Bang Bang Galore!
A Filmmaker’s BLOGELLA
Written by Steve Rosenberg
Blog 37
Sent: May 3, 2007 9:32:27 PM
Subject: May Day Belated
Happy Belated International Workers Day!
Every year, May 1 is celebrated around the world as a day of international working class solidarity. In Bangalore, it is a day when benevolent employers gift wrap huge presents and deliver them to their employees as a token of appreciation. I learned through the grapevine that Born Free Students are performing at a labour event somewhere, but I am unable to find the venue.
It is a hot, sweaty day and I have not much to do, so I decide to head down to Bangalore’s government district to see all the trade unions waving their red hammer and sickle flags shouting the worker’s rights familiar slogans; you know, “safety in the workplace,” “shorter shifts,” longer lunches, and more respect for workers. It’s funny, this country has one hundred and thirty five million kids working and not one group is shouting to abolish child labour. The reason: child labour is already illegal. What is there to shout about? I want to film the parade in all its glory, but my camera has issues. Just as the parade ends, my camera comes back to life, and I do manage to film the Domestic Worker’s Union.
The Domestic Worker’s Union is comprised of two hundred weathered looking women standing shoulder to shoulder in three rows on the front steps of the Town Hall. It is quite the class picture with all these glum faces posing for the local journalists. There is a boisterous leader, with fire in her vocal chords, shouting slogans into a megaphone while she fusses to keep her sari straight. Under the steaming hot sun, it seems hard to be energized. I learn that the fiery lady with the megaphone is not a domestic, but she is labour representative leading the charge for a group of women who faintly echo her chants.
Wash bucket sisters united by the dream of better working conditions. I want to shout, “Where are all the girls?” There tens of millions of girls working as domestics. Why aren’t these girls standing on the steps with you? Little girls by the thousands should be up there with you. Where are they? Working? Invisible?
Who am I kidding? I am not really a trade unionist. I am there in the dead heat of the summer and my brain is slowly vaporizing. I would be far more comfortable on a massage table than at this May Day Celebration. My ass is soaking, my camera lens is full of dust and my new translator on the street needs to repeat things to me eight times and still I only got the gist of what he was saying. I understand these workers need public sympathy. I sympathize, but I am so hot, I feel combustible.
The excessive heat and my aching shoulder makes me want to drown my tripod in the river. Child labour is sad and hellish and as long as poverty exists here, I probably can’t do much to change things. I need a little me time, so I head to my old neighbourhood to check out The Janaguar Natural Health and Well Being Clinic. The entrance way is commodius with its open high ceiling corridors leading to several adjoining spacious offices that each have only one wooden desk as the main focus of the room.
It is a typical situation with ten bored employees, each one stumbling over top of one another to attend one client: me. This joint offers a therapeutic two- man massage with highly touted masseurs from Kerala, the massage capital of India. I pay my massage fee and am taken into the dungeon like basement where eight more bored employees all sit cross- legged sipping tea on a bamboo mat. A janitor escorts me another shabby room where I am instructed to disrobe everything except my underwear. I lay face down on the massage table and await my wonderful hour of muscle crushing.
Moments later, two pudgy men arrive with a flurry of instructions on how to sit in a chair. Both are nondescript middle- aged men, roughly my age, except one of them is missing an eyeball. I can deal with blindness, but the missing eyeball guying touching me in this intimate setting is unsettling. Not wanting to appear politically incorrect, I close both eyes and pretend I am in Hawaii. The massage is mostly invigorating except both of my masseurs are having a long conversation about god knows what. At first, I think they might be talking about me, but the conversation is fairly lengthy. The conversation broadens to include another two men who are drinking Chai in the hallway. It’s hard to relax with all the chatter. Fifteen employees floating around in the centre and most have nothing to do.
After a couple of cordial reminders to get them to re-focus on the massage, I say, “Would you guys shut up already?” Things go silent for a while and just as I am resurrecting my image of Hawaii, the one eyed masseur lets out a steady stream of jarring farts. No apologies…he just lets them rip one after another. “Do you mind?” The farting continues. “That’s it!” I said. “I’ve had enough you, your stupid chatter and your machine gun farts.” And so the story goes. I get up and leave in a huff. My inner bitch has no place to hide here in this country, not even a message centre.
I need to manage my anger and be more accepting of life’s daily idiosyncrasies. I love Bangalore and yet every few days, I am harpooning someone and exploiting the incident for comedic effect in my writings. But as I leave the wellness centre, it makes me wonder why ten people are doing a job that can be handled by just three people. In the spirit of May Day, I want these men to hold onto their jobs, but I wonder what they are accomplishing with their time? Wouldn’t it be wonderful if these excess bored employees could take over the jobs now occupied by children? It’s just a thought.
Happy May Day!
