Below is a VOA News television piece I produced on new mobile phone games that have been designed to educate poor, rural Indians.
The piece also explores how mobile games are an effective way to broach taboo topics in India like SEX. Most states across India ban sex education in schools. My Indian friends often joke that, as far as they know, “no one has sex in India. Babies fall from the sky.”
Mobile games candy-coat the information so that kids can actually learn about the "birds and the bees." They've got to learn safe sexual practices somewhere, no?
The secret to lucrative freelancing is being able to take a story and repurpose it for different outlets. You can add touches of color and supplemental interviews, but ultimately draw from the same bulk of work.
That said I am working on a supplemental print piece on mobile phone education for an India publication called The Caravan.
Below is the initial draft I turned into The Caravan editors about India’s emerging “mobile phone movement.” None of it is usable in the literary magazine. Why? I had incorrectly written for a foreign audience. The Caravan readership is an intelligent and clued-in Indian audience.
All of my American friends who happen to read the piece below may actually learn something new about India’s intricate cell phone culture.... Not so much for my Indian friends who already live and breathe it. Mobile phone penetration is OLD news for them. I need something fresh and forward looking.
I am going in a completely different direction with my second draft, thanks to the urging of really qualified editors.
The fact is, in India, mobile phone penetration is mass multiplying faster than rats in heat. Equipping poor villagers with quality educational software for the mobiles may be just the ticket to boosting India’s literacy and global influence. Could mobile phone education be India’s secret weapon as they move to dominate the global playing field? This print exploration should ideally hit newstands this month.
Here is the original draft (discussed above). Enjoy these word-chunks scooped up fresh from the cutting room floor....
INDIA'S MOBILE PHONE MOVEMENT, THE LOST DRAFT
“One picture, Madame?” Before I can respond, I’m sandwiched in by 20 of my “new best friends.” Rows of burly hands grasping mobiles erupt from every angle, taking snap-after-snap-after-snap. And I just I stand there – frozen - like some sort of inebriated Santa Clause.
The Bombay heat had turned my hair into a bad science experiment and my pit-stains were far from vogue. There was no Janet Jackson wardrobe malfunction – I checked. What on earth, then, was the reason for Princess Diana paparazzi treatment?
A month later, I got my answer while browsing through an Indian friend’s mobile phone. His photo album had more white women in it than an episode of Desperate Housewives. After a relatively painless interrogation session, my friend admitted that he and his pals collected mobile photos of white girls (the fairer, the better). They then traded the snaps via their mobile network much like American’s do baseball cards.
I quickly deleted my photo from the bunch wanting no part in the snap-shot seduction. “Too late, firanghi,” my Indian pal joked. It was then that I realized just how deeply India had penetrated the mobile playing field -or should I say mobile player’s field. My image belonged to a rapidly growing network of the estimated 350 million cell phone users in India.
This number is growing rapidly. In most villages, it’s not uncommon to see gaggles of women yapping on their mobiles while milking a cow or pacing a corn field. Nineteen-year-old Sony Sharma lives in the tight-knit Malakpur Village in Uttar Pradesh. At sunrise, Sony completes her morning chores. She feeds the water buffaloes, milks a crew of moody cows and boils water for chai—her mobile phone strapped tightly to her hip like a newborn infant. A quick glance to Sony’s left and you see the perfect portrait of modernity – three steel cell phone towers loom over a still stretch of the graying Ganges.
“The towers came last year,” says Sony who adds she is proud to be one of the 30,000 villages across India which is now wired in. Sony estimates about half of the people in her village now have phones. India’s economy may be at a stand-still, but the cell phone companies are profiting. It is new rural phone owners like Sony – with an earning power of less than four thousand rupees monthly - who make up India’s seven million new mobile subscribers each month.
The olive-skinned teenager flashes her Nokia 1600 phone, a hunk of circuitry which has quickly turned her into the village DJ. By night, the tiny sounds of “Oh when the Saints Go Marching In” or “Jai Ho” echoes off endless rows of sugarcane.
Sony and her fellow villagers have quickly become savvy to the tricks of the mobile trade. Incoming and missed calls are completely free in India. That’s why, says Sony, she prefers to regularly nudge her fellow villagers with a “missed calls in the morning.” “They are a type of no-urgent hi, how are you,” Sony says speaking of this newly emerging language. It can also be used to tell someone “you have come to a place,” Sony adds.
At times this missed call series can expand to a perpetual game of “tag – you’re it.” Claire Snell-Rodd is an American Fulbright Scholar and PhD Candidate at the University of Virginia currently studying attitudes toward health in New Delhi's Okhla slum. Snell-Rodd says many slum dwellers, unable to afford the full cost of a 10 rupee conversation, will blow their family members or friends a type of missed call kiss. Later, when the two respective parties bump into each other, the person who last called has the upper hand. “They can feel free to question the other party for never returning their calls,” Snell-Rodd confides. This face-saving game continues until one party finally stomachs the cost of a call.
A young man rams sugar cane through a roaring metal grinder. Rich sugar juices stream from a metal pipe and collect in open channels in the surrounding dirt.
Bubbles form in a babbling mud hole. An old man feeds a fire below the stewing sugar water. The steam reeks of baby powder mixed with Hi-C Fruit punch.
Nearby men scoop up the cloudy water and fish out the dirt flakes (well...most of them). They then leave the substance to dry. In 15 minutes the syrup has thickened into golden brown blocks of sugary goodness.
This is just an ordinary scene at a sugar factory in Bugrou Village, Uttar Pradesh at twilight. The factory primarily supplies sugar to sweeten local beers including the infamous Kingfisher.
The whole irrigation system reminded me of the amateur trenches I used to build at Ocean Beach in San Francisco. As an ambitious child, I would spend hours dislodging sand crabs and digging carefully constructed holes to suck the salt from the incoming tide.
Two pigs dine on a fly-peppered trash heap just minutes from Manju-ka-Tilla in Delhi.
These are the largest pigs I have ever encountered (this coming from a girl who used to intern in the tech command mosh pit at CBS).
I now understand the full thrust of "pig out." Look at the pork-belly on stage left. He's beyond reckoning - completely incapacitated!
Hundreds from around the world flock to Rahat Open Surgery - an open-air clinic - inches from the Jama Masjid Mosque in Old Delhi.
In the shadow of a mosque their feet and hands are sliced by razor blades. The goal- give the bad blood an escape route and encourage the body to reoxygenate.
Mr. Gyas - who has practiced the tradition of blood-letting in India for nearly three decades- consoles his patients as their darkened blood drips onto the stained concrete. As he places his palms out in perfect jazz-hands form, he explains that he is communicating the grace of God.
After they are sliced by punctuated razor blade jabs, the patients then engage in leg lunges and hand curls as red clouds swirls across their bare skin. A water wallah paces the grounds showering the wounds with lukewarm water.
Some come to rid themselves of muscle tension or head ache. For many more plagued by chronic pain or cancer this ancient method has become their last resort. With all their hearts, the patients say in symphony they have finally found an antidote to years of suffering.
The treatment is generally a 15 day procedure. That's a lot of blood loss under the blazing Delhi sun. Wonder if the light-headed lot is discouraged from operating heavy machinery?
I don't want to dis on New Jersey, but the one American there who was eagerly participating was from Edison.
Then again, I shouldn't dis on the whole procedure, even if the impact is purely psychological. The detailed procedure and die hard commitment on the part of the "doctor" and patients are captivating.
I will explore the details of treatment and the controversy over what some call an archaic practice in an upcoming television feature. Warning: not for the weak stomached...
The High Holi-Day!
I was warned. “One step into Old Delhi on the high Holi-day and you surely won’t surface unmolested!”
A couple of paces in and I was pelted by paint-clogged water balloons from snickering children overhead. “Missed me,” I yelled in a jovial tone. In diplomatic fashion, I attempted to throw some orange powder toward their perch. Bad idea. They say that “anything’s possible in India.” But, that doesn’t mean you can fool gravity, Linda! Ugh. So, yes folks, my first official Holi color-spray was self inflicted.
Holi, the annual Festival of Colors is a Hindu holiday that is celebrated throughout South Asia on the full moon (Phalgun Purnima). It is symbolically meant to honor the victory of good over evil.
People express their love and appreciation for one another by sprinkling friends and foes with a variety of powdered colors. Everywhere you look you spot grinning locals disguised as preschool finger paintings. It could be all the Bhaang (Cannabis) that people slurp up, but it is said that enemies become friends on Holi. Nihang, an armed Sikh group, has even been known to call Bhaang "Peace-Giver" (Sukkha Prasad).
Decidedly bhaang free, I spent the day criss-crossing Old Delhi. After a couple of laps, a collection of faux-shy men gathered around me. They distracted me with half-broken English all the while elusively de-pocketing wads of colorful powder. Soon I was surrounded by human fire extinguishers detonating paint flakes! Some added liquid to their color-caked paws.
Maybe it was those platinum blonde teenage years I spent drooling over the Mac Make-Up counter. Perhaps it was my San Francisco daisy-chain of an upbringing. But, in an eye-blink I threw myself into the celebration! I was fortunate to meet some Canadian and German tourists who were just as eager to play Desi-Picasso.
I met one interesting Indian-Canadian named Shaan Desai who has been travelling through India for a few months now. He's visiting with family members and connecting with his personal history.
On this Holi-day that is meant to bridge cultural and social divides, Shaan was still not convinced that India would be able to transcend its great divisions and eventually take-over the global scene. He spoke on this during a rare moment of rest.
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My second piece for Voice of America News captured the daily comedic confrontation between Pakistani Rangers and Indian Border Guards at the Wagah border crossing between Amritsar, India and Lahore, Pakistan.
I took a 5.5 hour train ride from Delhi to Amritsar, Punjab (home of the Golden Temple) and then hopped into a hired car to reach the border crossing by sunset.
"Hindustan-Pakistan-Hindustan-Pakistan." When I arrived, the cheers from thousands of Pakistan and Indian spectators - separated by a metal border gate and miles of electrically charged barbed wires - made the ground quiver with indigestion.
In the hours leading up to the ceremony, Indian women and men shook their hips provocatively - especially this macho man. I bet he'd kick butt at Dance-Dance-Revolution.
With such carefree splurts of sensuality, it doesn't surprise me that this country birthed the holy Kama Sutra.
The Indian Border Guards and Pakistani Rangers punctuated the start of the ceremony with loud war calls.
When I am working to predict behavior for a shot, interesting details jump out. In this case, I loved watching the border officials take long breaths before they coiled up their tongues and tonsils to form one long YELLLLLLLLLLLLLLL.
Who knew mustached Jawans (soldiers) were so flexible. They put even the Rockettes to shame.
The kicks were not slow and graceful, they were heavy. Their boot clunks reminded me of some serious games of hand ball I used to play in Elementary school. I could feel the sting of half a century of antagonism each time their black boots scraped the concrete.
The shoot was a visual paradise, but was not easy for a one-woman-band.
Firstly, I was forcefully told I could NOT move from a restricted seating area, lest I am knocked out by one of the border guard's ninja style kicks. Secondly, the sun sets on the Pakistan side. That means I was stuck shooting directly into an orb of bright light during the ceremony.
I needed to ensure I would get some usable footage beyond a series of silhouettes or seductive ear shots. So, I slowly started to inch my way towards the gate. One foot in front of the other I played deaf and dumb - looking intently at my PD 170's flip-out screen.
The military officials on the sidelines were not pleased. They would consistently wave their hands and drag me back to my nose-bleed spot on the left side of the road. At one point they tabled the direct diplomacy and pushed me.
I'm sure the military action had something to do with the fact that I was right in the middle of the road - blocking the view of the ten-thousand anxious spectators behind me.
My Indian friend Jaspreet - who was by my side throughout the ceremony- later told me that if I were Indian I'd most certainly be locked up. He calls my acceptable antics the "expat edge."
The top Indian border official called me a Yankee as he was escorting me out post-ceremony. ....working "real hard" to improve America’s image abroad.
Presenting the Beating Retreat Ceremony:
When Slumdog Millionaire scored multiple Oscar wins earlier this week, the award winning song Jai Ho roared through the streets of Delhi, blaring from rickshaws and ringing from mobile phones.
Jai Ho is Hindi for Praise, Hail, Hallelujah, or Victory. But, perhaps a more apt translation is India's "Yes We Can."
Many were captivated by shots of Indians cheering for the flim in Mumbai’s slums of Garib Nagar, but not all locals had their hands up in praise.
I appeared on The Curtis Sliwa Show on the ABC Radio Network and WNYC’s The Takeaway with John Hockenberry this week live from New Delhi to discuss the mixed response to Slumdog Millionaire’s bittersweet win. The appearances are posted here.
The points I made on air were reinforced last night at a gathering with my Indian friends, many of whom work in the business sector.
Sipping mixed drinks, a group of 30-somethings started to list their Oscar favorites. The Reader, The Curious Case of Benjamin Button, Milk. Their main thought being, with so many good films out there why did Slumdog get such millionaire-level acclaim? My friend Kishi was certain that the studios or Danny Boyle must have bribed the Academy. “And what is the big deal with Jai Ho—that isn’t even a good song,” Kishi remarked.
I proceeded to explain that what seems like day-to-day sights and trends for them—slum reality and catchy Bollywood tunes - are emerging as very novel, raw and even romantic in the west.
The larger question to explore: Is India being exported to the West through music and film in an authentic and just way?
Consider Danny Boyle, a director who came into India with what appear to be good intentions. Yet, there is no hiding that he is a Gora (white male) profiting off of a story that highlights India’s grimy underbelly.
And what about Smile Pinki, the Academy Award Winning Documentary focused on a little girl with a cleft palette in Uttar Pradesh. Here we have Director Megan Mylan – also white - focusing on the plight of India’s impoverished.
Is that the award earnng equation? Come to India (check), capture the pain and poverty so rampant here (check, check) and gain widespread acclaim (check).
This subtle resentment amongst more well-to-do Indians is best captured in Sadia Shepard's book A Girl From Foreign.
To summarize Shepard writes, there was an Austrian and Japanese Scientists in an Indian village outside of Mumbai collecting samples of dirt from the road. Two villagers walk by and one says to the other: “How sad they have no jobs in their own country so they have to come here and collect our dirt.”
Voice of America News internationally released my first television report on New Delhi’s efforts to curb child begging. Here is the English version.
This video piece is actually taken through a global car-wash. The narration is translated into hundreds of different languages and it is transmitted to T.V. stations world-wide.
I had to be mindful of this when scripting; bidding adieu to my verbose public radio style. I was additionally prohibited from using contractions. This left me discouraged at first. How on earth do I prove myself if I can’t wow people with my vivacious vocabulary, perky puns and annoying alliteration?
Then I remembered my experiences as a tap dancer. My former teacher Ed Robinson in New York City silently watched as I flaunted a series of triple time-steps, wings, and pull-backs. He stopped me mid-move and asked me to do the same steps slowlllllyyy, softly. Funnily enough, my feet felt like they had just broken. It may seem counter intuitive, but to do things simply at the core level requires so much more strength and concentration.
That said I believe I will become a better news writer because of this demand for accurate, straight-forward story telling. According to my mentor Steve Herman, current VOA South Asia Bureau Chief, many people learn English from Voice of America. There’s There is some additional perspective for you!
Recording the children begging was a perspective builder as well. The third shot where one beggar kicks another child to make sure she doesn’t steal her “business” made me realize how seriously the youngsters take their jobs.
I also found it interesting to see children pocketing money with the same stoic look worn by Las Vegas bookers.
Some important details that were left on the "cuttng room floor":
*The children take the bus each day from their family home in the slums to the more affluent intersections in South Delhi to beg
*At most they earn about fifty cents a day. They save the money for meals and to give to their parents.
*Contrary to Slumdog Millionaire’s depiction, there is not a ruthless mafia lord behind a lot of the begging. Though, most of the children pay a type of "block tax" (percentage of their earnings) to have the rights to beg in a specific area.
*When asked explicitly in Hindi if they beg, they quickly say they sell magazines. The video shots of course say otherwise, but they have been taught to avoid incriminating comments.
*After spending an hour taping the children, they offered me some candy from a huge stash of sweets. Motorists often hand begging children candy in place of money. Perhaps this isn’t the best choice, lest they decide to enterprise and open up a corner-candy shop.
*When I was in India in 2007, a young child confessed to me that he wanted to kill himself so his parents didn't have to struggle to feed him. He felt like a burden. The fact is many child beggars see their day-in-day out pan handling as a job by which they can relief a burden from their parents in a country where social services are strapped.
*Childline’s Chief Executive learned from newspaper ads that she was now the go-to place for child beggar reports. I placed several calls to New Delhi’s Ministry of Women and Child Development asking them why they did not reach out to Childline before they tasked them with such a gargantuan responsibility. One Deputy Minister defendedthe publicity campaign and contended Childline has long been designated as an NGO that takes care of all children - including beggars. They are planning to meet with Childline staffers later this month to discuss an official action plan.
Next TV Project: I will look at the growing influence of mobile phone content in India. Young Indians - poor and rich alike - are being taught about civic issues and taboo topics such as sex through mobile games like Safety Cricket.
I celebrated my birthday last week with some wonderful new friends in India. As is tradition, they swooshed chocolate birthday cake across my face and took turns feeding me. They also threw me into the air as many times as I am year’s old. I felt like a baby being burped by ARod.
That same night, I also got to take a brief trip to the Hyatt in Delhi to record Musical Legend Herbie Hancock being interviewed by my old boss Tavis Smiley. I really miss Tavis and the radio gang. It was such a nice treat to say hello to them down the tin-phone line-- sitting next to an icon.
I was there to conduct a tape sync--which means I record Herbie's voice while Tavis spoke with him on the telephone. I then send the audio to Los Angeles for the show to use.
Right when the interview with Tavis starts, Herbie's stomach starts growling repeatedly. It came in surround-sound through my headphones. And..you know what? Even his stomach growls are musical!
Herbie Hancock was part of a delegation celebrating the 50th anniversary of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr’s first visit to India to trade notes on the non-violent tradition with the late Gandhi. Martin Luther King III lead this delegation of America’s top civil rights leaders, congressional representatives and musicians, all here to retrace the steps of his father.
I briefly interviewed MLK III standing before Rajhat Ganj (Gandhi's final resting place) last weekend about what he hoped the take-away would be from this great journey. He had just thrown rose petals in honor of the anniversary of the meeting of two great visionaries. Here was our impromptu conversation:
I am still looking for evidence in India of this awakening MLK III says the world is experiencing. Tangible evidence beyond the election of a Black President in the states, of course and the symbolic success of Slumdog Millionaire.
With our financial systems practically narcoleptic, there will most certainly be a renewed search for spirituality and meaning to fill in the gangrene gap. Question is, how will this resonate in India--a historic hot-spot for this type of soul searching amongst foreigners?
I have been pigeonholed in India. Literally. The room I am staying in has an air conditioner system built into the wall. A hive of pigeons live inside. Each morning at 7:30 my pigeon alarm clock goes off: cacophonous scratches jolt me awake. The huffs & puffs they murmur while in heat are bearable. But, this sound is something far more sacrilegious. It smacks of a slaughter house. That, or a Mike Patton track!
This is obviously making me loony. As you can see for yourself, if I turn on the air conditioner to clear the wall of these beasts, the noise generated is louder than the pigeon squawks. I have gone from denial (trying to sleep through the noise) to acceptance.....
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