observation for class and cannot be disturbed. He leaves. I shift my attention back to those seated around me.
Two study partners, (one bearded male of about 5’ 6“ of inderminate race but with an American accent, and a shorter blonde Caucasian female also with an American accent )- sit at the table to my right practicing and trying to figure out Japanese grammar and pronunciation by reading kanji - I recognize the language and am tempted to ask questions and help out (I know some of the answers but desist- it might come across as wierd). “How do you say gardener’s shop? will you add ‘ya’ to the end of ‘niwa’?” They mulled over this problem for a brief minute then moved on to the task of conjugating an inability to garden. My grasp of their Japanese falters quickly at this point.
The large group of people one of which has his headphones in are studying in English but discussing some text- they are too far away for me to hear clearly – they do not seem to be struggling with the content. Two Asian students (they look like students, young, with matching uggs and black sweatshirts) sit and eat sandwiches and drink Minutemaid (grape & cherry flavors respectively) quickly and in silence. They do not look at each other. They will probably leave soon, presumably for classes. I cannot tell if they know each other or sat together for other reasons.
11:53- the Japanese study partners break focus to discuss last night’s dinner (the girl had spinach and her new boyfriend apparently) the man lowers his voice till I can’t hear his response, but they both laugh. They begin discussing their individual household problems and I feel a bit embarrassed about eavesdropping and not switching off.
I can hear bits of different languages from those passing by and from those seated in the cafe - besides Japanese, I hear English, French and a pair of women- one with dark and curly hair and big brown kohled eyes, the other a tall caramel blonde conversing in what sounds like Arabic. The dark haired lady (looks like a grad student) is obviously the leader, speaking fluently and rapidly and then waiting patiently while- the other younger woman responds haltingly with a strong accent, with lots of Umms and ers. It sounds like a brave but labored conversation and soaking in the sounds I find myself sighing happily, realizing why I love hanging out in this place. It personifies why I travel and enjoy cosmopolitan spaces.
I look at the far end off the room to the corner and see two men I didn’t notice before. How long have they been there? I know them both from previous classes, but can only remember the name of one and that the other is an international student from Sweden whose name I can’t remember how to pronounce. Since one of them is bearded, it strikes me that I see more bearded men in this building than I have anywhere in the city in the past year.
11:57 A young blonde woman in a vivid pink parka walks up to a table with 2 people and con-permision drags away a chair to join her friend, a brown-haired young man eating a wrap just bought from the cafe. She talks to him in rapid tones about the previous evening’s social agenda (something to do with a sorority event) while he chews and stares at his computer screen. Her eagerness in face of his disinterest is bemusing.
12:00 The two Japanese-language students are rushing to wrap up their assignment - they need to leave in 5 minutes they say for the class they are finishing up the homework for.
I see another grad student I know - he walks by doesn’t see me but walks up to 2 tables, saying brief hellos to people he recognizes. I can’t remember his name either. He goes and sits down with 2 other graduate students I recognize.
I take a quick look around the room again. The 2 girls with their coats and backpacks on are still sitting and conversing as earnestly as they were before.
As I stop actively looking, I start gathering my thoughts: what do people’s postures say about them? The 3 grad men i know leaning forward in conversation; 2 undergrad-looking young caucasian men –both brown-haired one with grey and one with brown T-shirts- one leaning back, arms folded, leg shaking furiously, the other leaning forward, arms on table. Other people read with book in lap not on table (looking down) others propping up their heads/ faces with their hands…lots of body language to read here in lots of different cultural contexts.
What impact/ effect do the different configurations and table designs have on the space and the kind of people who move towards them?
Who sits in the middle tables and who at the end, (when choice is available)?
12:00: As I am wrapping up, another acquaintance I haven’t see in a while walks up and we chat, catching up on where we are in our grad school process. It feels nice to know people from so many different departments. When she leaves, I see its 12:11. Forgetting that I only needed to do a half hour of observation, I keep taking notes. Someone’s phone rings -it has a loud and lively ringtone.
I look up. Only one table has changed occupants, and one of the two Asian girls has left, the other looks bored, with her book open, head propped up by her hand and her eyes people watching. She is not looking at me.
I look at the far end off the room to the corner and see two men I didn’t notice before. How long have they been there? I know them both from previous classes, but can only remember the name of one and that the other is an international student from Sweden whose name I cant remember how to pronounce.
I look around again- at that particular time, no one is smiling in the room which strikes me as odd. Not one person smiled for a whole minute. It strikes me as odd… it is a cafe after all and its near lunchtime.
I shrug mentally; perhaps its only natural- its almost mid-term, I have class in an hour and 2 hours of reading left. I’m not smiling either.
Its 12:17.
End of observation.

Saturday, February 19, 2011

Anand Tauji ki kahani, meri zabani


             My granduncle was a World War II veteran. As far as I knew he had always been old and had always worn a beautiful shiny set of false teeth although he worked in a dentist’s office. The dentist was Chinese. His daughter attended school with me. Anyway, this story is not about Chinese dentists and their daughters but about my granduncle and how he learnt Japanese. 
            The story he told went like this: He was a very young recruit in the army of the Indian Empire on his first mission, employed in Burma, fighting the Japanese, since Britain had declared war on the Nazis and the Japanese. Early one morning around dawn, while everyone was asleep, a Japanese platoon (or paltan, the hindi term my granduncle always used) attacked his paltan and killed off all the soldiers. Granduncle survived because like a good Hindu he had arisen at 4 and at 4:30 when the attack was taking place was 100 yards away, lightening his bowels.
Upon discovering the loss of his party and the fact that he was quite lost in the jungles of Burma, he set off on his own. Within the day, he was taken Prisoner of War. His captors were about to kill him, when the officer, the leader of the paltan called him into his tent to try and get information out of him. Stepping into the tent, my granduncle gesticulated at how cold it was in the tent and at a wound the officer had in his leg.
Using his charm and ingenuity, my intrepid relative bought time by preparing a healing poultice for the officer’s wound, using his knowledge of Ayurveda and the local plants and herbs. He also suspended his death sentence by showing the officer and his men how to use locally found material to stuff their blankets in the certain way so their makeshift beds were more comfortable. (Or so he said). He said that he really did not feel any anger or hatred for these fellows, not even as much annoyance as he had felt for those whose war he was fighting. He did not feel like he was betraying anything making himself useful to them as a odd-jobs man. 
He was an official prisoner of war for eight months, although he said, when he told the story, that he really was a prisoner of war for about four hours, a useful enemy for two weeks and a not-enemy-but-untrustable-friend for over seven months. They didn’t let him fight but they also actively did not let him die and they who had been his oppressor’s enemy stopped being his enemy although he had never really seen it that way before anyway. When the platoon was moving out of the area, they let him go, with good wishes, smiles and two days supply of food.
             Konnichiwa! Konbanwa! Gohan! Hai! Agemasho! Yosh! Gambarimasu! To-u! Granduncle would rattle off the 8 words of Japanese he remembered from those eight months. He could not, when asked, remember the names of any of the soldiers in that Japanese paltan or how he eventually found his way home to safety.

The wonderful world of Hallmark

Dedicated Hallmark card shops were the new Big Thing in metropolitan India in the early nineties.  It was 1992, I was in 9th grade and visiting my aunt in a posh area of New Delhi. I was out browsing cards in the new Hallmark card shop in the neighborhood although I had no money to buy an actual card. Reading the funny cards, I took a deep breath and smelled something...delicious. I had never smelt anything like that before. It was clearly a cologne- a man’s cologne or perfume, something foreign and expensive of the kind one could buy at the imported goods stores. 
I looked sideways at the man who had come to stand next to me. His arm was White. My glance stole sideways and up..and up till it reached his face. My jaw must have dropped because it was the face of Richard Gere.
Seriously.Richard Gere. The actor. 
I hadn’t seen the movie, but everyone knew the hero of Pretty Woman! I was standing in a Hallmark card store in Delhi next to Richard Gere. How strange. Perhaps he was buying a card for the Dalai Lama.
A loud giggle escaped me at the thought and he looked down at me. I felt awfully embarrassed at having been caught staring, how invasive and unsophisticated! I looked away but not before catching a kind, very beautiful, un-annoyed smile.
                 I smiled back rather automatically and then in an unselfish show of maturity, walked away to let him choose his cards in peace. No one would ever believe I didn't even try to get Richard Gere’s autograph or at least shake his hand, but I was smiling all the way home because I now knew how genuine Hollywood smelt like without even having gone to the movies, let alone America.

almost midnight on the brown line

Five hours of babysitting done, I took the brown line from Ravenswood back towards downtown Chicago and home in Humboldt Park. It was 11:45 at night in a chilly October, but I was young, confident and careless enough to be quite fearless getting into a train carriage that was quite empty save for an old lady who was asleep and carrying nothing but a tired countenance and a strong smell of urine. I sat at the far end of the carriage from her, in the seat next to the door.
At the next stop, a man got in. He wore a hoody that revealed straggly once-blonde hair and was scruffy and unshaven. His eyes seemed wild, bloodshot and I hoped he did not sit next to me. He sat next to me. He did not smell of alcohol. After the train pulled out of the platform he pulled out a lighter. And ran his thumb over the pad to reveal a bright, steady flame. “You have pretty hair”, he said I smiled an uncertain ‘thank you’. “Fire is pretty too” he said. “You know what would be really pretty? If I set your pretty hair on fire.”
Words started falling out of my mouth from God only knows where. “Well that would be a bad idea because then there wouldn’t be any more pretty hair”. “That's true ” he said. “But there would be more fire”. 
“But this is a closed cabin and being dead, neither of us could enjoy either the pretty hair nor the pretty fire. That would be a shame”. 
“That's true too” he conceded. “What about your eyelashes?”. “Eyelashes, hair, same difference. That's just details.” The flame had gone out and he revived it. “So are you telling me I can’t set your hair on fire?” he sounded angry. “You can do anything you want,” I said, “I’m just saying you might want to wait till the next station till some fresh perspective blows in. Think about what you might be giving up to enjoy something you think might be nice”. I babbled on for another couple of minutes about the weather and I don't remember what, till, blessedly we pulled into the next train station. He had barely said another word, just stared at my hair, squinting through the thin flame of the lighter. The stop wasn't mine, but I got off anyway, even managing to smile a goodbye to him. He didn't follow me. 
Feeling oddly exhilarated, I decided against taking a cab, and shivering, waited for the next train. I hoped it didn't smell of urine too.

Truth, Lies and Memory

Given my interest in Narrative Inquiry and developments in a project in a class on contemporary philosophy, I am going to try to journal in the form of short narratives that use particular theoretical lenses in their telling. Stay tuned.

Monday, November 15, 2010

I found a soulmate who has passed on to the other side

As i find myself waking in the vast fields and deserts of grounded theorizing I find a kindred guide..meet the  lonely dissertator. (whom I congratulate on having passed on to the other side).

http://lonelydissertator.blogspot.com/2009/01/grounded-theory-is-for-theorizing-dummy.html

Thursday, November 11, 2010

from Victoria's England to everybody's India

HAD to share this little gem I found prowling around the 'net for kinderculture and consumerism in the Indian context through nursery rhymes. I especially appreciated the Prakash Karat, Mamata B and Hoysala indexing of current affairs in the mad capitalistic globalization of contemporary India

http://www.rameshsrivats.net/2009/08/new-indian-nursery-rhymes-2.html

This on the other hand, wierded me out and is puzzling, if read while pondering notions of the postnational, transnational, global, national and local. Note the focus on patriotic and religious songs for children.

http://www.indiaparenting.com/rhymes/index.shtml