What Women Want

Growing up in the 80s and 90s in urban India, I was surrounded by “working women”. They worked all day, often late into the night without early departures, weekends, sick leave (!) or paid holidays. To say work was all-encompassing is an understatement. It covered aspects of the home and hearth, preparing meals, cleaning, caring for children and elderly, running errands for school-goers, attending to tasks for office-goers, arranging schedules for the family and so on. And yet, for society at large, these were “non-working” women, the ones that “stayed at home”. Simply put, the housewives. For all its sophistication and complexities, national income accounting could not devise a simple measure to arrive at any value whatsoever for the contributions of these unrecognized and therefore unpaid workers. As a young, eager student of economics, I learnt about proxy variables. My rigorous training taught me to test out theories about alternatives. But never once did it occur to me then to run a regression using a proxy for women’s participation in the labour force other than the straightforward time series compiled by the ILO year after year! One of the recent economic discourses in this country has been to lament upon the declining share of women in the workforce (going by its traditional definition), while exploring ways to balance out the gender numbers. This implies that those who work “at home” are in fact, not working. The narrative today focuses on the creation of “enabling” environments to encourage mothers to return to the workplace. These include on-site creche facilities, flexible hours, retaining seniority after taking maternity leave, “working from home”, etc., all in an effort to enhance job security for a segment of the child-bearing/working-age population. These policy reforms are certainly welcome for mothers who wish to return to the more formal, i.e. structured labour force after giving birth. However, in effect they also are a disservice to those who choose to stay back to raise their children and run their households. Further, by not acknowledging the vital roles of parents, caregivers and homemakers in the economy, we create an unfortunate and unequal distinction between women going out of the house to work and home workers. It makes these “stay-at-home” unpaid women feel inferior to others who step out and get paid to do so whilst at the same time paying somebody else (ironically, usually other women) to do the jobs at home. Globally, numerous studies have concluded that children who are breastfed for at least the first 12 months are more successful in later years – “success” being a yardstick of how well one does one’s job. Would therefore the provision of this gold standard in nutrition for babies and infants in the early development years be considered a factor of production in the generation of human capital? Some questions come to mind: Why must certain tasks have hidden costs? – be it household chores or childcare which when performed, historically mostly by women, lead to historically, mostly men being “productive” in the workplace. The inherent assumption of taking these tasks for granted and treating them as “free services” creates distortions – what, for example, would happen, if we could assign a fair market value for every job done by a woman at home? Would families become richer? Would countries grow poorer? Who would pay? Would tax-paying citizens and corporations agree to a cash transfer programme benefitting millions of women who would otherwise never receive any form of monetary compensation? Neither is there a single answer, nor is it straightforward. Remunerations are based on numerous factors, and while candidates are assessed thoroughly for jobs they apply to, mothers that work as parents create the job for themselves. They may be from diverse educational backgrounds with varying levels of experience – nobody doing the back-breaking work of a parent can ever claim to be “qualified for the job” – we learn along the way, sometimes the hard way! Which makes compensation even more complicated in this case. But one thing is certain, the welfare of a state is incomplete without a vast chunk of its working-age cohort being included as parts in the sum total. The way forward is to first ask what do women want? Unanimously, the response will be “acknowledgement” further leading to empowerment. Gender equality would be better addressed when there is fundamental universal acceptance that all tasks; whether done at home, or outside, are work. How they collectively contribute to the economy is a computational puzzle; the solution to which is certainly not an impossibility. I certainly didn’t understand it back then; because perhaps the only way to truly comprehend injustice is to face it yourself. 30 years later, it is apparent to me that we are hugely underestimating GDP values by not counting the work done by women. It’s not women’s work; it is the work done by women. And it deserves to be valued, for all it is worth.

The Life of Bai

Chances are, whilst you read this article, there is somebody working quietly in the background, irrespective of your location. It could be your home, your workplace, your neighbourhood café, your gym or the airport lounge. The quiet somebody is “Bai”, a modestly-attired demure lady or one that is employed by a housekeeping organization; her bindi and necklace shining brightly as if to rebel against the dull uniform blues and greys. Chances are, she hasn’t caught a break since the crack of dawn. If she’s lucky, she lives in a room with an attached toilet and bath. But again, chances are she’s had to leave her shanty early to queue up outside the solitary public lavatory in her locality or worse, find a secluded spot in a nearby open field to relieve herself, warding off a lurking evil eye. She’s then had to rush back, fetch water from a common source, cook for the family, get the children ready for school, wash utensils, clothes, and finally; brace herself for the long (under)paid workday ahead. Meanwhile, if there is a spouse or partner in the picture, its likely he’s woken up from a drunken stupor, expected a hot breakfast, a packed tiffin if he’s employed, and cash to fund his day; money that he will claim, no matter the cost. On foot, or sometimes by public transport, Bai reaches the first of likely several establishments that she works at – perhaps quietly hoping for, but never demanding, a small cup of tea and some biscuits. Refreshments, if provided, are usually served in discarded crockery for using a plate from which the employer eats is unimaginable to most. Water she will avoid for as long as possible because in many homes she isn’t permitted to use the bathroom facilities that she, ironically enough, cleans. Her rough, chapped hands reflect the piles of dishes and clothes she’s washed, the several meals she has prepared, the countless rooms she’s swept, dusted and mopped, the caressing of brows of the numerous little ones she’s comforted and cared for. The thinning soles of her inexpensive footwear bear testimony to the endless miles she traverses as she moves on to the next workplace and the next and the next; day after day after day, year after year after year. Bai is one of millions of Indian workers that comprise the informal unskilled sector whose share in the labour force is estimated at a staggering 90 per cent. Their share in the national wealth is roughly only 10 per cent. Bai has no social safety net, nor can she avail any formal sector benefits such as paid / sick time off, maternity “leave”, travel allowance, provident fund. For the most part, she survives on her paltry earnings and on the uncertain and unpredictable generosity and goodwill of her employers. As a member of the “urban poor” community, she is amongst the worse off in the country; without access to clean drinking water, sanitation, health care, a safe haven. Her only asset is perhaps her mobile handset, usually a dated model which she operates using a pre-paid card. A smartphone, if owned, almost certainly goes to the man of the house. In India, it is nearly impossible to disintegrate the social from the economics. The two worlds are intricately inter-twined as is evident in the stark disparity between the disproportionately rich (mostly historically privileged, very small segment of the population) and the countless poor (vast majority). The lack of opportunity at birth leading to a class struggle, fuelled by a divisive, discriminatory yet widely practised caste system only serves to further diminish any real prospect of escaping a life beyond mere survival. This vicious cycle of ‘poverty and inequality’ repeats over generations irrespective of terrain. Bai’s life story is probably no different from what we have already read or heard about - growing up as one of many children in a multi-generational, low-income family and under-developed neighbourhood. Likely born to uneducated, impoverished parents, who make ends meet by undertaking low-paying odd jobs, or working as farm hands / seasonal wage labourers in the villages. She would have been enrolled in school, but in all probability would have left mid-way to help out at home or because there was no money left for her school supplies after paying for the boys’ education. Against this grim backdrop, she would have been “married off” in her teenage years, for she would be considered a burden, another mouth to feed. Uninformed of family planning options or too scared to use any birth control, she would have quickly experienced her first couple of pregnancies and low birth-weight deliveries without adequate ante-natal care or consequence. Does she dare to dream - of not letting her daughter go through what she did? Of equipping her daughter with tools to create an independent life for herself before giving birth to another? Of teaching her daughter to put her foot down? The only possible equalisers across our vast, complex nation in this scenario are long-term education, quality skills training and ‘good jobs’ leading to a meaningful addition to the domestic income/savings/investments model and thereby contributing to the growth story. ‘Trickle down’ of a boom period is sluggish at best but during a slowdown or unprecedented shocks; the rural economy is hit the hardest, making recovery hopelessly difficult. Women’s Day will come and go – but as employers of this cheap, exploited labour, we must commit to securing the future of our Bai and her family. In her progress alone lies ours, perhaps more importantly, that of our conscience and collective well-being.

A day at the beach

She caught my eye, as I scanned from behind my oversized sun hat and shades, the calm morning waves of the Arabian Sea. Really, what else does one do after a scrumptious breakfast on a holiday in Goa? A young girl, dressed, if oddly for the beach, walking briskly, her flat, rubber slippers making their way with purpose, through the washed-up filth on the sand. Slicked black hair, pulled neatly back into a fat braid, flowers for adornment, a modest, yet bright traditional Indian outfit, the salwar kameez, with its dupatta tied in a knot over one hip and pinned in place on the opposite shoulder. A thin, plastic bracelet on each arm and the look was complete. She carried a small blue bottle and with a broad grin came over to where I was lounging under the cool palm trees while watching the kids build up and break down their sand castles. "Massage, Didi?", she asked, "say yes, you will feel so relaxed. I will rub your feet, I have oil. Discount for couples and children". It all tumbled out, almost too rehearsed, her earnest sales pitch. I refused politely, somewhat firmly, switched on my trained deadpan look used to dealing with roadside / traffic light vendors, selling mostly useless flavours-of-the-week. She pleaded "it’s already 9 am Didi but I haven’t earned anything", and in a moment, the little ones joined the chorus, "we've never seen a massage Mumma!" (and for good reason, I remind them). Another glance at her cheerful face and I resigned myself to accepting her offer. She sat down quickly and softly, no mat. I gave her my cushion, she smiled shyly and said she wasn't supposed to touch anything that belonged to the beachfront properties. In fact, she explained, she wasn't meant to be seen or heard. She was persona non grata in Goa. A 20-minute foot rub turned into a game of 20 questions. Where are you from? Who brought you here? She's one of many, I learnt. From rural drought-prone Karnataka, a neighbouring state. A sad, hard existence, with illiteracy and poverty as its pillars. Accompanied an aunt to Goa shortly after coming of age and ended up staying with her, training to supplement the meagre earnings of her landless, yet, agriculture-dependent family, burdened with too many children, dealing with the absence of safety nets and enduring a vicious cycle of economic and social challenges. She was pulled out of her village school early to help look after her younger siblings, she couldn't read English or Hindi and could only do basic arithmetic. Like counting her earnings at sunset. Her co-worker joined her a few minutes later, abruptly breaking our conversation, and narrated the same story. They start their day early, getting themselves dressed in a room they share with at least 5 or 6 other adults, finish household chores, whip up a meal and set off to earn their daily bread. They aren't protected by a worker's union, they have no rest areas, no access to restrooms. No water or food while they work the beach. While we sip on our cocktails and coconut water concoctions. They have to fight off the police who claim they are stealing jobs from local youth. Yet, it’s this protector of the people that will, week after week, extort commissions from these and other migrant labourers against the threat of lock-ups, beatings or worse. She has to push away customers demanding more than a massage. Above all, she had to brush aside the exploitation, the harassment, the gender biases that defined her workday – had she succumbed to any of these, she couldn’t make a living. I find my toes curling up at the lack of dignity, at the lack of sensitivity, at the lack of opportunity and equality. She has no time for dreams or desires. When she goes back to her town during the monsoon (off season in coastal Goa), she has to help out with farming activities there. She knows she has a small window to earn and save, if at all, - turn 18 (possibly earlier) and she will be married (off), she will have no choice but to bear heirs and as a young mother, it will be frowned upon for her to spend her day rubbing the legs and arms of scantily clad men and women. I probe her for more. How much do you make in a month? Do you have a bank account? Do you have an Aadhaar card? The nonchalance of her responses makes me uncomfortable. She isn't permitted to stake a claim on her hard-earned money. There are debts - her father who has to pay the aunt for taking his daughter under her wing, the landlord who permitted her to stay in a rent-free shanty when she first arrived in Goa, cuts for hotel staff for allowing her to solicit clients in their premises, the list is endless. She stared at the notes I gave her - what she asked for and then a few more - "Advance for tomorrow's session, didi?" she seemed optimistic. No, no, I said, this is for you, buy yourself something. Her eyes thanked me, and in a blink, she was gone. Just like that. As we snaked in and out of lush landscapes in Goa, Maharashtra and Karnataka while driving back to Pune after a sublime week by the seaside, I remembered her frequently. Why are the trappings of modern, urban living which, with all its faults, so far removed from the realities of rural hardships? Only a fortnight later, one evening in early November as I watched our PM launch his surgical strikes on black money, the parallel economy and its links to terrorism, I thought instantly of my Goan wonder-girl. What will she do tomorrow? Who will protect her? She, like millions in our country, are daily wage earners, with no nest-egg to fall back on. Victims and perpetrators of a cash-only system, which was shot down, overnight. Demonetization, at worst, is an inconvenience for me. My passive patriotism extends to not joining queues for cash withdrawal and encouraging my neighbourhood grocery stores to switch to digital payments. The “go-cashless” model, banking reforms and systemic overhaul will be implemented in due course, so I can only hope that she has found a way to face this hurdle and tide over it in the short to medium term, all while being at the mercy of the cash-strapped tourist on a break, from it all. The bottle of oil which she carries with her had a picture of a parachute on it. How ironic - will it liberate her?

"Dopiaza..

is currently unavailable". So said a sign outside a popular restaurant in town, it was reported recently. This preparation, a favourite with locals and tourists alike, now lacks its essence. Pakoras at the roadside tea stall are now being made from everything but onions. Bhuna masala at dhabas have been re-created by increasing the quantity of tomatoes or substituting the common-man's once humble food "pyaz" with mooli (as if!)

That onion prices have sky-rocketed is not news. I purchased a kilo for Rs. 25 back in November and paid Rs. 75 for the same quantity a week ago. Tears could have been shed, without even having taken a knife to the darned veggie!

Food price inflation is high (13.6% at the end of December, YoY), driven largely by price hikes of non-cereal commodities, viz. fruits, vegetables, milk, eggs/meat. So what's going on? The spurt in onion prices is largely blamed on non-seasonal late monsoon showers, which destroyed the harvest and caused a severe supply crunch. Add to that, large amounts have been hoarded for speculative purposes by various entities. In a knee-jerk reaction, the central government banned onion exports and removed import tariffs, hoping that the root vegetable brought over from neighbouring countries, especially Pakistan would somehow get to the root of the problem between our nations and attempted, in vain, to play the diplomatic trump card.

However, has this really affected the average urban Indian consumer? For those of us who order take-out, how many have we switched from buying the Rs. 300 pizza to saving the amount for a few kilos of onions? Or even from spending half that amount on a tub of popcorn at the movies? Yet, its the urban middle class consumer who will make the biggest hue and cry about rising costs while the brunt of the crisis yet again is borne by those living a rather meager existence.

Agriculture’s value-add to the economy now stands at a dismal 17%, but around two-thirds of our labour force is still engaged in the sector, which means that and a significantly large proportion of our 250 million households rely upon agriculture income as their primary source of livelihood.

This begs for a more distributed, widespread and even impact of public policy rather than it being targeted at a select few, who don’t necessarily need the help. It calls for a more preventative approach to better managing agriculture produce in the country, and avoiding temporary ‘reactionary’ solutions every time the rain Gods decide to unleash their fury upon us. It calls for improving existing infrastructure networks, scaling up investment and technological advancements, removing regulatory bottlenecks in the market and building and strengthening value chains for our farmers.

Remember, you reap what you sow.

Winter and why I love Delhi

Dah-lee mein seaons hote hain, Madamji (Delhi has seasons, Ma'am) the snobbish shop assistant proclaimed when I asked him for a cotton dupatta to match my paisley printed, light-coloured, cotton kurta. Instead, he proceeded to show me a vast range of beautiful pashminas. And, he hastened to add, such prints don't work during winter - stick to solid colours and bold lines and you will be fine. This was a couple of years ago. Now I know better. The seasons he was referring to are broadly two: Diwali to Holi and reverse, which includes a stuffy monsoon period as well. Post Diwali, you put away your cottons and muslins and bring out the woollies and the silks. In Sarojini Nagar market, depending on how the roadside vendor assesses your level of "cool-ness", you are offered socks or stockings. In Dilli Haat, Kashmir and HP artisans are the flavours of the season..exhibiting their gorgeous stoles / shawls / carpers and other winter accessories and crafts. Then there's adrak-waali chai, flavourful shorbas and hearty soups. 'Nuff said?

So folks, its that time of the year. The raat-ki-raani was in bloom just recently and dogs, big or small, desi or videsi, have started wearing sweaters while trotting about the city (only the finest Burberry will do, mind you, for our fashion-conscious residents and their pooches). Weather-wise, winter is just so delightful in Delhi. There are a host of free concerts in the park and several theatre and dance festivals. Over the past month or so, SK and I have been eating out on the terrace a lot before the real chill sets in and we're forced to flee indoors (SK will be fleeing inside a lot earlier than I, the So-Cal guy that he is :-)). A thin envelope of fog (actually a dust-smoke haze, the pessimist in me cries out!) greets us in the mornings now, soon to be the cause of a lot of trouble at the airports and railway stations. For all the technology and highly-skilled trained staff that airlines claim to have, they still can't seem to figure this one out. Come December and hundreds of flights will be delayed, our preparedness will be questioned and yet, nothing much will change. It simply baffles me, this ineptitude to deal with what truly harsh, winter-stricken parts of the world would label a 'minor inconvenience'. True, North America also has its airport-shutdown days and Siberia might witness quite a few disruptions, but nothing on the scale of what we have come to embrace as part of this otherwise glorious weather pattern.

It is Atithi Devo Bhavo time - when we welcome tourists from all over the globe, charge them unthinkable sums of money for a night in the city or on the fringes of a national park for a glimpse of the elusive big cat. All glory to them. And finally, its another special kind of season in India...that which signals the impending arrival of its foreign-resident, homeward-bound people (NRIs). Hoards and hoards of them (I too, was one such specimen, until recently) zipping from one end of the city / country to another, squeezing in yet another visit with yet another relative or friend or buying that last souvenir in the hopes that the luggage will not give way. My mother said once: NRIs yeti ghara, toch Diwali-Dasara

Flying economy

He flew economy. Not business. With 250 "dhando-people" in tow, America's salesman-in-chief (as Obama has been described recently) flew in the US economy in a desperate (?) bid to win over the hub of outsourcing. How the mighty fall!

The Obamas made Mumbai their first stop, not a bad move, considering the maximum city is the economic and financial capital of India. Some might even say that the stock market's Diwali mahurat trading bonanza of 21k+ was, in no small measure, attributable to the potential gains from trade that Obama was rumoured to bring along with him.

However, as Indians, most of us like the Republicans more, I suspect, what with their low-taxation and free-trade policies. So Obama's more restrictive approach, if you will, is all well and good for the American rhetoric, but here, he sang a different tune. Within hours of landing, he signed deals with billions of dollars (sold us a lot of fighter jets, watch out, neighbours?), claiming to generate 50,000 jobs back in the States, boost bilateral trade and open doors to more and greater opportunities for our people. Does India really need to trade with the United States? While India's annual GDP growth (largely fueled by growing domestic demand) is in the 8-9% range, the US economy is only growing at about 2%. But we like the products that American make (market); from cheap consumer electronics to fancy educational degrees. Why the US claims to need India as a major trading partner is still a bit of a mystery. Its trade deficit is still pitted against only China's capacity to manufacture and supply extremely cheap goods in tremendous volumes, year after year.

As is customary, we went a tad overboard with our hospitality - what with the traditional welcome being accorded by PYTs dressed as brides of India, the finest camels and horses on display at Rashtrapati Bhavan (err, why?), the lavishness of the meals, the PM enveloping Obama in a great bear-hug at the airport (what a nightmare for protocol sticklers!), the Obamas being forced to Bhangra their way from Mumbai to Delhi and so on. Hopefully it provided a wee bit bit of distraction to the visiting dignitaries who are probably still smarting from a resounding mid-term loss of the House and barely managing to hold on to the Senate.

Finally, a note to Michelle Obama's on her choice of clothing on which more was written than the politics of diplomacy in the past few days. Please don't bring your drab greens and greys and utterly shapeless outfits over to India again. We like people of and with colour. Outsource the wardrobe - you know the drill.

Spoil-sport

A little over a week ago, 2010's biggest sporting (?) extravaganza came to an end. A spectacular finish for India, with over a hundred medals and the 2nd spot in the overall rankings.

The 19th Common Wealth Games (CWG) which, for most of this year, drew much criticism from within the country and outside for shoddy preparations, later seemed to transform Delhi during their 12-day run in the capital. Embroiled in controversy, CWG was badly hit by the erratic late monsoon pattern, poor construction, petty bickering, conflicting (hidden) agendas; all resulting in seemingly-endless delays. But a mad dash to a brilliant opening ceremony (thankfully, without Bollywood in tow) set the tone for the remainder of the event.

Never has Delhi witnessed so much discipline on the roads! Stern-looking security guards at every street corner ensured it became a fortress, albeit a gorgeous one. Delhi's famous green cover too shone and aerial shots of Lutyen's zone reversed much of the damage done to its reputation over the past few months. CP's gleaming white pillars and buildings proudly displayed their decades-old heritage, beautifully blending into modern-day Rajiv Chowk, with its hi-tech underground Metro hub.

While the Games passed off peacefully, were sportsmanship and fair play ever in the minds of the Organizing Committee (OC) / Delhi Govt. / Sports Ministry / misc other (important) officials who were entrusted with the responsibility of conducting this grand event? Its a given now that there was rampant corruption and blatant abuse of power at every level and as investigations get underway, we are subjected to mud-slinging fests and blame games. Such a pity!

On a positive note, a huge round of applause for our sports women and men who brought us laurels in an international (non-cricketing) arena. Lets hope the new generation of Delhi and indeed, the rest of the country, view sports in a new light and work towards greater goals. Lets hope also that the stadia and other training facilities built in and around Delhi serve to hone the skills of this new talent and encourage more youngsters to take up sport professionally. Lets finally hope that the CWG mess doesn't spoil the country's future in sport.