Feeling like an Austenian debutante

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that an anthropologist new in the field must be in want of interlocutors. However little known the feelings or views of such interlocutors may be on her first entering a neighbourhood, this truth is so well fixed in the mind of the anthropologist, that she considers the subsequent drought of interlocutors decidedly unacceptable.
Here I am, starting week two in the field; I have set up lessons with the Maulvi at the shrine so I may be able to interact with him a few days every week; I've been given permission to interview folks who run shrine-related institutions and I speak to the Head Honcho here occasionally. But all these interactions are so formal. So I sit in my house here and wait. Wait for some invitation to a soiree with cucumber-sandwiches and lemonade...well, with kababs and Rooh Afza. I sit in my parlour reading the Urdu newspaper or embroidering whatnots, hoping that the phone will ring and I will be invited to tea. The youth of my fieldwork is in wane...will my interlocutors never ask me to call upon them?

Of Pakoda wrappers and titled interlocutors

I was getting ready to leave for the field a couple of days ago and popped down to the pharmacy to buy some allergy medicines...So, in India, things generally get reused--newspapers, magazines, milk cartons, syringes...

But seriously, we have an awesome recycling culture here. So when the dude at the pharmacy handed me a little packet made out of a page from some magazine, I thought little of it. On the drive to the station, I happened to glance down at this little receptacle, when Lo! I saw that it had the question "Is it fair to compare Muslims with terrorism?" followed by the resulting statistics for various Indian cities on it! I immediately noted down the details I could read from the snippet of this magazine, as my mum-in-law's suspicions that her son had married a loon were reaffirmed. And then it happened again! I bought some pakodas on the train and there, wrapping these oily confections was an article on Sufism. I have a whole new appreciation for wrappers and packets.

In other news: A moment of dissonance resulted in what I now consider an altogether improper greeting on my part. I called the head of the local shrine to ask for an appointment. The voice that popped up on the other end spoke English in an accent almost identical to mine. I was so taken aback, I said, "Hi!"... I said "Hi!" to someone with the title of Hazrat! I cringe at the very thought. He's really kind and gentle, so it's all ok...but cringe-worthy nonetheless.

The grail-quest is at an end.

My quest for that holy grail of urban Indian existence has finally borne fruit. Profane in its seeming ubiquity, yet sacred in its strange elusiveness...I speak of unlimited wi-fi access.
So many hoops to jump through...one passport sized photo, one address proof, one ID proof, moolah and the severed head of a bull-frog pickled in brine. Apparently, Bank statements don't count as address proofs anymore. And my passport has an American address (won't do). Only utility bills count; but all utility bills in India arrive under my man's name. So they said I could bring a marriage certificate to show that I'm with the man who pays the bills (hell yeah!). That sounded easy enough. Only, my better half's name has been chronically misspelt in all the bills. So who is to say that the man paying the bills is the same man I married?
So instead of a marriage certificate, I just brought along a mother-in-law. I got the account opened in her name.
End result: I will most likely have internet access any time of the day, every day, this year. Why "most likely"? Rumours have it that the wi-fi deities have been a little petulant off-late (as with most of our gods). The pickled bull-frogs only help so much.

A decidedly odd conversation

A conversation I had with a relative today:

Auntie X: Why are you going to Gulbarga? Gulbarga has so many Muslims!

Rachana: uh...that's sort of the point.

Auntie X: Baffled silence.

At base camp

So I'm in Bangalore now. I suppose Bangalore is my base-camp before I head out to the uncharted territories of small-town India. It's my equivalent of the Jesuit missionary shack on an island full of natives...except that my mother-in-law is making something yummy for me to eat in the kitchen as I write. (We "native anthropologists" are spoilt silly, aren't we?!)
I arrived here 3 days ago. I'm still horribly jetlagged, though. I tried to go to bed last night. Managed to fall asleep at around 1:00 AM. Then at 3:00 AM the neighbourhood mutts started howling and I couldn't go back to sleep. Then my allergies kicked in today with all the desi dust. But all said and done, it feels good to be in India. It's nice to turn on the TV and see men in blue pajamas running accross a strip of dirt; it's nice to open the newspaper and see that the Karnataka women's Kabaddi team is on a winning streak; it's nice to be able to eat Chickoo and wear jasmine in my hair. Things will be less comfy once I head out to Gulbarga next week. The weather is guaranteed to be terrible...goodbye gentle Bangalore breezes; hello heat.
In other news, a newly founded group, the Sri Ram Sene (right-wing Hindu moral policing club) has been overactive this month in Karnataka. The group allegedly kidnapped and harrassed this girl in Mangalore for being chummy with a Muslim boy. They're also getting super excited about the opportunities to moral police on Valentine's Day. I plan to keep a low profile and studiously avoid men who call me "sister".

A Vogon poem to mark my departure

As my plane took off from Raleigh-Durham International, I was drowned in a deluge of sentimentality. I thought back to the last poem I'd heard and remembered the godawful verses read at Obama's inauguration. Thus inspired, I penned these wholly unremarkable lines.
(To be recited in a stilted fashion...in the manner of a history teacher reading roll-call ...Bueller... Bueller...Bueller...)

Goodbye.
Goodbye fresh air.
Goodbye my wide expanses of green.
Goodbye my quirky friends
Who come bearing scotch and baked brie.

Farewell my men.
Farewell my wenches.
Farewell my oracles, my God, my Godot.

Somewhere, Asad is mocked,
A post-processualist cursed, bones sexed,
Soroush probed--I am not with you.

Somewhere, someone unscrews a bottle,
Chops some celery,
Makes a Bloody Mary--I am not with you.

Somewhere, a party is missing its jester, it's bearded lady,
A man is missing a wife,
A cat has one lap less--I too am alone.

I must not say goodbye.
The dot and feather shall reunite,
And I will walk again with you.
--Feb 5, 2009

On the Yellow-Brick Road

Coursework: CHECK; Comps: CHECK; Dissertation Proposal: CHECK; Grant Proposals: CHECK; Funding: CHECK! Fieldwork: Almost there. So, I'm finally on the threshold of Anthropological initiation: fieldwork. I am not quite packed, but I am ready to head out to India to start what I hope will be a year's worth of productive research. Will be starting off in the South, then heading due North in August.
I've decided to use this blog to write of my adventures as a novice anthropologist. I will name no names and will keep details of "data" out of my posting. I'd just like to use this space to talk about the little things that I might encounter in these the salad days of my anthropological career. (Lions and tigers and bears! Oh My!)