Large, glaring cultural blind spots

A short tangent of an appetizer before this post’s entrée—today, I was looking at some of the photographs I’ve taken since I arrived in India. Some of the pictures are of things more or less normal to my life here. There are a few pictures of my house, my street, the people I work with. But most of them are of unusual things: ornate temples, people in traditional dress, slums. There is one picture of a rickshaw puller, which I took shortly after I arrived. It took me a while to feel comfortable riding in a rickshaw, paying a few rupees for someone to do extraordinary effort while I sit back under the awning. Since then, I’ve taken a rickshaw a couple of times, although always at the encouragement of someone else, or when no other transportation availed itself to me. I wouldn’t have wanted to take a picture of a rickshaw after I had become used to them.

I think it makes sense to take pictures of things that are new and therefore interesting. But the result of this is that the pictures overemphasize the difference between India and home. At the same time, the photos serve as the basis for generalizations—India is a place of rickshaw drivers and temples and slums, according to my snapfish account. I have more or less ignored men wearing slacks and button-down shirts, office buildings, and construction projects, things which I see way more frequently in Kolkata. My expectations—that India is weird, and that said weirdness is what ultimately characterizes India—are what guide my camera.

I imagine that all this applies to the things I choose to write about, as well. So, you know, be skeptical.

OK, on to other things. A couple weeks ago, Shubhra and I watched the film Mr. And Mrs. Ayer, written and directed by Ms. Apnara Sen, one in a long line of super-hip artsy Bengali filmmakers. The movie is about a bus trip from the North East of India to the train station at Siliguri. A guy named Raja agrees to help Ms. Ayer and her baby as they make their way back home to Kolkata from a visit with her parents.

A bunch of communal riots break out, and it comes out that Raja is a Bengali Muslim. Mrs. Ayer, a very conservative South Indian woman, has a hard time coming to trust Raja. Romantic silliness ensues.

Watching this movie, I really wanted Raja and Mrs. Ayer to get together; they are very cute, and have a similar quiet, intentional manner. It would also be a great message about shattering cultural barriers and what have you. Furthermore, it seemed completely obvious that the viewer is supposed to want the two to get together, like the way you want the good guys’ team to win in a sports movie. Sen sets it up that way—there are too many romantic moments in the woods, and there are plenty of long shots of the two sitting a little bit too close together.

I asked Shubhra if she was similarly rooting for the two leads to elope. Her first response was, “No, that could never happen.” Inter-religious marriages aren’t nonexistent in India, but they are rare. They are even more unusual among very conservative Hindu families like the Ayers. Plus, this woman is married and has a kid, Shubhra said. She just couldn’t run off—that wouldn’t happen in India.

I told her that I mostly agreed with her, in the sense that I would have liked the movie less if Raja and Mrs. Ayer had run off together, because it would have given a very realistic an unrealistic ending. But that didn’t stop me from wanting them to run off together, from feeling the tragedy of a separation of two people whose love is written in the stars (etc etc). After some cajoling, Shubhra said she knew what I meant: but she obviously didn’t feel the same way I did.

Last night KP and I went over to Shubhra’s house for the evening. KP and Shubhra are a fascinating pair. KP is more or less the second in command at Vikramshila, and spends a fair amount of time advising Shubhra and doing work that other people haven’t finished.

KP is also Shubhra’s daughter-in-law to be. KP started working at Vikramshila about two and a half years ago, and has been dating Shubhra’s son Jishnu for almost that long. And I do mean dating in the American sense of things. KP says she didn’t become a big time liberal until returning to India after 6 years of education in the states. Her parents unsuccessfully tried to marry her off to a nice Marwarti boy, but KP thwarted them. The family, having more or less given up on KP as a respectable daughter, is slowly and begrudgingly beginning to accept they will have a Bengali for a son-in-law.

And, finally, KP and Shubhra are good friends. KP harasses Shubhra about exercising and goes with her to buy sarees and gives her massages. Shubhra gives KP a place to come hang out to get away from her extensively extended family, and KP can always say that she has to do something for work since Shubhra, the boss lady, can cover for her if need be. The two both like a lot of the same things; watching smart artsy movies, watching dumb Bollywood movies, eating sweets, reading, post-modernity. They are a blast to spend time with.

As far as I can tell, little is typical about Shubhra and KP. It’s true that women traditionally move in with their in-laws, and often become the caregivers of their mother-in-laws. But, as I understand it, that is associated with arranged marriages. In such cases, women see relatively little of their in-laws under the deal has been sealed. Plus, professional boundaries in India are pretty rigid—this is even so in Vikramshila, where Shubhra puts on her authoritarian hat when it suits her. Somehow, though, even before Jishnu and KP started going together, the two of them hit it off. They are a blast to hang out with.

Last night, the three of us all watched another of Apnara Sen’s films, the beautiful 36 Chowringee Lane. In the film, a lonely old Anglo-India school-teacher named Violet is befriended by a former student and her boyfriend. The young couple asks Violet if the young man can use her apartment so he can have a quiet place to write—what they really want is a place to make out. An agreement is made that the young man will write while Violet is teaching. Over time, the couple and Violet become friends, and Violet is lifted a bit from her depressing routine.

The film deals with the general alienation of the Anglo-Indian population in Kolkata, and further with the kinds of responsibilities and duties imposed on women. It is also about betrayal and manipulation; the young couple remains friends with Violet only as long as she has something to give them.

From my perspective, though, Violet must have been partner to the manipulation. Evidence in my favor: each time Violet returns home in the evening, both the young man and young woman are there. Also, after the first few visits, the young man stops bothering to bring his typewriter. Finally (and this is my strongest argument) no one can be that stupid. Two young people, very touchy, who live in a society of conservative sexual norms, ask to borrow your apartment while you’re away; what do you think they’re going to do?

KP and Shubhra completely rejected this interpretation.

“Such a thing cannot even be imagined!” Shubhra told me.
“The young couple imagined it,” I retorted.
“But there is a generational gap as well,” Shubhra insisted. “And Violet never would have agreed if they had asked her the truth—so how could she know?” I said I thought that you could know something on one level, but more or less ignore it if it didn’t confront you directly. In this way it’s a willful ignorance. KP disagreed.
“It’s a cultural blind spot. It’s not conscious.”

It’s difficult for me to believe that Violet would never have suspected that the lovebirds were using her apartment to take care of business, as it were. But I suppose that’s my own blind spot.

When I watch movies and read books, I like to think about the questions, “what do I want to happen in this story?” and, “what does the author want me to want to happen in this story?” Does a character always appear in scenes with low light, with and underscore of sinister music? You’re probably not supposed to like that guy.

I think that this thought process has validity, at least sometimes. But it relies upon the assumption that the narrative is transparent: which is to say, the viewer or reader can know the agenda of the artist. But that’s clearly not true, especially when dealing with a piece of art from a different culture. Not only did Shubhra and KP have different responses to the films than I did, we disagreed about the responses we were supposed to have. It seemed to me that the audience was supposed to be rooting for Raja and Mrs. Ayer; Shubhra didn’t see it that way at all.

I know I’m not making any big discovery here, but it was wild to watch the same movies with people who I regard as friends, and people who I feel like I communicate with on a personal level, and to come away with radically different interpretations.

To conclude, if you’re looking for a good movie to rent off Netflicks, see if you can get 36 Chowringee Lane. Some of the scenes feel a little contrived to my Western tastes, but the acting is spectacular, and it gives you a great sense of Calcutta. It’s mostly in English, and the Bangla scenes have subtitles.