The dispensable New York Times, The irresponsible New York Times, The New York Times and Israel

Farewell Old Friend: the Irresponsible New York Times and Israel

I still read the New York Times, but it’s not indispensable any more. It has become intellectually incurious over the years, irresponsible, and the pomposity of its writers, increasingly in bed with our plutocratic rulers, is no longer justified by their work.

Gail Collins is an admirable successor to Russell Baker, but the Times has no one now with Johnny Apple’s authority and has apparently not attempted to replace dour Drew Middleton, who understood the military more intelligently than our politicized generals.

I admired the Times for decades, though its Sunday’s fluff was never worth its weight, and the padded travel section has never been more than a shill for adjectived group travel. And the Times’ business section—though David Carr is always worth reading—continues implicitly to believe up is good, whether its Krupp Arms or Dick Cheney’s start-up, Torture Equipment, Inc. (“Agony in Defense of Freedom!”).

I’m not thinking of the Time’s matter-of-fact labeling in a news story of Edward Snowden as a “rogue contractor” and its avoidance of coverage based on his revelations, or Judith Miller and her lazy pre-invasion reporting on the horrors of Saddam’s weaponry (which an even half-competent editor would have squashed), or sleazy Rick Bragg with his I-was-here when he wasn’t pieces, or weird Jayson Blair, whom I always pair in my mind with John Hinkley, but, more particularly, of Israel.

The Times is no longer indispensable

The Times is no longer indispensable

My wife and daughter and I were invited by Palestinian friends to the huge auditorium in Kuwait City in November, 1974 to watch the telecast of Yasser Arafat’s speech to the U.N. General Assembly. I saw no other Westerners in the large crowd, and we were seated politely in the front row, as guests and witnesses, I think, to a moment of hope. Small boys in camouflage fatigues marched to the front for opening remarks, and I thought at the time, quite wrongly as it turned out, that that display of militance was mere bluster.

Forty years ago, Palestinians, who were and are disliked in the Arab world for their sophistication and arrogance much as Jews were for ages in the West and are again, increasingly, though now for their brutality, still had hope that American policy would dovetail with its rhetoric, for even-handedness, they knew, would have to acknowledge and try to remedy the injustices Palestinians had experienced from Israel.

That hasn’t happened, of course. Israel, which learned its statecraft from its thuggish neighbors, has called our tune since the Six-Day war. One hundred senators, including many who know better, recently proclaimed admiration for Israel’s virtue in defending itself against “unprovoked” attacks from Hamas.

The Times stands in line with our right-wing radicals and Christian jihadists and anything-for-a-buck Congress to get its Hanukkah kiss from Tel Aviv. By way of example, it asserted in a front page story August 5 that related Israel’s rage at White House criticism of the IDF’s Sarajevo-like shelling of penned-in Gaza civilians at a U.N. school refuge, that Israel is our “closest ally in the Middle East.” That assertion was presented without explanation, as fact, even as anyone who fights back against Israel is unapologetically labeled in that authoritative Times monotone a “militant,” or “jihadist” or “terrorist,” with scant explanation of why those “folks,” as President Obama might say, might have good reason to be angry.

I’ve read the New York Times for 50 years, and I can’t recall even once (though this lapse is widely shared across our large media and statecraft establishment) a rational exposition of the nature of the alliance that exists between the U.S. and Israel. The assistance seemingly flows just one way: we send them money and weapons and give them cover internationally, and they stand on the throat of the Palestinians, and then we and the Times are astonished when militant terrorist jihadists attack us, the innocent.

The Times is irresponsible not because it is a Jewish newspaper, or not even because it is biased, but because it pretends to objectivity.

Israel, by any objective assessment, is strategically insignificant to this country. If it disappeared tomorrow, our economy would blink only for a moment, and that from concern that peace might break out in the Middle East (unlikely, given the dysfunction and nastiness of Arab regimes) and our arms merchants, i.e., most of our most profitable corporations, might suffer. Israel is smaller than Belgium, tiny compared to Nigeria or the the Democratic Republic of Congo, whose suffering millions warrant none of the Times’ ink. Jews’ blood, to the Times, is the reddest of all.

Israel is an ally? Please explain how that is true. What does the United States gain from the relationship? What interest have we in providing the dogs to Israel’s many Bull Connors? What do we gain from Israel’s belief that Jehovah sanctions its every meanness?

The Times is irresponsible because through its coverage of every Israel hiccup (except those from its vile Orthodox theocrats) it insists that Israel is of crucial important. By doing that, the paper provides its waning but considerable influence to help distort our national priorities. Given the current level of violence and ugliness in the Middle East and given the level of our national discourse, that is sad.

 

 

 

 

 

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Cataract Surgery, Dick Cheney image, Kellogg Eye Center, Modern medicine, The University of Michigan

Cataract Surgery

I’m having cataract surgery tomorrow, July 16, on my right eye. My weaker left eye is scheduled for August 6.
My surgeon, Jonathan Bennett Greene, is young and tall and cheerful and resides on the fourth floor at the University of Michigan’s Kellogg Eye Center, which with typical UM bombast (which I hope is true) calls itself “the premiere eye center in the country.”
I’m nervous about the surgery despite Greene’s aura of competence.
I had a preoperative physical last week and either at that part of the complex, the plush facility at Domino’s Farms–the building, I believe, that Tom Monaghan built for the pizza dynasty–or maybe at the Turner Geriatric Center (a UM facility for older people like me), or maybe at Kellogg, I picked up the current news letter from UCLA’s Division of Geriatrics, Healthy Years, with a variety of articles I wouldn’t have read 10 years ago: How Probiotics May Benefit Your Health, or, because older people “are more vulnerable” (than normal people, I guess) “to hot weather for a variety of reasons,” Protect Yourself from Heat Stroke and Other Summer Dangers (like memories of drive-ins). The lead story, however, was just for me: Is it Time to Consider Cataract Surgery?
Light, I’ve now learned, should pass cleanly through the cornea and lens to the retina, where by the alchemy of our marvelous brain it is transformed into images such as naked women and Dick Cheney. Often, however, as we get older, the lens begins to cloud and can become “opaque,” according to Dr. Kevin Miller at UCLA’s Jules Stein Eye Institute (NOT the country’s premiere eye center, which raises the question of why UM is passing out UCLA’s newsletter rather than writing its own).
In any case, the clouded lens “blurs the image we see,” Miller says, adding poetically, “The effect is almost like looking through a fogged-up window.”
Corrective surgery, he says modestly, “in the hands of a competent, well-trained surgeon,” is “safe and effective.”
It takes less than a half hour. An incision is made in the cornea and then an “ultrasound probe” is inserted and its pulses break the lens “into small pieces” which are sucked out by a vacuum cleaner probably not bought at Sears.
Then a new plastic lens is inserted–I’ve opted for the “monofocal” lens, which allows for fixed distance vision–and the patient is moved to a dim recovery room to recover from, I hope, the effective sedative which had plunged him into a grinning, insensible stupor.
Kellogg has put together a series of short videos about the condition and the procedures, and they are comforting.
If it goes well, Greene told me, I won’t need glasses anymore except probably for reading. I will see just about as I did at age 7 and 8, before everything went blurry and outfield flies began hitting my forehead.
When Greene said “cataracts; textbook,” I was relieved. It took him just minutes of studying the images from the machines technicians had used to peer closely at my eyes.
I was relieved because I have been going blind. As I sit just now writing and raise my head to look out the window, my glasses seem dirty. I can see the green grass and blue sky, the pine in front of the red-roofed building across the street, but it is all dim. It’s gotten much worse in the last 18 months. In India, I avoided going out at night because I couldn’t see well enough in the blare of lights to walk India’s rubbled streets.
I had recited my symptoms to optometrists in South Burlington and Ann Arbor, but neither saw a need to refer me to an opthalmologist, even when the vision in my left eye worsened dramatically, a change, Greene said, that is a classic symptom of cataracts. I don’t exactly fault the optometrists. They saw what they saw, and both worked in mall outlets that in factory style pass patients to the adjoining eyeglass emporium.
Anyway, such MBA efficiency is the face of our style of medicine, where a doctor no longer knows his patients but analyzes strictly by the numbers. I’ve visited the UM clinics six times, I believe, and haven’t seen the same person twice.
My old family optometrist, Dr. Allen Hilbert, who practiced for many years in Hicksville, Ohio (and is now writing a history of the village in his 95th year), was trained in the 1940s (and many workshops over the years). We used to talk about books while he examined my eyes. He much appreciated Gore Vidal. I remember once, in the 1970s, when I had sharp pains in my right eye, he met me in his office on New Year’s Day to take a look.
He perhaps would not have seen the cataracts either, but he knew me, and he would have listened carefully to what I said, and I think he would have sent me to an opthalmologist he trusted a couple of years ago. We have lost that quality of care, though our machines are wonderful.
And now: take a shower tonight and tomorrow morning with a soap like Dial ( no lotions); eat nothing after midnight; drink just water or apple juice or suchlike; go the Kellogg Center at 1 p.m.)
Despite the assurances of safety, the form I signed covers UM’s corporate ass: The risks of cataract surgery include “bleeding, inflammation, infection, pain, redness of eye, loss of vision, loss of eye, overcorrection, undercorrection, difference in vision in the two eyes, a difference in vision from what is expected, drying of eye, double vision, drooping of eyelid, numbness, swelling of the cornea, corneal abrasion, closing of post-cataract membrane, increased eye pressure, retinal detachment, need for further surgery,” and, the cherry on the top, a “rare need to remove or reposition the lens implant.”

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2014, Bad hotel, Travel in America, Travel in India

June 26, 2014, Snug in Ann Arbor

 

My flights from Little Rock to Detroit on June 21 got held up by thunderstorms that stopped Chicago’s drain. Several hundred of us arriving from here and there to the airport on the prairie spent the night on cots in Terminal 3 at O’Hare.

My months over the winter of crossing south India on trains, buses, motor scooters, rickshaws and on foot bubbled up as I walked O’Hare’s Musak-coated corridors at midnight.

India is dirtier, but even at its worst—I’m thinking here of the Marsan Lodge on Indira Gandhi Road in Chennai, samosas stacked and restacked by unwashed hands and a profligacy across Tamil Nadu and Kerala of open sewage canals —it was more appealing. We American whites, initially fortunate in the vastness and richness of a continent lightly inhabited by quickly exterminated aborigines and wildlife and built by slave labor, are well along in the creation of the landscape we deserve.

I was in a bad mood. American Airlines and its mumbling versipel, Envoy, which flies narrow tubes with stubby wings under the name of American Eagle, had been gum-chewers with cattle prods all day, herding us up and down the chute with corporate certainty: GET ON THE PLANE NOW WELCOME BACK TO LITTLE ROCK HAVE A WONDERFUL DAY WELCOME BACK AGAIN SUCKERS GET ON THE PLANE NOW!

Beyond the churlishness of flight attendant Vanessa and the Okie gate woman in Little Rock chewing three sticks of gum and later a breathing but cardboard gate woman in Chicago, I had a bad blister on my right foot from clambering the day before up and down Ozark mountains, and the chiggers had gotten me, and I’d fallen into poison ivy.

By the time knees-in-face 3259 got to Chicago, all the connections were void, and after eyeing a block-long line at McDonalds in Concourse K and having been refused a ride on one of the electric carts that buzz up and down, though I was hopping on one foot, I bought a regular-size Snickers bar for $2.13 and settled in for the night.

We forget quickly, so it is necessary to record these end-of civilization experiences for Jean Luc Picard to recover half a millenium down a narrowing road from our possum-filled ruins.

We’d backed out of the gate in Little Rock a half-hour late at 3:20, waited long enough for passenger bleating on the runway, went back for more fuel, waited again, went back again with no clear explanation to the terminal and finally  rushed onto the plane again to avoid losing our window out  at 7 p.m. American wanted to get us to Chicago, despite their blinking computers chuckling we would all be stranded there.

The waits had their amusing moments. During our first long delay, an attractive frost-headed publicist escorting a gangly teenage producer of something, mentioned to Vanessa,  a lemon-sucker throughout the long day, that Gangle’s seat wouldn’t stay up. Vanessa sent Frosty back up the jetway to get a seat reassignment from the gate woman, who slammed the door in her face and chased her back to the plane, by which time the pilot, who had been morosely silent, told us Chicago was now closed. Vanessa loudly blamed the publicist, “that woman in the sparkly jacket,”  so when she returned, blinking long eyelashes from the abuse at the gate, she was met with glares. She protested her innocence with shakes of her hair. “Shut up!” the man beside me in 8A told her, then bent again to his fluttery iphone.

Four hours later, when Chicago opened, a ground crew man in overalls took the mike at the gate, as decisive as Dick Cheney. If we didn’t have wheels up by 7, he blared as though we were resisting, we couldn’t fly, so MOVE IT MOVE IT MOVE IT!

We trotted down the jetway—“jetway!” “concourse!” “Wheel’s up!” “Device!” (the plastic thing that will supposedly drop from the plastic ceiling when American cuts off the oxygen in mid-flight to pay for a vice-president’s pedicure)… Avoid all enterprises wrapped in jargon!—in plenty of time for that seven o’clock lift-off, and then waited, and waited, and waited, while bleary standbys staggered one by one onto the plane.

At 7:15, we pushed back and after a while lifted off and then after an hour and 18 minutes touched down. WELCOME TO CHICAGO’S O’HARE TERMINAL THE LOCAL TIME IS LATE LATE LATE ABANDON HOPE ALL YE WHO ENTER HERE.

My flight to Detroit had gone (or the plane was repainted and traded to Qatar Air for a night at the casino). What to do?

The Agent, an unhappy, sweating man at the end of a long, long line, shrugged. Not his problem. He handed me a blue slip from his stack, from a company cleverly called Travelliance: PASSENGER PAY ROOM – DISCOUNT COUPON.

Travelliance, I’ve learned on my computer, is a “global leader” in what it does.

Buried in the fine print was a phone number. It led to a phone menu, Muzak, and finally a far-away voice from a meth addict telling me none of the hotels which my airline and Travelliance had “organized” at an unspecified “discounted rate” had any rooms.

Addict, responding to my “but?” sent me to a customer service specialist who hid behind Muzak and a promise every 30 seconds of an immediate appearance, for 12 minutes and 16 seconds. Where was I? Specialist asked, not having been briefed. Chicago? No rooms in Chicago. Click.

American, its single glowing eye on its next quarterly, had by then sent all the gate agents but one home. She wouldn’t talk and was surly for having to stay. If you won’t talk to me, who will? I asked. Where’s an agent? “Walk around until you find one,” she said.

The terminal, encountering airline-abandoned passengers for the first time, improvised. At midnight, a group of workers just out of the big house began putting up cots, very close together, near K-1. A long line waited, eyed by guards, each person clutching a white pillow and a thin blanket.

A pleasant couple near me, he a worker with the blind, she a teacher of autistic children suffering from cancer, began to move their cots to a quieter area. A cop interfered. “You can’t do that. Get back over there with the others!” he pointed, then returned his thumbs to his belt.

He was a burly man in his forties. No stripes. Working the midnight shift at the airport. I didn’t ask why. He answer was certain: “Because you can’t!” I recognized him from ’68, still wearing the black Chicago cop shirt, his voice an industrial grind. He was the one who hit the woman in a wheel-chair with his truncheon. I waited until he turned away to pick his nose and slid my cot behind the gate structure at K-2.

“They said you can’t do that,” the couple said, concerned that I’d be taken to the cellar.

As I lay there, my foot throbbing, waiting in dim slumber to be rousted, the brazen lights and corporate noise slapping at me, I nearly wept that the couple had gone without struggle to the cot pen. Resistance to this crass new world is our duty. When did we become so easily managed, or has it always been so? I covered my head with the thin blue blanket and wondered why the feeling surged over me as I waited for the cop, “What fun!”

At four a.m., the inmates roused everyone and took the cots down. Why so early? Because, one told me.

At the Marsan Lodge, the clerk, who ran a few girls on the side, tried to add 30 percent to the bill so he could pocket it, and he wouldn’t give me a towel or blanket, no matter how foul, until I lifted my walking stick and eyed his forehead.

My night at Marsan was better than O’Hare. I understand pimps. All night at O’Hare the taped warnings went on with Gitmo intensity. Don’t do this, or that. Don’t smoke, or else. Tell the TSA about metallic things. Don’t leave your car unattended! CNN would not shut up: a woman with pretty thighs. Bright lights to prevent the theft of ranks of gray unadjustable chairs. Two dollar Snickers. An overweight black woman limping behind her cleaning cart. Captains in their white shirts, all walking fast and thumbing their phone.

 

 

 

Getting Back

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2013, 2014, Cheap Travel in India, Chief Minister (Governor) Selvi J. Jayalalithaa., Foreign in India, India and public health, Indian government incompetence, Madurai, Travel in India, Travel in Tamil Nadu, Unromanticized travel, White in India

Rich, White and Foreign in India

Rich, White and Foreign in India.

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2013, 2014, Cheap Travel in India, Chief Minister (Governor) Selvi J. Jayalalithaa., Foreign in India, Indan press incompetence, India and public health, Indian government incompetence, Madurai, Photos from South India, The Ordinary in India, Travel in India, Travel in Tamil Nadu, Unromanticized travel, White in India

Rich, White and Foreign in India

March 21-22 2014, MADURAI

I plan my walks from Google Maps. I scrutinize satellite images for narrow lanes, rail lines, a river or sewage canal—the cramped streets where small houses touch.

The better-off in all Indian cities live invisibly behind high walls. In the crowded neighborhoods, doors are open in the morning from small rooms. Life spills into the streets. Roosters crow. Carts rumble. A woman hacks her throat clear. The milk man calls from his bicycle.

It’s a stumbling walk each morning into streets that touch ancestral memory,

Women make their trip to the neighborhood pump with 20-liter plastic jugs in red or purple or white or stripes, men sit on the ledge outside their door and read the newspaper and smoke. A man brushes his teeth on his top step and spits into the sewer gutter. A woman squats to pee by the tracks. Kids in blue/white or red/brown or grey/white school uniforms appear. It is respectable to come out pressed and shiny. In the poorest streets, they are barefoot, and the uniforms are hand-me-downs.

Ellis Nagar, Madurai

Ellis Nagar, Madurai

Raw sewage, moving slowly in dirt or concrete channels, is never far away. The air smells of it and of the urine on walls and smoke from wood grills and garbage fires and tea shops and incense a woman is wafting beneath the encrusted tail of a brown cow that has been painted with bright hand prints and devils. The air is never fresh.

Pools of sewage are close to homes

Pools of sewage are close to homes

Inside a door this morning, a uniformed girl sat on the floor while her grandmother fixed her hair. At another house a sour-looking laborer scrubbed his sudsed, wiggling little boy on a slab by the door and gave him a smack to improve his cooperation. In a deep ditch between two walls, half covered by a plastic trash bag,  a white dog was dying, shaking, eyes closed, whimpering to herself like an abused child. Just past a stand of rickshaws,  a huge man blocked my path and said in a small voice, “What is your sweet name, please?” Three huge hogs round a house corner just in front of me to root in garbage. A dog runs at me snarling.

India has millions of tiny shops. In the neighborhoods they are little groceries, corner idli and vada shops, tea stands. The grocery stalls have detergent, water, pop, festoons of packaged crunchy snacks, cigarettes sold individually and jars of penny candy. Children run to them on errands.

Women stop to talk. Men buy a tiny cup of steaming tea and eat a quick breakfast for 20 rupees. A cow or two, some goats, are tied nearby or saunter by. Dogs lounge indolently. Rickshaws cluster. The reek of sewage rises from the ditch. Vegetable vendors have their mats spread and the tomatoes and peppers or coconuts displayed. The fruit carts appear. Conversation is everywhere, laughter, the chain-saw tuk-tuk-tuk and horn blare of rickshaws, clucking chickens and a too-loud radio from a doorway.

The vegetables and bright fruits and the saris and the pink and orange walls give color to the shabby steet. Women make the wide-legged peasant bend and draw the day’s rangoli on the lane before the door. Municipal cleaners rake garbage into piles for burning, or to be taken away in carts for burning. A little boy of three defecates in the dirt 10 feet from his doorway, bending his head to watch the progress. Old women and men sit on the pavement or on age-blackened steps, staring at nothing. Escape seems unlikely.

These streets are not much visited by outsiders. I have never seen a Western tourist in them, and official India, including the limp-wristed press, ignores them.

I create a stir as I walk, much as I did snorkeling beyond the reef in the Red Sea, where the fish patterns would dissolve as I approached. It is not hostile, but it is watchful and wary.

I have learned this slowly. The shadow at the door is a woman watching, there an old man, the three men at the tea stand, the woman on the balcony, the man in the grocery stall.

I am closely watched.

They watch, but their first inclination is friendly.

Ellis Nagar, Madurai, March 2014

Ellis Nagar, Madurai, March 2014

Live in Indian hotels, as I have for months, and it’s difficult not to conclude that most Indians are listless, heedless and unresourceful. Such are India’s middle managers and company reps, those who people the hotel world.

In the neighborhoods, however, people, speaking large, are more generous to a stranger.  They have the grace politeness confers; their deference is sincere.

Of India’s many curses of self-indulgence, deference to  foreign, deference to rich and deference to white rank high, close to corruption.

It may be that the powerless are deferential, polite with a thin Potemkin politeness, because they have learned their lot is to be subordinate. Yet in these raggedy streets “they” are not uniformly anything. The weasels are easy to spot, as they are anywhere, the clean and the dirty, the quick to smile and the pimps (for here is where you go if you are looking for sex, whatever your awful predeliction), the stalwart and the respected.

Most return my namaskar greeting, the hands together in front of the chest in the Indian equivalent of “salaam alaikem.” Boys of 8 or 9 run up and say, “Hello how are you I am fine.”

My nationality is important because it confirms I’m from away, where conditions are better.  I say “USA” or  “America,” and they approve, “Ah.” But I have been German and French and Italian and even English, and they said “Ah” in exactly the same way.

No one objects to my presence, and when I stop, seeing a face or texture , I’m quickly hemmed in and pawed by the kids, who call, “Photo, photo,” so I will take their picture. One mother points to another, saying I must take her. Honor her, she says. Grandmothers appear with infants. I shoot, smilingly and pompously dispensing beneficence, as deference insists I must.

My camera has a good view screen. I punch up the shots I just took of the baby, the mother and all the kids, and the kids next door, and I can zoom in on a face and give that person a pat. They crowd in to see under the shade of my hand. No one asks for money.

They look to recognize themselves, and then they smile and thank me, “Super!” I give the little girl who’s pulling too hard on the camera a light smack and say, “Hold on,” for it seems that’s the right thing to do. I give the grandmother’s shoulder a squeeze. Touching seems the right thing to do, for men and women, boys and girls. I shake hands and give half hugs and squeezes and pats. I bask in Tahitian smiles. As I walk on, trailed to lane’s end by 10 or 12 small kids, I’m Pied Piper. One always asks for my pen; all of them are excited. The teenagers we pass are blase.

"Photo, photo"

“Photo, photo”

Celebrity politicians may pass through once every few years in a motorcade, and great seers come to town, but I am the most rare Important Visitor. I take notice. I walk the bustee lanes and speak as I can to individuals and hug pretty little girls and joke with teenage boys and say “Oooh” at babies and shake my finger at a barking dog just as they do, and jump the same streams of sewage.

I speculate, that is, that unfair though it is, I have influence by birth and circumstance somehow to encourage a neighborhood’s prettiest face, as a teacher can  lift shy students, as a priest can bless a life.

My presence and photographs of generations of family and neighbors, all the happy kids—dim images on a view screen in bright sunlight—affirm I think that I have noticed and may remember.

South Madurai bustee, March 22, 2014, about 8 a.m.

South Madurai bustee, March 22, 2014, about 8 a.m.

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Cheap Travel in India, Photos from South India, The Ordinary in India, Travel in Tamil Nadu

Ordinary Streets and faces, Tamil Nadu

These shots are from mid-March 2014 in Rameshwarum, Ramanathapuram and Madurai.

Morning street, Madurai

Morning street, Madurai

North toward Vaigai riverbed, Madurai

North toward Vaigai riverbed, Madurai

Ramanathapuram

Ramanathapuram

Charcoal: 1 kg. @ R.20

Charcoal: 1 kg. / 20 rupees

Shendara Temple, Ramanathapuram

Shendara Temple, Ramanathapuram

Chicken bought

Chicken bought, Madurai

Small vegetable stall

Vegetable stall, Madurai

Goat meat market, Madurai

Goat-meat market, Madurai

Cooking hooves, Madurai

Cooking hooves, Madurai

Afternoon, Madurai

Afternoon, Madurai

Ramanathapuram home

Ramanathapuram home

The job

The job

Ramanathapuram

Ramanathapuram

Fish market, Ramanathapuram

Fish market, Ramanathapuram

Rameshwarum neighborhood

Rameshwarum neighborhood

Metal shop boss, Madurai

Metal shop boss, Madurai

At home, Ramananathapuram

At home, Ramananathapuram

Cucumber lady, Madurai

Cucumber lady, Madurai

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