Читать книгу Sacred Cows and Chicken Manchurian - James Staples - Страница 12

My key tool, as for most social anthropologists, has been participant observation: the “deep hanging out,” as Clifford Geertz (1998) called it, of ethnographic fieldwork. That is to say, most of my interlocutors were not just people I interviewed and then moved on from. They were people I lived alongside and, in many cases, built relationships with over the course of many years. I asked them questions and recorded their answers, to be sure, but I also ate routine meals with them, traveled with them, and attended their weddings, daughters’ first menstruation celebrations, and sometimes their funerals. Feasts marked all these occasions. Other meetings, such as those with the “cutting men” responsible for the slaughter of cows and buffaloes or the brokers who mediated deals between farmers and meat traders, were necessarily more fleeting. But even when I relied largely on interviews, these often developed organically over the course of several meetings. Those meat sellers whom I met only in their shops, for example, were visited at least three times: first, to establish contact; second, if they were willing, to conduct a more detailed, semistructured interview, unfolding as I observed them going about their daily routines, customers sometimes chipping in with their own perspectives; and third, to follow up on what they had said, or to check anything that I was uncertain of.

In addition to my daily field notes—kept in a diary format—and the interview data I collected during the periods on which I worked consciously on food (in 2011, 2013, 2016, and 2017), I drew on the notes I made during visits from 1999 onward, all of which included copious references to food, as well as memories and informal recordings (such as letters, personal diaries, and recipes) dating back to 1984. In 2011, I conducted food-focused interviews with fifty-two households in Anandapuram and Bhavanipur, and in 2013, I also carried out a full village survey of eating habits in the former. On my last two visits, in 2016 and 2017, I persuaded twenty families to keep food diaries for me, recording everything they ate over periods of two weeks. On those same trips I also undertook a survey of eateries in Bhavanipur and along the half-mile stretch of highway that connected it to Anandapuram, the very acts of looking and counting, and sometimes talking and eating, leading to further qualitative insights. Collectively, these fragments formed a rich source from which to begin making sense of contemporary dietary choices in South India.

I also tried to be attentive not only to what people said and did but also to their sensory experiences and the emotional responses they evoked in relation to the world around them, to engage in, as anthropologist Chenjia Xu (2019) termed it concerning the rise of the “foodie” in China, “participant sensation” as well as in participant observation.¹⁸ I was as interested to learn how they felt about animals and the consumption of their flesh as I was to know their thoughts and actions in relation to those matters. This was significant because the positions people took were informed not just by abstract thought but also through their senses, and how they became attuned to them in everyday life. Visceral responses to the smells of bovines and their products or to the taste and mouth-feel of their meat were inseparable from the intangible ideas that people had about them. The love and affection that cattle owners expressed toward their animals—something that the anthropologist Radhika Govindrajan (2018) brings out so effectively in her descriptions of human-bovine relationships in Himalayan villages—was not just an instrumental response to the ritual and economic value of the cow, the way that the anthropologist Marvin Harris (1966), for example, was prone to see it. Rather, their feelings of kinship emerged out of prolonged proximity to the physical warmth, the earthy smells, and the particular sounds their animals made, as well as to the sensory enjoyment of consuming their dairy products. To paraphrase Donna Haraway, humans and their animals “became together” (2008, 19).

I did not, of course, have direct access to what the various sensual or emotional responses of those I worked alongside actually felt like. Even if we smelled the same aromas or ate the same foods, our bodies—through their embodied histories, what Pierre Bourdieu (1990, 52) called the habitus—likely responded to them in unique ways. The heat of chili powder, for example, is felt more keenly on the tongues of the uninitiated than on those that have tasted it with every meal all their lives. And the creamy, salty taste of English cheddar cheese, once so delicious to my own taste buds, was—as I learned—universally repulsive to the friends in a South Indian village with whom I tried to share it some years ago. They were the same things, but they evoked different sensory experiences for different people. Not only did the same substances taste different to different bodies, they also provoked other thoughts and sensations—Proustian evocations of pleasurable meals shared, for example—that are particular to the broader webs of context within which an individual consumer is enmeshed.

The anthropologist Richard Wilk (2017, 279) put it well in a passage reflecting on childhood memories of consuming chicken soup when ill. Subsequent bowls of chicken soup, he says, “can only be experienced through a sensory memory, not just its flavor, but its emotional associations, the warming of the belly, the clearing of the sinuses, and the feeling of healing. The real soup is its archetype, not warm stuff in the bowl on the table.” Even if our sensory experiences could be matched—and certainly the longer I spent with people, the closer together they were drawn—capturing them in writing is another matter altogether. It hardly needs to be said that a written description of a sensation, however evocative, is substantially different from the literal experience being described.

Nevertheless, what I was able to do was to be alert to the emotional responses my interlocutors displayed, like the unchecked expressions of disgust on the faces of some of them at being asked whether or not they ate pork, to take note of them, to ask questions, and, over time, learn to make sense of them. Such fine-grained observations, documented in context, can, as anthropologist Andrew Beatty (2019) recommends, be contextualized and made sense of through the narratives within which they are played out. Emotions, like the corporeal senses with which they are connected, “tell a story and belong to larger stories.”¹⁹ And while my thinking on this is inevitably also informed by those scholars who try to capture how sensory experience shapes quotidian political engagement,²⁰ and while I try in my writing to convey a sense of what things felt like as well to explain what they meant, I remain acutely aware of the problems inherent in such an approach.

That brings me to the broader issue of ethics. Here, my key concern—as for other ethnographic research, but heightened in this case because of the rising levels of violence perpetrated in relation to cattle slaughter and the sale and consumption of beef—was in ensuring that those I worked with were not put at increased risk because of me. I would hope that a more subtly textured study of everyday experiences in relation to eating or not eating meat might, in itself, be productive of a dialogue less enflamed by communal and other tensions. Certainly, some of those I spent time with on this project spoke to me precisely for that reason: because they wanted their voices to be heard, and they felt no one else was listening to them. Nevertheless, some of them were well aware of the risks they faced. One Hyderabad butcher, for example, while happy for me to quote him and keen to identify his shop in anything I wrote—safely located, he felt, within a Muslim area—did not want me to take any photographs that identified his face. In an attempt to give that protection, I have used pseudonyms for people and places—other than large cities, which it was futile to attempt to disguise—and have changed or omitted other details that might identify specific people. This offers no guarantee, of course, but it does make it difficult to attribute the particular words or actions I document to particular, named individuals.