Images & sounds from a summer in India

My summer research brought me to a good range of places in India. The above video contains some sights and sounds from Delhi, Hardoi, Gurgaon, and the train to Lucknow.  Sam Frantz

Floods, Displacement, and Everyday Life in Majuli

Majuli, the river island where my anthropological fieldwork is based, experiences the monsoon every year between June and August. During this time, the river Brahmaputra, which along with its tributaries girdles Majuli, floods the island, turning agricultural lands into lakes, and breaking the large 189-square mile island into smaller islets that are interconnected through a network of waterways. I first read about the floods in the news articles that populated the internet during the state elections in Assam in early 2016. Images, showing submerged houses and fields, people fleeing on boats or waiting for aid accompanied these news reports. However, when I first mentioned these floods to my interlocutors in Sitadhar Phuk, a village where people of the Mishing tribe live, they painted a very different picture. “We love the rain,” Kamalakant Kaman, a much respected village elder and my primary interlocutor told me. “We love the floods. We just go into our fields to catch fish.” He told me this shortly before the rains began in June 2016. By August 2016 several images of flooding and displacement once again populated the island. So, this summer, when I visited him, I posed the question once again. “How were the floods last year?” I asked. And to my surprise, he gave me the same response.

A day later, Kamalakant took me to his friend, Horen’s home in the neighborhood. As we drank tea that Horen made in his kitchen, his wife Momi and I had a long chat. I posed the question again, and Momi gave me a similar response. “We Mishing people love the rain,” she said. “We build our homes on stilts as you can see, and the water passes under the floor boards. So long as our animals are secure, we don’t have a problem from the floods.” Later she added, “We hang our clothes out to soak and use the water to wash and clean our homes. And fishing becomes so much easier.”

Caption: A typical Mishing home in Majuli

“I already told her,” Kamalakant said.

This time I was persistent. I told them about the pictures I had seen in the media. Several homes were completely under water, and had to be abandoned. People had become homeless.

“Yes, but is because of the flash floods and the erosion,” Kamalakant said. Then he began to explain that the weather conditions during the monsoon, turned the land in Majuli into flood plains, which filled up with water, allowing people who lived along these areas to fish in these waters during the rainy season. Once the water drained, these areas, rich with silt, would act as fertile grounds to grow rice and other vegetables that the Mishing needed. However, in the last century, and increasingly so in the last forty years, development projects as well as badly planned flood prevention plans had precipitated flash floods which destroyed homes and washed cattle away.

During my stay in Majuli, I visited areas in the South east of the island, where such flash floods had carried away massive areas of land in the year 2000, and caused people living in nearly 15 villages to lose their homes. Currently, these people live on the embankment, and are still waiting for aid. Several of these badly affected people were also from the Mishing tribe.

While explaining the difference between the floods that Sitadhar Phuk, which a short distance from the coast, and these other villages face, Kamalakant outlined to me the lifestyle that the Mishing had adopted to live in these floodplains. Their houses, as Momi had said, were built on stilts, and they always made raised shelters for their livestock and for storing their grains during the monsoon season. The villagers also repaired their boats, re-built their roofs before the rain in preparation for the downpour. The Mishing were therefore well adapted to the floods that the Brahmaputra valley was accustomed to. However, flashfloods resulting from other “unnatural reasons,” as Kamalakant termed the bad flood prevention methods and other development projects which had caused trouble in Majuli, were destructive and hard to adapt to.

This idea that the Mishing could adapt to their “natural” environment had both pros and cons. In conversations with one of the island’s administrative head, whose identity I would like to keep confidential, I discovered that this notion made the troubles faced by the Mishing invisible, or at least less visible, to the state. This assumption that anyone from the indigenous community could adapt to their “natural” surroundings only allowed the administration to look into the problems faced by other communities. There was no distinction in these conversation between the slow floods that allowed the Mishing to fish and silted their lands, and the flashfloods that destroyed the land, eroded entire villages, destroyed homes and displaced people.

As I advance my research, I plan to follow up on this summer’s findings. In the meantime, as I prepare to spend the year in George Washington University, I am also excited to read more about the environmental history of my field site, through accounts written by historians like Arupjyoti Saikia and Gunnel Cederlof, whose books on the topic I bought in Guwahati, the capital of Assam during my archival work there. Both researchers underline how everyday life is built around the capricious environment in the Brahmaputra valley and in the North Eastern states of India at large, and both underline the role of colonial rule in starting development projects that by the looks of it have been unsuccessful until today in controlling the water systems of the region. These histories, and my conversation with my interlocutors in Majuli, leave us with a question: what does living with the environment look, and how do we do this without making anyone’s problem invisible in the eyes of the State?

Update on my fieldwork in Majuli, India!

Hi readers! I’ve spent a good part of my summer in Majuli, a 189-square mile river island, located in Indian state of Assam. Majuli is girdled by Brahmaputra* and is one of the many islands that experiences severe erosion both from natural causes, such as seismic activity and flooding which alter the course of the river, and from man-made causes such as badly planned flood prevention methods and the rapid mushrooming of development projects along the course of the river. My project examines the lives that are shaped by this erosion on Majuli, particularly the practice of two religions: one a 17th century neo-Vaishnavite sect of Hinduism called Eksarana, and the other, an indigenous religion called Donyi Polo. In this blog post, I’d like to describe two festivals that took place in the final week of May, even as the island prepared for the monsoon, and even as cyclone Mora crossed the Bangladesh coast.

While the festivals I will describe in this blogpost are celebrated across the island of Majuli, the particular ones that I attended took place in and near Garmur, a town that has grown around two monasteries or Satras where Eksarana is practiced. Surrounding this town are villages where people of the Mishing tribe live, practicing both Hinduism as well as an indigenous religion called Donyi Polo.

Caption: Picture taken while walking along the riverbanks in Majuli. The bamboo structures at the edge are called 'porcupines' and are placed to reduce the force of the river current and prevent erosion along the banks.

On May 28, 2017, I went to the smaller or minor Garmur Satra to join the celebration of an annual festival that brings together the wards of that particular Satra or people who live on the lands owned by the monastery to pray for their well-being and the well-being of the area that falls within this monastery’s jurisdiction. While Majuli is very much integrated into the modern state of India and its ‘well-being’ is now completely governed by an elected democratic government seated in the city of Guwahati in Assam, this festival is telling of a time when monastic jurisdiction was the major form of governance across the Brahmaputra.**

The minor Garmur Satra was a short walk from the Risong lodge, which has become my ‘home’ during my trips to Majuli. Bhajans and Keertans (two forms of songs) echoed across the Satra’s grounds during the entire day, and the Satra’s wards attended them in turn. I spent my day wandering around the town, buying mangoes and apples that had been brought in by boat from the nearby city of Jorhat for the festivities, and watching people travel through rain, and by muddy roads using vans and bikes to attend the day’s festivities.

At 5 pm, I showered and dressed in a pair of new Salwar-Kameez that I had kept aside for festivities and walked to the temple, both a little excited and a little afraid that I, as an outsider, would stand out in the crowd. While I was met not only with curiosity, I was also treated to the kindness of the men and the women who had come together for the final Keertan of the day. I watched the singing from a corner of the temple, trying my best to observe people, without interfering or disrupting the prayer. However, as soon as the last song was sung, Jyoti, a friend I’d made during my last trip came up to me and thanked me for making time to come. He asked me about my research, and then invited me to stay on for the Bhavna, a late-night performance that would celebrate the avatars of Vishnu through theatre and dance. That day, they would celebrate the story of Parasuram, a Brahminical avatar of Vishnu who was forced to prove his loyalty to his father by beheading his mother. Terrifying as that story sounded, I felt excited to be invited to stay and watch the Bhavna, a form of prayer that the Eksarana monasteries are famous for in the Brahmaputra valley.

The performance started a little after 10 pm and continued well past midnight, as the time stamps in my photographs will show. The actors were all male wards of the monastery, trained in the many locally created thespian arts that train them to dress and act as human and non-human characters that span the gender spectrum. While this was low-budget production, the performances were splendid and so moving that it made several members of the audience weep along with the characters of the story. While I did not cry, I could not help me moved by the question that the play seemed to be animating the play: can filial duty be so harsh as to make you choose between your parents? Even as I could see Parasuram struggle with the burden of this choice and with the sadness and guilt of killing his mother for his father, I could not help but also question the gendered nature of this dilemma. Would the mother have asked her son to behead the father if she had been as frustrated with him as he was with her? The performance uses the idea of karma to answer the question. After Parasuram behead his mother, the story punishes the father and rewards the mother. After proving his filial piety, Parasuram asks his father to use his divine strength and bring his mother back to life. Not shortly after this, the father himself is killed in a battle with a king. While Parasuram is once again asked to fulfill his filial duties by killing the King, his father remains dead, leaving Parasuram, at the end of the play, with one parent: the mother, who does not need proof of filial piety, nor is aggressive enough to ask her son to kill for her.

Photo captions (from top to bottom): 1. Song and Dance performances by young monks 2. Parasuram's father meditates 3. Parasuram's mother looks on 4.Vishnu and Lakshmi comment on the story and question filial piety. 5. A young Parasuram makes his entrance 6. Parasuram kills his mother.

As I found my way through the darkness to my lodge, walking along the muddy roads produced by the short but powerful bouts of rain that were forerunners to the monsoon, I could not help but wonder how these performances dictated gendered norms for both men and women on the island. The play wasn’t without a critique, and yet its understanding of gender and the ways in which justice was meted out to gendered violence pivoted around the theosophical idea of karma. Majuli, however, was now a part of a secular Indian state, where it was a democratic judicial system and not cosmically determined karma that would mete out justice. I could not help but wonder at the ways in which two forms of governance and judiciary—one monastic and the other democratic—were intertwined on Majuli.

Gendered norms took a very different turn in the festival I attended two days later in Sitadhar Phuk, a village where the Mishing where gathering to celebrate Dobur, a festival that Donyi Polo followers celebrate to honor Kine Nane, the goddess who takes care of the earth. This festival too is marked by several songs. The prayer however is performed only once a day—around noon—and there are no theatrical events that follow. Instead, a large community comes together to cook and eat food, particularly the meat of an animal sacrificed in the honor of the goddess. That day, a chicken was sacrificed and later cooked with lentils and vegetables, in a spicy sauce and served with a plate of rice, fried fish, greens and potatoes. In this gathering, I was struck by the way in which men and women worked together both in the prayer hall and in the kitchen. While men presided over the festivities, women were very vocal throughout and actively shaped the ideas that were then formally presented as ‘prayer’ to Kine Nane and other Donyi Polo deities.

However that day, the festivities were also disrupted by strong winds blowing from the south, and I later learned that these winds had raged across Majuli around the time that cyclone Mora had hit the coast Bangladesh. After the festivities, a few women and I went to one of their houses, for snacks and a chat, and by the time we called it a day, stronger winds were blowing across the island, and bringing with them heavy bouts of rain. Later that night, a storm crossed the island, and knocked down a few trees. When I asked my female interlocutors if their routines had been disrupted by these, they only laughed, and said, that the fallen trees would make it easier for them to get firewood for the upcoming rainy season. Worshipping Kine Nane, to them, was about being prepared for the disorder that was inevitable during monsoon, and learning to live with it. The only thing that worried them was the unnatural changes that were shaping the monsoons and erosion in addition to the natural environmental disorder that they were already prepared for.

Photo captions (from top to bottom): 1. The Donyi Polo flag 2. Cooking for the masses 3. Momi, Naina and Manalisa, whose powerful voices echoed through the day of celebrations.

In my next blog post, I will describe more of what my interlocutors meant by learning to live with environmental disorder and the chaos during the monsoon. In the meantime, I hope you enjoy the photographs from the two festivities, and continue to think about overlapping forms of governance and gender politics, as I do.

Caption: A day after heavy bouts of rain.
*The Brahmaputra originates in China and flows through the state of Assam in India, before cruising into Bangladesh, where it joins the country’s complex river systems and finally empties into the Bay of Bengal.
**Indrani Chatterjee’s archival research in Forgotten Friendships (2013) provides more information on monastic governance in this area.

Thinking about fieldwork in Uttar Pradesh

This summer’s fieldwork is partly a time to gather information for a paper on India’s new corporate social responsibility rules. However, it is also an opportunity to experience what it takes to translate research plans into reality, to think carefully about how to adapt fieldwork strategies to different sorts of research objectives, and to experiment with approaches to staying healthy and productive in very different field environments.

Part of my work looks at the organizational effects of changes in funding for non-profits in India. Here, I have had reasonable success in speaking with NGO officials, retired bureaucrats, academics, and others who have direct experience in this area. Perhaps they have been involved in regulating the non-profit sector, raising or allocating funds, or managing relations between non-profits and funders. These conversations are fairly easy, since I am talking with people about their areas of professional expertise. However, a second part of my work considers how the size of the non-state service sector affects relations between citizens and politicians. This is in some ways a more abstract question, and it requires that I speak with people about issues that they may think about only occasionally, and that may in fact be quite far removed from their day-to-day concerns. Although one could simply ask a farmer or laborer whether a new initiative in their village has changed their relationship with the state and with politics, in the end this is likely not a fruitful approach. Rather, one might ask people more indirect questions about their relations with political actors, look for evidence of behavioral change that might have resulted from a changed context, and consider whether the introduction of a large NGO initiative has led people to talk about politicians and the state differently. This style of work is quite different and, in some ways more challenging for an outside researcher, than speaking with government and non-profit professionals.

I have experimented with both approaches this summer, and in urban as well as rural settings. One important outcome will be a more informed dissertation prospectus. Not only do I know much more about my area of substantive interest than when I arrived in India in early June, but I have a more grounded perspective about how to push the project forward. Given the understanding I hope to build and the information I hope to collect, with whom should I be spending my time, how should I structure my research plan, and what challenges will I face? On a personal level, how is the experience of elite interviews different from more immersive ethnographic work, and what does this imply for how I live day-to-day in the field?

Several weeks remain in my summer travels. I’ve taken this week “off” for writing and a bit of relaxation in the hills. I’ll jump back into fieldwork next week as I travel to India’s financial hub, Mumbai, to speak with people involved in shaping corporate approaches to CSR and to see what several such initiatives look like on the ground in an urban setting. 


Sam Frantz is a doctoral student in political science, and a recipient of a 2017 Sigur Center Grant for Asian Field Research.

Lucknow University

Metro construction in Lucknow

Hardoi district, Uttar Pradesh

Hardoi Station, Uttar Pradesh

Easing into India in Majnu ka Tilla

Noise, especially traffic noise, is a seemingly inescapable fact of city life. Vehicles are noisy everywhere, but noise pollution is a particular problem in South Asia’s urban centers. Delhi is no exception, and I always come prepared with an ample supply of my favorite earplugs. I am very grateful, then, to have found a truly peaceful neighborhood on the western bank of the Yamuna River to call home during the past several weeks of fieldwork in Delhi.

Majnu ka Tilla (or MT, as it is popularly known) is a designated settlement for Tibetan refugees. Quite contrary to the negative visions that might be conjured by the term “refugee colony,” India’s Tibetan population is well-settled and united under the Tibetan government-in-exile led by the Dalai Lama, whose portrait is prominently displayed in every establishment. MT gives the impression of strong community organization and economic prosperity. Its streets are swept clean daily. Residents and visitors alike crowd into restaurants and cafes throughout the day and, although owners and senior managers are almost invariably Tibetan, employees are drawn from all backgrounds and from across northern India and Nepal. Tibetan, Hindi, Nepali, and English languages are all heard in good measure. Delhi’s rather dour and aggressive public culture is nowhere in evidence, apparently left behind at the colony gates.

The colony draws a wide range of visitors. MT is an important stopover point for Tibetan monks traveling between Dharamsala, Kathmandu, and monasteries across India and the world. It is also located near the north campus of Delhi University and has long been a popular student haunt. A friend who studied at DU in the late 1970s and early 1980s tells me he used to visit to drink cheap chhaang (Tibetan rice beer). These days, there are still plenty of students, but the neighborhood has earned a reputation as a foodie destination and draws weekend crowds from across Delhi’s large middle class. My friend’s daughter, now a student at DU herself, is a regular in MT; I have reassured my friend that the chhaang dens of his youth are nowhere to be seen, replaced by air conditioned cafes and restaurants of a high standard that serve food from across Asia, including Tibet, Nepal, Korea, and India’s northeast.

Another standout characteristic of MT is its nearly traffic-free character. Its alleys are too narrow to permit cars, and while the occasional motorcycle makes its way through, the colony is essentially a pedestrian zone. This is rare anywhere in the world but, in a city of heavy, aggressive traffic, it makes MT a true gem. Residents who own cars park them outside the colony walls. Deliveries are offloaded outside the colony and brought in by cycle rickshaw.

I am grateful for the refuge that MT has provided during my work in Delhi: a friendly and peaceful place to write, read, decompress and, of course, eat, after a day out and about. But what about the chhaang? This is my third time staying in Majnu ka Tilla, and until a few days back I thought the colony had gone completely dry. Not so! No doubt the best chhaang is brewed at home and kept for personal consumption. The other night, though, I did find a very good cup of traditional Naga rice beer. At 120 rupees (around $2) a glass, it’s far from the cheap chhaang of my friend’s youth or that I would sometimes buy out of Castrol motor oil jugs along the East-West highway during previous work in Nepal. The quality is the best I’ve had: slightly sour, and a little thick.

I am off to Lucknow tomorrow for the next stage of my work. But, I am already looking forward to a few more nights in peaceful MT at the end of the summer. 

Sam Frantz is a doctoral student in political science, and a recipient of a 2017 Sigur Center Grant for Asian Field Research.

Catching the Bus in New Delhi

Getting around Delhi can be both fun and frustrating. If you are not familiar with the sprawling metropolis, it can be a bit difficult finding your way around, even with GPS. There are an array of transportation options, including the metro (subway), cabs, and auto rickshaws. However, I want to discuss taking the bus. There are many advantages to taking the bus. For one, it is super cheap. A distance of 20 minutes costs about 10 rupees (15 cents). Second, you don't have to haggle with the driver like you do with auto rickshaws and cabs. Auto rickshaw drivers can be frustrating as you will be rejected by one, two, or even three drivers before you find one who is willing to go to your destination. Additionally, most auto rickshaw drivers do not go by the meter and will haggle over the cost (unless you are willing to pay their usually high starting price). Third, you don't have to worry about the driver knowing where your destination is since it is on their route. Many auto rickshaw drivers will simply not know where your destination is, especially for a place that is not frequented by many, such as the National Archives of India. In my experience, some drivers did not even know how to get to the fairly well known Shastri Bhawan that is next to the archives. With busses, so long as you know your destination is on the route, you will not have to worry about your driver's knowledge of Delhi. Fourth, busses arrive pretty frequently and in my experience are fairly on time. Lastly, there is no fuss like at the metro with having to go through metal detectors and security.

However, busses do have their downside. At peak hours they can get pretty crowded. In these cases they'll usually send two buses on the same route back to back. But even then you will probably have to stand if you are riding during rush hour.

Taking the bus to a place you go frequently (in my case, the archives) is convenient and easy to work into a routine. However, taking the bus in Delhi is not the same as in the U.S. and there are a few things you should know.

Firstly, you need to find out which route(s) go to your destination. This can be a little tricky. The Delhi bus system (DTC) is incorporated into Google Maps software, however, I found some of both the route and schedule information to be incorrect. I was not able to find a route map on the DTC website, but they have a time table of routes, yet I could not open the file for whatever reason. There is also the website http://delhitravelhelp.in/ that allows you to search for routes between two locations. However, the wording of locations on there are set and you cannot enter addresses. Thus, you will likely use a combo of all these resources. It sounds complicated, but it is actually quite simple. I would begin with Google Maps and see what routes it shows for your destination. Then use the Delhi Travel Help website. If you see a route(s) listed by both then it will more than likely work. If there are multiple routes, even better, since this means you will not necessarily have to learn arrival times and can wait for whichever comes first. You will likely not have to wait more than fifteen minutes unless you are trying to catch a bus late at night. There is a Delhi DTC timings app, however, if you would like precise arrival times.

Once you figure out which bus you want, go to the bus stop nearest you. Google Maps is accurate for the locations of these. Some bus stops have a roof and bench. Each bus stop has the route numbers listed somewhere there, so you can confirm that your bus services that stop.

When you see your bus, make sure to step forward and wave it over. It will not stop otherwise, unless someone is getting off. If your bus stop is on the sidewalk, you will probably want to walk a little into the street to wave, as the bus rarely ever pulls in to the curb.

The busses often do not come to a full stop. This sounds scary, but even the elderly get on with little trouble. Just be quick on your toes.

You will enter through the second side door towards the rear. You can board through the first door by the driver as well, but since you pay in the back, it is better to board there.
Once aboard you will have to find the worker who collects the money. He usually sits in the seats immediately before or behind the second side door. He will usually have a bundle of tens in his hand and a small receipt machine. He does not get up. You will have to go to him. If it is a crowded bus, the person next to you will generally be willing to give the money to the money collector. Once you pay the money collecter, he will ask you what your destination is. State the name of the stop (if you click on the busstop icon on Google Maps, it tells you the official name of the stop). If you do not know the actual name, you can try the name of a major landmark nearby. Fares are calculated by distance. Here are the list of fares:
http://www.delhi.gov.in/wps/wcm/connect/DOIT_DTC/dtc/all+services/fare+stages+and+fare+charts

If you already know the cost of your fare, you can possibly just give the money collector exact change (e.g. 5 or 10 rupees) and he'll assume that is the cost of the distance you are going unless you state otherwise. Once you pay the money collecter, he will give you a paper receipt. Occassionally, an employee of the DTC will board the bus and check receipts to make sure people paid.

You can generally get a seat when you don't ride during rush hour. Off peak hours appear to be 10 am to 5 pm. If you see an available seat, try to be curteous as some seats are only for women and other seats are for the elderly. The designations for seats are usually written above them on the bus walls, but people don't always ahdere to these designations, especially off peak. In my experience, it seems the women's seats are strictly for women at all times whereas the seats for the elderly can be taken by anyone else if an elderly person does not need one.

When the bus is a minute or two from your stop, you will want to start moving towards the front. Once you get to the front and your stop is next, tell the driver to stop at the next stop. If it is a popular stop that many people will get off at, you don't have to go to the front. You can just stay in the back and exit through the second door.

For the first few times you take the bus it would be wise to follow the movement of the bus on your smartphone's GPS, so you can see when your destination is approaching. After a few rides, you will become familiar with your route and not need to do this.

Accessing the National Archives of India (NAI)

Greetings,

I am Elham Bakhtary, a summer research fellow with the Sigur Center for 2016. I want to discuss my experience accessing the National Archives of India. I will be discussing the procedure for getting registered with the archives and some of the particulars I wish I had known prior to arriving in India.

Anyone who plans to access the archives needs to get their documentation in order. You cannot just show up to the archives with an ID and expect to do research like in the U.S. or U.K. In addition to getting a visa before you come to India, you will need to prepare a few other documents.

1. The first is the letter of introduction from you home institution. The NAI is quite vague as to what they are looking for in this letter. The NAI does not specify who should write it. Because I am a doing this research as a fellow with the Sigur Center, I thought it best to get a letter from there. However, it appears acceptable to get one from your advisor, department chair, or college dean. My letter basically stated that I was a student in good standing at George Washington University and was awarded a grant from the Sigur Center to conduct research at the NAI. If you plan to visit multiple research sites in India, you may want to keep the letter more vague about research sites or have all the sites listed in the letter. A general rule is that the more professional the letter looks, the better. I recommend submitting the original harcopy signed by the author with the univeristy letterhead. Another fellow American scholar submitted a photocopy of his letter and it was accepted, however, he was a professor and was known by the staff since he had used the archives before. It is best not to take chances.

2. The second document you need is the letter of introduction from the U.S. Embassy in Delhi. You can only obtain this document in person. This is was probably the most frustrating experience I had. I went to the embassy and was told I could not enter with any electronic device. There is a kiosk across the street where an attendant will hold your belongings until you are done. You have to pay him 50 rupees (roughly $1) for each item. I gave the gentelman my phone and laptop and returned to the embassy only to be told I could not enter without having an appointment. To avoid this, I suggest the following steps.

- Make your appointmnt online at http://newdelhi.usembassy.gov/service/appointment-and-contact-info.html. Pick a day you will be able to go. It may not be wise to pick it the day after you arrive since you will probably have jetlag. But if you will only be in Delhi for a short period of time, you may want to go as soon as possible to get the most research done. It does not appear they allow appointments on Wednesdays. Once you make an appointment, print out the confirmation page. An embassy official told me via email that bringing the confirmation number was enough, but the guards seem pretty committed to seeing an actual printout, so it would probably best to bring one. If you are staying at a hotel, the front desk will likely do this for you. You can also cancel and resechedule your appointment online.

- The embassy is quite strict about what you can bring. Here is a list of banned materials: http://www.ustraveldocs.com/in/in-niv-securityinfo.asp
Considering the length of this list, it is probably best to only bring the essentials. You will need your passport, appointment confirmation page, and $50. Yes, the cost of the letter of introduction is quite high. The embassy accepts dollars, rupees, and credit cards. I believe I overheard one employee say they do not accept debit cards. If you plan to visit the archives the same day, you will likely want to bring your electronic devices. In that case, there is the kiosk across the street that will hold your belongings for 50 rupees per item. It seems safe and you only have to sign a logbook. They will give you a ticket that you will present when you return to redeem your items.

- There is a separate line for U.S. citizens at the U.S. Embassy. Once the guards confirm you have an appointment and check your passport, they will direct you to the appropriate room. You will go to one window and fill out a document that explains who you are, where you plan to do research, and what you plan to research. After that you will go to the cashier's window and pay the $50 and get a receipt. You will then wait until your name is called. You will present the receipt, sign the documents and will be handed your letter of introduction.

3. The third document is the F8 form. However, they have a version of this at the archive that you can fill out. It appears to be slightly different from the one online. However, it is more or less asking for the same information. You can view the online F8 version here: http://nationalarchives.nic.in/writereaddata/html_en_files/html/form_8.htm
The online version has an option to send it online, but it doesn't appear to work.

4. The final document is your passport (and the visa inside).



When you arrive at the archives, you will have to go to the booth in the front and enter your name, institution, part of the archive you are going to, purpose, time, and signature. For part of the archive enter "RR", which stands for Reading Room. For purpose you can write "research". Once you enter the info, the clerk will give you a day pass. You will show it to the guards at the gate as well as the ones at the front door of the entrance. Some will not bother to look at it, others will examine it. It is best to just make eye contact with them, hold up the pass, and see what they want to do. Sometimes they will tear the pass slightly to indicate they read it. You will have to obtain a new pass each day you go to the archives.

Once inside the Reading Room you may be asked to sign in by writing entering your name and signature in a binder by the door. You will then go to the staffer in charge of registration. You will hand them all four of these documents at the same time. They will keep the letters of introduction and F8 form. They will scan your passport and visa and return it to you shortly (I got mine back about 20 minutes later). Once they hand back your passport you can begin requesting materials.

8 Rupees

This is the second blog post by Diogo Bernardo Lemos, PhD candidate in Political Science at GWU, recipient of the 2014 Sigur Center Summer Grant for Asian Field Research:

Mario Miranda's interpretation of Mumbai's trains.

I'd heard about Mumbai suburban railways' enviable reputation for crowds, accidents and thefts. To be sure, an estimated 7.5 million people ride its trains everyday, making this the world's second busiest rapid transit system. A quick survey online revealed a bifurcated appraisal: foreigners were advised either to entirely avoid it or to vigilantly embrace it. And so, for a moment, I too hesitated in jumping on its wagons to commute between South and North Mumbai. After all, the combination of cheap taxi fares and the fast route via the new 'Sea Link' viaduct ('shhhlik' according to one driver) made for an enticing alternative: why bother? But then again, I came to Mumbai to study its politics and few experiences provide better grasp of a city than its public transportation system.

So, there I was, one Mumbai morning in Grant Road station, negotiating my way across the gelatinous crowd towards a ticket booth. Seizing my precious audience with the seller, I inquired the fare to Bandra station. '8 rupees,' he said. I hopped on a train and, easily enough, arrived at my destination.

Emboldened by this experience, I then attempted to reenact it on the way back. Only, this time, the ride took place at rush hour. People, people all around me, people coming and going, people streaming by me as a tidal wave through the last standing tree. The thing about Mumbai's railways is that there are many lines and these change tracks frequently. So, unless you understand Marathi, you are in for a vigorous few hours of lapping in a human pool. After several failed requests for help, a lady (an 'auntie') pointed towards a train and said: 'It's that one. Quick - it's leaving!' As I flew across stairs and elbows, I heard her yell one last piece of advice: 'Take first class!' I would have forgotten this were it not for the coincidence that I plunged into a first class wagon. Or so I thought considering the much quieter and roomier car, which obviously led me to the conclusion that first class was the way to go with Mumbai trains.

The next morning, I planned to repeat the journey wearing the placid vest of experience. I returned to Grant Road station, validated coupons in the amount of 8 rupees, waited for the correct train to arrive, calmly searched for a first class wagon, and then proceeded to find a cushy seat inside. As the train began its slow march north, I remember vividly opening that morning's copy of 'The Times of India' and thinking to myself: 'I've become a Mumbaikar in a day.' The phone rang. It was my wife. 'Oh, what a perfect picture: I'm riding a Mumbai train, daily newspaper spread across my lap, and speaking with the wife on the phone.'

Few minutes later, I noticed for the first time a commotion on the other side of the wagon. Certainly, nothing too serious to drive my attention away from this cross continental phone call. The train pulled in the next station, commuters got off, commuters came in and I remained seated, conversing on the phone. The train jerked again into motion and only then I realized the reason for the commotion: a ticket inspector was steadily advancing towards me. A thought of doubt and disquiet burst into mind: was 8 rupees the fare for a second-class journey only? It was now too late to escape. I turned off the phone and prepared for impact.

I handed him the coupons. His deliberation took barely a second: 'You must pay a fine.' It's not possible. Yes, it is, he said. In fact, I was guilty of a double offense: I was not only riding first-class with a second-class ticket, but I also had less than the required 8 rupees. Somehow - believe it or not - I mixed-up the previous day's coupons with that day's and forgot to validate a new 5-rupee coupon. All in all, I was traveling first-class on a 3-rupees ticket. 'This is very serious. You must pay 500 rupees.' While I recognized I was in the wrong, I wondered whether the inspector was trying to take advantage of the situation. Lacking any better excuse, I apologize and said it was mistake. 'Yes, I know,' he smiled and punched, 'That's what I do: I catch mistakes.' Round 1 was his.

As with any incident involving a foreigner in India, this exchange was kindle for the curiosity of my fellow passengers. The inspector said we should get off at the following station to discuss the matter. I conceded the partial defeat. There, we found ourselves at the police station. This turned out to be an orderly, albeit spartan, chamber. We both made effusive display of our diplomatic skills: he repeated his indictment; I reiterated my defense (centered, at this stage, around my evident inexperience with the Mumbai suburban train system). We eventually drifted outside to the platform and I began to realize that I was winning through persistence. He had somewhere else to be. Finally, he uttered the magic words: 'This time, I'll let you go. But...' The condition involved validating a 5-rupee coupon and riding the rest of the journey on a second-class car. Moments later, I was back on a train holding the 8-rupee coupons on the way to Bandra. The taxi would have been more serene but it surely wouldn't have been this much fun.

This post is dedicated to the memory of Mario de Miranda (1926-2011).

Diogo Lemos

PhD candidate 

Department of Political Science 

GWU

Tips for Field Research in Asia

1. Start before going. This is a list of things you should get together before leaving: letter from advisor(s); letter from university; letter from local affiliated institution (if you have one); business card; and short summary of your project. You will probably need this to access local libraries such as the Jawarhalal Nehru University's (below). Make a rough draft of your research schedule detailing the aims of your trip and how you intend to achieve them. Save up time upon arrival by making a list with addresses of places you want to go (e.g., libraries, archives, government offices, universities) and take some time to become acquainted with their location. The same goes for people who you might want to meet: make a list of contacts and email them in advance (but don't rely on this, see below). I'm assuming you have visited your research area previously, but if not, you need to think about items such as local phone, Internet and transport.

Jawarhalal Nehru University, New Delhi

2. Don't rely on e-mails. Few things will hamper down your research as waiting for people to reply to your emails. The truth is that most people will never prioritize (or even read) an email from an unknown student posing strange questions about a remote topic. In the hierarchy of research communication, emails should come last, followed shortly by the telephone. Of course, getting hold of someone's mobile number is always better than having his or her office number. But even phone conversations can lead to dead ends. As many researchers discover, scheduled meetings often get cancelled at the last minute. If this happens, the fallback option is simply to show up at the person's workplace - sometimes you do need to be a bit pushy. Naturally, you must be careful not to come across as rude (i.e., apologize, explain that you won't take much time) but, in general, it's worth taking the risk. My experience is that once people see you they'll grant you a couple of minutes or so, mainly because it will get you out off their backs.

3. Sort out your office space. Unless you to intend to spend your day at home (and then you should be asking yourself why going?), you need to take some time to consider where you will be working. Researchers conducting archival research will have a slight easier life on this point. Nonetheless, they still need to think about library opening hours, where to have lunch/water and, most importantly, Internet access (none of the libraries/archives that I visited in India provides wireless access). Alternatives are, in my experience, limited to two options: (1) Internet cafes and (2) co-working spaces. In regards to the former, you should prepare beforehand a list of Internet cafes that are convenient for you and that will enable you to work for extended periods of time (i.e., a bar or a sports bar will probably not be a very good choice). Moreover, in India, I have found that many of the places offering Internet access online, do not once you are there (e.g., most Coffee Days and Costa Cafes do not). Ideally, you should check with someone and/or ask recommendations from locals. Online resources (such as blogs) often provide lists of Internets cafes in your research area (in the case of Mumbai, I found a very helpful map at the Mumbai Boss). The other option is co-working spaces. In Delhi, I was lucky enough to find a social networking cafe in Hauz Khaz village called Book Your Dream, which offers Wi-Fi, coffee with cookies and a beautiful lake view. All this in exchange for a contribution (left to your discretion) to an NGO promoting education in local slums.

My office at Book Your Dream in Haus Khaz Village, Delhi

4. Organize a photo library. Turns out your phone camera and tablet are an excellent field research tool. If you are like me, then you'll have filled their memory after a couple of days with pictures of libraries, interview subjects, street scenes, posters, slums, pages of books, documents and videos of political rallies. My advise on this unfolds in five parts. First, create a folder in your computer for all the photos that you will take during your field trip. Do not mix these with the non-research related photos that you might have taken during this trip. Second, you should to copy your phone/tablet photos to your laptop as often as possible so that you always have sufficient space for new pictures/videos. It is always frustrating to delete potentially important material from your phone in order to make up space for more. Third, once you have copied them, reduce the size of the files so that they do not take an inordinate amount of space. Fourth, after doing this, you should copy them again to a backup device (e.g., external drive, dropbox, self-email, etc). The thing to remember here is to have the photos saved in more than one source. Finally, when possible (this can be done once you're back from field research), organize the photo files in your computer into categories. This will facilitate searching through them.

Note to self: do not ride the Delhi metro at rush hour

5. Don't scare people with your CV. Extensive experience with grant application might give researchers the impression that listing their achievements is a natural way to introduce oneself. Yet, when it comes to field research, the opposite may well be true. Unless your CV increases the chances of interviewing someone or being entrusted with data, you should seek to reduce the information about you to the bare minimum: you name, your university and your field of study. In my experience researching in India, I have found that interview subject are sometimes scared off by too much information about my academic curriculum (or my personal trajectory). Instead, a much better strategy is to compliment the person who you are talking to and thanking her for the time granted. Naturally, this involves doing some background work about the person (i.e., if you want to talk to an academic, you should read some of her or his articles in advance) before meeting her.

Diogo Lemos

PhD candidate 

Department of Political Science 

GWU

EU Funded Doctoral Fellowship on Rising Powers

Applications are invited for 3 Early Stage Researcher (ESR) positions in the Marie Curie Initial Training Network PRIMO – Power and Region in a Multipolar Order.

PRIMO is a European Commission funded doctoral training network that involves universities in Germany, the UK, Turkey, China, India, Brazil, South Africa, Russia, and Portugal, as well as non-academic institutional participants. It develops innovative research training in the field of International Relations, in particular with respect to the growing importance of Brazil, Russia, India, China, and South Africa in international politics and the global economy. The programme combines theoretical approaches, a rigorous mixed research methodology, practical training, and the acquisition of substantial empirical expertise on regional and emerging powers, with career opportunities in academia or the private sector.

3 open PhD positions are soon closing:

German Institute for Global and Area Studies, Hamburg (Deadline: February 28)

Jawaharlal Nehru University, New Delhi (Deadline: March 11)

University of Hamburg, Hamburg (Deadline: March 11)

All PhD positions include:

·         Generous salary (country specific) according to the EU Marie Curie framework for Early Stage Researchers (ESRs)

·         Attractive secondment opportunities to other partners in the network

·         State of the art training in methods and transferable skills.

For more information & application instructions, please visit:

http://www.wiso.uni-hamburg.de/projekte/primo/start/

Speaking Marathi

For my final blog post at the end of my language program, I wanted to give an example of what I’ve learned this summer. I asked a couple other Marathi language students if they would help me film a short dialogue for this project. They gracefully said yes if they got to wear “disguises” and we began with just an outline of how we wanted the conversation to go- that is to say this video was not scripted. We are all still learning and I am also still learning how to translate so I tried to keep the translated subtitles as true to what I understood the dialogue to be as possible.


            This summer I started at next to nothing as a false beginner in Marathi and have progressed to reading and writing in a new alphabet and speaking in short, simple sentences. This is sincerely one of my greatest accomplishments and something I’ve wanted to learn for almost all of my life. I’m extremely happy with my progress although I still have a long way to go.



             This program was beneficial not only because I learned the bare bone basics of Marathi but it also kick started my academic career in South Asia and put me in contact with wonderful scholars. I’m overwhelmingly grateful for the support I received from the Sigur Center and from the department of Anthropology at GWU to pursue these studies this summer and I look forward to returning to Pune and AIIS very soon.



Jessica Chandras, PhD Anthropology
Sigur Center 2013 Summer Language Fellow

American Institute of Indian Studies, Marathi Summer Language Program, Pune, India

Learning English in Marathi

When learning a new language, students are often encouraged to use that language as much as possible. As a beginner to Marathi, the language I’m studying this summer in India, daily I proceed through a slow slog to find the words I want to say in Marathi when the English words are on the tip of my tongue. So, knowing that I should try to speak the new language as much as I can, I’m finding it both a blessing and a curse that English is used so much in Marathi. One example is that the word for “table” in Marathi is “table.” Table is just one of hundreds of English words that have found their way into the daily speech of Marathi speakers.

On the one hand, because there are so many English words is Marathi it makes communication easy. Since I am learning Marathi I am told to use as much Marathi as possible. The Marathi words that I use most are usually conjunctions or connecting words like “and” and “but.” Then, if I do not know a word in Marathi, I can use the English word and most likely the other person will still understand what I am trying to say. The result is that my speech is a mixture of intentionally chosen English and Marathi words that I use to show that I can in fact speak and understand a little Marathi.

On the other hand, speaking so much English in a language is a hindrance because I have become very used to replacing words I may not be certain of in Marathi with their equivalent English words and I may never be corrected as to which of the words are more commonly used- the English word or another word in Marathi. One example of the confusion of how and when to use English in Marathi is my struggle with the word “interesting.” I am one of many Americans who pepper my speech with the word “interesting”: “That’s so interesting!” “I find it interesting that…” I realized that these are phrases I use a lot. I have asked a number of Marathi speakers how to say “interesting” in Marathi and I was told to just use “interesting” in English. I have gleaned that there are words in Marathi that mean something similar to how I use the English word “interesting” in various ways but in these instances Marathi speakers also seem to use the English word.

Another challenge to learning how to use English correctly in Marathi is learning Marathi syntax. Marathi speakers may easily use English words in their speech but their syntax, or word order, is distinctly Marathi while using those words. In what I have been learning, at least in simple sentences, the verb should come at the end of the sentence. Linguistically, Marathi is mostly a subject-object-verb (SOV) language. Simple English sentences place the object at the end of the sentence, so English is a subject-verb-object (SVO) language. So while using English in Marathi, speakers stick to the SOV format and the result is a Marathi sentence with Marathi construction with some English words. This is interesting because it means using words familiar to me in unfamiliar ways for communication in a different language.

Lastly, as I’m becoming more and more familiar with reading Devanagari script I’m finding many English words written in Devanagari. A great deal of what is written on signs was really intimidating to me at first because many words were in Devanagari. However, now that I can slowly read when I begin to sound out a word there is a high probability that the word will actually be an English word. The example below is something commonly seen here- Devanagari script (of English words) with the Roman alphabet translation.

In this picture the blue “State Bank” in the Roman alphabet is exactly the same as the last two words written in blue in Devanagari. And the first word in blue is the word India, but not in English. This mix of multiple languages and multiple scripts makes learning Marathi and Devanagari script an exceptionally challenging but enlightening, and interesting, experience!

Photo credit: http://www.financialexpress.com/news/sbi-may-sell-assets-to-aid-recovery/1125820. June 6, 2013

Jessica Chandras, PhD student, Anthropology
Sigur Center 2013 Summer Language Fellow
AIIS Pune, Marathi Summer Language Program, India