India: Difference, and the Ties That Bind

On the front terrace of the low-rising visiting professors residence, six women sat calmly in a semi-circle. They held their notes and purses, muttering to one another in Tamil, eyeing the six Canadian women as we approached. As we introduce ourselves, flickers of recognition pass across their faces. In the nervousness of the moment of first introduction, glancing at the warm faces opposite us, hesitation fades and we welcome the embrace of these new friends .

These women are our counterparts. Six Canadian women from the University of Guelph were paired up with six women from Tamil Nadu Agricultural University for one month to study intercultural communication and international extension. The Canadian students were doing the courses for credit back in Guelph, while the students from Tamil Nadu were taking time away from their thesis work to participate. Perhaps this was our first moment of understanding – cross-cultural communication through a mutual understanding of thesis anxiety…

There are more reasons why my counterpart, Subbu, and I should have been at odds than friends. We are tremendously different people. Even my use of the word "tremendous" would probably entertain her: as with many of her peers, she uses understated English – none of the exuberant overstatements that pepper my speech. If I consider the geographic, cultural, linguistic and religious differences, I am quite taken aback by the friendship. But, such is the nature of relationships: we came together to demonstrate the flexibility and malleability of boundaries that would seem to be firm and intransigent.

While we were supposed to be studying intercultural effectiveness, there is a leap between reading a book and actually being effective. This was, in many ways, the point of the exchange: learn to communicate and get the job done, regardless of your circumstances. Subbu and I, ensconced in my mosquito net, bags of spicy snacks strewn about the bed, read the theory and chuckled. We understood its importance, but within the sphere of our relatively relaxed friendship, we had to laugh. What our texts were trying to describe, in a relatively clinical way, was what we were experiencing. What our readings didn't describe was the process of fumbling along, getting used to one another, and eventually the shift from stranger to counterpart to friend to sister that happened along the way.

There was one element of our relationship, one quirk we shared, that struck us both as being essential to our relationship: a shared curiosity about difference. The most obvious example for us surrounded arranged marriage. I think it speaks to our North American ethic that arranged marriage was of some fascination to the majority of the Canadian students. Subbu took it with a sense of humour.

"Sarah," she tells me, "my parents know what they want for me. I told them what I want. I'm sure we'll find someone that suits us all."
"But Subbu, you aren't concerned about choosing?"
"I'm sure that my parents will make sure he's a good man. As long as we can be friends, that's all that’s really important to me."
"And love?"
"How does love form anyway? Which marriages last longer – the ones based on romance, which can disappear, or marriages from friendship?"
"I'm not quite sure."
"Well, I have better things to do than look for love. I want to finish my studies, find some work experience. I'll let my parents worry about my marriage."

She chuckles, shaking her head at me. Indeed she does have plans – Subbu wants her own NGO to work with farmers in Tamil Nadu, improving crop varieties and increasing their livelihoods through agriculture.

"Sarah, do your parents get to have any choice when you marry?"
"Well, if they hate the person, I'm likely to reconsider."
"Do you like dating?"
"Sometimes."
"When?"
"When it's going well", I laugh. "But, I do get tired of it."
"Then why don't you arrange a marriage?"
"You never know, I might just do that." I grin.
Subbu laughs and swats my shoulder.

Did we gloss it over? Perhaps. More honestly, I think we recognised that there was no consensus to be reached on the issue: she would have an arranged marriage, and she was fine with it; I would choose whom to marry, if at all. The friction in between the two sides of the debate was the space where we could learn: What is love – the romance? The long-term friendship? The presence of someone for so long that you don't know what would happen if they suddenly disappeared? Is it unfair, that Subbu didn't have a choice? Was I really getting the better end of the deal, being able to figure it out as I went along? The questions, regardless of the answers, were what was important – the site of learning.

In anti-racism training, some educators talk about the importance of "different" versus "different from". When we compare – "different from" – we naturally assume that one side is good and the other bad. "Different" recognises the humanity and uniqueness of the individual. Subbu and I were simply Sarah and Subbu. Neither of us assumed that we were better and "more" correct than the other.

Not to pretend this was an easy task: this was difficult. Part of me wanted to shake Subbu and say, "Wake up. Don't you see that you deserve a choice in the matter? Don't you see that this takes away your power?" But I stop. I think about Subbu. Perhaps she's ready to shake me and say, "Sarah, wake up. Don't you see that there are more important things in life? Don't you see that your parents know better than you do?" Neither of us is shaking the other. Rather, we come to the point where the conflict makes us think, and gives us new perspectives to consider.

This is at times painful. We visit with a woman living with HIV/AIDS. I have spent the last ten years involved with HIV/AIDS education and advocacy in one form or another. It is a very human illness for me, tied to faces of friends, and the stigma I know they face. For Subbu, this is the first time she's been in contact with someone living with the illness. We are challenged, and come out on opposite sides of an argument. I am fuelled by what I have seen, by relationships that have helped guide my opinions; she is fuelled by what she believes, by experiences that have guided her opinions. After the short group discussion we have with all the Canadians and all the Indian students, Subbu and I don't discuss it again.

She told me, "I understand what you're saying, Sarah. But, it is difficult for me here. I think it is very different in India."
I struggled. "I know that it is different in India, Subbu. Remember, I'm talking about my friends. I'm talking about what I've seen."

The conversation finishes. We are friends, yet friends with vastly different lives. In the course of trying to communicate and be effective, we must not forget that we are different. The quality I appreciate about Subbu is that she remembers this and respects it. Perhaps in our stubborn effort to minimise critical judgement, we missed an opportunity to change one another's minds. Perhaps we were fooling ourselves – were we really minimising judgement, or just not acknowledging it?

Conclusion

On our last day in Coimbatore, before I fly back to Delhi, we share parting gifts and sign autograph books. Subbu gives me a tiny porcelain ballerina tucked into a seashell. "It's a miniature Sarah," she tells me. It's so dainty and fragile – quite unlike how I see myself – that I almost chuckle. But I look closer, and I see the curly brown hair and the rosy cheeks – I see it from Subbu's perspective.

Sitting in the airport, on slippery, squishy chairs, we wait for our flights. I bring a box of sweets for us to share, and Subbu and I watch Tamil music videos.

"He's a good singer," I mutter
Subbu grins and laughs.
"Everybody else thinks he's too short and wild, but he's my favourite," she confesses.
She laughs again.

Our flight is called, and as I turn to go through security, she says to me,
"It was fantastic to spend these days with you."
Chuckling, reply, "It was good to meet you too".