Dear dedicated reader,
Privacy is a concept which we seem to have left at home in the United States.
Nothing has demonstrated this to me so clearly as this most recent episode which I will share with you because it is no secret here in Kadod. The principal’s family has made it clear to us that they would like us to rely on them for all our basic necessities, including meals, snacks, our phone, and of course, toilet paper. Now this last necessity we recently ran out of, which brings me to my story.
Earlier, Priya and I had run into this problem before Vanisha and Melissa arrived, but luckily someone took notice before it became problematic and new rolls arrived post-haste; from where, we did not know. This supply lasted until a few days ago when we encountered this problem yet again. This time, we were at a loss. Should we ask the principal’s wife? This seemed an embarrassing topic to bring up, almost like the time when we first arrived when Priya and I could not for the life of us figure out how to flush an Indian toilet*. We tried Lathaben, but she shrugged her shoulders and said we should ask one of the many peons. We all shied away from this task and thus we found ourselves on a quest to find a store in Kadod from which we might procure this necessity. The urgency of this mission was heightened by the fact that a stash of Kleenex which Melissa had brought from the US was slowly running out.
As you may know, toilet paper is not a common household item here. Every Indian toilet is equipped with a small water faucet and a plastic cup, aimed at achieving the same purpose, as I learned in Delhi. The idea of performing such an act with paper is as abhorrent here as the converse is for any Westerner; therefore, it is something of a scarcity.
Wandering the main street of Kadod, we peered into shops from the street way, hoping to catch sight of the object of our mission, tucked away unobtrusively in some shop corner. When we could not find what we desired in this way, it became necessary to appoint one of our group to go in and make the necessary inquiries.
After a few awkward moments, Priya said with a justifiably exasperated air that she would take on the responsibility. Going first to a store with a woman owner that displayed sanitary pads delicately in the corner of the shop window, she asked if the store owner’s inventory extended to this westernized item. The woman apologized in Hindi and indicated that we might be able to find it at the next store up.
The owner of said shop was male, and we hesitated before pushing Priya forward with embarrassed laughter. She used her Hindi to try and make herself understood, but the store owner was baffled as to what she was getting at. “Paper?” he asked, producing sheaves of the stuff.
“Er, uh, no…” she said, embarrassed, leaving the store owner behind with a puzzled expression. We burst into embarrassed giggles as we started away down the street, which were amplified even more when one of the peons who works at the school and had watched Priya’s interaction with the store manager came running down the street, brandishing a packet of paper napkins in his hand. “This! This?” he asked, excitedly, hoping he had found what we were looking for.
This was too much to handle. The tears of laughter came streaming down our faces as we struggled to waggle our heads no in a South Asian fashion between eruptions of giggles.
We went back to the guesthouse and to our Kleenex.
The next morning, Priya came back to the house from her before school spoken English classes carrying a bundle wrapped in a plastic bag.
“Well, we have toilet paper,” she announced.
“How did you get it?” We asked, pleased and puzzled.
“The peon who chased us down last night came by my class this morning with this bundle in hand,” she began. Apparently he had shown up at the door, interrupted the whole class, and unearthed the toilet paper from the bag in front of all the students, shouting loudly in Hindi, “Is this what you were looking for?”
Priya, amidst the uncontrollable laughter of the students, had replied meekly, “Uh, yes.”
At least we now know that to get it all we have to do is ask at the main office.
Best,
Cat
Monday, June 30, 2008
Friday, June 27, 2008
Cheating
Dear dedicated reader,
The monsoon rain, which has been absent for a week, has returned in the same, unexpected way that it left. This morning, I was baptized by a torrential downpour creating a sheet of water through which I had to walk from the shower to the house.
Through it all, classes continue. The students are dedicated, but sneaky. There is a small, round faced kid named Hitesh that sits in the front of my 9D class.
Standing at probably 4’5”, he is so cute I want to take him home, but every time I turn around, he is up to some kind of mischief, touching my things on the front desk (especially my radioshack clock) or talking with the person next to him or not looking at the textbook. I will come from the back of the class to the front to see that all my carefully placed lesson items have been sloppily rearranged. When I go to chastise him, he beams up at me with a smile that melts my resolve into a puddle on the wood floor.
Hitesh is only one of the 60 boys that I have in my 9D class. The first time I went to take this class, I was warned by Jagrutiben that it was the talk of the staff room, everyone was discussing how the class of 9D was so difficult.
However, when I first entered the room, the class was so silent you could hear a pin drop. I think they had not been warned that the white girl hanging out around the school would actually be their teacher.
Through their class and the other ninth grade classes, I have come to understand how the Indian school system really functions, from a students’ perspective. This is best illustrated from when I first assigned homework. I asked the students to do an exercise from the book where they were given three vocabulary words per question and asked to make a sentence with them. Not only did every student in 9D come back with the exact same sentences, but every class that I teach had, word for word, the same answers written on their papers.
I pondered quickly how to address this with 9D. “So,” I began, “I don’t know exactly how things work around here, but in the U.S., if you copy someone’s work, that’s called cheating. Do you know this word, cheating?”
They nodded. Some said, “Yes, ma’am.”
Satisfied, I continued. “So, tell me, how have you ALL come to have the exact same sentences?”
Silence. Then, Zakariya, the class English prodigy, raised his hand. I indicated that he should speak. “Ma’am, there is this book.” He held it up. “All the answers to all the exercises are in this book.”
I was a little taken aback by his honesty. “I see,” I said, stalling for time while I tried to figure out how to respond. “So, you all copy out of this book?” There was a mixed, ashamed of response of yes ma’ams and no ma’ams. “Okay. So, from now on, write your own sentences, or I will give you a zero on the assignment.”
My favorite part about this threat was that it actually means nothing. The marks I give carry no weight – the only mark that counts is what they get on the state administered exam at the very end of the year. But the students don’t act like this is true – One of them came to ask me why he only got a three out of four on the last test.
I have repeated this threat to all of my classes – to some avail with the better students, to no avail with the students who have nothing to lose, which is many. One third of 9D failed my last test. I tried to hold office hours and require the failing students to come but this idea was shut down Sejalben and Jagrutiben who say this is not done in India and it would be unfair to the other students.
Extra help as unfair – I’d never really thought about it this way. What a meritocracy.
Best,
Cat
The monsoon rain, which has been absent for a week, has returned in the same, unexpected way that it left. This morning, I was baptized by a torrential downpour creating a sheet of water through which I had to walk from the shower to the house.
Through it all, classes continue. The students are dedicated, but sneaky. There is a small, round faced kid named Hitesh that sits in the front of my 9D class.
Standing at probably 4’5”, he is so cute I want to take him home, but every time I turn around, he is up to some kind of mischief, touching my things on the front desk (especially my radioshack clock) or talking with the person next to him or not looking at the textbook. I will come from the back of the class to the front to see that all my carefully placed lesson items have been sloppily rearranged. When I go to chastise him, he beams up at me with a smile that melts my resolve into a puddle on the wood floor.
Hitesh is only one of the 60 boys that I have in my 9D class. The first time I went to take this class, I was warned by Jagrutiben that it was the talk of the staff room, everyone was discussing how the class of 9D was so difficult.
However, when I first entered the room, the class was so silent you could hear a pin drop. I think they had not been warned that the white girl hanging out around the school would actually be their teacher.
Through their class and the other ninth grade classes, I have come to understand how the Indian school system really functions, from a students’ perspective. This is best illustrated from when I first assigned homework. I asked the students to do an exercise from the book where they were given three vocabulary words per question and asked to make a sentence with them. Not only did every student in 9D come back with the exact same sentences, but every class that I teach had, word for word, the same answers written on their papers.
I pondered quickly how to address this with 9D. “So,” I began, “I don’t know exactly how things work around here, but in the U.S., if you copy someone’s work, that’s called cheating. Do you know this word, cheating?”
They nodded. Some said, “Yes, ma’am.”
Satisfied, I continued. “So, tell me, how have you ALL come to have the exact same sentences?”
Silence. Then, Zakariya, the class English prodigy, raised his hand. I indicated that he should speak. “Ma’am, there is this book.” He held it up. “All the answers to all the exercises are in this book.”
I was a little taken aback by his honesty. “I see,” I said, stalling for time while I tried to figure out how to respond. “So, you all copy out of this book?” There was a mixed, ashamed of response of yes ma’ams and no ma’ams. “Okay. So, from now on, write your own sentences, or I will give you a zero on the assignment.”
My favorite part about this threat was that it actually means nothing. The marks I give carry no weight – the only mark that counts is what they get on the state administered exam at the very end of the year. But the students don’t act like this is true – One of them came to ask me why he only got a three out of four on the last test.
I have repeated this threat to all of my classes – to some avail with the better students, to no avail with the students who have nothing to lose, which is many. One third of 9D failed my last test. I tried to hold office hours and require the failing students to come but this idea was shut down Sejalben and Jagrutiben who say this is not done in India and it would be unfair to the other students.
Extra help as unfair – I’d never really thought about it this way. What a meritocracy.
Best,
Cat
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
Call to Prayer
Dear dedicated reader,
Kadod is a bigger, more diverse village than I had previously suspected.
There is an English medium primary school which is new this year and is operated by Kadod High School (which itself is a 1 – 12 school, despite carrying the name of “high school”). The principal has asked us to take an interest in the school and so far we have visited twice, once for the opening ceremony when the school was blessed through prayer and the other to hand out chocolates to all of the adorable first and second graders. English medium means that all of the classes are in English, and therefore the teachers must speak passable English in order to run class.
There is a teacher named Daybal who befriended us on our first trip whose English was surprisingly impeccable. Her accent was hard to place at first (not Indian at all) until she explained that her relatives from the UK would visit twice a year while she was growing up in Surat. She kindly invited us to her house, but we were unable to go until two nights ago. She wrote the address down on a slip of paper, gave us her mobile number and told us to call if we had any problems.
“If you come to the street, make sure to ask for Master Rashid, as there are four Rashid’s on our street,” she carefully instructed. “Are you sure you don’t want me to come pick you up here? Indian courtesy tells me I must do this!”
We assured her that we would be able to find her house fine.
The day of the visit arrived and we went to the guard to ask for directions to the house. He shrugged and said in Gujarati, “I can’t read English…” Without another word, he took the piece of paper from Vanisha and set off for the principal’s porch. We tried to stop him, saying it would be no problem, but he was determined. The principal, his wife and younger son were sitting on their porch swing where the air was a little cooler and you could catch the breeze. The guard ceremoniously handed them the piece of paper.
I could see them reading silently. “Daybal?” They asked.
“A teacher, at the English medium school,” we explained.
They nodded, satisfied, and returned to the piece of paper. “They are Muslim,” they said. This I had surmised when I had seen her the day before and she had given us the invitation. She had been wearing the burkah and I had been surprised, though I should have realized from her Persian sounding name that this was the case. It was a fact that would not have escaped any Indian.
Some chit chat happened quickly between Vanisha and the principal in Gujarati. “He says that because it is in the Muslim part of town we won’t find it so they will take us.” We tried to protest but it was settled and the younger son Jaydeep was already heading to the car.
Piling in, we set off down the winding, narrow lanes of the village, narrowly avoiding the wandering chickens and dogs populating the dirt byways. As the car drove deeper and deeper into a previously unexplored part of the village, I observed goats tethered outside of houses, being fattened, and passed by covered faces on porches. Here, I saw many of my students who chose to wear the salwar kamiz version of the school uniform: evidence of their religion, as Hindu girls wore the blue dress. A few times, we stopped for directions and, arriving at the house (which we would have never found save this car ride, I am sure!), Jaydeep went to inquire if this was, in fact, Master Rashidbhai’s house or if it was one of the other many Rashids.
All of a sudden, a smiling Daybal appeared. “My friends!” She cried excitedly. “You have come!” We were invited inside the house as the principal’s son drove away. There was nothing on the ground level except storage. We left our shoes at the bottom of the open staircase and carefully climbed to the second level. Ushered to a swing seat in a large, open room away from the cooking stove in the kitchen, we were seated and found ourselves amidst a crowd of smiling relatives and small children.
“They come to me for tuition in English,” Daybal explained. Tuition is a peculiar phenomenon. It is like extended school but you pay to take extra classes with an unofficial teacher who goes over the material being learned in class again. I imagine that because the classes are so large, this is necessary to ensure everyone’s individual understanding. Unfortunately, many of the poorer students are unable to pay fees for extra tuition and thus cannot keep up.
The tuition students, who could not have been more than four or five years old at most, stared at me, wide eyed. Meanwhile, Daybal’s relatives were excitedly introducing themselves. Her husband we had met previously as he had come to our house, but now we met the brother in law, sister in law, children, father in law. All wore kurtas or salwar kamiz and no one kept their head covered in our presence.
One interesting phenomenon that I have observed in visiting Indian houses is that if you a neighbor and guests come to the house, it is acceptable to invite yourself in as well to keep company with the guests. In this way, a few of our ninth grade girls came also to Daybal’s house, once they saw we were there, and stayed for as long as we did.
No sooner were the introductions finished, then plates of steaming hot pakoras were placed in front of us, along with ‘cold drinks’ i.e. sodas. Pakoras are one of my most favorite Indian snacks: battered onion pieces fried together to create delicious, doughy balls of oily onion goodness. We used to eat these almost daily when I lived in the Himalayas, but since coming to India this time around, I had not until now had the pleasure of enjoying them. Good manners made us refuse them when they were first put in front of us, but soon we were crunching away and washing them down with Thums Up: a brand of Indian soda that tastes exactly like Pepsi but has masala, or spices, added to it to give it a kick, particularly pepper, salt, cumin and some other various things. I love this flavoring, so between this and the pakoras, I was truly in heaven.
As we chatted, I did not even notice the time flying by until all of a sudden, it was dusk and the familiar call for prayer which issues from the mosque in the center of the village came floating through the window. The reaction was immediate: all of the women covered their heads with their dupattas (scarves) and for a moment the room was quiet. Then, with heads covered and the call for prayer still coming, conversation resumed as it had been, and the smiling and laughing continued. I know very little about Islam, to be sure, but I had wondered how the call for prayer was observed here in Kadod, and for a moment I had my answer.
The conversation touched on many topics: religion (mine was asked, of course), language, movies, school. This is Daybal’s first year teaching and she explained that traditionally it is required that Indian teacher wear the sari and she had asked for a special exemption for this. “I am telling them that I do not want to wear the sari and they are saying I must and then saying that they will make an exception,” she explained. “And then I am seeing you people and you are also wearing the salwar kamiz and I felt so much better.”
I laughed and explained my ever present fear that were I to wear the sari that it would fall off in the middle of class with all the students. She said she had the same fear!
She is so easy to talk to, I really do hope our friendship will continue. She seems anxious that it does and said as much as she walked us home through the dark and the narrow galliya (hindi for ‘small street’) of the village. “I have never ever been outside without wearing burkah in these streets,” she said to me. “But this I am doing for you, my friends.” Why this was necessary, I didn’t understand, and tried to explain that it wasn’t. I did, however, appreciate the gesture and its significance.
“Come and visit me again,” she said, with a smile as we thanked her as she dropped us off.
“Of course,” we replied. I really do hope so.
Best,
Cat
Kadod is a bigger, more diverse village than I had previously suspected.
There is an English medium primary school which is new this year and is operated by Kadod High School (which itself is a 1 – 12 school, despite carrying the name of “high school”). The principal has asked us to take an interest in the school and so far we have visited twice, once for the opening ceremony when the school was blessed through prayer and the other to hand out chocolates to all of the adorable first and second graders. English medium means that all of the classes are in English, and therefore the teachers must speak passable English in order to run class.
There is a teacher named Daybal who befriended us on our first trip whose English was surprisingly impeccable. Her accent was hard to place at first (not Indian at all) until she explained that her relatives from the UK would visit twice a year while she was growing up in Surat. She kindly invited us to her house, but we were unable to go until two nights ago. She wrote the address down on a slip of paper, gave us her mobile number and told us to call if we had any problems.
“If you come to the street, make sure to ask for Master Rashid, as there are four Rashid’s on our street,” she carefully instructed. “Are you sure you don’t want me to come pick you up here? Indian courtesy tells me I must do this!”
We assured her that we would be able to find her house fine.
The day of the visit arrived and we went to the guard to ask for directions to the house. He shrugged and said in Gujarati, “I can’t read English…” Without another word, he took the piece of paper from Vanisha and set off for the principal’s porch. We tried to stop him, saying it would be no problem, but he was determined. The principal, his wife and younger son were sitting on their porch swing where the air was a little cooler and you could catch the breeze. The guard ceremoniously handed them the piece of paper.
I could see them reading silently. “Daybal?” They asked.
“A teacher, at the English medium school,” we explained.
They nodded, satisfied, and returned to the piece of paper. “They are Muslim,” they said. This I had surmised when I had seen her the day before and she had given us the invitation. She had been wearing the burkah and I had been surprised, though I should have realized from her Persian sounding name that this was the case. It was a fact that would not have escaped any Indian.
Some chit chat happened quickly between Vanisha and the principal in Gujarati. “He says that because it is in the Muslim part of town we won’t find it so they will take us.” We tried to protest but it was settled and the younger son Jaydeep was already heading to the car.
Piling in, we set off down the winding, narrow lanes of the village, narrowly avoiding the wandering chickens and dogs populating the dirt byways. As the car drove deeper and deeper into a previously unexplored part of the village, I observed goats tethered outside of houses, being fattened, and passed by covered faces on porches. Here, I saw many of my students who chose to wear the salwar kamiz version of the school uniform: evidence of their religion, as Hindu girls wore the blue dress. A few times, we stopped for directions and, arriving at the house (which we would have never found save this car ride, I am sure!), Jaydeep went to inquire if this was, in fact, Master Rashidbhai’s house or if it was one of the other many Rashids.
All of a sudden, a smiling Daybal appeared. “My friends!” She cried excitedly. “You have come!” We were invited inside the house as the principal’s son drove away. There was nothing on the ground level except storage. We left our shoes at the bottom of the open staircase and carefully climbed to the second level. Ushered to a swing seat in a large, open room away from the cooking stove in the kitchen, we were seated and found ourselves amidst a crowd of smiling relatives and small children.
“They come to me for tuition in English,” Daybal explained. Tuition is a peculiar phenomenon. It is like extended school but you pay to take extra classes with an unofficial teacher who goes over the material being learned in class again. I imagine that because the classes are so large, this is necessary to ensure everyone’s individual understanding. Unfortunately, many of the poorer students are unable to pay fees for extra tuition and thus cannot keep up.
The tuition students, who could not have been more than four or five years old at most, stared at me, wide eyed. Meanwhile, Daybal’s relatives were excitedly introducing themselves. Her husband we had met previously as he had come to our house, but now we met the brother in law, sister in law, children, father in law. All wore kurtas or salwar kamiz and no one kept their head covered in our presence.
One interesting phenomenon that I have observed in visiting Indian houses is that if you a neighbor and guests come to the house, it is acceptable to invite yourself in as well to keep company with the guests. In this way, a few of our ninth grade girls came also to Daybal’s house, once they saw we were there, and stayed for as long as we did.
No sooner were the introductions finished, then plates of steaming hot pakoras were placed in front of us, along with ‘cold drinks’ i.e. sodas. Pakoras are one of my most favorite Indian snacks: battered onion pieces fried together to create delicious, doughy balls of oily onion goodness. We used to eat these almost daily when I lived in the Himalayas, but since coming to India this time around, I had not until now had the pleasure of enjoying them. Good manners made us refuse them when they were first put in front of us, but soon we were crunching away and washing them down with Thums Up: a brand of Indian soda that tastes exactly like Pepsi but has masala, or spices, added to it to give it a kick, particularly pepper, salt, cumin and some other various things. I love this flavoring, so between this and the pakoras, I was truly in heaven.
As we chatted, I did not even notice the time flying by until all of a sudden, it was dusk and the familiar call for prayer which issues from the mosque in the center of the village came floating through the window. The reaction was immediate: all of the women covered their heads with their dupattas (scarves) and for a moment the room was quiet. Then, with heads covered and the call for prayer still coming, conversation resumed as it had been, and the smiling and laughing continued. I know very little about Islam, to be sure, but I had wondered how the call for prayer was observed here in Kadod, and for a moment I had my answer.
The conversation touched on many topics: religion (mine was asked, of course), language, movies, school. This is Daybal’s first year teaching and she explained that traditionally it is required that Indian teacher wear the sari and she had asked for a special exemption for this. “I am telling them that I do not want to wear the sari and they are saying I must and then saying that they will make an exception,” she explained. “And then I am seeing you people and you are also wearing the salwar kamiz and I felt so much better.”
I laughed and explained my ever present fear that were I to wear the sari that it would fall off in the middle of class with all the students. She said she had the same fear!
She is so easy to talk to, I really do hope our friendship will continue. She seems anxious that it does and said as much as she walked us home through the dark and the narrow galliya (hindi for ‘small street’) of the village. “I have never ever been outside without wearing burkah in these streets,” she said to me. “But this I am doing for you, my friends.” Why this was necessary, I didn’t understand, and tried to explain that it wasn’t. I did, however, appreciate the gesture and its significance.
“Come and visit me again,” she said, with a smile as we thanked her as she dropped us off.
“Of course,” we replied. I really do hope so.
Best,
Cat
Monday, June 23, 2008
A Small Victory
Dear dedicated reader,
I’ve decided that I like going to the staff room in order to do work. It’s quiet in there, and the soothing sound of the other teachers speaking Gujarati to one another is a nice backdrop to my own study of the language.
The room itself is very simple: a long blockish wood table sits in the center of the room, surrounded by the similarly made wood tables. Furniture here is not delicate; it is made to last.
Today when I came in, Vanisha and Priya were already sitting there. Vanisha’s research includes shadowing the teachers so she can align the summer program that she is designing with what they are doing in school, so building relationships is important. She has the distinct advantage of speaking Gujarati fluently, and has been extremely helpful with my study, verifying or correcting my pronunciation or vocabulary. I laughed and said hello and took my seat at the other end of the table.
Copying over my letters, I listened while she conversed with them. Periodically, they would break into English for my benefit, but the conversation took place mostly in Gujarati. It must be such a relief to make themselves understood completely, something that I hope to eventually develop the ability to do with them.
Towards the end of an hour spent in this way, the math teacher who usually grills me with questions about where I live, how I live, and who will arrange my marriage broke into English.
“We are very much respecting you all. You are coming here to say hello to us, to sit with us, and you are wearing Indian clothing.” She turned to Vanisha and continued in Gujarati.
“She says that last year, the girls who were here for the summer did not do these things and wore Western clothing and that is why the students did not respect them.”
The teacher nodded at this faithful translation of what she had said. “You see, there should be some difference between the teachers and the students, for respect.” I nodded, having heard the same thing from the principal. I was beginning to understand, having noted the students’ behavior when I acted like a teacher versus when I was acting as myself on the weekend or in the market. “This is why we are liking you. You have this difference.”
The teachers offered, furthermore, to help me with my Gujarati anytime. They said the best way to learn was to practice with them. I definitely agree.
What a relief.
Best,
Cat
I’ve decided that I like going to the staff room in order to do work. It’s quiet in there, and the soothing sound of the other teachers speaking Gujarati to one another is a nice backdrop to my own study of the language.
The room itself is very simple: a long blockish wood table sits in the center of the room, surrounded by the similarly made wood tables. Furniture here is not delicate; it is made to last.
Today when I came in, Vanisha and Priya were already sitting there. Vanisha’s research includes shadowing the teachers so she can align the summer program that she is designing with what they are doing in school, so building relationships is important. She has the distinct advantage of speaking Gujarati fluently, and has been extremely helpful with my study, verifying or correcting my pronunciation or vocabulary. I laughed and said hello and took my seat at the other end of the table.
Copying over my letters, I listened while she conversed with them. Periodically, they would break into English for my benefit, but the conversation took place mostly in Gujarati. It must be such a relief to make themselves understood completely, something that I hope to eventually develop the ability to do with them.
Towards the end of an hour spent in this way, the math teacher who usually grills me with questions about where I live, how I live, and who will arrange my marriage broke into English.
“We are very much respecting you all. You are coming here to say hello to us, to sit with us, and you are wearing Indian clothing.” She turned to Vanisha and continued in Gujarati.
“She says that last year, the girls who were here for the summer did not do these things and wore Western clothing and that is why the students did not respect them.”
The teacher nodded at this faithful translation of what she had said. “You see, there should be some difference between the teachers and the students, for respect.” I nodded, having heard the same thing from the principal. I was beginning to understand, having noted the students’ behavior when I acted like a teacher versus when I was acting as myself on the weekend or in the market. “This is why we are liking you. You have this difference.”
The teachers offered, furthermore, to help me with my Gujarati anytime. They said the best way to learn was to practice with them. I definitely agree.
What a relief.
Best,
Cat
Biodata, please?
Dear dedicated reader,
When I came back to my house from teaching class today, there were a number of men’s shoes sitting outside of our door (no shoes in the house in India!). I peered down at one of them and saw the brand: ‘Shoot Out’ with a small, embroidered gun. ‘Lovely,’ I thought.
When I walked in, there were 2 men sitting on the couch talking with Priya and Vanisha. One had hair dyed that peculiarly bright shade of red that comes with applying henna and was wearing a stiff button down shirt. His mustache curled slightly with his lip, which seemed stuck in a perpetual sneer. The owner of the shoes, perhaps? The other also wore western clothes and smiled at me as I came in.
I sat. The sneering man began to address me. It took me a moment to realize that the gargled speech issuing from his mouth was English. I looked helplessly at the other two girls. What in the world was this man talking about? Vanisha intervened.
“These men have come from Ryan International School,” She said, filling me in. “They read the article in the newspaper and are hoping that you could come guest teach some classes at the school.”
“IB programme,” the man gargled at me. I nodded as I was familiar with the program.
I had only a moment to think this through. The Foundation wants us to build relationships with other schools, but something about this whole situation did not seem right. I couldn’t put my finger on exactly what though. I decided to play it non-commitally. “That would be fine, sometime,” I said.
The man gargled some more, this time in Gujarati directed at Vanisha. She looked surprised, then looked at me. “He says he’ll send someone to pick us up tomorrow to look at the school?”
“Uh, thank you, but we have to teach tomorrow,” I explained in the slow English I use to teach my classes. He gave the non-commital South-Asian head waggle. I continued, “We can’t come tomorrow.” He nodded and got out his cell phone. I gave Vanisha a confused look. She returned it. Why had the principal let these men come to visit?
All of sudden, I was handed the phone. “Uh, hello?” I asked.
“Hello, who am I speaking to?” A sharp woman on the other end said directly.
I gave her my name. “And your qualifications?” she barked.
“My B.A. and my M.Ed,” I explained hesitantly.
“And your experience?” What?
“I’ve taught for two years in the US,” I said.
“Okay, Catharine, tomorrow you come to the school and bring your biodata.” She explained.
“Well, as I was telling this man here, I can’t come tomorrow because I have to teach here, at Kadod High School,” I said. “Where I work,” I added.
“That’s okay, that’s okay, then you come anytime,” she said.
A thought suddenly occurred to me. “What is this regarding?” I asked sharply.
“A job,” she said in a patronizing way, as if this was the most obvious thing in the world.
“But,” I said, “All of us here already have jobs, at Kadod High School, teaching. We explained this also to this man here. We are not interested.”
“I see,” she said. “Well, some time you come visit our school anyway.” Click.
As I handed the phone back to the man, I asked, “Who was that?”
“The principal,” he stuttered.
Ah.
The men were soon on their way, having given us the card, a favorite token of remembrance here in India. My wallet is now full of them. As they left, the man put on his Shoot Out shoes.
The fall out from the articles has been like this. Between reporters calling us inappropriately to say we are beautiful and should come visit them on the weekends to men showing up at our door without permission from the principal to ask about teaching in their private, tribal, or public school, the effect has been far-reaching. We are to build relationships with other schools, but I think, perhaps, not these.
On the whole, however, the media madness does seem to be dying down. And the teachers here did have a reaction, but not the one I expected. We’ll leave that for another time, dear reader.
Best,
Cat
When I came back to my house from teaching class today, there were a number of men’s shoes sitting outside of our door (no shoes in the house in India!). I peered down at one of them and saw the brand: ‘Shoot Out’ with a small, embroidered gun. ‘Lovely,’ I thought.
When I walked in, there were 2 men sitting on the couch talking with Priya and Vanisha. One had hair dyed that peculiarly bright shade of red that comes with applying henna and was wearing a stiff button down shirt. His mustache curled slightly with his lip, which seemed stuck in a perpetual sneer. The owner of the shoes, perhaps? The other also wore western clothes and smiled at me as I came in.
I sat. The sneering man began to address me. It took me a moment to realize that the gargled speech issuing from his mouth was English. I looked helplessly at the other two girls. What in the world was this man talking about? Vanisha intervened.
“These men have come from Ryan International School,” She said, filling me in. “They read the article in the newspaper and are hoping that you could come guest teach some classes at the school.”
“IB programme,” the man gargled at me. I nodded as I was familiar with the program.
I had only a moment to think this through. The Foundation wants us to build relationships with other schools, but something about this whole situation did not seem right. I couldn’t put my finger on exactly what though. I decided to play it non-commitally. “That would be fine, sometime,” I said.
The man gargled some more, this time in Gujarati directed at Vanisha. She looked surprised, then looked at me. “He says he’ll send someone to pick us up tomorrow to look at the school?”
“Uh, thank you, but we have to teach tomorrow,” I explained in the slow English I use to teach my classes. He gave the non-commital South-Asian head waggle. I continued, “We can’t come tomorrow.” He nodded and got out his cell phone. I gave Vanisha a confused look. She returned it. Why had the principal let these men come to visit?
All of sudden, I was handed the phone. “Uh, hello?” I asked.
“Hello, who am I speaking to?” A sharp woman on the other end said directly.
I gave her my name. “And your qualifications?” she barked.
“My B.A. and my M.Ed,” I explained hesitantly.
“And your experience?” What?
“I’ve taught for two years in the US,” I said.
“Okay, Catharine, tomorrow you come to the school and bring your biodata.” She explained.
“Well, as I was telling this man here, I can’t come tomorrow because I have to teach here, at Kadod High School,” I said. “Where I work,” I added.
“That’s okay, that’s okay, then you come anytime,” she said.
A thought suddenly occurred to me. “What is this regarding?” I asked sharply.
“A job,” she said in a patronizing way, as if this was the most obvious thing in the world.
“But,” I said, “All of us here already have jobs, at Kadod High School, teaching. We explained this also to this man here. We are not interested.”
“I see,” she said. “Well, some time you come visit our school anyway.” Click.
As I handed the phone back to the man, I asked, “Who was that?”
“The principal,” he stuttered.
Ah.
The men were soon on their way, having given us the card, a favorite token of remembrance here in India. My wallet is now full of them. As they left, the man put on his Shoot Out shoes.
The fall out from the articles has been like this. Between reporters calling us inappropriately to say we are beautiful and should come visit them on the weekends to men showing up at our door without permission from the principal to ask about teaching in their private, tribal, or public school, the effect has been far-reaching. We are to build relationships with other schools, but I think, perhaps, not these.
On the whole, however, the media madness does seem to be dying down. And the teachers here did have a reaction, but not the one I expected. We’ll leave that for another time, dear reader.
Best,
Cat
Saturday, June 21, 2008
"There should be a gap"
Dear dedicated reader,
One of the major differences between the Indian and American student-teacher relationships has recently been illustrated for me and I want to take a break from telling you about the fall out from the recent media to tell you about it.
Having seen us out and about in the village, the invitations to students’ houses have piled up in recent days. The shy request of ‘Teacher, to my house?’ is one I hear frequently both inside the school after class and outside in the village. We were told by the Foundation that we were to check with the principal before visiting students’ houses, so until recently I have been putting students off with the promise of ‘Soon, soon’ as I’ve waited for the right moment to catch the principal.
However, recently Priya was out in the village to make a phone call at the P.C.O. booth (a shop in which you can make an international phone call in a godforsakenly hot call box) and was dragged forcefully to their houses by a band of girls who we have a hard time going anywhere without these days. A mix of 7th and 8th standard (roughly 11 and 12 years old), Shruti, Divya, Juhi, Komal and Khushboo (whose name I personally find hysterical, as ‘khushboo’ literally means ‘happy smell’ in Hindi) are our village guides, showing us the best place to find this or that, keeping us from being offered outrageous prices by shopkeepers, and so on. At each of the girls’ houses, she met their welcoming parents. Juhi’s parents, she related to me excitedly, had offered to take us around to see the ‘sights of Kadod’ (whatever those may be) in their van at 6 pm the next day.
“I suppose we’ll have to ask the principal,” I said, excited about the trip but curious to see what he would say.
We did not have to wait long to find out, as his wife, elder son, his elder son’s wife (Sejalben, also an English teacher at the school) and his youngest son came to visit at just that moment. While they were over, we mentioned the invitation which had been offered.
Sejalben looked concerned. “Who is the girl? Who are her parents?” She asked, furrowing her brow.
Priya explained that she went to the school and that she was in Sejalben’s 8th standard English class.
The principal’s son said simply, “We’ll have to ask my father, we’ll let you know tomorrow.” After waiting a week for our cell phones with the same promise, I knew how likely this was.
The next day, the girls stopped by our house after school with hopeful faces, saying “Che baje?” (Six o’clock?)
Since we hadn’t seen the principal or his family the entirety of the day, all we could say was, “We’ll see…”
Sitting out on the porch, reading my book, I saw as the principal came inside the gate of the compound and walked up the path towards his house, stopping when he saw me and smiling.
“How…are your classes going?” He asked me in the halting English he speaks in which would be mistaken for hesitancy if I didn’t know better.
“Very well!” I replied, happily. They really have been.
“The students, they… understand you?”
“Oh yes, I think so,” I said, reassuring him. “Also, Jagrutiben has been a great help in making sure that they do. But speaking of the students…” I paused, as he looked at me curiously. I continued, carefully. “Priya and I have received an invitation from the parents of one of the girls to go in their car to see the sights of Kadod, and we were wondering if that would be all right.” I let the idea sink in for a moment.
He paused thoughtfully and then said, “No, I think not.” He cleared his throat and continued. “You see, in India, between students and teachers, there should be a … gap. Students and teachers are not mixing, you see, and parents and teachers are not mixing. Always there should be a gap, for respect.”
I said, “Of course, thank you for explaining to me. I do not know these things because I am not from here so I am always happy to have them explained.” Inwardly, I winced. A gap? But how was this possible to maintain in a place as small as this?
He smiled and continued, “If a teacher is inviting you to their house, you can go. Jagrutiben or another lady teacher. But with students there must be a gap.”
I nodded cheerfully, inwardly remembering my brief visits to the Ladies’ Staff Room.
He turned to go in the house and I took my seat again on the porch, mulling this new information over in my head. Reluctantly, I relayed the news to Priya who was dispatched to tell the girls waiting at the gate. I did not envy her the task. Disappointed preteens are nothing to trifle with.
Since the edict was issued, we have already run into…well, issues following it. But those I will leave for another time, dear reader.
Best,
Cat
One of the major differences between the Indian and American student-teacher relationships has recently been illustrated for me and I want to take a break from telling you about the fall out from the recent media to tell you about it.
Having seen us out and about in the village, the invitations to students’ houses have piled up in recent days. The shy request of ‘Teacher, to my house?’ is one I hear frequently both inside the school after class and outside in the village. We were told by the Foundation that we were to check with the principal before visiting students’ houses, so until recently I have been putting students off with the promise of ‘Soon, soon’ as I’ve waited for the right moment to catch the principal.
However, recently Priya was out in the village to make a phone call at the P.C.O. booth (a shop in which you can make an international phone call in a godforsakenly hot call box) and was dragged forcefully to their houses by a band of girls who we have a hard time going anywhere without these days. A mix of 7th and 8th standard (roughly 11 and 12 years old), Shruti, Divya, Juhi, Komal and Khushboo (whose name I personally find hysterical, as ‘khushboo’ literally means ‘happy smell’ in Hindi) are our village guides, showing us the best place to find this or that, keeping us from being offered outrageous prices by shopkeepers, and so on. At each of the girls’ houses, she met their welcoming parents. Juhi’s parents, she related to me excitedly, had offered to take us around to see the ‘sights of Kadod’ (whatever those may be) in their van at 6 pm the next day.
“I suppose we’ll have to ask the principal,” I said, excited about the trip but curious to see what he would say.
We did not have to wait long to find out, as his wife, elder son, his elder son’s wife (Sejalben, also an English teacher at the school) and his youngest son came to visit at just that moment. While they were over, we mentioned the invitation which had been offered.
Sejalben looked concerned. “Who is the girl? Who are her parents?” She asked, furrowing her brow.
Priya explained that she went to the school and that she was in Sejalben’s 8th standard English class.
The principal’s son said simply, “We’ll have to ask my father, we’ll let you know tomorrow.” After waiting a week for our cell phones with the same promise, I knew how likely this was.
The next day, the girls stopped by our house after school with hopeful faces, saying “Che baje?” (Six o’clock?)
Since we hadn’t seen the principal or his family the entirety of the day, all we could say was, “We’ll see…”
Sitting out on the porch, reading my book, I saw as the principal came inside the gate of the compound and walked up the path towards his house, stopping when he saw me and smiling.
“How…are your classes going?” He asked me in the halting English he speaks in which would be mistaken for hesitancy if I didn’t know better.
“Very well!” I replied, happily. They really have been.
“The students, they… understand you?”
“Oh yes, I think so,” I said, reassuring him. “Also, Jagrutiben has been a great help in making sure that they do. But speaking of the students…” I paused, as he looked at me curiously. I continued, carefully. “Priya and I have received an invitation from the parents of one of the girls to go in their car to see the sights of Kadod, and we were wondering if that would be all right.” I let the idea sink in for a moment.
He paused thoughtfully and then said, “No, I think not.” He cleared his throat and continued. “You see, in India, between students and teachers, there should be a … gap. Students and teachers are not mixing, you see, and parents and teachers are not mixing. Always there should be a gap, for respect.”
I said, “Of course, thank you for explaining to me. I do not know these things because I am not from here so I am always happy to have them explained.” Inwardly, I winced. A gap? But how was this possible to maintain in a place as small as this?
He smiled and continued, “If a teacher is inviting you to their house, you can go. Jagrutiben or another lady teacher. But with students there must be a gap.”
I nodded cheerfully, inwardly remembering my brief visits to the Ladies’ Staff Room.
He turned to go in the house and I took my seat again on the porch, mulling this new information over in my head. Reluctantly, I relayed the news to Priya who was dispatched to tell the girls waiting at the gate. I did not envy her the task. Disappointed preteens are nothing to trifle with.
Since the edict was issued, we have already run into…well, issues following it. But those I will leave for another time, dear reader.
Best,
Cat
Friday, June 20, 2008
Media Circus
Dear dedicated reader,
Today a student asked me for my autograph.
I have achieved the status of a minor celebrity here. In order to understand how this has happened, I need to fill you in on the media circus that Kadod High School has become in such a short period of time.
The same afternoon that Z-news came to film my class, another set of reporters arrived to interview us in our home. The next day, more arrived, this time in the middle of my 9D class. I was just coming to the home stretch of an activity that I had put a lot of effort into setting up when the principal arrived at my door.
“These men are wanting to film your class,” he said as he gestured for the men to come in and begin setting up.
“That’s…wonderful,” was all I could really say. And it is. The press will be very good for the Foundation and for the school. “Should I just…keep teaching?”
“Yes, yes,” the principal said with a wave of his hand.
I started to continue, but I was stopped by an anxious camera man who told me to stop the activity (a small play that the students were about to perform). He gave me the 9th standard English textbook to hold in my hand with the title prominently displayed and then indicated that I should continue. I felt as though someone should be feeding me lines since apparently the rest of me was open for puppetry. The principal intervened.
“Simply ask the students some simple questions. Simple, and repeat if they don’t understand,” he directed.
The show must go on, I thought. I obliged with some simple questions about the text. The bell rang. Again, the students looked as if they wanted to bolt, but had to sit tight through an entire period of this dog and pony show. The cameramen instructed me to stop teaching and thrust the book at Melissa, newly come from the US only the day before, and instructed her to teach. I must say, having no preparation or any idea what we were doing, she did an admirable job. The students, probably bored to tears by questions about a story we had been discussing for a week, half-heartedly raised their hands.
By the end of the school, the men must have gotten what they wanted because after taking a short personal interview with me and a few students, they left. Last night, I watched two separate airings of myself teaching on the principal’s TV, and another today. This morning, the principal excitedly handed me an article in Gujarati with a large picture of myself teaching my 9C class. All day, students have been saying ‘Teacher, teacher!” and producing out of their pockets folded versions of this same article.
I approached the Ladies’ Staff Room with some apprehension this afternoon. After so much attention, how would they treat me? They have been at the school for years and I have been here only one week. How would they feel about this special treatment? I went in and tried to act normal. They noticed me immediately and the article was summarily placed in front of me. “You are in the paper,” they said generously.
“Yes, oh wow,” I said awkwardly. They smiled, but kept their distance.
Suddenly, two men burst into the room accompanied by the school computer teacher, Dhirinbhai. One came striding up to me and introduced himself, “My name is Hitesh,” he said, “and I’m a reporter. I was wondering if I could talk to you?” He looked around at the surprised teachers’ faces. “Maybe someplace else?”
Oh god. “Uh, yes, that would be fine. Why don’t we go to my house?” Oh god.
At the house, he conducted a strained interview with Vinesha (a newly arrived summer intern), Priya and myself. “So, 50 years ago, they kicked you out of the country,” he said. “And now you are back. How are you feeling?”
“Well… I’m not British,” I said slowly.
“Uh, er, yes,” he replied. “But, uh, you see, foreigners were expelled from this place 50 years ago. And now, you, foreigner, are back. How is that feeling?”
“Um, everyone has been, uh, really welcoming… so…” I didn’t know what to say. The rest of the interview continued in this fashion. After he was satisfied, he thanked us and excused himself. We had just begun to unwind and laugh to ourselves about how ridiculous this was becoming when a peon was at the door saying that ‘Sir’ was asking for us.
Sitting in the principal’s office, he related excitedly that The Indian Express, the newspaper that we read everyday in our house, had called and also was wanting to talk with me if I was willing. I wasn’t really in a position to refuse, so the Principal dialed up “Kumaal” and put me on the phone.
“Hello Ma’am!” the voice on the other end of the line chirped cheerfully.
“Hello…” I said, uneasily. These interviews and their potential for backlash were really doing a number on my confidence level. What if I say the wrong thing?
“So, you are being paid to teach here in India?” He asked.
A thought suddenly crossed my mind as I slowly said, “Yeees.” What if the Indian INS realizes that I am here working when I’m only supposed to be here on a tourist visa visiting friends? Am I going to be deported?
“And how much is that salary?”
What is it with this question? “Um, as much as an Indian teacher makes.”
“In US dollars, you are making how much?”
“I’d really rather not say…”
There was laughing on the other end of the line. “Okay, okay…”
Eventually it was over and the only remaining instruction was that someone was to take a picture of me teaching and e-mail it to him this afternoon. Dhirinbhai took charge of this and yet another one of my classes was documented real time in order to achieve the perfect visual accompaniment for the story.
I am unable to go anywhere in town without someone saying to me in Hindi “I saw you on TV!” Or “Look ma’am, you are in the paper.”
During our spoken English classes, two students slyly tried to get me to autograph their notebooks. “Why do you want my signature?” I asked them pointedly.
“Because, ma’am, you are our teacher.” Oh Lord. This must end soon.
Best,
Cat
P.S. Here is a link the the Indian Express article. Please note that I said none of the things I am quoted as saying! Also, they've confused Melissa with Vinesha and lumped them as one person. http://www.expressindia.com/latest-news/From-US-with-love-Tribal-students-in-Surat-village-get-teachers-from-America/325122/
P.P.S. Here is a link to a second article. In this, my name is, apparently, Kathreen Viddle. http://www.mynews.in/fullstory.aspx?storyid=6207
Today a student asked me for my autograph.
I have achieved the status of a minor celebrity here. In order to understand how this has happened, I need to fill you in on the media circus that Kadod High School has become in such a short period of time.
The same afternoon that Z-news came to film my class, another set of reporters arrived to interview us in our home. The next day, more arrived, this time in the middle of my 9D class. I was just coming to the home stretch of an activity that I had put a lot of effort into setting up when the principal arrived at my door.
“These men are wanting to film your class,” he said as he gestured for the men to come in and begin setting up.
“That’s…wonderful,” was all I could really say. And it is. The press will be very good for the Foundation and for the school. “Should I just…keep teaching?”
“Yes, yes,” the principal said with a wave of his hand.
I started to continue, but I was stopped by an anxious camera man who told me to stop the activity (a small play that the students were about to perform). He gave me the 9th standard English textbook to hold in my hand with the title prominently displayed and then indicated that I should continue. I felt as though someone should be feeding me lines since apparently the rest of me was open for puppetry. The principal intervened.
“Simply ask the students some simple questions. Simple, and repeat if they don’t understand,” he directed.
The show must go on, I thought. I obliged with some simple questions about the text. The bell rang. Again, the students looked as if they wanted to bolt, but had to sit tight through an entire period of this dog and pony show. The cameramen instructed me to stop teaching and thrust the book at Melissa, newly come from the US only the day before, and instructed her to teach. I must say, having no preparation or any idea what we were doing, she did an admirable job. The students, probably bored to tears by questions about a story we had been discussing for a week, half-heartedly raised their hands.
By the end of the school, the men must have gotten what they wanted because after taking a short personal interview with me and a few students, they left. Last night, I watched two separate airings of myself teaching on the principal’s TV, and another today. This morning, the principal excitedly handed me an article in Gujarati with a large picture of myself teaching my 9C class. All day, students have been saying ‘Teacher, teacher!” and producing out of their pockets folded versions of this same article.
I approached the Ladies’ Staff Room with some apprehension this afternoon. After so much attention, how would they treat me? They have been at the school for years and I have been here only one week. How would they feel about this special treatment? I went in and tried to act normal. They noticed me immediately and the article was summarily placed in front of me. “You are in the paper,” they said generously.
“Yes, oh wow,” I said awkwardly. They smiled, but kept their distance.
Suddenly, two men burst into the room accompanied by the school computer teacher, Dhirinbhai. One came striding up to me and introduced himself, “My name is Hitesh,” he said, “and I’m a reporter. I was wondering if I could talk to you?” He looked around at the surprised teachers’ faces. “Maybe someplace else?”
Oh god. “Uh, yes, that would be fine. Why don’t we go to my house?” Oh god.
At the house, he conducted a strained interview with Vinesha (a newly arrived summer intern), Priya and myself. “So, 50 years ago, they kicked you out of the country,” he said. “And now you are back. How are you feeling?”
“Well… I’m not British,” I said slowly.
“Uh, er, yes,” he replied. “But, uh, you see, foreigners were expelled from this place 50 years ago. And now, you, foreigner, are back. How is that feeling?”
“Um, everyone has been, uh, really welcoming… so…” I didn’t know what to say. The rest of the interview continued in this fashion. After he was satisfied, he thanked us and excused himself. We had just begun to unwind and laugh to ourselves about how ridiculous this was becoming when a peon was at the door saying that ‘Sir’ was asking for us.
Sitting in the principal’s office, he related excitedly that The Indian Express, the newspaper that we read everyday in our house, had called and also was wanting to talk with me if I was willing. I wasn’t really in a position to refuse, so the Principal dialed up “Kumaal” and put me on the phone.
“Hello Ma’am!” the voice on the other end of the line chirped cheerfully.
“Hello…” I said, uneasily. These interviews and their potential for backlash were really doing a number on my confidence level. What if I say the wrong thing?
“So, you are being paid to teach here in India?” He asked.
A thought suddenly crossed my mind as I slowly said, “Yeees.” What if the Indian INS realizes that I am here working when I’m only supposed to be here on a tourist visa visiting friends? Am I going to be deported?
“And how much is that salary?”
What is it with this question? “Um, as much as an Indian teacher makes.”
“In US dollars, you are making how much?”
“I’d really rather not say…”
There was laughing on the other end of the line. “Okay, okay…”
Eventually it was over and the only remaining instruction was that someone was to take a picture of me teaching and e-mail it to him this afternoon. Dhirinbhai took charge of this and yet another one of my classes was documented real time in order to achieve the perfect visual accompaniment for the story.
I am unable to go anywhere in town without someone saying to me in Hindi “I saw you on TV!” Or “Look ma’am, you are in the paper.”
During our spoken English classes, two students slyly tried to get me to autograph their notebooks. “Why do you want my signature?” I asked them pointedly.
“Because, ma’am, you are our teacher.” Oh Lord. This must end soon.
Best,
Cat
P.S. Here is a link the the Indian Express article. Please note that I said none of the things I am quoted as saying! Also, they've confused Melissa with Vinesha and lumped them as one person. http://www.expressindia.com/latest-news/From-US-with-love-Tribal-students-in-Surat-village-get-teachers-from-America/325122/
P.P.S. Here is a link to a second article. In this, my name is, apparently, Kathreen Viddle. http://www.mynews.in/fullstory.aspx?storyid=6207
Thursday, June 19, 2008
Z-News comes to Kadod
Dear dedicated reader,
Today I was, no joke, interviewed by National Indian news.
The principal had, with a very excited manner for someone usually so formal, informed me a few days ago that this might happen. I had no idea what a tamasha (spectacle) it would be.
I was sitting happily in the guesthouse after my 3rd period class with 9D when a peon (this is truly what the school calls these men!) was dispatched to my house and I was told that “Sir” wanted to see me.
With some foreboding I followed the man across the courtyard to the principal’s office. I thought perhaps word that my 3rd period class had been a little rowdy had somehow gotten back to the principal, though how this would have happened was beyond me. Instead, when I arrived I found it to be full of men. One slightly chubby man with a mullet introduced himself as a reporter for Z-News.
“You have heard of Z-News?” He asked me, expectantly.
I obliged. “Oh yes,” I replied enthusiastically. “When I was living in Delhi.” He nodded with satisfaction.
The principal said to me in his stop and start English, “These men are here –“ He was interrupted by the reporter.
“Listen, we are here because we are hearing that now Americans are coming to poor public schools to teach English and we want to broadcast this nationally, okay?”
I didn’t realize he wanted a response until I saw his face. “Oh fine,” I said, nodding. “Yes, that’s wonderful.”
The principal valiantly tried to continue, “These men will come –“
Again, he was interrupted, this time by a man in matching denim shirt and pants. “We are going to come film your class, okay?”
“9C,” the principal added assertively.
They looked at me. “Great, wonderful,” I said again, not really knowing exactly what to say. I knew this was an incredibly big deal for not just Kadod High School but for the Foundation as well and I wanted to be obliging.
The principal added, “So, now we will go to 9C.” I was confused; I wasn’t supposed to take that class until 5th period, over an hour from now with a lunchtime for students to go home inbetween.
“So, I will teach them…now?” I asked.
“Yes, we’ll bring the book and the chalk and eraser. Go there now,” he said.
“But my lesson plan is in the house…” I pleaded.
He looked perturbed. “You may get it but, uh, make haste!” he said. I nodded vigorously and was off.
When I returned, I met them with my materials at the door to the 9C classroom, easily the dingiest of the classrooms that I teach in. What better tableau, I thought, for them to paint their story on.
There was of course much ado over the set up. First, the teacher whose period it really was had to be unceremoniously kicked out of his class. I looked at him apologetically and he glared back; I am making no friends on the staff, it would seem. Then they had to plug into the outlet, which in typical fashion was not working. So a power cord had to be run from the computer lab across the courtyard to the classroom. Then they had to shift some of the benches so that they could adequately get in the cameras to film me teaching. The students were laughing quietly amongst themselves until finally they told me I could begin.
I had no idea if I was teach my whole lesson or only a part, so I decided to just proceed as normally as possible. I began with the same three questions I always ask. “What is the date today?” “What is the day of the week?” “What is the weather?” Hands shot up all around the room. Let the TV cameras come every day, I thought blithely.
I asked them to take out their homework. This was the first assignment I had given them and I could see from some of their faces who didn’t have it. I saved them the embarrassment that I had given some students in an earlier class by asking for volunteers to give me each answer, rather than calling on people at random. I knew that the cameras were especially looking to see if the students could understand me and I them, so I tried to make sure that my pronunciation was clear. Jagrutiben was not here today; her husband was sick so she was home with him and I was on my own.
As I moved around the classroom like I normally do, I had to dodge the cameras that would duck in front of the blackboard just as I wanted to write something. They kept going for artistic angles, like through two students or up from the floor. With the cinematic acrobatics they were performing it was hard to keep the students focused on the front, so I tried to call on as many people as possible to participate in the lesson. In the middle, the bell rang for lunch, and the students looked at me pleadingly. I tried to convey with my eyes that I was as trapped by the situation as they were.
After some time, the TV men interrupted my teaching with “Bas,” (enough). I confusedly stopped in the middle of an activity and awaited further instruction. There was some rearrangement of the furniture at the front of the room and I was instructed to sit with the students as my backdrop. Three microphones were held in front of my face and I was shown the questions that I would be asked which were the following:
What is your good name?
How have you decided to come to India?
How are you finding the differences between Indian education and US education?
What do you think is the IQ of the Indian student?
India is known for yoga, meditation. What are you thinking?
India is becoming superpower in a few years. Are Americans scared?
What are you thinking about Indian food? Is it spicy?
This was apparently enough for them. I answered as neutrally as I could, making sure to say good things about all Indian students and the education system. The last thing I want is death threats from Indian nationalists or a letter of termination from the Foundation, which I made sure to mention.
After they finished with me, they asked the students who could speak Hindi and from these 5 were picked. For some reason, I was allowed to stay while the students were being interviewed. They asked them how they understood me and all said they were finding me to be a very good teacher. What else could they say, with the principal, myself and 10 newsmen in the room?
After this, the class was finally dismissed, after having missed the entirety of their lunch period. I felt terrible, but luckily I have them right after lunch, so they were able to take this time to eat. I apologized to them though they seemed quite pleased with their 15 minutes of fame.
It should air next week. Hopefully it won’t have been edited with me saying I’m a sex maniac or some such thing.
Best,
Cat
Today I was, no joke, interviewed by National Indian news.
The principal had, with a very excited manner for someone usually so formal, informed me a few days ago that this might happen. I had no idea what a tamasha (spectacle) it would be.
I was sitting happily in the guesthouse after my 3rd period class with 9D when a peon (this is truly what the school calls these men!) was dispatched to my house and I was told that “Sir” wanted to see me.
With some foreboding I followed the man across the courtyard to the principal’s office. I thought perhaps word that my 3rd period class had been a little rowdy had somehow gotten back to the principal, though how this would have happened was beyond me. Instead, when I arrived I found it to be full of men. One slightly chubby man with a mullet introduced himself as a reporter for Z-News.
“You have heard of Z-News?” He asked me, expectantly.
I obliged. “Oh yes,” I replied enthusiastically. “When I was living in Delhi.” He nodded with satisfaction.
The principal said to me in his stop and start English, “These men are here –“ He was interrupted by the reporter.
“Listen, we are here because we are hearing that now Americans are coming to poor public schools to teach English and we want to broadcast this nationally, okay?”
I didn’t realize he wanted a response until I saw his face. “Oh fine,” I said, nodding. “Yes, that’s wonderful.”
The principal valiantly tried to continue, “These men will come –“
Again, he was interrupted, this time by a man in matching denim shirt and pants. “We are going to come film your class, okay?”
“9C,” the principal added assertively.
They looked at me. “Great, wonderful,” I said again, not really knowing exactly what to say. I knew this was an incredibly big deal for not just Kadod High School but for the Foundation as well and I wanted to be obliging.
The principal added, “So, now we will go to 9C.” I was confused; I wasn’t supposed to take that class until 5th period, over an hour from now with a lunchtime for students to go home inbetween.
“So, I will teach them…now?” I asked.
“Yes, we’ll bring the book and the chalk and eraser. Go there now,” he said.
“But my lesson plan is in the house…” I pleaded.
He looked perturbed. “You may get it but, uh, make haste!” he said. I nodded vigorously and was off.
When I returned, I met them with my materials at the door to the 9C classroom, easily the dingiest of the classrooms that I teach in. What better tableau, I thought, for them to paint their story on.
There was of course much ado over the set up. First, the teacher whose period it really was had to be unceremoniously kicked out of his class. I looked at him apologetically and he glared back; I am making no friends on the staff, it would seem. Then they had to plug into the outlet, which in typical fashion was not working. So a power cord had to be run from the computer lab across the courtyard to the classroom. Then they had to shift some of the benches so that they could adequately get in the cameras to film me teaching. The students were laughing quietly amongst themselves until finally they told me I could begin.
I had no idea if I was teach my whole lesson or only a part, so I decided to just proceed as normally as possible. I began with the same three questions I always ask. “What is the date today?” “What is the day of the week?” “What is the weather?” Hands shot up all around the room. Let the TV cameras come every day, I thought blithely.
I asked them to take out their homework. This was the first assignment I had given them and I could see from some of their faces who didn’t have it. I saved them the embarrassment that I had given some students in an earlier class by asking for volunteers to give me each answer, rather than calling on people at random. I knew that the cameras were especially looking to see if the students could understand me and I them, so I tried to make sure that my pronunciation was clear. Jagrutiben was not here today; her husband was sick so she was home with him and I was on my own.
As I moved around the classroom like I normally do, I had to dodge the cameras that would duck in front of the blackboard just as I wanted to write something. They kept going for artistic angles, like through two students or up from the floor. With the cinematic acrobatics they were performing it was hard to keep the students focused on the front, so I tried to call on as many people as possible to participate in the lesson. In the middle, the bell rang for lunch, and the students looked at me pleadingly. I tried to convey with my eyes that I was as trapped by the situation as they were.
After some time, the TV men interrupted my teaching with “Bas,” (enough). I confusedly stopped in the middle of an activity and awaited further instruction. There was some rearrangement of the furniture at the front of the room and I was instructed to sit with the students as my backdrop. Three microphones were held in front of my face and I was shown the questions that I would be asked which were the following:
What is your good name?
How have you decided to come to India?
How are you finding the differences between Indian education and US education?
What do you think is the IQ of the Indian student?
India is known for yoga, meditation. What are you thinking?
India is becoming superpower in a few years. Are Americans scared?
What are you thinking about Indian food? Is it spicy?
This was apparently enough for them. I answered as neutrally as I could, making sure to say good things about all Indian students and the education system. The last thing I want is death threats from Indian nationalists or a letter of termination from the Foundation, which I made sure to mention.
After they finished with me, they asked the students who could speak Hindi and from these 5 were picked. For some reason, I was allowed to stay while the students were being interviewed. They asked them how they understood me and all said they were finding me to be a very good teacher. What else could they say, with the principal, myself and 10 newsmen in the room?
After this, the class was finally dismissed, after having missed the entirety of their lunch period. I felt terrible, but luckily I have them right after lunch, so they were able to take this time to eat. I apologized to them though they seemed quite pleased with their 15 minutes of fame.
It should air next week. Hopefully it won’t have been edited with me saying I’m a sex maniac or some such thing.
Best,
Cat
Sunday, June 15, 2008
My First Staff Meeting
Dear dedicated reader,
Today was my first staff meeting at the school.
Indian schools have classes Monday through Saturday which is something which I remembered from my time at college in Delhi. Classes go from 10:45 am, Monday through Friday, and then from 8 am to 11 am on Saturday. Saturday afternoon, as I discovered, is reserved for staff meeting.
After my last very active class of girls on Saturday morning, as the students rushed out of the school around us, Jagrutiben, the local teacher assigned to my classes, turned to me and said, “I will ask the principal if you need to attend, as it will all be in Gujarati.” I nodded and curiously followed her to the principal's office in the main corridor.
The principal said if I did not want to, I did not have to attend. I expressed my desire to come anyway, since I figured that it would be good for the teachers to see me doing as they do, to see that I am, in fact, just a regular staff member like them. Already I had joined in on the snack of samosa and baarfi (a milky Indian sweet) that they had shared in the staff room earlier that day. They took pleasure in introducing me to this ‘newfound’ delight (both were foods that I enjoyed in Delhi many times.) Please do not think me insincere; I’ve just found that it can be easier to make friends when you let people be the experts in their culture and explain it to you.
We walked to the meeting, which was to take place on the other side of the school in one of the larger engineering classrooms. When we arrived we were the last ones to come, the room already filled with teachers sitting in neat rows at the desks, men on one side, women on the other, all waiting for the meeting to begin. As we walked to the back, it felt as though 70 pairs of eyes watched as I took a seat next to Jagrutiben.
Soon, the principal arrived, followed by his 3 senior administrators. As they entered, the teachers stood, just as the students do when I enter a classroom. As we sat down again, I felt Jagrutiben’s arm poke purposefully into my side. I looked at her, and she swiveled with her head, indicating that I should look forward. When I did, I saw that the principal was gesturing for me to come to the front of the room. Thinking that he wanted to introduce me as new staff member, I obliged. When I reached the front, he indicated that I should take the open seat next to his senior administrators. So much for seeming like “one of the gang”…
The biggest disadvantage of this seat was that all of the teachers in the room could see my face as I listened to speech after speech from the senior administrators in Gujarati. While Gujarati and Hindi are similar enough that I understood the general gist of the talks, often I would look out at the audience to see laughter and smiles at some joke that had been cracked that I could visibly not understand. After a while, the lull of the spoken Gujarati combined with the heat of the midday had made my eyelids heavy and I found myself repeating over and over in my head, don’t fall asleep, don’t fall asleep…
I was jolted out of my open eyed trance when Mr. Gamit, the senior administrator and English teacher who had come to meet us at the train station, turned to me in what seemed to be the middle of his speech and said, “Since you cannot understand, I will tell you what we are talking about.” After five minutes or so of translation, during which the audience of teachers sat silent, he said to me, “And now, Catben, can you say a few words to these teachers about how you are experiencing here?”
I froze. “Um, right now?” I stammered.
“Yes,” he replied with a smile.
“I, uh…”
“It’s okay,” the principal cut in. “She can do it next time, I think.” Saved! Oh thank you!
With that, the principal rose and dismissed the meeting. Oh great, I thought. Not only did I narrowly miss out on awkward public speaking, but my translation was holding up the dismissal of the entire meeting.
I can’t say I am looking forward to my reception in the Ladies’ Staff Room come Monday.
Best,
Cat
Today was my first staff meeting at the school.
Indian schools have classes Monday through Saturday which is something which I remembered from my time at college in Delhi. Classes go from 10:45 am, Monday through Friday, and then from 8 am to 11 am on Saturday. Saturday afternoon, as I discovered, is reserved for staff meeting.
After my last very active class of girls on Saturday morning, as the students rushed out of the school around us, Jagrutiben, the local teacher assigned to my classes, turned to me and said, “I will ask the principal if you need to attend, as it will all be in Gujarati.” I nodded and curiously followed her to the principal's office in the main corridor.
The principal said if I did not want to, I did not have to attend. I expressed my desire to come anyway, since I figured that it would be good for the teachers to see me doing as they do, to see that I am, in fact, just a regular staff member like them. Already I had joined in on the snack of samosa and baarfi (a milky Indian sweet) that they had shared in the staff room earlier that day. They took pleasure in introducing me to this ‘newfound’ delight (both were foods that I enjoyed in Delhi many times.) Please do not think me insincere; I’ve just found that it can be easier to make friends when you let people be the experts in their culture and explain it to you.
We walked to the meeting, which was to take place on the other side of the school in one of the larger engineering classrooms. When we arrived we were the last ones to come, the room already filled with teachers sitting in neat rows at the desks, men on one side, women on the other, all waiting for the meeting to begin. As we walked to the back, it felt as though 70 pairs of eyes watched as I took a seat next to Jagrutiben.
Soon, the principal arrived, followed by his 3 senior administrators. As they entered, the teachers stood, just as the students do when I enter a classroom. As we sat down again, I felt Jagrutiben’s arm poke purposefully into my side. I looked at her, and she swiveled with her head, indicating that I should look forward. When I did, I saw that the principal was gesturing for me to come to the front of the room. Thinking that he wanted to introduce me as new staff member, I obliged. When I reached the front, he indicated that I should take the open seat next to his senior administrators. So much for seeming like “one of the gang”…
The biggest disadvantage of this seat was that all of the teachers in the room could see my face as I listened to speech after speech from the senior administrators in Gujarati. While Gujarati and Hindi are similar enough that I understood the general gist of the talks, often I would look out at the audience to see laughter and smiles at some joke that had been cracked that I could visibly not understand. After a while, the lull of the spoken Gujarati combined with the heat of the midday had made my eyelids heavy and I found myself repeating over and over in my head, don’t fall asleep, don’t fall asleep…
I was jolted out of my open eyed trance when Mr. Gamit, the senior administrator and English teacher who had come to meet us at the train station, turned to me in what seemed to be the middle of his speech and said, “Since you cannot understand, I will tell you what we are talking about.” After five minutes or so of translation, during which the audience of teachers sat silent, he said to me, “And now, Catben, can you say a few words to these teachers about how you are experiencing here?”
I froze. “Um, right now?” I stammered.
“Yes,” he replied with a smile.
“I, uh…”
“It’s okay,” the principal cut in. “She can do it next time, I think.” Saved! Oh thank you!
With that, the principal rose and dismissed the meeting. Oh great, I thought. Not only did I narrowly miss out on awkward public speaking, but my translation was holding up the dismissal of the entire meeting.
I can’t say I am looking forward to my reception in the Ladies’ Staff Room come Monday.
Best,
Cat
Saturday, June 14, 2008
Monsoon Zoo
Dear dedicated reader,
This morning, I killed a mosquito by clapping my hands together over it while it buzzed through the air. When I opened them, the palm of my hand was smeared with the blood that had been bloating its small insect body.
I debate whether to add such details to this account. But lest you think my life here is all fun and minor cultural misunderstandings, I think it is important for me to tell you about the zoo that has become my house since the monsoon rain started.
Just after I killed the mosquito, it was time for me to take a shower. Stepping gingerly inside the room attached to the outside of the house, I switched on the light and caught movement out of the corner of my eye. Slightly larger than my left hand, a white colored lizard lay frozen still, just above the shower head, staring at me with its beady little eye. I froze too, eyeing back. Steeling myself, I pushed the switch on the water heater, not five inches from where the lizard was waiting. It scampered through an opening in the wall, across into our bathroom. “Great,” I thought. “That’ll be fun.”
Wearing sandals in the shower keeps my feet from stepping on the water-logged bodies of dead insects as I shower in the morning. A veritable bug-morgue, they litter not only the floor of our shower room, but our sink also has become a wing repository, small appendages sticking especially to the white Dettol soap in our soapdish.
Putting on bug spray before taking a shower would be futile, so I have to accept the risk posed by so much exposed skin in a place as watery as the shower (water breeds mosquitoes). Though taking a shower is arguably the best part of my very sweaty day, it is also the most nerve-wracking. As I finished showering and went to dry my hair and dress again, more movement caught my eye, just under the hinge of the door to the outside. A lizard? No, this time, a small, rock-colored toad who made a little obliging hop to let me know exactly where it was. My exit from the shower could be described best as a panicked run. I frightened Lartha with my quick entrance into the kitchen. She was carefully putting dishes from the dish rack back on the table.
“Kyaa hua?” She asked me, concerned. (What happened?)
Embarrassed, I laughed at myself. “Kuch nahii,” I replied. (Nothing).
Returning to my room, what should I see but a small lizard, happily situated on my pillow. It couldn’t be bigger than my thumb. This time, I stayed calm. I walked back out to the kitchen and retrieved a small metal container, which I used to trap the lizard against the wall and take it outside. I was proud of myself. This is a feat I would not have been able to accomplish 3 years ago (and if you were with me in India then, you know this to be true!)
Outside, as I turned around, I saw a forehead-sized brown moth with a giant wingspan resting just below the switch to turn the outside light on. I considered, for a moment, getting a newspaper to swat at it, but the prospect of missing and contending with its unpredictable flight pattern after such an attack stopped me.
This is a mere sampling. Throughout the day, we must contend with any or all of the following:
More lizards, large and small
Beetles just larger than an American quarter
Any number of mosquitoes
Chameleon sized lizards which climb the tree just outside our house
Giant, black faced monkeys which climb the roof of the school
Stray dogs
Goats
Hens or crowing roosters
Donkeys
And, of course, errant cows.
At least the plate-sized spiders are only in the mountains of Mussoorie. I hope.
Best,
Cat
This morning, I killed a mosquito by clapping my hands together over it while it buzzed through the air. When I opened them, the palm of my hand was smeared with the blood that had been bloating its small insect body.
I debate whether to add such details to this account. But lest you think my life here is all fun and minor cultural misunderstandings, I think it is important for me to tell you about the zoo that has become my house since the monsoon rain started.
Just after I killed the mosquito, it was time for me to take a shower. Stepping gingerly inside the room attached to the outside of the house, I switched on the light and caught movement out of the corner of my eye. Slightly larger than my left hand, a white colored lizard lay frozen still, just above the shower head, staring at me with its beady little eye. I froze too, eyeing back. Steeling myself, I pushed the switch on the water heater, not five inches from where the lizard was waiting. It scampered through an opening in the wall, across into our bathroom. “Great,” I thought. “That’ll be fun.”
Wearing sandals in the shower keeps my feet from stepping on the water-logged bodies of dead insects as I shower in the morning. A veritable bug-morgue, they litter not only the floor of our shower room, but our sink also has become a wing repository, small appendages sticking especially to the white Dettol soap in our soapdish.
Putting on bug spray before taking a shower would be futile, so I have to accept the risk posed by so much exposed skin in a place as watery as the shower (water breeds mosquitoes). Though taking a shower is arguably the best part of my very sweaty day, it is also the most nerve-wracking. As I finished showering and went to dry my hair and dress again, more movement caught my eye, just under the hinge of the door to the outside. A lizard? No, this time, a small, rock-colored toad who made a little obliging hop to let me know exactly where it was. My exit from the shower could be described best as a panicked run. I frightened Lartha with my quick entrance into the kitchen. She was carefully putting dishes from the dish rack back on the table.
“Kyaa hua?” She asked me, concerned. (What happened?)
Embarrassed, I laughed at myself. “Kuch nahii,” I replied. (Nothing).
Returning to my room, what should I see but a small lizard, happily situated on my pillow. It couldn’t be bigger than my thumb. This time, I stayed calm. I walked back out to the kitchen and retrieved a small metal container, which I used to trap the lizard against the wall and take it outside. I was proud of myself. This is a feat I would not have been able to accomplish 3 years ago (and if you were with me in India then, you know this to be true!)
Outside, as I turned around, I saw a forehead-sized brown moth with a giant wingspan resting just below the switch to turn the outside light on. I considered, for a moment, getting a newspaper to swat at it, but the prospect of missing and contending with its unpredictable flight pattern after such an attack stopped me.
This is a mere sampling. Throughout the day, we must contend with any or all of the following:
More lizards, large and small
Beetles just larger than an American quarter
Any number of mosquitoes
Chameleon sized lizards which climb the tree just outside our house
Giant, black faced monkeys which climb the roof of the school
Stray dogs
Goats
Hens or crowing roosters
Donkeys
And, of course, errant cows.
At least the plate-sized spiders are only in the mountains of Mussoorie. I hope.
Best,
Cat
Friday, June 13, 2008
The Ladies' Staff Room
Dear dedicated reader,
Being a teacher means something very different here than in the USA.
I have to be on my guard. I cannot be caught doing anything improper or informal here. Already I am unusual; I sit on the porch and read my book when the students come out to the courtyard for any of their three recesses during the day (if only the Boston Public Schools could take note!). The other teachers stay hidden in the forbidding Ladies’ Staff Room.
The Staff Room was, until yesterday, uncharted territory for me. After each class, Jagrutiben, the local Gujarati teacher who assists the students with understanding me in my classes, would say to me in her shy, spoken English. “Okay, I go to Ladies staff room. Meet you next class?” Every time she would say so, I’d feel a twinge of guilt. Until my visit yesterday, I had not met any of the other lady teachers except the principal’s daughter-in-law, Sejalben who is another English teacher and has been very kind and helpful.
Instead, I preferred to stay in the house, feeling shy, like the students in my 9A class about their spoken English. But the house had begun losing it’s charm and I knew that if I didn’t make a move towards the staff room soon it would come off as elitist.
I tried not to get too worked up as we walked through the open air halls of the school. Both staff rooms are on the second floor: one for men and one for women. We climbed the stairs and entered the corridor where the staff room is located.
The first time we walked by, I glanced in, just to make sure it was the right room. I saw some teachers looking back at me. Yup, right room. I kept walking, intimidated. Priya said to me, confused, “Uh, we just missed it.”
With a deep breath, I said, “I know…”
On the second pass, we both lost our nerve. It wasn’t too late to go back to the house… We looked at each other and giggled. This time, we would do it.
On the third pass, we stopped and stepped inside. Mission accomplished.
But, now what to do? I looked around. Lots of empty seats, but assorted things sat on the table in front of each: chalk, grading books, newspapers. I could feel the four or five ladies sitting in the staff room, looking formidable in their brightly colored saris, eyeing me over the tops of their Gujarati newspapers. We took a seat on a small bench in the corner, away from the main table where most of the teachers sat.
I looked around the room uneasily. We really hadn’t planned this far in advance. What to do but just sit here? Priya and I looked at each other; I riffled through my planner where my lesson notes were, pretending to review them.
After a few awkward minutes, one of the teachers said to Priya in Gujarati, “You speak Gujarati?” She motioned for us to come sit at the main table. We took two of the empty chairs. The teachers whose things were left on the table must have been in class.
She asked Priya where she was from, whether her family was from India, what she does in the United States: the usual battery of questions. Like most people, she did not look at me while she was talking. When people don’t think I speak the language, I don’t exist.
I asked her which subjects she teaches in my broken Hindi.
“You speak some Hindi?” she replied.
“A little,” I offered up.
“Well, I teach Hindi.” She replied. She proceeded to introduce the other teachers in a quick Hindi I had a hard time following. I got the teachers’ names, but not their subjects. I did, however, note the English teacher sitting next to her whose name was Mayori.
“What are you doing with the students?” She asked me in English.
I wanted to say, “I wish I knew!” but refrained as I knew that would hardly be appropriate. “Mostly grammar exercises, and spoken English, for now,” I said. She looked satisfied.
“You are teaching the curriculum now?” I asked. Every standard (grade) has a curriculum that we must cover as the teachers. I have not been doing the curriculum so far because I was not sure how to approach teaching the book. When she explained that she was teaching the curriculum, I jumped at my chance.
“May I come see your class, if it is all right with you?” I asked. She said of course, and invited me to her sixth period 12th standard class. I was so relieved. I had been trying to observe a class by asking the principal and his daughter in law for days. They always said of course and that we would talk about it tomorrow. And then, mysteriously, were nowhere to be found.
“What do you do in the USA?” A teacher from across the room asked me, in English.
“I am a teacher,” I said, smiling.
“A teacher. Hm. And how much do teachers make in the US?” She said.
I was a little taken aback. “You mean, what is my salary?”
The other teachers who understood English chimed in. “Do you get paid every month?”
“Every two weeks,” I replied, confused. Why would they care about the frequency of my pay?
But the teacher across the room was not satisfied. “How much is it?”
I tried again, “In America, teachers do not make so much money.”
“But how much?” She insisted.
I cringed. “Twenty three thousand dollars,” I said. There was murmuring all around the room. I tried to qualify this, “But, it’s not very much in the USA because it is so expensive to live…” Too late. They were chattering away in Gujarati now and neither Priya or myself could understand.
When the bell rang and it was time to go to my next class, the Hindi teacher said to Priya, “You should come back here, so that we can get to know you both.”
How excruciating. I mean, of course.
Best,
Cat
Being a teacher means something very different here than in the USA.
I have to be on my guard. I cannot be caught doing anything improper or informal here. Already I am unusual; I sit on the porch and read my book when the students come out to the courtyard for any of their three recesses during the day (if only the Boston Public Schools could take note!). The other teachers stay hidden in the forbidding Ladies’ Staff Room.
The Staff Room was, until yesterday, uncharted territory for me. After each class, Jagrutiben, the local Gujarati teacher who assists the students with understanding me in my classes, would say to me in her shy, spoken English. “Okay, I go to Ladies staff room. Meet you next class?” Every time she would say so, I’d feel a twinge of guilt. Until my visit yesterday, I had not met any of the other lady teachers except the principal’s daughter-in-law, Sejalben who is another English teacher and has been very kind and helpful.
Instead, I preferred to stay in the house, feeling shy, like the students in my 9A class about their spoken English. But the house had begun losing it’s charm and I knew that if I didn’t make a move towards the staff room soon it would come off as elitist.
I tried not to get too worked up as we walked through the open air halls of the school. Both staff rooms are on the second floor: one for men and one for women. We climbed the stairs and entered the corridor where the staff room is located.
The first time we walked by, I glanced in, just to make sure it was the right room. I saw some teachers looking back at me. Yup, right room. I kept walking, intimidated. Priya said to me, confused, “Uh, we just missed it.”
With a deep breath, I said, “I know…”
On the second pass, we both lost our nerve. It wasn’t too late to go back to the house… We looked at each other and giggled. This time, we would do it.
On the third pass, we stopped and stepped inside. Mission accomplished.
But, now what to do? I looked around. Lots of empty seats, but assorted things sat on the table in front of each: chalk, grading books, newspapers. I could feel the four or five ladies sitting in the staff room, looking formidable in their brightly colored saris, eyeing me over the tops of their Gujarati newspapers. We took a seat on a small bench in the corner, away from the main table where most of the teachers sat.
I looked around the room uneasily. We really hadn’t planned this far in advance. What to do but just sit here? Priya and I looked at each other; I riffled through my planner where my lesson notes were, pretending to review them.
After a few awkward minutes, one of the teachers said to Priya in Gujarati, “You speak Gujarati?” She motioned for us to come sit at the main table. We took two of the empty chairs. The teachers whose things were left on the table must have been in class.
She asked Priya where she was from, whether her family was from India, what she does in the United States: the usual battery of questions. Like most people, she did not look at me while she was talking. When people don’t think I speak the language, I don’t exist.
I asked her which subjects she teaches in my broken Hindi.
“You speak some Hindi?” she replied.
“A little,” I offered up.
“Well, I teach Hindi.” She replied. She proceeded to introduce the other teachers in a quick Hindi I had a hard time following. I got the teachers’ names, but not their subjects. I did, however, note the English teacher sitting next to her whose name was Mayori.
“What are you doing with the students?” She asked me in English.
I wanted to say, “I wish I knew!” but refrained as I knew that would hardly be appropriate. “Mostly grammar exercises, and spoken English, for now,” I said. She looked satisfied.
“You are teaching the curriculum now?” I asked. Every standard (grade) has a curriculum that we must cover as the teachers. I have not been doing the curriculum so far because I was not sure how to approach teaching the book. When she explained that she was teaching the curriculum, I jumped at my chance.
“May I come see your class, if it is all right with you?” I asked. She said of course, and invited me to her sixth period 12th standard class. I was so relieved. I had been trying to observe a class by asking the principal and his daughter in law for days. They always said of course and that we would talk about it tomorrow. And then, mysteriously, were nowhere to be found.
“What do you do in the USA?” A teacher from across the room asked me, in English.
“I am a teacher,” I said, smiling.
“A teacher. Hm. And how much do teachers make in the US?” She said.
I was a little taken aback. “You mean, what is my salary?”
The other teachers who understood English chimed in. “Do you get paid every month?”
“Every two weeks,” I replied, confused. Why would they care about the frequency of my pay?
But the teacher across the room was not satisfied. “How much is it?”
I tried again, “In America, teachers do not make so much money.”
“But how much?” She insisted.
I cringed. “Twenty three thousand dollars,” I said. There was murmuring all around the room. I tried to qualify this, “But, it’s not very much in the USA because it is so expensive to live…” Too late. They were chattering away in Gujarati now and neither Priya or myself could understand.
When the bell rang and it was time to go to my next class, the Hindi teacher said to Priya, “You should come back here, so that we can get to know you both.”
How excruciating. I mean, of course.
Best,
Cat
Thursday, June 12, 2008
Visiting the bazaar
Dear dedicated reader,
While assessing the end of the year while I was working for Citizen Schools, my supervisor had us write down a moment when we were knew we were in the right place. Today, I had that moment here in Kadod.
Priya and I decided after a long day at school that we would venture out into the bazaar, as we were both missing a few things that we needed: I needed shower chappals (sandals) and an umbrella, she needed a soapdish, and we both wanted glucose biscuits to take with our morning chai. Simple enough, but memories of my excursions for even the most mundane item in Delhi haunted me as I remembered not only the persistent stares, but also the unfriendliness of most of the people I came into contact with in this context. I had been avoiding trying to buy anything. I knew it had to end sometime and so I gritted my teeth and out we went.
As we exited the gates of the school, the trash in the area just outside showed the remains of the bustling Sunday sabzi (vegetable) bazaar. Goats were grazing on the remains of what was left: paan and Parle-G wrappers, rotting vegetables and assorted other refuse. A rooster strutted about, crowing over its hens (it had been loudly crowing during my mid-afternoon class as well, just outside the window). Donkeys brayed at the far end, tethered to close to a chai-walla (tea-man). Some boys dressed in assorted western clothing played cricket while bantering to each other in Gujarati.
We made our way through this area and onto the road where shops lined the streets. We walked, not sure of where to stop until we saw some glucose biscuits displayed on a shelf, hidden behind packets of mints hanging down from the overhanging roof the of the shop. We ducked under the mint packets and Priya spoke to the shopkeeper about the crackers and the possibility of obtaining the soap dish in Hindi. When this transaction was done as we were waiting to pay, he indicated me with a waggle of his head and asked her in Hindi, “Angraizi hai?” (Is she English?)
“Nahii,” Priya replied in Hindi, “We’re from USA.”
“Ah,” He said, shaking his head. We explained, I in broken Hindi, Priya in a slightly more fluent version, that she would be here for 10 weeks and I for a year. He warmly smiled and told us we were welcome in the town.
As we made our way along, we stopped in a couple of stores, once to enjoy a Limca out of a glass bottle on the roadside, another to buy the shower chappals. It was a fruitful afternoon and everywhere we went, people were similarly friendly, welcoming us to the town and inviting us to return to their stores. It was entirely different than anything I had ever experienced in Delhi.
When we stopped on to make an international phone call from a roadside P.C.O./S.T.D. booth, I sat outside on the bench provided, looking peacefully into the street until I saw two girls looking back at me from the house across. I smiled. They smiled back. I motioned for them to come over. It turns out they were students at the school, in standard 7 and standard 8. They seemed disappointed to learn that the Americans were teaching only higher secondary division and 9th standard. Priya made friends with them when it was my turn to use the phone booth.
As we walked back, I finally felt like it had been a very good decision to come here. This is a very different place than Delhi, as I’m slowly learning, and I think it’s the better for it. Despite some inconveniences, it feels healthy adjusting to the slow pace of time here, which moves like water, dripping from a faucet, trying to fill a very large bucket. One day feels like five; one minute feels like ten. The only time this is not true is when I am teaching, course. There, like in America, there never seems to be enough time.
Best,
Cat
While assessing the end of the year while I was working for Citizen Schools, my supervisor had us write down a moment when we were knew we were in the right place. Today, I had that moment here in Kadod.
Priya and I decided after a long day at school that we would venture out into the bazaar, as we were both missing a few things that we needed: I needed shower chappals (sandals) and an umbrella, she needed a soapdish, and we both wanted glucose biscuits to take with our morning chai. Simple enough, but memories of my excursions for even the most mundane item in Delhi haunted me as I remembered not only the persistent stares, but also the unfriendliness of most of the people I came into contact with in this context. I had been avoiding trying to buy anything. I knew it had to end sometime and so I gritted my teeth and out we went.
As we exited the gates of the school, the trash in the area just outside showed the remains of the bustling Sunday sabzi (vegetable) bazaar. Goats were grazing on the remains of what was left: paan and Parle-G wrappers, rotting vegetables and assorted other refuse. A rooster strutted about, crowing over its hens (it had been loudly crowing during my mid-afternoon class as well, just outside the window). Donkeys brayed at the far end, tethered to close to a chai-walla (tea-man). Some boys dressed in assorted western clothing played cricket while bantering to each other in Gujarati.
We made our way through this area and onto the road where shops lined the streets. We walked, not sure of where to stop until we saw some glucose biscuits displayed on a shelf, hidden behind packets of mints hanging down from the overhanging roof the of the shop. We ducked under the mint packets and Priya spoke to the shopkeeper about the crackers and the possibility of obtaining the soap dish in Hindi. When this transaction was done as we were waiting to pay, he indicated me with a waggle of his head and asked her in Hindi, “Angraizi hai?” (Is she English?)
“Nahii,” Priya replied in Hindi, “We’re from USA.”
“Ah,” He said, shaking his head. We explained, I in broken Hindi, Priya in a slightly more fluent version, that she would be here for 10 weeks and I for a year. He warmly smiled and told us we were welcome in the town.
As we made our way along, we stopped in a couple of stores, once to enjoy a Limca out of a glass bottle on the roadside, another to buy the shower chappals. It was a fruitful afternoon and everywhere we went, people were similarly friendly, welcoming us to the town and inviting us to return to their stores. It was entirely different than anything I had ever experienced in Delhi.
When we stopped on to make an international phone call from a roadside P.C.O./S.T.D. booth, I sat outside on the bench provided, looking peacefully into the street until I saw two girls looking back at me from the house across. I smiled. They smiled back. I motioned for them to come over. It turns out they were students at the school, in standard 7 and standard 8. They seemed disappointed to learn that the Americans were teaching only higher secondary division and 9th standard. Priya made friends with them when it was my turn to use the phone booth.
As we walked back, I finally felt like it had been a very good decision to come here. This is a very different place than Delhi, as I’m slowly learning, and I think it’s the better for it. Despite some inconveniences, it feels healthy adjusting to the slow pace of time here, which moves like water, dripping from a faucet, trying to fill a very large bucket. One day feels like five; one minute feels like ten. The only time this is not true is when I am teaching, course. There, like in America, there never seems to be enough time.
Best,
Cat
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
My First Day of School
Dear dedicated reader,
Today I took my first class at the school.
All day, I paced the guesthouse, anxiously waiting for 5th period to come when I was to take the 9C section. I am taking Melissa’s classes this week until she comes, teaching all four 9th standard sections, 60 students each. Periodically throughout the day, the two computer teachers who look to be about our age, Dhirinbhai and Nitinburanbhai, came by to set up our internet and to check on us. When it finally came time to take my first class, Dhirinbhai came by with an umbrella to usher Priya and myself to the 9C room.
In India, the students do not change classrooms; the teachers do. So, when I walked in, all of the students were already sitting there, crammed into their desks. I was surprised; it was a co-ed class, with girls in neat blue tunics and white shirts on one side, and boys in khaki pants and white button downs on the other. They sat 3 or 4 to a bench, looking squished and curious. They all stood as I entered, which is customary. I put down my lesson plan on the table provided and my portable radioshack clock so I could time my activities.
“Good afternoon,” I said to them loudly. They looked at me, confused, still standing. I motioned for them to sit.
Dhirinbhai jumped in. He explained quickly in Gujarati, “This is Ms. Cat and Ms. Priya. They are here from US to teach you.” Then, he left.
Sixty faces looked up at me expectantly.
“Please repeat,” I insisted. “Good afternoon.”
“Good afternoon,” was repeated in a mixed, half-hearted chorus of voices. I looked over the students. They seemed so young. Some were as small as the smallest sixth graders I had taught at the Gavin.
“How, uh, old are you?” I asked.
“15,” the chorus replied. Unbelievable, I thought to myself. There was a lot of random giggling as the students continued to eye me, sizing me up.
I introduced myself as Miss Biddle. I made them repeat this a number of times, which led to more giggling. When I went to write this on the board, I turned to see it covered in Gujarati script, but with no eraser and no chalk. I cringed. My whole lesson had been based around having these two items.
Priya saw me falter and quickly went out in the hall to see if Dhirinbhai could get these items.
When she returned, Principal Mahida was with her. The students immediately JUMPED to their feet and a loud chorus of “Good afternoon, Mahidasir,” could be heard.
He addressed them sternly in Gujarati for 2 or 3 minutes. I stood by, shifting my weight, hoping the students couldn’t see that I had no absolutely no idea what he was saying. He turned to me after he finished and explained that he had told them that they were very fortunate to have teacher from America here to teach them and that they should be very good and cause no problems and learn English well. I have a feeling there were two or three threats thrown in there that he did not translate for me.
After he left, I was again faced with sixty expectant faces. What to do?
I started to explain that if they want to ask a question, they need only raise their hand. They looked at me blankly, some said “yes ma’am.” I started in again uneasily, explaining that if they did not understand, they could ask me to repeat. More stares.
Finally, I said in Hindi, “You all speak Hindi?”
There were many smiles and a resounding chorus of “Ha-ji” (yes, miss).
I laughed. “All right,” I said in Hindi, “I have been told by Mahidasir that this is the smartest class. I don’t speak Gujarati and only a little Hindi, so in my class, only English will be spoken. Understand?”
They nodded. I added, in English, “You will learn better that way.”
I erased the board and proceeded to set up the activity that I had planned. I made a list of question words, a list of verbs and a list of nouns (such as father, mother, brother, sister, India, USA, movie). I explained that I wanted the students to take words from each list and make questions to ask me and Ms. Priya. I had Ms. Priya do an example. The students looked at me uneasily.
I waited. There were some mutters as the students read through the list to themselves or to their neighbor. The silence paid off. The smallest boy in the class, sitting in the front row, raised his hand. I signaled that he should stand.
“Whatisyourfather?” He said quickly and sat back down. I tried not to let my confusion show on my face.
“You mean, what job does my father have?” I asked him.
He looked embarrassed. Oh no, I thought. I’ve just ruined any chance that anyone will want to participate. I quickly continued. “My father is a lawyer.” I said. Then in Hindi, I asked “You understand?”
There were nods and murmurs of “wakil” which is Hindi for lawyer. “Exactly,” I said. I looked at the small boy. “Very good, thank you.” This, apparently, was funny, because there were again scattered giggles.
I waited again. This time a girl raised her hand. She asked me another question, where in the USA we were from. I drew a picture on the board to show them where Nebraska and Philadelphia are.
I waited again. Slowly, some more questions. One boy at the back asked me, “What ees your favorite mowie?”
“Well,” I said thoughtfully, “I like Indian movies. I think, Kabhi Kushi Kabhi Gham.” This made the room erupt in hysterical laughter as they contemplated my watching an Indian film.
The students liked talking about favorites, and so I wrote “My favorite _____ is ______” on the board. They were too fond of giving one word answers, so I hoped to make them speak in complete sentences.
I wrote “animal” on the board, and all of a sudden, the room was filled with the sound of different animal names in English. Lots of the students wanted to participate in naming different animals. My personal favorite was the student who got up and said, “My favorite animal is a Peeeeg.” At first, I could not understand what he was saying until another student shouted at me, “PEEEEEEEG!”
“Oh, Pig!” I said, chuckling. My American pronunciation, I had been told, would be my downfall.
By the time the class was over, we had talked about favorite subjects, favorite colors, favorite movies, favorite actors and actresses. The bell rang and the students jumped to their feet. I was startled and didn’t know exactly what to do.
“I guess I leave now,” I said, unsure.
“Yes,” they said, smiling.
“Okay. See you tomorrow,” I said casually, gathering my things. “Uh, bye.” Not the most powerful of exits.
Outside, I had to take a deep breath. Only two more classes to go for the day. And 52 more weeks in the year.
Best,
Cat
Today I took my first class at the school.
All day, I paced the guesthouse, anxiously waiting for 5th period to come when I was to take the 9C section. I am taking Melissa’s classes this week until she comes, teaching all four 9th standard sections, 60 students each. Periodically throughout the day, the two computer teachers who look to be about our age, Dhirinbhai and Nitinburanbhai, came by to set up our internet and to check on us. When it finally came time to take my first class, Dhirinbhai came by with an umbrella to usher Priya and myself to the 9C room.
In India, the students do not change classrooms; the teachers do. So, when I walked in, all of the students were already sitting there, crammed into their desks. I was surprised; it was a co-ed class, with girls in neat blue tunics and white shirts on one side, and boys in khaki pants and white button downs on the other. They sat 3 or 4 to a bench, looking squished and curious. They all stood as I entered, which is customary. I put down my lesson plan on the table provided and my portable radioshack clock so I could time my activities.
“Good afternoon,” I said to them loudly. They looked at me, confused, still standing. I motioned for them to sit.
Dhirinbhai jumped in. He explained quickly in Gujarati, “This is Ms. Cat and Ms. Priya. They are here from US to teach you.” Then, he left.
Sixty faces looked up at me expectantly.
“Please repeat,” I insisted. “Good afternoon.”
“Good afternoon,” was repeated in a mixed, half-hearted chorus of voices. I looked over the students. They seemed so young. Some were as small as the smallest sixth graders I had taught at the Gavin.
“How, uh, old are you?” I asked.
“15,” the chorus replied. Unbelievable, I thought to myself. There was a lot of random giggling as the students continued to eye me, sizing me up.
I introduced myself as Miss Biddle. I made them repeat this a number of times, which led to more giggling. When I went to write this on the board, I turned to see it covered in Gujarati script, but with no eraser and no chalk. I cringed. My whole lesson had been based around having these two items.
Priya saw me falter and quickly went out in the hall to see if Dhirinbhai could get these items.
When she returned, Principal Mahida was with her. The students immediately JUMPED to their feet and a loud chorus of “Good afternoon, Mahidasir,” could be heard.
He addressed them sternly in Gujarati for 2 or 3 minutes. I stood by, shifting my weight, hoping the students couldn’t see that I had no absolutely no idea what he was saying. He turned to me after he finished and explained that he had told them that they were very fortunate to have teacher from America here to teach them and that they should be very good and cause no problems and learn English well. I have a feeling there were two or three threats thrown in there that he did not translate for me.
After he left, I was again faced with sixty expectant faces. What to do?
I started to explain that if they want to ask a question, they need only raise their hand. They looked at me blankly, some said “yes ma’am.” I started in again uneasily, explaining that if they did not understand, they could ask me to repeat. More stares.
Finally, I said in Hindi, “You all speak Hindi?”
There were many smiles and a resounding chorus of “Ha-ji” (yes, miss).
I laughed. “All right,” I said in Hindi, “I have been told by Mahidasir that this is the smartest class. I don’t speak Gujarati and only a little Hindi, so in my class, only English will be spoken. Understand?”
They nodded. I added, in English, “You will learn better that way.”
I erased the board and proceeded to set up the activity that I had planned. I made a list of question words, a list of verbs and a list of nouns (such as father, mother, brother, sister, India, USA, movie). I explained that I wanted the students to take words from each list and make questions to ask me and Ms. Priya. I had Ms. Priya do an example. The students looked at me uneasily.
I waited. There were some mutters as the students read through the list to themselves or to their neighbor. The silence paid off. The smallest boy in the class, sitting in the front row, raised his hand. I signaled that he should stand.
“Whatisyourfather?” He said quickly and sat back down. I tried not to let my confusion show on my face.
“You mean, what job does my father have?” I asked him.
He looked embarrassed. Oh no, I thought. I’ve just ruined any chance that anyone will want to participate. I quickly continued. “My father is a lawyer.” I said. Then in Hindi, I asked “You understand?”
There were nods and murmurs of “wakil” which is Hindi for lawyer. “Exactly,” I said. I looked at the small boy. “Very good, thank you.” This, apparently, was funny, because there were again scattered giggles.
I waited again. This time a girl raised her hand. She asked me another question, where in the USA we were from. I drew a picture on the board to show them where Nebraska and Philadelphia are.
I waited again. Slowly, some more questions. One boy at the back asked me, “What ees your favorite mowie?”
“Well,” I said thoughtfully, “I like Indian movies. I think, Kabhi Kushi Kabhi Gham.” This made the room erupt in hysterical laughter as they contemplated my watching an Indian film.
The students liked talking about favorites, and so I wrote “My favorite _____ is ______” on the board. They were too fond of giving one word answers, so I hoped to make them speak in complete sentences.
I wrote “animal” on the board, and all of a sudden, the room was filled with the sound of different animal names in English. Lots of the students wanted to participate in naming different animals. My personal favorite was the student who got up and said, “My favorite animal is a Peeeeg.” At first, I could not understand what he was saying until another student shouted at me, “PEEEEEEEG!”
“Oh, Pig!” I said, chuckling. My American pronunciation, I had been told, would be my downfall.
By the time the class was over, we had talked about favorite subjects, favorite colors, favorite movies, favorite actors and actresses. The bell rang and the students jumped to their feet. I was startled and didn’t know exactly what to do.
“I guess I leave now,” I said, unsure.
“Yes,” they said, smiling.
“Okay. See you tomorrow,” I said casually, gathering my things. “Uh, bye.” Not the most powerful of exits.
Outside, I had to take a deep breath. Only two more classes to go for the day. And 52 more weeks in the year.
Best,
Cat
Monday, June 9, 2008
Arriving in Kadod
Dear dedicated reader,
The last few days have been full of a familiar strangeness that I just can’t seem to shake.
Looking down on Mumbai from the night sky and seeing the lights of the city from my window seat on the plane, I couldn’t help but think that from above, at night, it looked like any other city. I could be landing anywhere in the US.
Coming out of the airport into the pouring monsoon rain with literally hundreds of people around me, though, was enough to know I was India. I was squinting to see if I could locate the person I’d been told would meet me. Sure enough, I saw a sign for “Ms. Cat from Newark Flight 0034” typed and printed neatly. The man holding the sign smiled at me and signaled for me to come meet him around the edge of the barrier separating hundreds of relatives, taxi drivers and porters from those arriving.
Raj’s uncle, Jagdish, could not have been nicer to me. The car ride to his house was pleasant – I was exhausted and therefore didn’t say much. As I looked out the window, I was reminded of how I’d been told that I’d remember the smell of India before I really realized I was there. It was completely true.
When we arrived at the house at 1 am, I was told that I should be up at 5 am because I’d be taking the 7 am train to Surat, where I would meet Priya, one of the summer interns, who was getting on the train at Bombay Central.
The feeling of familiar strangeness persisted as I woke up and went to take my first shower in India. The many knobs, buckets, small water canisters and shower curtain over the toilet instead of the shower actually made me laugh, despite my blurry eyed state. I knew I knew how to use this, but remembering was like cleaning the rust off of my bike.
This feeling followed me as we arrived at the train station and Jagdish began arguing with one of the familiarly dressed in red porters that immediately swooped in to carry my luggage, loading my large suitcase onto the crown of his head and then adding atop it my small one. As I walked through the station to the appropriate platform, that feeling of conspicuous whiteness suddenly returned to me. I hadn’t felt it since I’d been in India last. Even if no one speaks to me, I know I am a curiosity.
When we arrived at Surat after a pleasantly air-conditioned train ride, I was an inconvenience to just about everyone around me as I reached over a well dressed Muslim family to get my bags down from the very high luggage rack. Immediately after getting down on to the platform, we were found by the two men who’d come to meet us to take us to Kadod. “You are Kate??” They said, anxiously. “Where is Priya?” They were not the only ones to find me. Spotting me practically from across the platform, some small children came to ask me for bakshish, following us all the way to the car until one of the men sent to meet us shooed them away.
During the car ride to Kadod, one of the men in the front introduced himself as “Mr. Gamit”. “My first name is too difficult to pronounce,” he declared, “So you will call me Mr. Gamit.” He was an older gentlemen who, he explained to us proudly, was due to retire from his position at the school teaching English in October. I asked him a few questions about the school, to which I received rambling only semi-relevant replies. My accent must be very difficult to understand, or I worry for the English program at the high school.
On the ride, we passed through Bardoli, a town about 15 km from Kadod. I was informed that located there is the biggest sugar factory in Asia. If anyone were to come visit, they would probably stay in Bardoli. It looked very pleasant and I’ll be excited to visit there on the weekends.
Arriving in Kadod, we were ushered ceremonially into our guesthouse inside the gates of the high school. Mr. Gamit showed us our sitting room, our lovely dining room and lastly our bedroom. I couldn’t help but notice that there were only three beds in the house. I took note as a question for later. We were instructed on how to use the fans and lights, and then also shown where we could find the shower and toilet, which are attached to the house, but accessible only by going outside the backdoor and entering from that way. We were told that the principal would be by to see us later, but currently he was away on important business in Bardoli.
We were also introduced to the maid/cook, Lartha, who again took us through the house, showing us our three rooms, this time explaining to Priya in Gujarati what the purpose of the rooms was. On learning that Priya does not, in fact, speak Gujarati, she switched to a mix of Gujarati and Hindi that I had a hard time understanding. She is very friendly and also remarkably beautiful, as Priya and I have commented to each other again and again over the past few days.
Mr. Gamit came to ask us if we wanted a tour of the school, which we agreed to. We got as far as the main office, the principal’s office, and the gents staff room before we were waylaid by another older gentlemen, an English and History teacher at the school, who took us back to our guesthouse and insisted on showing us our accommodations, carefully explaining where we were to sit (the sitting room), where we were to dine (the dining room) and where we were to put our personal things (the bedroom). Any questions, we were instructed, were to be put to Vikram, a boy who came with us who I guess works for the school.
After Mr. Gamit and friend took leave of us, Vikram felt it was very important to show us once more each of the rooms in our house. His tour did have some value add, as he speaks very good Hindi and he showed us how to get into the almari/wardrobe and gave us the keys to do so.
Later, as we were sitting on the porch reading, the principal came by. When he first came up the steps of the house, he introduced himself in such an unassuming way that it took my brain a moment to register who exactly he was saying he was. He took us inside our house and it was all Priya and I could do not to laugh as he began to explain that this was our sitting room and we could sit here and enjoy ourselves, etc. He took us through the whole house, making sure that the accommodations were adequate.
By 4 in the afternoon, Priya and I were completely worn out. We had made a few discoveries, such as the internet would not be working until at least Tuesday, that our cell phones were not ready and would not be for at least a week, and that the phone lines were down and that I could not call the US until tomorrow. I fell asleep at 4 pm, not to wake up until the next day.
I would write about all of our adventures on Sunday, as there were many, but this letter in itself is already of overwhelming length, so I will save those accounts for another, dear reader.
Best,
Cat
The last few days have been full of a familiar strangeness that I just can’t seem to shake.
Looking down on Mumbai from the night sky and seeing the lights of the city from my window seat on the plane, I couldn’t help but think that from above, at night, it looked like any other city. I could be landing anywhere in the US.
Coming out of the airport into the pouring monsoon rain with literally hundreds of people around me, though, was enough to know I was India. I was squinting to see if I could locate the person I’d been told would meet me. Sure enough, I saw a sign for “Ms. Cat from Newark Flight 0034” typed and printed neatly. The man holding the sign smiled at me and signaled for me to come meet him around the edge of the barrier separating hundreds of relatives, taxi drivers and porters from those arriving.
Raj’s uncle, Jagdish, could not have been nicer to me. The car ride to his house was pleasant – I was exhausted and therefore didn’t say much. As I looked out the window, I was reminded of how I’d been told that I’d remember the smell of India before I really realized I was there. It was completely true.
When we arrived at the house at 1 am, I was told that I should be up at 5 am because I’d be taking the 7 am train to Surat, where I would meet Priya, one of the summer interns, who was getting on the train at Bombay Central.
The feeling of familiar strangeness persisted as I woke up and went to take my first shower in India. The many knobs, buckets, small water canisters and shower curtain over the toilet instead of the shower actually made me laugh, despite my blurry eyed state. I knew I knew how to use this, but remembering was like cleaning the rust off of my bike.
This feeling followed me as we arrived at the train station and Jagdish began arguing with one of the familiarly dressed in red porters that immediately swooped in to carry my luggage, loading my large suitcase onto the crown of his head and then adding atop it my small one. As I walked through the station to the appropriate platform, that feeling of conspicuous whiteness suddenly returned to me. I hadn’t felt it since I’d been in India last. Even if no one speaks to me, I know I am a curiosity.
When we arrived at Surat after a pleasantly air-conditioned train ride, I was an inconvenience to just about everyone around me as I reached over a well dressed Muslim family to get my bags down from the very high luggage rack. Immediately after getting down on to the platform, we were found by the two men who’d come to meet us to take us to Kadod. “You are Kate??” They said, anxiously. “Where is Priya?” They were not the only ones to find me. Spotting me practically from across the platform, some small children came to ask me for bakshish, following us all the way to the car until one of the men sent to meet us shooed them away.
During the car ride to Kadod, one of the men in the front introduced himself as “Mr. Gamit”. “My first name is too difficult to pronounce,” he declared, “So you will call me Mr. Gamit.” He was an older gentlemen who, he explained to us proudly, was due to retire from his position at the school teaching English in October. I asked him a few questions about the school, to which I received rambling only semi-relevant replies. My accent must be very difficult to understand, or I worry for the English program at the high school.
On the ride, we passed through Bardoli, a town about 15 km from Kadod. I was informed that located there is the biggest sugar factory in Asia. If anyone were to come visit, they would probably stay in Bardoli. It looked very pleasant and I’ll be excited to visit there on the weekends.
Arriving in Kadod, we were ushered ceremonially into our guesthouse inside the gates of the high school. Mr. Gamit showed us our sitting room, our lovely dining room and lastly our bedroom. I couldn’t help but notice that there were only three beds in the house. I took note as a question for later. We were instructed on how to use the fans and lights, and then also shown where we could find the shower and toilet, which are attached to the house, but accessible only by going outside the backdoor and entering from that way. We were told that the principal would be by to see us later, but currently he was away on important business in Bardoli.
We were also introduced to the maid/cook, Lartha, who again took us through the house, showing us our three rooms, this time explaining to Priya in Gujarati what the purpose of the rooms was. On learning that Priya does not, in fact, speak Gujarati, she switched to a mix of Gujarati and Hindi that I had a hard time understanding. She is very friendly and also remarkably beautiful, as Priya and I have commented to each other again and again over the past few days.
Mr. Gamit came to ask us if we wanted a tour of the school, which we agreed to. We got as far as the main office, the principal’s office, and the gents staff room before we were waylaid by another older gentlemen, an English and History teacher at the school, who took us back to our guesthouse and insisted on showing us our accommodations, carefully explaining where we were to sit (the sitting room), where we were to dine (the dining room) and where we were to put our personal things (the bedroom). Any questions, we were instructed, were to be put to Vikram, a boy who came with us who I guess works for the school.
After Mr. Gamit and friend took leave of us, Vikram felt it was very important to show us once more each of the rooms in our house. His tour did have some value add, as he speaks very good Hindi and he showed us how to get into the almari/wardrobe and gave us the keys to do so.
Later, as we were sitting on the porch reading, the principal came by. When he first came up the steps of the house, he introduced himself in such an unassuming way that it took my brain a moment to register who exactly he was saying he was. He took us inside our house and it was all Priya and I could do not to laugh as he began to explain that this was our sitting room and we could sit here and enjoy ourselves, etc. He took us through the whole house, making sure that the accommodations were adequate.
By 4 in the afternoon, Priya and I were completely worn out. We had made a few discoveries, such as the internet would not be working until at least Tuesday, that our cell phones were not ready and would not be for at least a week, and that the phone lines were down and that I could not call the US until tomorrow. I fell asleep at 4 pm, not to wake up until the next day.
I would write about all of our adventures on Sunday, as there were many, but this letter in itself is already of overwhelming length, so I will save those accounts for another, dear reader.
Best,
Cat
Monday, June 2, 2008
Dear Dedicated Reader
Dear Dedicated Reader,
How overzealous and wonderful that you have arrived at my blog so soon after my mass e-mail was sent! How delightful! I hope that my blog will not disappoint.
The preparations for my trip are in full force. Tomorrow morning I leave Boston, bright and early, to return to Philadelphia and see my family before jumping onto a plane on the 5th of June.
I will warn you: I am unpracticed in the art of blogging. I usually abhor it and therefore am not sure of the proper etiquette. I am, however, an accomplished letter writer when I put my mind to it and therefore these periodic posts will be in the form of letters to you, dear reader.
I look forward to our correspondence.
Best,
Cat
How overzealous and wonderful that you have arrived at my blog so soon after my mass e-mail was sent! How delightful! I hope that my blog will not disappoint.
The preparations for my trip are in full force. Tomorrow morning I leave Boston, bright and early, to return to Philadelphia and see my family before jumping onto a plane on the 5th of June.
I will warn you: I am unpracticed in the art of blogging. I usually abhor it and therefore am not sure of the proper etiquette. I am, however, an accomplished letter writer when I put my mind to it and therefore these periodic posts will be in the form of letters to you, dear reader.
I look forward to our correspondence.
Best,
Cat
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