The latest rankings in the World Happiness Report 2018 place India as low as 133 in a list of 156 countries. What is more troubling is that India has been on a declining trend, slipping 11 places in the 2018 report as compared to 2017. While on the economic and developmental indices, India seems to be moving in the positive direction, on happiness—the ultimate goal—it is concerning that India is slipping towards the very bottom.
What can India do to stem this rapid decline?
Perhaps we should learn from Latin America. They suffer from a situation of weak political institutions, high corruption, high violence and crime rates, very unequal distribution of income, and high poverty rates, but are far higher up the list in happiness ratings. Latin Americans' happiness levels are also above what income levels would predict. "World Happiness Report" explains the happiness in Latin American countries through the strength of strong family ties.
The family is the basic unit and foundation upon which society is built and sustained. The family thus plays an important role in the functional nature of society. J.H. Larson and T.B. Holman (1994) described marriage as the most important and fundamental relationship because it provides the basic structure for establishing a family and raising the next generation.
As part of the Harvard Study of Adult Development, one of the world's longest studies of adult life spanning 80 years, researchers have collected a cornucopia of data on their physical and mental health.
"The surprising finding is that our relationships and how happy we are in our relationships has a powerful influence on our health," said Robert Waldinger, director of the study and professor of psychiatry at Harvard Medical School. "Taking care of your body is important, but tending to your relationships is a form of self-care too. That, I think, is the revelation." According to the study, strong relationships are better predictors of long and happy lives than social class, IQ, or even genes.
Thus, quality of the relationship with one's life partner becomes a parameter that has crucial significance beyond the four walls of one's house. In the focus to eradicate the burden of caste from our society and obliterate the oppressive attitudes of the khap panchayats, inter-caste marriages are encouraged in India by governments and modern society as a whole. While this trend has several positives going for it, it also has a fundamental flaw. It encourages individual decision-making epitomized by love marriages over collective decision-making epitomized by the concept of arranged marriages. It removes parents, immediate family members, and the immediate societal links from the decision-making process regarding choosing one's life partner.
Western cultures, with their emphasis on personal desires and independence, have long since moved away from this practice of involving parents in the marriage decision. On the other hand, arranged marriages are seen as outdated concepts where the decision regarding one's life partner, possibly the most important decision in one's life, is taken in a jiffy with the individuals concerned having little say and the family members taking all the crucial decisions.
Sheena Iyengar, professor at Columbia Business School and author of the famous book The Art Of Choosing, Cassie Mogilner, professor of marketing at Wharton Business School, and Baba Shiv, professor of marketing at Stanford Business School, have studied love marriages and arranged marriages through the lens of brain's decision-making process. According to them, there are broadly two types of decision-making processes—sequential and simultaneous. Sequential decision-making is the process where only a single option is considered at any point of time. This is mostly used in situations where the cost of choosing a wrong option is very low and the consequence of a wrong decision is very low. Whereas, when the cost of a decision is high and the consequence of a decision is very high, we tend to use simultaneous decision-making—a decision-making process where all the options available are evaluated simultaneously and the best is chosen.
Love marriages follow sequential decision-making process while arranged marriages follow simultaneous decision-making process. Studies have shown that the levels of satisfaction after a decision arrived through simultaneous decision-making process is higher than if the same decision was made through a sequential process.
In an arranged marriage, the information search is a collective process involving parents, family members, and other members of the society. Whereas in love marriages, the information search is solely an individual's responsibility. Cognitive dissonance theory reminds us that one tends to collect information that confirms with our existing thinking. One tends to avoid negative information about one's existing beliefs, if the final choice has already been made. Decisions of love marriage tend to fall prey to this fallacy. A 2004 study from the University College London has proved that what Shakespeare wrote, "Love is blind and lovers cannot see", is true. Feelings of love suppress certain areas of the brain that are responsible for critical thinking.
Of course, the processes involved in arranged marriages have to improve so as to allow more discussions between the individuals who are to get married. But one cannot ignore arranged marriages' superiority in providing more stable marriages, and thus building a society that is happier than most.
Biju Dominic is the chief executive officer of Final Mile Consulting, a behaviour architecture firm.
Friday, April 13, 2018
Sunday, April 8, 2018
travel writeup on Jaisalmer
Nitin Chowdhary
The strange steps led me into the house with the turquoise board. In the kitchen was an old woman, crouching over utensils
It was a hot afternoon on an otherwise unmemorable day. The air was dense, and together with the heat, it fast melted the skin into sweat. I remember being hungry; it wasn't an ordinary hunger, but the one that chewed up the stomach as if feeding on the muscles. I had hung around taking pictures in the alleys of the palace in Jaisalmer, and had somehow lost track of time. It was 4 p.m.
The usual affair with this old part of the town is that it is easy to get lost in the bylanes. However, it's also true that every street has something to offer: a lac bangles shop in one, a gypsy clothes shop in the second, a surahi kiosk in another; and hopefully food was not faraway either.
On one such narrow lane, a small turquoise board — hung from the first floor balcony of an old house that had its blue coat chipping off — proclaimed a perfectly forgettable restaurant name. I was travelling on a lavish budget that had rendered me fussy. But there were no fancy places around here to eat at. So I stepped in.
Silent encounter
The steps were strangely large, cumbersome to negotiate, entirely ill-designed. The steps led me into someone's home and the silence made its presence felt instantly to me, the only visitor at this hour. A few moments passed. Eventually, a weak voice called out from a distance. With eyes accustomed to the gloom now, I stepped towards the lonely figure, an old woman, crouching over utensils in the dark corner that was her kitchen. The old woman cleared a space on the cemented floor beside her for me to sit.
"Aap kitne log ho (how many of you)," she asked, pointing to no one in particular. It was a strange question to ask a lone figure sitting in front of you. It took me a few minutes to realise the woman was blind.
Time to order
I must have appeared unsure, for she felt about for my hand and handed me the menu. It was an old laminated yellow sheet of paper that listed a few dishes and their prices.
"I don't know what's written on this paper. It was my son who made it and asked me to show it to visitors. But you pay what you think is suitable."
She then listed the few vegetables she had with her that day and asked for my choice. Food was somehow not on my mind any more, but I picked some random dishes.
She apologised for being unprepared and said she was not expecting any visitors. I reassured her and she began the preparations: smelling and feeling the spices, peeling vegetables, and lighting a fire. In between, we spoke.
Her son works in another city and he had set up this small business for his mother. "He thinks I cook well. But I don't know whether you'll like the food. You must have come from a big city, no?"
I nodded, sharing a few details from my life as well, how I travel to find stories, where my parents lived, and why I was travelling alone.
Steps again
Somehow I felt more and more lonely. She must have sensed the melancholy in my voice and invited me to go up to the terrace. She said she would call me by drumming a pot when the food was ready. I negotiated another pair of ill-designed steps on the way up, but this time I wondered how the old woman managed — did she crawl these ugly steps, did anyone help her, what when she fell sick?
I sat on the top step, feeling overwhelmed, as if I had travelled enough. I didn't know what I was looking for when I had left home, but now I knew. I felt like going home to my parents, to the life I had temporarily left behind.
It felt as if all my travels thus far, all my indulgences, my aimlessness to this point, the heat and the hunger that drove me here, had all prepared me for this very moment, this encounter with the old blind woman who was cooking a lunch for me downstairs.
Just then the tin pot began to rattle.
An adrenaline rush-seeking travel writer who lives in Malmö, Sweden.
The strange steps led me into the house with the turquoise board. In the kitchen was an old woman, crouching over utensils
It was a hot afternoon on an otherwise unmemorable day. The air was dense, and together with the heat, it fast melted the skin into sweat. I remember being hungry; it wasn't an ordinary hunger, but the one that chewed up the stomach as if feeding on the muscles. I had hung around taking pictures in the alleys of the palace in Jaisalmer, and had somehow lost track of time. It was 4 p.m.
The usual affair with this old part of the town is that it is easy to get lost in the bylanes. However, it's also true that every street has something to offer: a lac bangles shop in one, a gypsy clothes shop in the second, a surahi kiosk in another; and hopefully food was not faraway either.
On one such narrow lane, a small turquoise board — hung from the first floor balcony of an old house that had its blue coat chipping off — proclaimed a perfectly forgettable restaurant name. I was travelling on a lavish budget that had rendered me fussy. But there were no fancy places around here to eat at. So I stepped in.
Silent encounter
The steps were strangely large, cumbersome to negotiate, entirely ill-designed. The steps led me into someone's home and the silence made its presence felt instantly to me, the only visitor at this hour. A few moments passed. Eventually, a weak voice called out from a distance. With eyes accustomed to the gloom now, I stepped towards the lonely figure, an old woman, crouching over utensils in the dark corner that was her kitchen. The old woman cleared a space on the cemented floor beside her for me to sit.
"Aap kitne log ho (how many of you)," she asked, pointing to no one in particular. It was a strange question to ask a lone figure sitting in front of you. It took me a few minutes to realise the woman was blind.
Time to order
I must have appeared unsure, for she felt about for my hand and handed me the menu. It was an old laminated yellow sheet of paper that listed a few dishes and their prices.
"I don't know what's written on this paper. It was my son who made it and asked me to show it to visitors. But you pay what you think is suitable."
She then listed the few vegetables she had with her that day and asked for my choice. Food was somehow not on my mind any more, but I picked some random dishes.
She apologised for being unprepared and said she was not expecting any visitors. I reassured her and she began the preparations: smelling and feeling the spices, peeling vegetables, and lighting a fire. In between, we spoke.
Her son works in another city and he had set up this small business for his mother. "He thinks I cook well. But I don't know whether you'll like the food. You must have come from a big city, no?"
I nodded, sharing a few details from my life as well, how I travel to find stories, where my parents lived, and why I was travelling alone.
Steps again
Somehow I felt more and more lonely. She must have sensed the melancholy in my voice and invited me to go up to the terrace. She said she would call me by drumming a pot when the food was ready. I negotiated another pair of ill-designed steps on the way up, but this time I wondered how the old woman managed — did she crawl these ugly steps, did anyone help her, what when she fell sick?
I sat on the top step, feeling overwhelmed, as if I had travelled enough. I didn't know what I was looking for when I had left home, but now I knew. I felt like going home to my parents, to the life I had temporarily left behind.
It felt as if all my travels thus far, all my indulgences, my aimlessness to this point, the heat and the hunger that drove me here, had all prepared me for this very moment, this encounter with the old blind woman who was cooking a lunch for me downstairs.
Just then the tin pot began to rattle.
An adrenaline rush-seeking travel writer who lives in Malmö, Sweden.
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