Dear dedicated reader,
So, I have finally given into the stereotypical ‘white person searching for spiritual guidance in the east’: Today was the first day of my first Indian yoga class.
Of course, this is not your typical yoga class. It is a six day seminar that was made known to me by Sejalben that is being put on by the local temple who has brought in a special teacher from outside Kadod.
In agreeing to participate, I will admit that a few things did not occur to me: 1) That this seminar, taking place at a temple in Gujarat, would most likely be exclusively in Gujarati, and 2) that I’ve never really taken a yoga class before, save a few (lame) “gentle yoga” classes at my gym.
When the actual day of the seminar arrived, Sejalben backed out but in her place her mother in law, the principal’s wife, had decided to go.We made our way out of the school to the temple which lies just adjacent to the school. I had never been inside this particular temple, despite passing it everyday on my way to the market. Up the stone steps, she led me to a hall that lies just behind the temple sanctuary. The hall was enormous: 18 ceiling fans were needed in order to keep the place cool. Inside, I could see a raised wood platform at the front, and atop it, a plump (or, as Indians would say, ‘healthy’), happy looking woman wearing eye-shadow and a salwar kameez.
Across the floor of the hall, a gigantic tarp had been put down and atop of it sat forty or fifty middle aged Indians, both men and women, cross legged, palms resting on their knees in the expected fashion. We were a little late, and a few looked over at us as we came in. I gave them a weak, embarrassed smile.
The man in charge of taking the money showed us where to put down the sheets that the principal’s wife had brought for us. He led us to the back and my presence immediately caused the level of disruption that it causes everywhere: I couldn’t fill out the form for the class because it was written in Gujarati. Who knew there would be a form for something run by the local temple in Kadod? But as this is India, I suppose I should have suspected that there would be paperwork involved.
The daughter of the man in charge, a pretty, thin girl in a crease salwar, was assigned to help me fill out the form in Gujarati. “Will you be able to manage to understand?” She asked me in Hindi. I shook my head, but tried vainly to explain that I wasn’t overly bothered by this. It was, after all, just meant to be a new experience more than a sincere effort to learn. My response, however, did not sit well with her at all and she hurriedly went to consult with her father. Meanwhile, the instructor with eye-shadow had begun expounding on some topic in Gujarati using a microphone at the front and my distraction at the back was not making me any friends in this class.
When the daughter returned, she explained that she would be assigned to sit with me and give me the directions in English or Hindi, whatever she could manage. I felt terrible, as it looked as if had been planning to participate. I didn’t have too much time to feel bad, however, as the next thing I knew she was shouting at me, “Run!”
As I was too startled to respond, she grabbed my arm and pulled me up, while at the same time I was almost trampled by the very same middle aged Indians who had been sitting so peacefully on their sheets only a moment before: now they were jogging around the perimeter of the room in a frenzied way. I joined the throng as the instructor on the front shouted a phrase which I only later realized was, “Fire on the Mountain!” over and over, to which we were expected to shout loudly while jogging, “Run! Run! Run!” Periodically, she would stop and random women in saris would grab at my open hand shouting, “Groups! Groups!” This happened a number of times before the activity was halted and we were given our groups of ten to stay in. The purpose of this group has yet to be revealed, but we have been told very strictly that we are not to switch our groups for any reason.
After this small diversion, we returned to our mats and the instructor at the front began to expound again. I caught the Gujarati/Hindi words for “life”, “wealth”, “advantage”, “happiness”, and “peace”. I can only guess at the opportunities for eternal wisdom that I missed by not fully understanding her message.
“Stand!” I was instructed and once again pulled to my feet. I looked around confused as people, stood, stretched and left their mats. It was time for a break.
“She wants to see you,” The daughter told me, taking my hand and leading me across the hall towards the wooden platform at the front. I meekly followed.
The instructor looked me over. “You understand what is going on here?” She asked me.
I thought it best to be honest. “Er, not really.” I replied with an embarrassed shrug.
She gave me the briefest of overviews of what she had said in English. “We must not look for reasons to be happy, we must be happy just because. Opposites are complementary. You see?”
I nodded, afraid to do anything else.
She had given us 3 places to put our hands for breathing exercises in her lecture and those I had absorbed through watching other people, so according to her I was now all caught up. “You shall sit here,” she indicated the space directly in front of the wooden platform, “so that I can help you.” I started to protest: if she moved me I would no longer be able to see what anyone else was doing and mimic them, but she cut me off by saying “And now it is time for you to visit the urinal.”
“Excuse me?” I said, not sure I had heard her correctly.
“This break is compulsory, you see,” she said. “You must use the toilet so you have no physical discomfort. Drink some water, also.”
The principal’s wife and I walked back to the house. When we returned from the ‘compulsory break’ and re-entered the hall, I saw that my sheet had been moved to the front and center space of the front row. We were, again, a little late and so I had to walk across the hall with all eyes on me and take my place directly in front of the instructor. I shifted uncomfortably, unable to find a good position for my legs after sitting for so long on the hard floor.
We were told to do three different kinds of breaths. As the instructor said the syllable “So” we were to breath in, and as she said “Hum” we were to breath out, forcefully. At first, the sensation of focusing on my breathing was pleasurable. The intervals of her voice saying “So” and “Hum” alternately made me feel fresh and my head feel clear as I breathed deeply. Unbeknownst to me, she slowly increased her speed and before I knew it, my breaths were simulating hyperventilation as she let out a steady stream of “Sohumsohumsohumsohumsohum-“
Finally, mercy came. “So” she said slowly. She paused. “Hum” she said, slowly. I gasped for air, light headed.
This pattern of slowing down and speeding up continued for an undetermined period of time. To me, it felt like it would never end. My legs hurt, I was dizzy and the room was spinning – my body felt a little like it didn’t belong to me, like each part had been detached and reattached. I tried to slow my breathing, to breath at my own pace and not at the beck and call of these two oppressive syllables, but every time I deliberately slowed myself down, a voice would loudly say directly into my ear, “Keep breathing!” and the instructor, bent over, would breath loudly into that same ear until she could hear my breathing pick up pace again.
Finally, the madness ceased, and we were told to lie still on our sheets on our backs. I illicitly opened my eyes as I lay down and stared up at the fan circling directly overhead, free from the rhythm of “So-hum”. The instructor told the participants in Hindi that if they wanted to laugh, they should laugh and if they wanted to cry, they should cry, to let their emotions be free.
A loud, choked sob floated through the silent room. It continued, a woman’s cry, undisturbed. It came in waves, sometimes strong, sometimes whispering, but it was the distinct sound of human pain. I winced; to hear a cry like this was to want to comfort it and yet I was a captive here on my sheet, staring up at the circling ceiling fan.
The sob subsided and the silence returned. It was not long though before this was broken by a clear cackle: someone was laughing. Even I smiled at this sound. The cackle was joined by a deep, sonorous guffaw and soon small giggles and healthy has echoed around the room. My laugh was even added to this as I contemplated the ridiculousness of my even being in this situation, lying on this bug covered floor, staring up at a bird’s nest atop a circling fan, listening to the laughter of Kadod’s spiritual crowd.
The silence eventually returned and was broken by the instructor, who told us that class had finished for the day, that tomorrow’s class would be four hours instead of the three it had been today and that in the meantime we were not to have tea, not to read the newspaper, not to watch TV and not to eat after 3 o’clock.
All I could think was, only 5 more days of this experiment.
Best,
Cat
Thursday, July 31, 2008
Sunday, July 27, 2008
No desks
Dear dedicated reader,
We were sent on a mission by the Foundation to visit other area schools in the hopes of finding partners for possible expansion.
The science by which Kadod High School was picked as the flagship school for the Foundation’s work was not exact: the Founder’s father went to this school and so we are here. However, the partnership’s success has depended largely on the willingness of the school leadership to let the organization try and fail with different initiatives and the principal’s cheerful willingness to put some clueless American teachers up in his guesthouse who merely speak English as their native language and have nominal teacher training.
The principal made the arrangements for other teachers to take our classes for two or three days so we could go visit some schools. He could not come on the first day, and so he sent Dhirinbhai, our friend in the computer lab, in his place.
After loading into the back of a typical hired Indian van, we drove out into the countryside. The sugar cane fields which dominate the landscape here flew by as the car bumped up and down along the (ostensibly) paved road.
We pulled up outside the arched gateway of a large tannish colored building. Inside, I could see the students in their blue checked uniforms: collared shirts for the boys and dresses for the girls. As they opened the gate and we drove inside, the students who were free in the schoolyard for recess followed our car and when finally came to a dusty stop, pressed their faces and hands up against the glass, peering inside to see who these strange foreigners were. I try not to write in clichés if I can help it, but this was a living one.
We stepped out of the van and the students crowded around us awkwardly. They stood and looked at us intently without saying anything. I looked awkwardly back at them. Some teachers materialized out of school building and started speaking to Dhirinbhai in a Gujarati which I couldn’t follow. Students appeared behind them lugging plastic chairs which they placed next to the car for us to sit down in. We hesitated, then sat.
“Anything you want to know,” Dhirinbhai told us, “they are ready to answer.”
The teachers, still standing at attention, waited for us to ask something.
After a long, awkward silence, I hesitantly asked a question. “How many students do you have here?” I could see plainly that it wasn’t very many as all of the students who weren’t crowding around us were sitting outside of the school building in neat lines, waiting to receive their free, government sponsored mid-day meal.
Dhirin relayed this is Gujarati and the teachers told us that there were 110 students at the school. We also discovered that they had 1st through 7th grade, but only had 5 teachers since the government pays for teachers based on the number of students, not the grades of students. Since each classroom needed to have its own teacher to teach all the subjects, they have to combine grades.
“It becomes even more difficult if someone leaves,” they said through Dhirin who translated, “because then we must combine further and the work for running the school becomes more.”
“Does this happen often?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said.
We were offered a tour of the facility, which we happily accepted. The tour began with the 6th standard classroom. The most striking feature of this classroom when we walked in was that there were no desks or even benches, which is what we have at Kadod High School. The students, it seemed, sat on the floor in neat rows and used their bookbags as elevated surfaces to put their books on while the teacher taught standing at the front of the room.
There were also no lights, as the electricity had been cut, as it often is here.The classroom had blackboards on all the walls on which diagrams of different concepts had been carefully drawn, by both students and instructors, the 6th grade teacher explained. We examined a neatly drawn and labeled microscope on the far left wall, followed next by a chart explaining the atomic make up of solids, liquids and gases. These students, I felt sure, had never seen an actual microscope. Knowing that, I wasn’t sure how to feel.
We were there to scope out the English program and the possibility of collaboration with the Foundation using their model of sending American teachers; however since the school only teaches English in 5th through 7th grade and since they only have English for 35 minutes a day with the same teacher that they have their other subjects for, it didn’t seem like there was much scope for partnership. It made me wonder: what kind of partnership would work for a school like this? What do they need? More staff? Equipment? What resources would be beneficial?
Teaching in a school with only chalk and a chalkboard to a room full of 65 students, I am becoming familiar with how little you actually need to create an environment of learning. But how much is necessary for the quality of an education to be satisfactory? For example, I believe that, for an aspiring young scientist in rural India, a diagram of a microscope is not enough. Students should learn about microscopes through actually using one. But the question becomes: is it enough to have one per class? Is it enough to have one for every five students? Should every student have one? If every student had one, would they be used? What about material for slides and samples to look at under the microscopes? Should these be chosen over, say, desks, if such a choice were even a possibility? Such a binary should never exist, but if some money were to come to a school such as this, it probably would.
Forget one laptop for every child (if you are familiar with this program): What about one desk for every child? What about one teacher per class?
Best,
Cat
We were sent on a mission by the Foundation to visit other area schools in the hopes of finding partners for possible expansion.
The science by which Kadod High School was picked as the flagship school for the Foundation’s work was not exact: the Founder’s father went to this school and so we are here. However, the partnership’s success has depended largely on the willingness of the school leadership to let the organization try and fail with different initiatives and the principal’s cheerful willingness to put some clueless American teachers up in his guesthouse who merely speak English as their native language and have nominal teacher training.
The principal made the arrangements for other teachers to take our classes for two or three days so we could go visit some schools. He could not come on the first day, and so he sent Dhirinbhai, our friend in the computer lab, in his place.
After loading into the back of a typical hired Indian van, we drove out into the countryside. The sugar cane fields which dominate the landscape here flew by as the car bumped up and down along the (ostensibly) paved road.
We pulled up outside the arched gateway of a large tannish colored building. Inside, I could see the students in their blue checked uniforms: collared shirts for the boys and dresses for the girls. As they opened the gate and we drove inside, the students who were free in the schoolyard for recess followed our car and when finally came to a dusty stop, pressed their faces and hands up against the glass, peering inside to see who these strange foreigners were. I try not to write in clichés if I can help it, but this was a living one.
We stepped out of the van and the students crowded around us awkwardly. They stood and looked at us intently without saying anything. I looked awkwardly back at them. Some teachers materialized out of school building and started speaking to Dhirinbhai in a Gujarati which I couldn’t follow. Students appeared behind them lugging plastic chairs which they placed next to the car for us to sit down in. We hesitated, then sat.
“Anything you want to know,” Dhirinbhai told us, “they are ready to answer.”
The teachers, still standing at attention, waited for us to ask something.
After a long, awkward silence, I hesitantly asked a question. “How many students do you have here?” I could see plainly that it wasn’t very many as all of the students who weren’t crowding around us were sitting outside of the school building in neat lines, waiting to receive their free, government sponsored mid-day meal.
Dhirin relayed this is Gujarati and the teachers told us that there were 110 students at the school. We also discovered that they had 1st through 7th grade, but only had 5 teachers since the government pays for teachers based on the number of students, not the grades of students. Since each classroom needed to have its own teacher to teach all the subjects, they have to combine grades.
“It becomes even more difficult if someone leaves,” they said through Dhirin who translated, “because then we must combine further and the work for running the school becomes more.”
“Does this happen often?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said.
We were offered a tour of the facility, which we happily accepted. The tour began with the 6th standard classroom. The most striking feature of this classroom when we walked in was that there were no desks or even benches, which is what we have at Kadod High School. The students, it seemed, sat on the floor in neat rows and used their bookbags as elevated surfaces to put their books on while the teacher taught standing at the front of the room.
There were also no lights, as the electricity had been cut, as it often is here.The classroom had blackboards on all the walls on which diagrams of different concepts had been carefully drawn, by both students and instructors, the 6th grade teacher explained. We examined a neatly drawn and labeled microscope on the far left wall, followed next by a chart explaining the atomic make up of solids, liquids and gases. These students, I felt sure, had never seen an actual microscope. Knowing that, I wasn’t sure how to feel.
We were there to scope out the English program and the possibility of collaboration with the Foundation using their model of sending American teachers; however since the school only teaches English in 5th through 7th grade and since they only have English for 35 minutes a day with the same teacher that they have their other subjects for, it didn’t seem like there was much scope for partnership. It made me wonder: what kind of partnership would work for a school like this? What do they need? More staff? Equipment? What resources would be beneficial?
Teaching in a school with only chalk and a chalkboard to a room full of 65 students, I am becoming familiar with how little you actually need to create an environment of learning. But how much is necessary for the quality of an education to be satisfactory? For example, I believe that, for an aspiring young scientist in rural India, a diagram of a microscope is not enough. Students should learn about microscopes through actually using one. But the question becomes: is it enough to have one per class? Is it enough to have one for every five students? Should every student have one? If every student had one, would they be used? What about material for slides and samples to look at under the microscopes? Should these be chosen over, say, desks, if such a choice were even a possibility? Such a binary should never exist, but if some money were to come to a school such as this, it probably would.
Forget one laptop for every child (if you are familiar with this program): What about one desk for every child? What about one teacher per class?
Best,
Cat
Friday, July 25, 2008
Snake!
Dear dedicated reader,
I knew there were snakes here, but I knew this in the way that one knows that smoking kills you. I hadn’t actually seen a snake until tonight.
We were sitting peacefully at the dinner table, eating flat, thick pooris and aloo matar (potatoes and peas) when there was a frantic knocking on our front door. This the kind of knock used for all things here, from water delivery to buildings being on fire, so you are never quite sure what or whom you’ll get when you open the door.
“Teacher! Teacher! Come quickly!” A student yelled at me as I opened the door and peered out into the darkness. A crowd had gathered in the courtyard just beyond the barbed wire which separates our house from the main schoolground.
“What’s going on?” I had just enough time to ask before the very same student shined a flashlight directly in my eyes and shouted, “SNAKE!”
“Snake! Snake!” The Greek chorus of hostel boys repeated over and over, huddled in a group staring at something in the courtyard.
I screamed as the flashlight lit up the darkness where a man had grasped a 6 foot long snake just below its head and was holding it up for the boys to see. The boys let out a communal gasp.
The snake, from what I could see from my hiding place behind our door, was long and black and its scales shone in the light let out from our house mingled with the darting light of the flashlight that trembled as the boy’s hand who was holding it must have.
There was a large commotion as a motorcycle started, its headlight shining in the darkness. The man who was nonchalantly brandishing the snake hopped lightly onto the back, the live snake still dangling down to the ground out of his fist. The motorcycle driver hit the gas and lurched forward, taking snake handler with him and they drove off throughout the gate, the man shaking the body of the snake at the hostel boys in one last hurrah-ish goodbye.
I turned to the other girls. “I sometimes can’t believe my life here.” Did that man really just hop on a motorcycle with a 6 foot snake?
After shuddering once more, we turned inside and went to sit down, after agreeing that tonight, we are making the journey to the outdoor bathroom together, armed.
Best,
Cat
I knew there were snakes here, but I knew this in the way that one knows that smoking kills you. I hadn’t actually seen a snake until tonight.
We were sitting peacefully at the dinner table, eating flat, thick pooris and aloo matar (potatoes and peas) when there was a frantic knocking on our front door. This the kind of knock used for all things here, from water delivery to buildings being on fire, so you are never quite sure what or whom you’ll get when you open the door.
“Teacher! Teacher! Come quickly!” A student yelled at me as I opened the door and peered out into the darkness. A crowd had gathered in the courtyard just beyond the barbed wire which separates our house from the main schoolground.
“What’s going on?” I had just enough time to ask before the very same student shined a flashlight directly in my eyes and shouted, “SNAKE!”
“Snake! Snake!” The Greek chorus of hostel boys repeated over and over, huddled in a group staring at something in the courtyard.
I screamed as the flashlight lit up the darkness where a man had grasped a 6 foot long snake just below its head and was holding it up for the boys to see. The boys let out a communal gasp.
The snake, from what I could see from my hiding place behind our door, was long and black and its scales shone in the light let out from our house mingled with the darting light of the flashlight that trembled as the boy’s hand who was holding it must have.
There was a large commotion as a motorcycle started, its headlight shining in the darkness. The man who was nonchalantly brandishing the snake hopped lightly onto the back, the live snake still dangling down to the ground out of his fist. The motorcycle driver hit the gas and lurched forward, taking snake handler with him and they drove off throughout the gate, the man shaking the body of the snake at the hostel boys in one last hurrah-ish goodbye.
I turned to the other girls. “I sometimes can’t believe my life here.” Did that man really just hop on a motorcycle with a 6 foot snake?
After shuddering once more, we turned inside and went to sit down, after agreeing that tonight, we are making the journey to the outdoor bathroom together, armed.
Best,
Cat
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
Cloth, safety pins and petticoats
Dear dedicated reader,
Melissa and I struggled through putting on the blouses which hug so tight that breathing seems like something of a luxury, helping each other inch the skin tight sleeves up our American arms. After bringing the catches together and sighing (as best I could) with relief, I crinkled my nose as I looked at myself in the full length mirror. I was not, in my petticoat and top, the beautiful Bollywood vision that I’d hoped I’d be. Slightly discouraged, Melissa and I went to go bother Lathaben in the kitchen to see if she would be kind enough to help us wrap our saris, as neither of us knew how.
Cat
Monday, July 21, 2008
Jogging Hazards
Dear dedicated reader,
I write to you happy and full of food. The fast is over and I have enjoyed a delicious lunch of Indian achaar (pickle), roti, rice, and, courtesy of a package from my grandmother, Crystal light lemonade.
I had hoped to write to you of the exciting last two days of our fast, but to be honest, it was uneventful outside of constant headaches, stomach rumblings and our hunger driven proclivity for napping and watching movies in the air-conditioned computer lab. So I will write about another topic instead.
Recently, I have begun trying to go jogging in the very early morning.
We don’t get out much during the day; we live on the school property and the classrooms in which we teach are merely a one to two minute walk away from the door of our house. I have become a little antsy with the containment and decided the best cure would be some exercise.
At first, I thought that teaching the boys who stay in the hostel here to play ultimate Frisbee might be the answer. After Melissa and I had thrown the disc around conspicuously in the yard for a few minutes, a few boys timidly asked if they could join. They were quite taken with it, and so I explained to them, in an effort that took the breadth of my Hindi and their English, that there is game you can play if you have enough people in teams. They excitedly recruited their friends and they more or less watched and listened carefully as I explained the basic rules in a Hindi-English mix, replete with much miming.
The teams split up and went to their ends of the field. I was relieved; they must have understand some of what I had said. This was, however, the only part of what ensued that actually resembled Frisbee in anyway.
After throwing the Frisbee down the field, the boys on the other team failed to catch it, and so it ended up the on the ground. All 20 boys launched themselves in a kicking, biting, pushing pile of bodies towards the fallen Frisbee, ending up in a heap of bodies from which one boy escaped, hotly pursued, running down the field with the Frisbee tucked safely under his arm. He was soon tackled by another, much larger student, who pulled him to the ground and kicked the Frisbee away from him and into a teammates’ waiting hands. This boy was able to run fast enough to reach the goal line, and a wild dance of celebration was begun by this boy’s team, full of joyous whooping.
I looked helplessly at Melissa; how could I even begin to clarify?
So, ultimate was a bust (though recently the boys have caught the concept from watching me that you are supposed to throw) and the boys have tuition so often in the evenings that our opportunities for practice are rare. And thus, jogging.
Having previously taken a walk in the early morning in the village, I knew that around 6, the streets were relatively empty and I’d be able to walk through the village in my exercise clothes as unnoticed as possible here. My plan was to run to the outside of town and down a small paved, tree lined path that goes through the sugar cane fields.
After rising at 6 am for attempt number one, I was able to make it out of the town, but quickly had to stop, exhausted by the excessive heat and smoky exhaust that issues from all cars here as they pass.
Attempt two the next morning was slightly better, except that I had forgotten to charge my ipod, and thus was treated to the slight buzzing of the towering power lines which decorate the fields for the entirety of my run, not to mention running into a number of my students who were walking on the road, going to the school for tuition. I greeted them, red faced and breathless and wondering why I was persisting with this madness.
I had more reason for wondering, it turns out. Later in the evening, the principal’s family called us over to visit.
The principal looked at me after we’d sat down and said, “My wife says that someone in the village told her they saw you out for exercise. You are doing jogging?”
“Yes,” I said.
“To lose some weight?” Sejalben asked me.
“Uh,” I said, “no… just, you know, because it’s good for you.”
“We are thinking that you should be doing jogging in here on these grounds,” the principal said.
“But sir, the boys will be awake then and I feel a little silly,” I replied.
“Yes, they will jog with you,” he said with a smile which suddenly turned serious, “but it is safe here and in the country, it is not safe. There are… wild animals.
“Wild… animals?”
He continued with much seriousness. “Today, a leopard has been spotted in the very area in which you are running.”
His wife produced the Gujarati newspaper article detailing this particular tidbit of information. There was a sizeable picture of a family staring down at a huge pawprint in the mud.
“A leopard,” I repeated.
“Yes, a big cat,” he offered for clarification.
Oh god. “Well, you can trust I’ll stay right here then,” I said.
“But don’t worry,” he added. “It cannot get in here. And it will not attack unless it is in self-defense. But don’t poke it with a stick.”
I mean really, what else is there to say?
Best,
Cat
I write to you happy and full of food. The fast is over and I have enjoyed a delicious lunch of Indian achaar (pickle), roti, rice, and, courtesy of a package from my grandmother, Crystal light lemonade.
I had hoped to write to you of the exciting last two days of our fast, but to be honest, it was uneventful outside of constant headaches, stomach rumblings and our hunger driven proclivity for napping and watching movies in the air-conditioned computer lab. So I will write about another topic instead.
Recently, I have begun trying to go jogging in the very early morning.
We don’t get out much during the day; we live on the school property and the classrooms in which we teach are merely a one to two minute walk away from the door of our house. I have become a little antsy with the containment and decided the best cure would be some exercise.
At first, I thought that teaching the boys who stay in the hostel here to play ultimate Frisbee might be the answer. After Melissa and I had thrown the disc around conspicuously in the yard for a few minutes, a few boys timidly asked if they could join. They were quite taken with it, and so I explained to them, in an effort that took the breadth of my Hindi and their English, that there is game you can play if you have enough people in teams. They excitedly recruited their friends and they more or less watched and listened carefully as I explained the basic rules in a Hindi-English mix, replete with much miming.
The teams split up and went to their ends of the field. I was relieved; they must have understand some of what I had said. This was, however, the only part of what ensued that actually resembled Frisbee in anyway.
After throwing the Frisbee down the field, the boys on the other team failed to catch it, and so it ended up the on the ground. All 20 boys launched themselves in a kicking, biting, pushing pile of bodies towards the fallen Frisbee, ending up in a heap of bodies from which one boy escaped, hotly pursued, running down the field with the Frisbee tucked safely under his arm. He was soon tackled by another, much larger student, who pulled him to the ground and kicked the Frisbee away from him and into a teammates’ waiting hands. This boy was able to run fast enough to reach the goal line, and a wild dance of celebration was begun by this boy’s team, full of joyous whooping.
I looked helplessly at Melissa; how could I even begin to clarify?
So, ultimate was a bust (though recently the boys have caught the concept from watching me that you are supposed to throw) and the boys have tuition so often in the evenings that our opportunities for practice are rare. And thus, jogging.
Having previously taken a walk in the early morning in the village, I knew that around 6, the streets were relatively empty and I’d be able to walk through the village in my exercise clothes as unnoticed as possible here. My plan was to run to the outside of town and down a small paved, tree lined path that goes through the sugar cane fields.
After rising at 6 am for attempt number one, I was able to make it out of the town, but quickly had to stop, exhausted by the excessive heat and smoky exhaust that issues from all cars here as they pass.
Attempt two the next morning was slightly better, except that I had forgotten to charge my ipod, and thus was treated to the slight buzzing of the towering power lines which decorate the fields for the entirety of my run, not to mention running into a number of my students who were walking on the road, going to the school for tuition. I greeted them, red faced and breathless and wondering why I was persisting with this madness.
I had more reason for wondering, it turns out. Later in the evening, the principal’s family called us over to visit.
The principal looked at me after we’d sat down and said, “My wife says that someone in the village told her they saw you out for exercise. You are doing jogging?”
“Yes,” I said.
“To lose some weight?” Sejalben asked me.
“Uh,” I said, “no… just, you know, because it’s good for you.”
“We are thinking that you should be doing jogging in here on these grounds,” the principal said.
“But sir, the boys will be awake then and I feel a little silly,” I replied.
“Yes, they will jog with you,” he said with a smile which suddenly turned serious, “but it is safe here and in the country, it is not safe. There are… wild animals.
“Wild… animals?”
He continued with much seriousness. “Today, a leopard has been spotted in the very area in which you are running.”
His wife produced the Gujarati newspaper article detailing this particular tidbit of information. There was a sizeable picture of a family staring down at a huge pawprint in the mud.
“A leopard,” I repeated.
“Yes, a big cat,” he offered for clarification.
Oh god. “Well, you can trust I’ll stay right here then,” I said.
“But don’t worry,” he added. “It cannot get in here. And it will not attack unless it is in self-defense. But don’t poke it with a stick.”
I mean really, what else is there to say?
Best,
Cat
Friday, July 18, 2008
Five Day Fast
Dear dedicated reader,
I am on day three of a five day fast. The purpose of this fast, you ask? To bring me a kind and loving husband, of course. Why else do women fast but for the good of men?
The story behind this five day fast is simple: There was a couple who had been married but had no children, so they prayed to the gods and made personal sacrifices but still no children came. Then, the husband was bitten by a serpent and was near death, so the wife went to the temple and asked the gods, saying how can this happen when we have done so much for you? The gods explained that it was a mistake and that if the woman fasted for five days the health of her husband would be restored. So she fasted, and not only was his health restored, but in a few months she was with child.
I'd been told that all of the female students do this fast and that it is a particular Gujarati tradition, so I agreed to do it with a few (unadmitted) misgivings. The tradition is for all the unmarried girls to do the fast, wear their nicest or newest clothes and most beautiful jewelry and go to temple every morning.
As the uninitiated, I did not have faith that years upon years of cultural tradition would not allow me to waste away. I should have known better. The rules of the fast are this: I cannot eat any salt or any sour thing. Fruit can be eaten throughout the day in small bits to relieve hunger, and wheat may be had once a day, but once I sit down to eat, I cannot get up again until I am finished. If I get up in the middle of the meal, I cannot sit down again and eat, I have finished.
In the words of one of the interns, “This is an Indian fast, Cat; of course they are going to let you eat something.”
The first morning of the fast, Sejalben took us to temple with her. I feel awkward, generally, when I go to temple, even if I like to go. The majority of my temple experiences have been hurried, touristy experiences where a paid guide rushed me through the superficial performing of a puja (worship ceremony) and then at the end asked for a tip. Our visit yesterday morning was different, however, as Sejalben was more than happy to explain the significance of the different parts of the puja.
We arrived at the temple next to the river dedicated to Lord Shiva at 7 am; before the morning rush would happen, Sejalben told us. She is also keeping the fast, despite being married already, for the health of her husband. She brought everything needed: different colored powders, rice, sweet milk, almonds, flowers and strands of long grass picked from the garden.
The temple, overlooking the river, is a peaceful place. We removed our shoes as is customary before entering the temple grounds and made our way to a small house like structure at the far end of the complex. Outside hung a large bell which Sejlaben rang as she entered, the dinging which followed echoing in the silence of the early morning.
Upon entering, we first turned a statue of Ganesh-ji, the Indian god with the head of an elephant. Sejal, Priya and Vanisha rubbed colored powder to his forehead and sprinkled it with water, followed by placing some flowers and some of the long grass atop his head and then touching his feet and their own heads. Melissa and I only watched; I did not feel comfortable enough to do all this myself and without knowing the significance, it would only be a superficial going through the motions as I’d done before anyway.
We moved on to the statue of Lord Shiv, recessed into a backroom of the temple. There was the Shiva Lingam, a large smooth rock over which hung a basin dripping what I assume was sweet milk. I had learned in my Indian Religions class in college that this was a symbol of the balance or beginning of the universe: the lingam, a male force, set in the center of the yoni, the female force. Sejalben, Priya and Vanisha again put together an offering here, going through what I assumed were a ritualized set of steps. Incense was lit and stuck into pieces of whole fruit such as bananas. Sejalben read us the story of the fast in Gujarati and then sang a song while another girl who was also performing the ceremony at this moment joined in and waved a tray with small flames lit across it in circles. Then everyone took a turn pouring some sweet milk which had been brought into the basin at the top and onto the Lingam. The symbolism seemed simple enough for me to decode.
The students seemed fascinated that we are keeping the fast, as are strangers who ask us when we walk around town. I wish I felt more compelled by the knowledge of the ‘why’ behind it; however, I will not give up. It is not so hard, after all: who wouldn't want to eat dessert all day?
Best,
Cat
I am on day three of a five day fast. The purpose of this fast, you ask? To bring me a kind and loving husband, of course. Why else do women fast but for the good of men?
The story behind this five day fast is simple: There was a couple who had been married but had no children, so they prayed to the gods and made personal sacrifices but still no children came. Then, the husband was bitten by a serpent and was near death, so the wife went to the temple and asked the gods, saying how can this happen when we have done so much for you? The gods explained that it was a mistake and that if the woman fasted for five days the health of her husband would be restored. So she fasted, and not only was his health restored, but in a few months she was with child.
I'd been told that all of the female students do this fast and that it is a particular Gujarati tradition, so I agreed to do it with a few (unadmitted) misgivings. The tradition is for all the unmarried girls to do the fast, wear their nicest or newest clothes and most beautiful jewelry and go to temple every morning.
As the uninitiated, I did not have faith that years upon years of cultural tradition would not allow me to waste away. I should have known better. The rules of the fast are this: I cannot eat any salt or any sour thing. Fruit can be eaten throughout the day in small bits to relieve hunger, and wheat may be had once a day, but once I sit down to eat, I cannot get up again until I am finished. If I get up in the middle of the meal, I cannot sit down again and eat, I have finished.
In the words of one of the interns, “This is an Indian fast, Cat; of course they are going to let you eat something.”
The first morning of the fast, Sejalben took us to temple with her. I feel awkward, generally, when I go to temple, even if I like to go. The majority of my temple experiences have been hurried, touristy experiences where a paid guide rushed me through the superficial performing of a puja (worship ceremony) and then at the end asked for a tip. Our visit yesterday morning was different, however, as Sejalben was more than happy to explain the significance of the different parts of the puja.
We arrived at the temple next to the river dedicated to Lord Shiva at 7 am; before the morning rush would happen, Sejalben told us. She is also keeping the fast, despite being married already, for the health of her husband. She brought everything needed: different colored powders, rice, sweet milk, almonds, flowers and strands of long grass picked from the garden.
The temple, overlooking the river, is a peaceful place. We removed our shoes as is customary before entering the temple grounds and made our way to a small house like structure at the far end of the complex. Outside hung a large bell which Sejlaben rang as she entered, the dinging which followed echoing in the silence of the early morning.
Upon entering, we first turned a statue of Ganesh-ji, the Indian god with the head of an elephant. Sejal, Priya and Vanisha rubbed colored powder to his forehead and sprinkled it with water, followed by placing some flowers and some of the long grass atop his head and then touching his feet and their own heads. Melissa and I only watched; I did not feel comfortable enough to do all this myself and without knowing the significance, it would only be a superficial going through the motions as I’d done before anyway.
We moved on to the statue of Lord Shiv, recessed into a backroom of the temple. There was the Shiva Lingam, a large smooth rock over which hung a basin dripping what I assume was sweet milk. I had learned in my Indian Religions class in college that this was a symbol of the balance or beginning of the universe: the lingam, a male force, set in the center of the yoni, the female force. Sejalben, Priya and Vanisha again put together an offering here, going through what I assumed were a ritualized set of steps. Incense was lit and stuck into pieces of whole fruit such as bananas. Sejalben read us the story of the fast in Gujarati and then sang a song while another girl who was also performing the ceremony at this moment joined in and waved a tray with small flames lit across it in circles. Then everyone took a turn pouring some sweet milk which had been brought into the basin at the top and onto the Lingam. The symbolism seemed simple enough for me to decode.
The students seemed fascinated that we are keeping the fast, as are strangers who ask us when we walk around town. I wish I felt more compelled by the knowledge of the ‘why’ behind it; however, I will not give up. It is not so hard, after all: who wouldn't want to eat dessert all day?
Best,
Cat
Thursday, July 17, 2008
Keeping Discipline
Dear dedicated reader,
My methods of discipline since I’ve arrived here have become, by American standards, slightly unorthodox.
To frame what I’m about to say, I’d like to point out that while corporal punishment is technically illegal here in India, that is a mere, er, technicality. After all, as some (cynics) would say, the law is only good as its enforcement and the Indian legal system leaves something to be desired when it comes to swift recourse. To illustrate my point, we can look to a conversation we recently had with Dhirinbhai, one of the computer teachers here.
The interns have been taking 8th standard classes for the past three weeks. This arrangement was meant to be temporary until a new teacher was found to take these classes, though the “ten days” this was supposed to last has been stretched to “indefinitely”. For many students, this is their first exposure to English as they come to Kadod High School from other rural primary schools. Some teachers have had to start from the basic alphabet. Though from what I can see the interns have managed this with their other responsibilities beautifully, this comes with definite challenges, and one of those has been discipline. Priya in particular has been having extreme trouble with one unruly class of 60 boys who refuse to respond to cajoling, bribery, yelling or threats of the principal. The monitor, or the student whose most basic responsibility in a class is to tell other kids to “shut up” is the worst of the lot, talking while Priya is talking and being unstoppably distracting.
Priya finally said something to Dhirinbhai about the situation to see what he recommended. His response was to come to her class and scream at the students continuously for five minutes and then to pull two students out of the class and leave with them. She didn’t know where they were going, but she had 58 still rambunctious 8th standard boys to worry about so she wasn’t overly concerned. Of course, as soon as he left, the boys were just as disrespectful as they had been previously, except that there were two less to add to the general mayhem.
Later, a despondent Priya spoke to Dhirinbhai about where he had taken the two boys. One is from his village outside of Kadod and takes a ride home with him everyday on his motorcycle.
“Oh, I beat him with my belt,” Dhirinbhai responded casually. Uh, come again?
Now, I have not beaten any children. But, when faced with the job of keeping a room of sixty children quiet and attentive enough to teach them anything, I find that I must employ tactics that I would never resort to in the US.
First, I constantly exploit the students’ absolute and utter terror of the principal. His name is evoked in response to any overwhelming noise problem. This creates the appropriate atmosphere of fear; you know, the kind that is conducive to learning.
Second, the fixed stare (a favorite from my class in Boston) is remarkably effective here for any individual noise problem. Students here, unlike some of my students in Boston, are exceptionally aware of where the teacher is looking at any given time and ‘the teacher look’ creates a gratifyingly instant response. Sometimes it is so effective that the offending student will immediately volunteer the next time I ask for someone to read or the answer to a question in order to get back in my good graces.
It is for repeat offenders (thankfully few) that the guns come out. I am reminded of a time that I was doing my French homework in my history class and my history teacher, Mr. Wrangham, slammed a book down so hard on my desk that I almost fell out of my chair. Believe me, I never tried that trick again. I can understand his frustration: I simply confiscate any books or materials that are not written in English here, but have used the slamming book trick at least once in all my classes.
Another favorite has become the “stand at the front of the room with your arms crossed”. I don’t really know why this is so embarrassing; if I had tried this particular punishment in the US, my students would have reveled in the attention and probably created unspeakable amounts of problems. However, any student here called for this particular punishment is so ashamed that they meekly stand at the front, looking at the ground. I know other teachers make them stand the whole period; I can’t bear it and usually let them sit down after 10 minutes.
I have never sent a student to the principal. At least, not yet. Some of my 11th graders are really asking for it. I am aggressive when it comes to test-taking: if I catch any students talking or copying, their test paper goes in the trash. This breaks my heart, even though my grades probably don’t count for anything, because the students here study really hard and taking their test paper tears me up. However, I am incredibly clear about this both before and during the test, so as much as I hate it, they have no excuse for not following the rules.
It absolutely amazes me, however, that as difficult as keeping sixty students in line might seem, it is a far simpler task than keeping my 12 students in Boston on task.
Which leads me to wonder: Why?
Best,
Cat
My methods of discipline since I’ve arrived here have become, by American standards, slightly unorthodox.
To frame what I’m about to say, I’d like to point out that while corporal punishment is technically illegal here in India, that is a mere, er, technicality. After all, as some (cynics) would say, the law is only good as its enforcement and the Indian legal system leaves something to be desired when it comes to swift recourse. To illustrate my point, we can look to a conversation we recently had with Dhirinbhai, one of the computer teachers here.
The interns have been taking 8th standard classes for the past three weeks. This arrangement was meant to be temporary until a new teacher was found to take these classes, though the “ten days” this was supposed to last has been stretched to “indefinitely”. For many students, this is their first exposure to English as they come to Kadod High School from other rural primary schools. Some teachers have had to start from the basic alphabet. Though from what I can see the interns have managed this with their other responsibilities beautifully, this comes with definite challenges, and one of those has been discipline. Priya in particular has been having extreme trouble with one unruly class of 60 boys who refuse to respond to cajoling, bribery, yelling or threats of the principal. The monitor, or the student whose most basic responsibility in a class is to tell other kids to “shut up” is the worst of the lot, talking while Priya is talking and being unstoppably distracting.
Priya finally said something to Dhirinbhai about the situation to see what he recommended. His response was to come to her class and scream at the students continuously for five minutes and then to pull two students out of the class and leave with them. She didn’t know where they were going, but she had 58 still rambunctious 8th standard boys to worry about so she wasn’t overly concerned. Of course, as soon as he left, the boys were just as disrespectful as they had been previously, except that there were two less to add to the general mayhem.
Later, a despondent Priya spoke to Dhirinbhai about where he had taken the two boys. One is from his village outside of Kadod and takes a ride home with him everyday on his motorcycle.
“Oh, I beat him with my belt,” Dhirinbhai responded casually. Uh, come again?
Now, I have not beaten any children. But, when faced with the job of keeping a room of sixty children quiet and attentive enough to teach them anything, I find that I must employ tactics that I would never resort to in the US.
First, I constantly exploit the students’ absolute and utter terror of the principal. His name is evoked in response to any overwhelming noise problem. This creates the appropriate atmosphere of fear; you know, the kind that is conducive to learning.
Second, the fixed stare (a favorite from my class in Boston) is remarkably effective here for any individual noise problem. Students here, unlike some of my students in Boston, are exceptionally aware of where the teacher is looking at any given time and ‘the teacher look’ creates a gratifyingly instant response. Sometimes it is so effective that the offending student will immediately volunteer the next time I ask for someone to read or the answer to a question in order to get back in my good graces.
It is for repeat offenders (thankfully few) that the guns come out. I am reminded of a time that I was doing my French homework in my history class and my history teacher, Mr. Wrangham, slammed a book down so hard on my desk that I almost fell out of my chair. Believe me, I never tried that trick again. I can understand his frustration: I simply confiscate any books or materials that are not written in English here, but have used the slamming book trick at least once in all my classes.
Another favorite has become the “stand at the front of the room with your arms crossed”. I don’t really know why this is so embarrassing; if I had tried this particular punishment in the US, my students would have reveled in the attention and probably created unspeakable amounts of problems. However, any student here called for this particular punishment is so ashamed that they meekly stand at the front, looking at the ground. I know other teachers make them stand the whole period; I can’t bear it and usually let them sit down after 10 minutes.
I have never sent a student to the principal. At least, not yet. Some of my 11th graders are really asking for it. I am aggressive when it comes to test-taking: if I catch any students talking or copying, their test paper goes in the trash. This breaks my heart, even though my grades probably don’t count for anything, because the students here study really hard and taking their test paper tears me up. However, I am incredibly clear about this both before and during the test, so as much as I hate it, they have no excuse for not following the rules.
It absolutely amazes me, however, that as difficult as keeping sixty students in line might seem, it is a far simpler task than keeping my 12 students in Boston on task.
Which leads me to wonder: Why?
Best,
Cat
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
The Road to Surat
Dear dedicated reader,
Going to the big city this past weekend, I felt like country mouse visiting the home of city mouse.
On Saturday, for Priya’s actual birthday, we took a trip to Surat, the closest city to our small town of Kadod. The city is nominally one hour away, or at least this is how far I remember it being when I asked at the orientation. This estimate, I have decided, must have been by car, and we, in our infinite wisdom, decided to travel by bus.
The Indian bus I have had the pleasure of experiencing a number of times before. What could be special about the bus, you ask? Well, to begin, it is far more entertaining than almost any American bus. The closest service approaching an Indian bus trip in the US is the Fung Wah, but even this does not adequately mirror the experience. Daybalben and her two daughters accompanied us for this trip and we all convened at the Kadod bus station (a muddy side of the road bus stand) at the pre-appointed hour of 12:30 pm. As luck would have it, we had just missed the bus.
“The next will be along in 10 minutes, no problem,” Daybalben assured us. She herself was from Surat, having been engaged in Standard 8 when she was 15 and married when she was in Standard 9 at 16. Her husband, who is older than her by 6 years, was then working abroad, and so she was able to finish her standard 10 studies and then come to live in Kadod. She had her first child when she was 18, just after standard 12, and then her second child just after her exams in her B.A. English program at a local university. She and her husband have been married for ten years now and for all I can see are obviously and adorably in love. They speak of each other which the most fondness. I asked her if she missed living in Surat. “Oh yeah,” she replied (the only Indian in Kadod I know who says ‘yeah’), “but I see my family.”
The next bus, it turns out, arrived in Kadod at 1:17 pm. We had a few false alarms, including one bus which was so full of people standing in the aisles, sitting on laps, practically falling out of windows that it couldn’t take on anymore passengers, despite the pushing and shoving that was taking place at the door.
When the bus finally did arrive and we confirmed that it could take us, we piled on and Daybalben found seats for us at the very, very last row of the bus. This was unusual for me, because I could clearly see all the woman sitting up in the front of the bus and in Delhi the front of the bus is for women and the back is for men, so to me to sit in the back seemed inappropriate, but I trusted her judgement. After all, who am I to question the woman wearing a burkah about what was inappropriate with regard to these things?
The boys in front of us were playing music loudly from their phone and obligingly kept playing songs from the film ‘Jannat’ which we had just watched from the night before. I sat next to the window, which was open and the wind blew my hair all around until I finally had to put it back to keep it out of my mouth.
Every time we went over a bump, we went flying up into the air. My butt actually left my seat for a noticeable period with each irregularity in the road. We giggled and laughed loudly, causing a commotion and causing the other people who knew us from the school who were on the bus to visibly ignore us.
At Bardoli, the boys with the music got off, which was too bad, since the tape and loose wires of the speakers of the bus, which would usually blast popular Hindi tunes, indicated that they were non-functional. The rest of the ride continued in relative quiet, as we talked amongst ourselves and watched out the window.
To me, just having an opportunity to sit and quietly watch the Indian countryside fly by was incredibly welcome, even from a cramped, hot bus. All along the road, small quotidian portraits seemed to dance past: a group of men laboring to pull an overturned motorcycle out of a ditch, straining their muscles and wiping dripping sweat from their faces as the mud acted as an earthly adhesive; women in brightly colored saris pulled up around their knees crouched in a circle in a field, gossiping; a little boy sitting on the shoulders of a weathered old man slowly walking down the side of the road. One small slice of life after another as we trundled along the road to Surat.
This continued for not one, but two hours. We had stopped at every small village between Kadod and the city and on arriving, I was exhausted despite having done nothing but sit and let the rocking and bumping of the bus lull me into a conscious kind trance.
In Surat we did the usual things: visited Daybalben’s house (lovely), shopping, sweating, making our way through crowds and crowds of people. It was like any Indian city. Soon enough, we were back at the bus station, utterly worn out and ready to go home.
Though, I should mention that despite our enjoyment of the previous bus ride, we made sure to get the express bus home.
Best,
Cat
Going to the big city this past weekend, I felt like country mouse visiting the home of city mouse.
On Saturday, for Priya’s actual birthday, we took a trip to Surat, the closest city to our small town of Kadod. The city is nominally one hour away, or at least this is how far I remember it being when I asked at the orientation. This estimate, I have decided, must have been by car, and we, in our infinite wisdom, decided to travel by bus.
The Indian bus I have had the pleasure of experiencing a number of times before. What could be special about the bus, you ask? Well, to begin, it is far more entertaining than almost any American bus. The closest service approaching an Indian bus trip in the US is the Fung Wah, but even this does not adequately mirror the experience. Daybalben and her two daughters accompanied us for this trip and we all convened at the Kadod bus station (a muddy side of the road bus stand) at the pre-appointed hour of 12:30 pm. As luck would have it, we had just missed the bus.
“The next will be along in 10 minutes, no problem,” Daybalben assured us. She herself was from Surat, having been engaged in Standard 8 when she was 15 and married when she was in Standard 9 at 16. Her husband, who is older than her by 6 years, was then working abroad, and so she was able to finish her standard 10 studies and then come to live in Kadod. She had her first child when she was 18, just after standard 12, and then her second child just after her exams in her B.A. English program at a local university. She and her husband have been married for ten years now and for all I can see are obviously and adorably in love. They speak of each other which the most fondness. I asked her if she missed living in Surat. “Oh yeah,” she replied (the only Indian in Kadod I know who says ‘yeah’), “but I see my family.”
The next bus, it turns out, arrived in Kadod at 1:17 pm. We had a few false alarms, including one bus which was so full of people standing in the aisles, sitting on laps, practically falling out of windows that it couldn’t take on anymore passengers, despite the pushing and shoving that was taking place at the door.
When the bus finally did arrive and we confirmed that it could take us, we piled on and Daybalben found seats for us at the very, very last row of the bus. This was unusual for me, because I could clearly see all the woman sitting up in the front of the bus and in Delhi the front of the bus is for women and the back is for men, so to me to sit in the back seemed inappropriate, but I trusted her judgement. After all, who am I to question the woman wearing a burkah about what was inappropriate with regard to these things?
The boys in front of us were playing music loudly from their phone and obligingly kept playing songs from the film ‘Jannat’ which we had just watched from the night before. I sat next to the window, which was open and the wind blew my hair all around until I finally had to put it back to keep it out of my mouth.
Every time we went over a bump, we went flying up into the air. My butt actually left my seat for a noticeable period with each irregularity in the road. We giggled and laughed loudly, causing a commotion and causing the other people who knew us from the school who were on the bus to visibly ignore us.
At Bardoli, the boys with the music got off, which was too bad, since the tape and loose wires of the speakers of the bus, which would usually blast popular Hindi tunes, indicated that they were non-functional. The rest of the ride continued in relative quiet, as we talked amongst ourselves and watched out the window.
To me, just having an opportunity to sit and quietly watch the Indian countryside fly by was incredibly welcome, even from a cramped, hot bus. All along the road, small quotidian portraits seemed to dance past: a group of men laboring to pull an overturned motorcycle out of a ditch, straining their muscles and wiping dripping sweat from their faces as the mud acted as an earthly adhesive; women in brightly colored saris pulled up around their knees crouched in a circle in a field, gossiping; a little boy sitting on the shoulders of a weathered old man slowly walking down the side of the road. One small slice of life after another as we trundled along the road to Surat.
This continued for not one, but two hours. We had stopped at every small village between Kadod and the city and on arriving, I was exhausted despite having done nothing but sit and let the rocking and bumping of the bus lull me into a conscious kind trance.
In Surat we did the usual things: visited Daybalben’s house (lovely), shopping, sweating, making our way through crowds and crowds of people. It was like any Indian city. Soon enough, we were back at the bus station, utterly worn out and ready to go home.
Though, I should mention that despite our enjoyment of the previous bus ride, we made sure to get the express bus home.
Best,
Cat
Monday, July 14, 2008
Birthday Surprise
Dear dedicated reader,
‘Happy Birthday’ may be the most sung song in the world, but that doesn’t mean the traditions will be the same.
By coincidence, both Priya and Vanisha’s birthdays came within three days of each other this past week and as a result, the students were all aflutter with whispering and ‘secret’ plans. Vanisha’s birthday came the same day as the principal’s son, Jaydeepbhai, so we were invited over to their house for cake.
We sat in the living room as the lights were turned out and the candles were lit and an Indian English version of Happy Birthday was sung. The cake was beautiful: chocolate with roses and two lovely candles which spelled out Jaydeepbhai’s age, 26. As they cut the cake, Jaydeepbhai took the first piece to his father and the principal opened his mouth obligingly to receive it. He then leaned down to touch his feet and his father blessed him by touching his head. Jaydeepbhai then took another small piece of cake to his mother and fed her as well. Next, to my surprise, he turned to Vanisha who was sitting next to him on their couch and fed her a piece, and then Melissa, and then, me. I opened my mouth to receive it and laughed as the cake got on my face.
Priya and Vanisha laughed at my reaction. “I forgot you guys haven’t seen this before,” Priya said, smiling. “Indians cut the cake before dinner and then everyone eats it by feeding it to each other.” No plates necessary, I thought. Very neat.
For dinner, Sejalben had made a special South Indian treat: Idli, spongy round cakes, over which you drizzle sambar, a soupy sauce and along with mashed coconut. This is possibly one of my favorite dishes ever, so I was delighted. For dessert, we had gulab jamun: small fried balls soaked and served in a bath of clear, sweet syrup. Instant diabetes in a bowl and absolutely yummy, of course.
The birthday celebration did not stop there. All week, the students had been asking me to help them write English cards for Ms. Priya and Ms. Vanisha and the denoument of their plans came on Friday. As Priya and I approached the room for her spoken English class after school, some of the girls in her class came running out. “No, madam, no!” They cried. “Outside game! Outside game!”
Priya looked dubious until the girls pulled me aside and said, “Madam, you can keep a secret?” I nodded. “We have a surprise for Ms. Priya and it is not ready yet.”
I looked at Priya. “Outside game?” She smiled and shrugged.
For ten minutes or so we played Kabardi, a game which the girls taught me that involves boundaries and tagging and dragging girls over a line… honestly I wasn’t that clear on the rules but it looked like they were having a good time.
All of a sudden, a call came from the closed doors to the classroom into the courtyard and the girls went running, shouting, “Ms. Priya, come, Ms. Priya, come!”
I grabbed the camera and followed them. What ensued can really best be described through a photo, and so I have provided one.
The boys said to me, “Move aside, move aside!” as they pulled the string on some party poppers which showered the entering Priya with golden glitter and filled the room with smoke. The students cheered and shouted, “HAPPY BIRTHDAY PRIYA TEACHER!” A cake had been brought by one of the students and the room was decorated with balloons which had been filled with candy and hung on strings. The cake was cut and the students insisted that the first piece come to me, so Priya obligingly fed me just as Jaydeepbhai had done.
Arms and fingers were digging into the rapidly cut cake and all were gesturing towards Ms. Priya’s mouth as she struggled to fit one piece of cake in her mouth after another as the students fed her. Oh god, she’s going to choke, I thought as I gleefully documented the whole thing through photographs with Priya’s camera. The students who were finished with Priya, however, were not satisfied and I suddenly found arms with hands
holding cake being thrust towards my own mouth. It was a short time before I myself was similarly overwhelmed. The students also added an additional element: they would wipe the remaining icing on their hands on your face after feeding you. Soon, my whole face was covered in a sugary coating of chocolate and vanilla.
All of a sudden, however, a hush fell over the room as if a dark cloud had covered the sun. I turned to see the principal standing in the doorway. He began to scold the students quickly in Gujarati and Priya and I looked at each other, somber and chastened. When he finished yelling, he turned to us and said kindly, “I have told them that they should not carry on in this way.” He then turned and left.
After his departure, there was an uncomfortable silence, but after such a sugar infusion, it was not long before the party was going in full force once again. We tried vainly to make the students be quiet, saying that “Sir” would come again if they did not get calm. The sugar was pumping through their vaisn and it was impossible, however, to calm them down. After finally getting them to sit down, a talent show was organized and a Hindi film sing along commenced. All in all, an enjoyable day.
Priya and I were still worried, however, about the reaction of the principal. During the Hindi sing-a-long, I was sent to speak with him. I approached the porch hesitantly, looking apologetic. “I’m so sorry,” I began. “We didn’t know the students had been planning such a big party.”
“It is okay, it is not your fault,” the principal said, smiling at me. His face then turned serious. “But, it is tradition here, we do not celebrate birthdays. Because, you see, some of the students, they are very poor, and they cannot bring anything and the rich students can bring. So, even my birthday we are not celebrating because of this thing.” I nodded. It was a very good point, and not one that had previously occurred to me. “Also,” he continued, “it does not make a good impression. If someone is coming by the school from the outside, and they are hearing this screaming and yelling, they will think, ‘this school has no discipline, there is nothing inside,’ and this will not be good for the school. So we must not have this and must have discipline.” I nodded again. Another very good point.
I apologized once more as I could hear the loud singing issuing from the door of the classroom and inwardly cringed a little. He had made two good points and I felt stupid for not having thought of them before. There was nothing I could have done to stop them, but still, it was hard to be caught in such insensitivity.
I think he saw my face, because once again he assured me that it was all right. “You did not know, it is okay,” he said, reassuringly.
I smiled and went back to the party. When I arrived at the door, it was just time to leave.
“One kiss, madam?” Some of the girls asked me as I arrived and they were leaving.
“Um…” Too late. They had already made a line and one by one, gave me a kiss on the cheek. I awkwardly accepted this affection before retreating to the safety of our house.
Happy Birthday indeed, Ms. Priya and Ms. Vanisha. Very cute.
Best,
Cat
‘Happy Birthday’ may be the most sung song in the world, but that doesn’t mean the traditions will be the same.
By coincidence, both Priya and Vanisha’s birthdays came within three days of each other this past week and as a result, the students were all aflutter with whispering and ‘secret’ plans. Vanisha’s birthday came the same day as the principal’s son, Jaydeepbhai, so we were invited over to their house for cake.
We sat in the living room as the lights were turned out and the candles were lit and an Indian English version of Happy Birthday was sung. The cake was beautiful: chocolate with roses and two lovely candles which spelled out Jaydeepbhai’s age, 26. As they cut the cake, Jaydeepbhai took the first piece to his father and the principal opened his mouth obligingly to receive it. He then leaned down to touch his feet and his father blessed him by touching his head. Jaydeepbhai then took another small piece of cake to his mother and fed her as well. Next, to my surprise, he turned to Vanisha who was sitting next to him on their couch and fed her a piece, and then Melissa, and then, me. I opened my mouth to receive it and laughed as the cake got on my face.
Priya and Vanisha laughed at my reaction. “I forgot you guys haven’t seen this before,” Priya said, smiling. “Indians cut the cake before dinner and then everyone eats it by feeding it to each other.” No plates necessary, I thought. Very neat.
For dinner, Sejalben had made a special South Indian treat: Idli, spongy round cakes, over which you drizzle sambar, a soupy sauce and along with mashed coconut. This is possibly one of my favorite dishes ever, so I was delighted. For dessert, we had gulab jamun: small fried balls soaked and served in a bath of clear, sweet syrup. Instant diabetes in a bowl and absolutely yummy, of course.
The birthday celebration did not stop there. All week, the students had been asking me to help them write English cards for Ms. Priya and Ms. Vanisha and the denoument of their plans came on Friday. As Priya and I approached the room for her spoken English class after school, some of the girls in her class came running out. “No, madam, no!” They cried. “Outside game! Outside game!”
Priya looked dubious until the girls pulled me aside and said, “Madam, you can keep a secret?” I nodded. “We have a surprise for Ms. Priya and it is not ready yet.”
I looked at Priya. “Outside game?” She smiled and shrugged.
For ten minutes or so we played Kabardi, a game which the girls taught me that involves boundaries and tagging and dragging girls over a line… honestly I wasn’t that clear on the rules but it looked like they were having a good time.
All of a sudden, a call came from the closed doors to the classroom into the courtyard and the girls went running, shouting, “Ms. Priya, come, Ms. Priya, come!”
I grabbed the camera and followed them. What ensued can really best be described through a photo, and so I have provided one.
The boys said to me, “Move aside, move aside!” as they pulled the string on some party poppers which showered the entering Priya with golden glitter and filled the room with smoke. The students cheered and shouted, “HAPPY BIRTHDAY PRIYA TEACHER!” A cake had been brought by one of the students and the room was decorated with balloons which had been filled with candy and hung on strings. The cake was cut and the students insisted that the first piece come to me, so Priya obligingly fed me just as Jaydeepbhai had done.Arms and fingers were digging into the rapidly cut cake and all were gesturing towards Ms. Priya’s mouth as she struggled to fit one piece of cake in her mouth after another as the students fed her. Oh god, she’s going to choke, I thought as I gleefully documented the whole thing through photographs with Priya’s camera. The students who were finished with Priya, however, were not satisfied and I suddenly found arms with hands
holding cake being thrust towards my own mouth. It was a short time before I myself was similarly overwhelmed. The students also added an additional element: they would wipe the remaining icing on their hands on your face after feeding you. Soon, my whole face was covered in a sugary coating of chocolate and vanilla.All of a sudden, however, a hush fell over the room as if a dark cloud had covered the sun. I turned to see the principal standing in the doorway. He began to scold the students quickly in Gujarati and Priya and I looked at each other, somber and chastened. When he finished yelling, he turned to us and said kindly, “I have told them that they should not carry on in this way.” He then turned and left.
After his departure, there was an uncomfortable silence, but after such a sugar infusion, it was not long before the party was going in full force once again. We tried vainly to make the students be quiet, saying that “Sir” would come again if they did not get calm. The sugar was pumping through their vaisn and it was impossible, however, to calm them down. After finally getting them to sit down, a talent show was organized and a Hindi film sing along commenced. All in all, an enjoyable day.
Priya and I were still worried, however, about the reaction of the principal. During the Hindi sing-a-long, I was sent to speak with him. I approached the porch hesitantly, looking apologetic. “I’m so sorry,” I began. “We didn’t know the students had been planning such a big party.”
“It is okay, it is not your fault,” the principal said, smiling at me. His face then turned serious. “But, it is tradition here, we do not celebrate birthdays. Because, you see, some of the students, they are very poor, and they cannot bring anything and the rich students can bring. So, even my birthday we are not celebrating because of this thing.” I nodded. It was a very good point, and not one that had previously occurred to me. “Also,” he continued, “it does not make a good impression. If someone is coming by the school from the outside, and they are hearing this screaming and yelling, they will think, ‘this school has no discipline, there is nothing inside,’ and this will not be good for the school. So we must not have this and must have discipline.” I nodded again. Another very good point.
I apologized once more as I could hear the loud singing issuing from the door of the classroom and inwardly cringed a little. He had made two good points and I felt stupid for not having thought of them before. There was nothing I could have done to stop them, but still, it was hard to be caught in such insensitivity.
I think he saw my face, because once again he assured me that it was all right. “You did not know, it is okay,” he said, reassuringly.
I smiled and went back to the party. When I arrived at the door, it was just time to leave.
“One kiss, madam?” Some of the girls asked me as I arrived and they were leaving.
“Um…” Too late. They had already made a line and one by one, gave me a kiss on the cheek. I awkwardly accepted this affection before retreating to the safety of our house.
Happy Birthday indeed, Ms. Priya and Ms. Vanisha. Very cute.
Best,
Cat
Sunday, July 13, 2008
Full employment economy
Dear dedicated reader,
‘Full employment economy’ over ‘efficiency economy’ is evident here everywhere you look. It is more than an economic ethos; it seems to be a way of life.
By way of example, I offer up the following:
Before we arrived here, the Foundation had reassured us that there would be two cell phones left over the from the summer interns that they sent last year. They said it would be simple: obtain simcards and then the phones would be functional for whatever we needed them for.
Easier said than done. Priya, whose family was quite anxious to have a way to contact her, took a lot of initiative around finding out about the phones right away. When we could not find them in the guesthouse, she asked the principal’s family, who said they would look into it and get back to us tomorrow (if you’ve been following this blog at all, you know what this means).
Late in the evening the Saturday we arrived, the principal came by and said that we should have our phones within a few days. Content with this, we happily consented to wait.
Tuesday, Vikrambhai, the man who gets us water and other various things that we need, came by to say that he had no charger for the phone he had for us and could we find it? We looked around the guesthouse, but were unable to locate the charger and told him this, indicating that perhaps the principal’s family had placed it with the phones?
Wednesday, the principal’s wife came by and asked us about the phones. We explained the problem with the charger and she took the key out to an inner part of our closet we had previously been unable to unlock. While there were many useful things in it, such as bug spray, colored pencils and tape, no chargers could be found.
Friday, Dhirinbhai, the young computer teacher who set up our internet, came by with one of the cell phones and revealed to us that he too had no charger for the phone. Apparently, he had been delegated one of the phones to set up, and Vikrambhai had been given the other. Once you have the charger, he said, it will be no problem.
Friday night, the principal’s family came by and asked us about the phones. We explained the problem with the chargers and they mentioned that they had a charger that they could us in their car that would be for a Reliance (our provider’s) phone. They said they would get the phones from Dhirinbhai. Salvation seemed in sight.
Saturday after school and the staff meeting, the principal’s family came by and asked us again, how are your cell phones? We explained that we did not have them yet because Vikrambhai has one and Dhirinbhai has another and neither has a charger. They explained again about the charger in their car and said they’d get them on Monday.
Monday, Priya ran into Sejalben and asked about the phones, so after some chatting in Gujarati, Sejalben got the phone from Dhirinbhai to charge it in her car. Vikrambhai still had the other phone and explained we would have to go Bardoli (a bigger town 18 km away) to get a replacement charger, but not until next weekend.
The next weekend came and we went to Bardoli and were able to obtain a charger and thus, have a working cell phone. However, only incoming calls were possible because there was no money on the phone. Dhirinbhai explained that if we wanted to make outgoing calls, the Foundation would pay to put some money on the phone. This seemed incorrect, because we are supposed to pay for our own cell phones, but we asked him to put 500rs on and we could always pay the Foundation back.
A week went by and still no ability to make outgoing calls. Next, I went to Dhirinbhai myself with the 500rs and asked if it would be possible for him to drop it off in Bardoli so we could get the money on the phone needed for outgoing calls. He said happily that it was no problem.
Another week goes by. I am becoming tired of the woman who tells me that outgoing calls are not possible on my phone. But it is Saturday and we have decided that we ourselves are going to Bardoli, so I go to ask Dhirinbhai for the money back so that we can get the phone working. However, he informs me that while he was not able to get the money this week because he was not feeling well (which was true), he has just this morning given the money to his friend to go so he cannot give it back to me to get myself.
I accepted this answer, we went to Bardoli, another week has gone by. I still have no working cell phone.
The American in me is absolutely clawing to get out of my head and straighten this mess out. I have pacified it by buying a Cost-co sized bag of Indian cookies.
Best,
Cat
P.S. What happened to the second phone, you ask? A mystery to me...
‘Full employment economy’ over ‘efficiency economy’ is evident here everywhere you look. It is more than an economic ethos; it seems to be a way of life.
By way of example, I offer up the following:
Before we arrived here, the Foundation had reassured us that there would be two cell phones left over the from the summer interns that they sent last year. They said it would be simple: obtain simcards and then the phones would be functional for whatever we needed them for.
Easier said than done. Priya, whose family was quite anxious to have a way to contact her, took a lot of initiative around finding out about the phones right away. When we could not find them in the guesthouse, she asked the principal’s family, who said they would look into it and get back to us tomorrow (if you’ve been following this blog at all, you know what this means).
Late in the evening the Saturday we arrived, the principal came by and said that we should have our phones within a few days. Content with this, we happily consented to wait.
Tuesday, Vikrambhai, the man who gets us water and other various things that we need, came by to say that he had no charger for the phone he had for us and could we find it? We looked around the guesthouse, but were unable to locate the charger and told him this, indicating that perhaps the principal’s family had placed it with the phones?
Wednesday, the principal’s wife came by and asked us about the phones. We explained the problem with the charger and she took the key out to an inner part of our closet we had previously been unable to unlock. While there were many useful things in it, such as bug spray, colored pencils and tape, no chargers could be found.
Friday, Dhirinbhai, the young computer teacher who set up our internet, came by with one of the cell phones and revealed to us that he too had no charger for the phone. Apparently, he had been delegated one of the phones to set up, and Vikrambhai had been given the other. Once you have the charger, he said, it will be no problem.
Friday night, the principal’s family came by and asked us about the phones. We explained the problem with the chargers and they mentioned that they had a charger that they could us in their car that would be for a Reliance (our provider’s) phone. They said they would get the phones from Dhirinbhai. Salvation seemed in sight.
Saturday after school and the staff meeting, the principal’s family came by and asked us again, how are your cell phones? We explained that we did not have them yet because Vikrambhai has one and Dhirinbhai has another and neither has a charger. They explained again about the charger in their car and said they’d get them on Monday.
Monday, Priya ran into Sejalben and asked about the phones, so after some chatting in Gujarati, Sejalben got the phone from Dhirinbhai to charge it in her car. Vikrambhai still had the other phone and explained we would have to go Bardoli (a bigger town 18 km away) to get a replacement charger, but not until next weekend.
The next weekend came and we went to Bardoli and were able to obtain a charger and thus, have a working cell phone. However, only incoming calls were possible because there was no money on the phone. Dhirinbhai explained that if we wanted to make outgoing calls, the Foundation would pay to put some money on the phone. This seemed incorrect, because we are supposed to pay for our own cell phones, but we asked him to put 500rs on and we could always pay the Foundation back.
A week went by and still no ability to make outgoing calls. Next, I went to Dhirinbhai myself with the 500rs and asked if it would be possible for him to drop it off in Bardoli so we could get the money on the phone needed for outgoing calls. He said happily that it was no problem.
Another week goes by. I am becoming tired of the woman who tells me that outgoing calls are not possible on my phone. But it is Saturday and we have decided that we ourselves are going to Bardoli, so I go to ask Dhirinbhai for the money back so that we can get the phone working. However, he informs me that while he was not able to get the money this week because he was not feeling well (which was true), he has just this morning given the money to his friend to go so he cannot give it back to me to get myself.
I accepted this answer, we went to Bardoli, another week has gone by. I still have no working cell phone.
The American in me is absolutely clawing to get out of my head and straighten this mess out. I have pacified it by buying a Cost-co sized bag of Indian cookies.
Best,
Cat
P.S. What happened to the second phone, you ask? A mystery to me...
Monday, July 7, 2008
The Indian Beauty Parlor
Dear dedicated reader,
So recently, I took a trip to the Indian Beauty Parlor.
The band of 7th and 8th standard girls that cling to Priya whenever we walk out into the bazaar and gave us our first tour of Kadod guided us into this new adventure. Divya, one of the girls, explained to us that her mother runs a beauty parlor and since Priya was anxious to have her eyebrows threaded and I was anxious to try this peculiarly Indian method of eyebrow upkeep, we told Divya to tell her mother we would be along after school sometime this week.
The beauty parlor is run out of the upstairs room of Divya’s house. Her uncle is a tailor and sews in the downstairs room which leads out to the street. On our arrival, the mother warmly welcomed us inside and showed us upstairs. The house was built long and narrow, with thin rooms merging together. Upstairs, the bedroom and the kitchen were one.
Of course, in India, an appointment for a simple eyebrow threading is so much more than the impersonal delivery of services and receipt of payment. The mother motioned for us to sit on the edge of the bed and sent Divya out to get a 7 up from the store. We protested, but she insisted. The house was modest, a little dark, but very clean. The mother began to explain that Divya’s father had died, so it was just her and Divya and the uncle. The uncle came upstairs excitedly to sit, interrupting the sober mood that this news had created to swing his leg over an empty chair and announce, “I learning English in South Africa, three years!”
Startled, I nodded, raising my waiting eyebrows to show I was impressed. “Wait, I get my passport!” He dashed off. I stifled a laugh.
He quickly returned with his crisp Indian passport and handed it to me. “South Africa, three years,” he said again, gesturing that I should open it.
I did. Inside were visas to Mozambique, Botswana, Malawi, and South Africa. “Wow,” I said, truly impressed. “What were you doing there?”
“Import, export. Tailoring,” he said, proudly.
“All three of us have passports,” Divya’s mother added in Hindi, brimming with pride. Family photos were produced to share the trip to South Africa to see Uncle working in his export shop and pictures of Divya when she was little. Divya’s aunt also lives in Toronto, apparently and postcards were produced as proof.
“You like monkeys?” I was asked suddenly by Divya’s mother.
“Um, I’m very afraid of them,” I replied in Hindi. The family motioned for me to come out onto balcony. Across the street were two, small black faced monkeys. The uncle began to throw them chapattis from the balcony and all three took delight in my obvious terror. “Don’t worry,” the mother said, “They don’t come here.”
After this short diversion, it was time to get down to business. She gestured that I should sit in the chair she had appropriated for this sober purpose. She pushed my head back by the forehead and guided my hands to hold my skin taut so that she could begin her work with precision.
Eyebrow threading is a South Asian art form – it is like waxing, except that it is done by taking a sewing thread and folding and twisting it such that a triangle is formed. One end is held in a mouth and the other two ends are held in either hand. The triangle is then slowly closed by pulling on the ends around the offending hair and then yanked to pluck it out. Despite the violent movement, it is surprisingly painless and in less than 2 minutes, she was finished with one of my overgrown eyebrows. She held up a mirror so I could admire her work. I laughed as I eyed my uneven eyebrows, one caterpillar looking and the other slick and smooth like that of a Bollywood film actress.
The other was summarily dealt with, also in less than 2 minutes, and the mirror was again produced so I could verify my pleasure with the results. I was really happy, though a little embarrassed that something like the state of my eyebrows could have an effect on my emotional state.
Apparently, Divya’s mother does all kinds of things, like mehndi (henna), arm waxing, and facials, though Priya carefully instructed that if I were ever to get a facial I would have to ask for no bleaching, as skin whitening comes as part of the package. Like I need to get much whiter…
After Priya’s eyebrows had been similarly taken care of, we sat on the floor of Diyva’s house and chatted happily with her mother as the girls worked on their homework around us. Before our departure, I asked how much we owed for the service she had provided.
“Oh, nothing!” She replied.
Priya made a face and said, “Please don’t do this with us. How much do we owe you?”
She laughed. “10 rupees, only”. (43 rupees = one dollar).
Priya again insisted. “That can’t be right,” she said. Divya nodded expressively and told us that yes, this was the customary price.
Unbelievable. This year will be the most my eyebrows have been ever cared for, I feel sure.
Best,
Cat
So recently, I took a trip to the Indian Beauty Parlor.
The band of 7th and 8th standard girls that cling to Priya whenever we walk out into the bazaar and gave us our first tour of Kadod guided us into this new adventure. Divya, one of the girls, explained to us that her mother runs a beauty parlor and since Priya was anxious to have her eyebrows threaded and I was anxious to try this peculiarly Indian method of eyebrow upkeep, we told Divya to tell her mother we would be along after school sometime this week.
The beauty parlor is run out of the upstairs room of Divya’s house. Her uncle is a tailor and sews in the downstairs room which leads out to the street. On our arrival, the mother warmly welcomed us inside and showed us upstairs. The house was built long and narrow, with thin rooms merging together. Upstairs, the bedroom and the kitchen were one.
Of course, in India, an appointment for a simple eyebrow threading is so much more than the impersonal delivery of services and receipt of payment. The mother motioned for us to sit on the edge of the bed and sent Divya out to get a 7 up from the store. We protested, but she insisted. The house was modest, a little dark, but very clean. The mother began to explain that Divya’s father had died, so it was just her and Divya and the uncle. The uncle came upstairs excitedly to sit, interrupting the sober mood that this news had created to swing his leg over an empty chair and announce, “I learning English in South Africa, three years!”
Startled, I nodded, raising my waiting eyebrows to show I was impressed. “Wait, I get my passport!” He dashed off. I stifled a laugh.
He quickly returned with his crisp Indian passport and handed it to me. “South Africa, three years,” he said again, gesturing that I should open it.
I did. Inside were visas to Mozambique, Botswana, Malawi, and South Africa. “Wow,” I said, truly impressed. “What were you doing there?”
“Import, export. Tailoring,” he said, proudly.
“All three of us have passports,” Divya’s mother added in Hindi, brimming with pride. Family photos were produced to share the trip to South Africa to see Uncle working in his export shop and pictures of Divya when she was little. Divya’s aunt also lives in Toronto, apparently and postcards were produced as proof.
“You like monkeys?” I was asked suddenly by Divya’s mother.
“Um, I’m very afraid of them,” I replied in Hindi. The family motioned for me to come out onto balcony. Across the street were two, small black faced monkeys. The uncle began to throw them chapattis from the balcony and all three took delight in my obvious terror. “Don’t worry,” the mother said, “They don’t come here.”
After this short diversion, it was time to get down to business. She gestured that I should sit in the chair she had appropriated for this sober purpose. She pushed my head back by the forehead and guided my hands to hold my skin taut so that she could begin her work with precision.
Eyebrow threading is a South Asian art form – it is like waxing, except that it is done by taking a sewing thread and folding and twisting it such that a triangle is formed. One end is held in a mouth and the other two ends are held in either hand. The triangle is then slowly closed by pulling on the ends around the offending hair and then yanked to pluck it out. Despite the violent movement, it is surprisingly painless and in less than 2 minutes, she was finished with one of my overgrown eyebrows. She held up a mirror so I could admire her work. I laughed as I eyed my uneven eyebrows, one caterpillar looking and the other slick and smooth like that of a Bollywood film actress.
The other was summarily dealt with, also in less than 2 minutes, and the mirror was again produced so I could verify my pleasure with the results. I was really happy, though a little embarrassed that something like the state of my eyebrows could have an effect on my emotional state.
Apparently, Divya’s mother does all kinds of things, like mehndi (henna), arm waxing, and facials, though Priya carefully instructed that if I were ever to get a facial I would have to ask for no bleaching, as skin whitening comes as part of the package. Like I need to get much whiter…
After Priya’s eyebrows had been similarly taken care of, we sat on the floor of Diyva’s house and chatted happily with her mother as the girls worked on their homework around us. Before our departure, I asked how much we owed for the service she had provided.
“Oh, nothing!” She replied.
Priya made a face and said, “Please don’t do this with us. How much do we owe you?”
She laughed. “10 rupees, only”. (43 rupees = one dollar).
Priya again insisted. “That can’t be right,” she said. Divya nodded expressively and told us that yes, this was the customary price.
Unbelievable. This year will be the most my eyebrows have been ever cared for, I feel sure.
Best,
Cat
Kidnapped!
Dear dedicated reader,
Today, as I was walking in the bazaar, I was kidnapped.
It was a lazy Sunday afternoon and I have become more adventurous of late, itching to explore more and spend less time in the house. I lathered myself in sunscreen, grabbed my ipod (a curiosity here, to be sure) and decided I would go for a walk outside the town limits on some of the roads that lead out towards the sugar cane fields. I just wanted to spend some time alone, clear my head, and enjoy the unseasonably cool and windy weather.
However, my imagined afternoon of quiet contemplation was not to be. No sooner had I cleared the gates of the school and made my way into the bustling Sunday vegetable market than I was immediately waylaid by a group of familiar looking middle aged women whose kindly faces I could not place.
They exclaimed when they saw me and began talking quickly, surrounding me on all sides. From what I could catch, they were asking me where I was going and why I was leaving the school. “Guumana…(To wander),” I replied, using the closest possible word I could think of Hindi to illustrate my intentions.
They began to talk frantically again and I concentrated hard, trying to make sense of their highly animated speech. “Madi…3 o’clock…sugar factory…” was all I could catch, but their meaning was simple enough for me to take. They had been on their way to the guesthouse to pick the four of us to take us to the sugar factory in Madi. It suddenly hit me who these women were: Daybal’s family whose house I had visited during the call to prayer only two weeks or so ago. Her brother-in-law had mentioned their desire to take us to the sugar factory in Madi where he is a worker, but they wanted to wait until the Vice President of the factory could be present to welcome us himself. An important Kadodian, he is also the President of the Kadod High School.
Apparently, according to Daybal’s sister in law, today was the day that the President, as he is reverently referred to, had indicated would be the best to take us and they had come to get us as his emissaries. Like a lost sheep, they shepherded me back through the vegetable market towards the high school. I grimaced as we walked, knowing Priya and Melissa were practically in their pajamas still.
Luckily, when I arrived back, only moments after I had left, they were both sitting on the porch fully dressed. As I rolled in with my entourage of middle aged women in salwar kamiz, they looked at me with expected confusion. I shrugged and waited for the women to explain in their quick and muddled Hindi to Priya where we were going. Vanisha was visiting her family in Navsauri and thus was not party to this particular adventure.
In a moment, we were off, following these women to… well, I wasn’t exactly sure where we were going, but I soon figured as we turned down the road leading into the Muslim quarter that we were returning to Master Rashidbhai’s residence.
Our arrival, however, must not have been expected, as when we arrived at the house, it became clear that Rashidbhai and Daybalben were not actually at home. This was a trivial matter, however, as their relatives invited themselves in and made us and themselves comfortable in their upstairs sitting room, raiding their refrigerator for water and cold drinks. We sat, patiently, content to wait what we assumed would be the short while until they arrived home.
It was, however, exactly one hour before Rashidbhai and Daybalben arrived home. We sat making awkward chit-chat with their in-laws during this time, rehashing many of the topics we had covered in our previous visit. When they finally did arrive, Daybalben informed us that she would call the President to let him know that we were ready to go. From our perch on a swing seat, we could only catch bits of the conversation that ensued with Mr. President, but one sentence we caught clearly uttered was, “What do you mean the sugar factory is closed?
I had to bite back a laugh. Of course.
Daybalben came back to announce with sorrow that the sugar factory was, indeed, closed. Her brother in law explained to us in a Hindi-English mix that it was not the season for sugar production and wouldn’t be until October and thus the factory was not open. I did not point out the myriad of ways that this possibility could have been previously anticipated, choosing instead to hold my tongue to hear what was coming next. Daybalben explained that in place of the sugar factory, we had been invited to come to the farmhouse of the President. He had an impressive, marble floored residence in Kadod that we had previously visited, so this was not his chief residence, but would still be a nice trip, she explained.
Soon, a horn was blowing outside. The President arrived in his Hyundai accent, followed by his son (an intense man with glasses who, we discovered, is a priest for the Kadod Hari Krishna temple) in another car. The three of us carefully jumped at the chance to avoid a car ride of undetermined length with a Hari Krishna and piled into the President’s car, leaving the Muslim Rashid family to pile in with the son. It was a mere 10 mile drive to the farm house, which we reached by driving through a tribal village (as it was called by the President) and down a sugarcane lined lane which ended in a large, well manicured clearing.
In the middle of this clearing was a luxurious, compact looking house with black and gold gilded gates and teak lined doorframes and windows. “Teak is a very expensive wood, costing 1,000,000 rupees,” The President’s son explained to me after we had gotten out of the car and were surveying our surroundings.
A very thorough house tour ensued. We were taken through the house, cooing obligingly as the many kitchen cabinets were opened displaying the dishes stacked neatly inside, the lights flicked on and off to demonstrate the electricity, the guest bedroom bed turned down and the closet opened, all while the prices for the various items were dutifully recited. We were even treated to a proud demonstration of the flushing of the Western style toilet.
To be honest, it felt strange: here I am, 25, having no position or formal qualifications to speak of, working for almost no pay in rural India after having spent two years in Americorps, not to mention unshowered and wearing cargo pants, and this obviously important man is going out of his way to impress me. I found myself ambivalently vacillating between being impressed and being completely put off. I would have found similar behavior in the US unspeakably gauche; but, really, who am I to judge? I wondered: was this man born into this position or did he amass this wealth and property through his own ingenuity? In a typically American fashion, I hoped it was the latter because then I would be able to muster genuine admiration.
However, what struck me most was that Daybalben, who I respect very much, was really cooing in earnest over these things, making a point to say how lovely each thing was, wonder over the price, and tell us things about the President and his important role in the life of the town. “He is the president of 20 societies,” she told us loudly, then turning to the President and chiding, “You have not told them you are the President leader of 20 societies?!” Her manner, her accent, her behavior are generally so culturally neutral that I had almost forgotten how much different we actually are. Her obsequious manner in the presence of this great man reminded me yet again how different our perspectives are and how important an invitation to his house must be for her and her family. It also made me a little sad, in the same way that I would become sad sometimes in Delhi. This difference is the reason that, for all that friendships can be wonderfully close here, they will never have the same completely candid honesty about living here that comes so easily with my American friends.
The house tour having finished, the President asked us if we would like to see some of the tribal homes that lie on the outskirts of his property. I was conflicted about this too, but said yes. I earnestly wanted to see these houses, but I knew before it even happened exactly how it would unfold: we arrived at the houses, parked his Hyundai accent outside and he called for the people living inside to come out and welcome us into their homes. They smiled genuinely, however, as we ducked under the low lying mud doorframes into the dark interiors.
“The floors are made of cow dung. Dung, you know this? Dung?” The President’s son asked us. We assured him that we did. The smooth, dung floor had been imprinted with intricate, beautiful designs made by some kind of blunt tool. We were taken through a different kind of house tour this time: shown the open cooking fire, the attached room where the buffalo were tethered for milking and where the chickens wandered freely, and lastly, the prized and beautiful stereo player.
“They live here, with no luxury, and yet they are happy,” Daybal wondered aloud. I wondered if it was true. I couldn’t dismiss the guilt that I felt at traipsing through these people’s houses with no prior invitation, but had to console myself with the fact that their stares indicated that I, with my western clothes, was as much a curiosity in their eyes as their lives were in mine. An equal exchange, perhaps?
Piling back into the car, the President took us home with a promise to take us to sugar factory in Madi once production had begun in October or November. We thanked him profusely, and as he drove away, finally had the freedom to take a deep breath.
A typical weekend after all, actually.
Best,Cat
Today, as I was walking in the bazaar, I was kidnapped.
It was a lazy Sunday afternoon and I have become more adventurous of late, itching to explore more and spend less time in the house. I lathered myself in sunscreen, grabbed my ipod (a curiosity here, to be sure) and decided I would go for a walk outside the town limits on some of the roads that lead out towards the sugar cane fields. I just wanted to spend some time alone, clear my head, and enjoy the unseasonably cool and windy weather.
However, my imagined afternoon of quiet contemplation was not to be. No sooner had I cleared the gates of the school and made my way into the bustling Sunday vegetable market than I was immediately waylaid by a group of familiar looking middle aged women whose kindly faces I could not place.
They exclaimed when they saw me and began talking quickly, surrounding me on all sides. From what I could catch, they were asking me where I was going and why I was leaving the school. “Guumana…(To wander),” I replied, using the closest possible word I could think of Hindi to illustrate my intentions.
They began to talk frantically again and I concentrated hard, trying to make sense of their highly animated speech. “Madi…3 o’clock…sugar factory…” was all I could catch, but their meaning was simple enough for me to take. They had been on their way to the guesthouse to pick the four of us to take us to the sugar factory in Madi. It suddenly hit me who these women were: Daybal’s family whose house I had visited during the call to prayer only two weeks or so ago. Her brother-in-law had mentioned their desire to take us to the sugar factory in Madi where he is a worker, but they wanted to wait until the Vice President of the factory could be present to welcome us himself. An important Kadodian, he is also the President of the Kadod High School.
Apparently, according to Daybal’s sister in law, today was the day that the President, as he is reverently referred to, had indicated would be the best to take us and they had come to get us as his emissaries. Like a lost sheep, they shepherded me back through the vegetable market towards the high school. I grimaced as we walked, knowing Priya and Melissa were practically in their pajamas still.
Luckily, when I arrived back, only moments after I had left, they were both sitting on the porch fully dressed. As I rolled in with my entourage of middle aged women in salwar kamiz, they looked at me with expected confusion. I shrugged and waited for the women to explain in their quick and muddled Hindi to Priya where we were going. Vanisha was visiting her family in Navsauri and thus was not party to this particular adventure.
In a moment, we were off, following these women to… well, I wasn’t exactly sure where we were going, but I soon figured as we turned down the road leading into the Muslim quarter that we were returning to Master Rashidbhai’s residence.
Our arrival, however, must not have been expected, as when we arrived at the house, it became clear that Rashidbhai and Daybalben were not actually at home. This was a trivial matter, however, as their relatives invited themselves in and made us and themselves comfortable in their upstairs sitting room, raiding their refrigerator for water and cold drinks. We sat, patiently, content to wait what we assumed would be the short while until they arrived home.
It was, however, exactly one hour before Rashidbhai and Daybalben arrived home. We sat making awkward chit-chat with their in-laws during this time, rehashing many of the topics we had covered in our previous visit. When they finally did arrive, Daybalben informed us that she would call the President to let him know that we were ready to go. From our perch on a swing seat, we could only catch bits of the conversation that ensued with Mr. President, but one sentence we caught clearly uttered was, “What do you mean the sugar factory is closed?
I had to bite back a laugh. Of course.
Daybalben came back to announce with sorrow that the sugar factory was, indeed, closed. Her brother in law explained to us in a Hindi-English mix that it was not the season for sugar production and wouldn’t be until October and thus the factory was not open. I did not point out the myriad of ways that this possibility could have been previously anticipated, choosing instead to hold my tongue to hear what was coming next. Daybalben explained that in place of the sugar factory, we had been invited to come to the farmhouse of the President. He had an impressive, marble floored residence in Kadod that we had previously visited, so this was not his chief residence, but would still be a nice trip, she explained.
Soon, a horn was blowing outside. The President arrived in his Hyundai accent, followed by his son (an intense man with glasses who, we discovered, is a priest for the Kadod Hari Krishna temple) in another car. The three of us carefully jumped at the chance to avoid a car ride of undetermined length with a Hari Krishna and piled into the President’s car, leaving the Muslim Rashid family to pile in with the son. It was a mere 10 mile drive to the farm house, which we reached by driving through a tribal village (as it was called by the President) and down a sugarcane lined lane which ended in a large, well manicured clearing.
In the middle of this clearing was a luxurious, compact looking house with black and gold gilded gates and teak lined doorframes and windows. “Teak is a very expensive wood, costing 1,000,000 rupees,” The President’s son explained to me after we had gotten out of the car and were surveying our surroundings.
A very thorough house tour ensued. We were taken through the house, cooing obligingly as the many kitchen cabinets were opened displaying the dishes stacked neatly inside, the lights flicked on and off to demonstrate the electricity, the guest bedroom bed turned down and the closet opened, all while the prices for the various items were dutifully recited. We were even treated to a proud demonstration of the flushing of the Western style toilet.
To be honest, it felt strange: here I am, 25, having no position or formal qualifications to speak of, working for almost no pay in rural India after having spent two years in Americorps, not to mention unshowered and wearing cargo pants, and this obviously important man is going out of his way to impress me. I found myself ambivalently vacillating between being impressed and being completely put off. I would have found similar behavior in the US unspeakably gauche; but, really, who am I to judge? I wondered: was this man born into this position or did he amass this wealth and property through his own ingenuity? In a typically American fashion, I hoped it was the latter because then I would be able to muster genuine admiration.
However, what struck me most was that Daybalben, who I respect very much, was really cooing in earnest over these things, making a point to say how lovely each thing was, wonder over the price, and tell us things about the President and his important role in the life of the town. “He is the president of 20 societies,” she told us loudly, then turning to the President and chiding, “You have not told them you are the President leader of 20 societies?!” Her manner, her accent, her behavior are generally so culturally neutral that I had almost forgotten how much different we actually are. Her obsequious manner in the presence of this great man reminded me yet again how different our perspectives are and how important an invitation to his house must be for her and her family. It also made me a little sad, in the same way that I would become sad sometimes in Delhi. This difference is the reason that, for all that friendships can be wonderfully close here, they will never have the same completely candid honesty about living here that comes so easily with my American friends.
The house tour having finished, the President asked us if we would like to see some of the tribal homes that lie on the outskirts of his property. I was conflicted about this too, but said yes. I earnestly wanted to see these houses, but I knew before it even happened exactly how it would unfold: we arrived at the houses, parked his Hyundai accent outside and he called for the people living inside to come out and welcome us into their homes. They smiled genuinely, however, as we ducked under the low lying mud doorframes into the dark interiors.
“The floors are made of cow dung. Dung, you know this? Dung?” The President’s son asked us. We assured him that we did. The smooth, dung floor had been imprinted with intricate, beautiful designs made by some kind of blunt tool. We were taken through a different kind of house tour this time: shown the open cooking fire, the attached room where the buffalo were tethered for milking and where the chickens wandered freely, and lastly, the prized and beautiful stereo player.
“They live here, with no luxury, and yet they are happy,” Daybal wondered aloud. I wondered if it was true. I couldn’t dismiss the guilt that I felt at traipsing through these people’s houses with no prior invitation, but had to console myself with the fact that their stares indicated that I, with my western clothes, was as much a curiosity in their eyes as their lives were in mine. An equal exchange, perhaps?
Piling back into the car, the President took us home with a promise to take us to sugar factory in Madi once production had begun in October or November. We thanked him profusely, and as he drove away, finally had the freedom to take a deep breath.
A typical weekend after all, actually.
Best,Cat
Sunday, July 6, 2008
Happy Independence Day
Dear dedicated reader,
“Happy Independence Day” was the message that greeted me on the board of my 11th standard class when I walked in on Friday. It had been written neatly in the perfectly formed English handwriting characteristic of my students. A similarly neat “To Miss Biddle” preceded it.
I smiled.
Independence Day seems dearer so far away from home. We wanted to do something suitably ‘American’ to celebrate, though true Americana is as hard to come by here as toilet paper. We settled on having a party: we would invite our newly made friends over for a small celebration, replete with as American style refreshments as we could muster.
No endeavor in India would be complete without a few obstacles. First of all, we have no stove in our house. All of our food is prepared by the same kitchen that prepares the food for the boys who stay in the hostel here at the school, and so no hot food could be made. We began to brainstorm some cold snacks that would be acceptable. We settled on small tea sandwiches with cheese and tomato. We also thought we’d get ‘cold drinks’ (Thums up, the Indian version of Pepsi, and Sprite) and ‘American style’ potato chips, which here means sour cream and onion. Apparently, anything with cheese is considered American here, or so we were told.
Second, who to invite? We settled on Jagrutiben and her family (the local teacher who helps us), the staff from the computer lab (all young and mostly English speaking), and the principal’s family. We invited everyone ahead of time except for the prinipal’s family (whose invitation I will get to in a minute). One by one they turned us down. Our party was happening too late. They lived too far away. However, their excuses operated on another level as well: one of the young guys who works in the computer lab put it most plainly for us when he gave his apologies. “I’m just the son of a farmer and the principal is an important man. It is not suitable for me to come.” In a typically American fashion, we had forgotten about the role of social status here.
The time finally came to invite the principal’s family. I excitedly went over to see them the night before when I saw they were out sitting peacefully on their porch. I said my namaste’s and the principal’s wife gestured that I should sit.
In my broken Hindi, I began to give them the invitation. “I come to give you an invitation to a small party that we are having tomorrow for our Independence Day—“ I began
“You are having a party tomorrow?” The principal said.
“Well, yes,” I continued hesitantly. “Just something small, for independence day—“
“Who is invited?” He asked.
“Um, well – we had invited Jagrutiben and some of the computer lab teachers –“
“What time is the party?” He interrupted.
“Er, 8 o’clock—“ I said, rapidly losing confidence with these rapid interruptions.
“Jagrutiben will not come. It is too late. And the computer teachers are living too far away,” He declared dismissively.
“Ah, well, yes…” I said. “So,” I continued, “would you all like to come?”
“Will the food be vegetarian?” The wife asked me. “It should be vegetarian.” This struck me as a silly thing to say. All four of us Americans are vegetarian, as the principal’s family is aware of, I think.
“Oh, of course,” I said patiently.
“What will you have for food?” She asked me.
“Oh, just sandwiches and drinks. Very simple,” I explained.
The wife began to speak rapidly to the principal in Gujarati. They discussed something back and forth for awhile and then sent Jaydeep, the youngest son, into the house to get Sejalben. Sejalben having been retrieved, they repeated whatever they had said to each other to her and indicated that she should translate.
“My father is saying that we will get someone to help you with the cooking for the party,” she said sweetly.
I began to protest. “Oh, that is very kind, but the idea is that we would like you to be our guests. We will make the food ourselves, American food. No problem…”
“Yes, but she can make anything,” Sejalben explained. “Punjabi, South Indian, Chinese— will this do, Chinese food?”
I suppressed a laugh. How had my simple invitation morphed into this mess. “I mean, I think we’ll be all right. We will make our food ourselves. But thank you.”
“Yes, I understand this. But she can make something else to go with it,” she insisted.
Inwardly I sighed. “Chinese food would be wonderful.”
“Oh good, she makes tasty Manchurian noodles,” Sejalben said with delight. “Can she help you make the sandwiches too? She can toast them.”
“No no no, it’s all right, we’ll make them ourselves,” I insisted. “But thank you.”
The insistence did not stick as early in the morning the day of the party the hostel manager was sent to tell me that he could go buy all of the ingredients we needed to make our sandwiches and give them to the cook. I repeated our collective insistence that we would make them, this time in Hindi. Lathaben came to get the ingredients from the fridge so the cooks could make them later in the day: the insistence was repeated, this time in Gujarati by Vanisha. How many times did we have to say it, and in how many languages?
After a happy hour or so before the party of cleaning and making our sorry excuse for appetizers, the cook arrived with the Manchurian noodles. We put on some American music and a messenger (Vanisha) was dispatched to invite them over for dinner. We only have 4 plates in our house, and since those had been used for the appetizers, we also had to humbly ask that everyone bring their own plate and silverware.
The principal’s family arrived and sat in our sitting room. There was an awkward silence for a moment.
The principal finally asked us, tentatively, “So, what do we do now?”
There was a pause as I suppressed a laugh. “What do you mean?”
He continued, unsure, “Do we, uh, sing?”
The tiniest smile was the only outward indication of my inward mirth at this statement. “Uh sing? I mean, we can…”
“American songs? Is this what you do for your independence day?”
“Uh, we usually uh, just eat food and hang out and talk,” I explained. “Not too much singing. But we can if you want,” I offered.
“Oh no,” he said. He looked relieved.
“So, shall we eat?” We shepherded people towards the kitchen, mostly to avoid more awkwardness.
The food having been distributed and everyone settled with their plates, there wasn’t much talking as everyone enjoyed their food while listening to the soothing sound of Hindi film songs (we figured this was better for the atmosphere) from Vanisha’s ipod. The sound of chewing and the clinking of silverware was broken by the principal who had finished his food.
“So I can,” he paused, “go now?” He looked unsure.
We were taken aback. “Uh, yeah, sure.”
“Okay.” He smiled. “Thank you. You are our guests and now we are yours.” He smiled again and was out the door.
We looked at each other and then had to look away so we wouldn’t laugh. This was obviously the worst party of all time.
The principal’s departure served as a kind of stimulant for conversation, however, and soon we found ourselves laughing away with Yashpalbhai and Sejalben and Jaydeepbhai, who until this point I had never, ever heard speak.
At the end of the night, we let on that we had obtained some fireworks from the village. “You do these for your independence day?” They asked.
“Yeah, it’s kind of the main event,” we explained.
We had bought one huge firework, which no one wanted to volunteer to light.
“There’s a hospital nearby?” I asked them.
“Yes,” they replied, confused.
“Okay, then I’ll do it,” I said with a smile.
All the hostel boys gathered outside of their door as we went to light it. The wick caught and then everyone was running for cover behind some pillars, and for a moment we weren’t sure it would work until suddenly we were all surprised by the huge “BOOOOOOOOOOOM”.
It shot up into the air and exploded into a thousand colors. Beautiful. With cries of “happy independence day”, our guests retreated back into their house and we returned to ours to clean.
Best,
Cat
“Happy Independence Day” was the message that greeted me on the board of my 11th standard class when I walked in on Friday. It had been written neatly in the perfectly formed English handwriting characteristic of my students. A similarly neat “To Miss Biddle” preceded it.
I smiled.
Independence Day seems dearer so far away from home. We wanted to do something suitably ‘American’ to celebrate, though true Americana is as hard to come by here as toilet paper. We settled on having a party: we would invite our newly made friends over for a small celebration, replete with as American style refreshments as we could muster.
No endeavor in India would be complete without a few obstacles. First of all, we have no stove in our house. All of our food is prepared by the same kitchen that prepares the food for the boys who stay in the hostel here at the school, and so no hot food could be made. We began to brainstorm some cold snacks that would be acceptable. We settled on small tea sandwiches with cheese and tomato. We also thought we’d get ‘cold drinks’ (Thums up, the Indian version of Pepsi, and Sprite) and ‘American style’ potato chips, which here means sour cream and onion. Apparently, anything with cheese is considered American here, or so we were told.
Second, who to invite? We settled on Jagrutiben and her family (the local teacher who helps us), the staff from the computer lab (all young and mostly English speaking), and the principal’s family. We invited everyone ahead of time except for the prinipal’s family (whose invitation I will get to in a minute). One by one they turned us down. Our party was happening too late. They lived too far away. However, their excuses operated on another level as well: one of the young guys who works in the computer lab put it most plainly for us when he gave his apologies. “I’m just the son of a farmer and the principal is an important man. It is not suitable for me to come.” In a typically American fashion, we had forgotten about the role of social status here.
The time finally came to invite the principal’s family. I excitedly went over to see them the night before when I saw they were out sitting peacefully on their porch. I said my namaste’s and the principal’s wife gestured that I should sit.
In my broken Hindi, I began to give them the invitation. “I come to give you an invitation to a small party that we are having tomorrow for our Independence Day—“ I began
“You are having a party tomorrow?” The principal said.
“Well, yes,” I continued hesitantly. “Just something small, for independence day—“
“Who is invited?” He asked.
“Um, well – we had invited Jagrutiben and some of the computer lab teachers –“
“What time is the party?” He interrupted.
“Er, 8 o’clock—“ I said, rapidly losing confidence with these rapid interruptions.
“Jagrutiben will not come. It is too late. And the computer teachers are living too far away,” He declared dismissively.
“Ah, well, yes…” I said. “So,” I continued, “would you all like to come?”
“Will the food be vegetarian?” The wife asked me. “It should be vegetarian.” This struck me as a silly thing to say. All four of us Americans are vegetarian, as the principal’s family is aware of, I think.
“Oh, of course,” I said patiently.
“What will you have for food?” She asked me.
“Oh, just sandwiches and drinks. Very simple,” I explained.
The wife began to speak rapidly to the principal in Gujarati. They discussed something back and forth for awhile and then sent Jaydeep, the youngest son, into the house to get Sejalben. Sejalben having been retrieved, they repeated whatever they had said to each other to her and indicated that she should translate.
“My father is saying that we will get someone to help you with the cooking for the party,” she said sweetly.
I began to protest. “Oh, that is very kind, but the idea is that we would like you to be our guests. We will make the food ourselves, American food. No problem…”
“Yes, but she can make anything,” Sejalben explained. “Punjabi, South Indian, Chinese— will this do, Chinese food?”
I suppressed a laugh. How had my simple invitation morphed into this mess. “I mean, I think we’ll be all right. We will make our food ourselves. But thank you.”
“Yes, I understand this. But she can make something else to go with it,” she insisted.
Inwardly I sighed. “Chinese food would be wonderful.”
“Oh good, she makes tasty Manchurian noodles,” Sejalben said with delight. “Can she help you make the sandwiches too? She can toast them.”
“No no no, it’s all right, we’ll make them ourselves,” I insisted. “But thank you.”
The insistence did not stick as early in the morning the day of the party the hostel manager was sent to tell me that he could go buy all of the ingredients we needed to make our sandwiches and give them to the cook. I repeated our collective insistence that we would make them, this time in Hindi. Lathaben came to get the ingredients from the fridge so the cooks could make them later in the day: the insistence was repeated, this time in Gujarati by Vanisha. How many times did we have to say it, and in how many languages?
After a happy hour or so before the party of cleaning and making our sorry excuse for appetizers, the cook arrived with the Manchurian noodles. We put on some American music and a messenger (Vanisha) was dispatched to invite them over for dinner. We only have 4 plates in our house, and since those had been used for the appetizers, we also had to humbly ask that everyone bring their own plate and silverware.
The principal’s family arrived and sat in our sitting room. There was an awkward silence for a moment.
The principal finally asked us, tentatively, “So, what do we do now?”
There was a pause as I suppressed a laugh. “What do you mean?”
He continued, unsure, “Do we, uh, sing?”
The tiniest smile was the only outward indication of my inward mirth at this statement. “Uh sing? I mean, we can…”
“American songs? Is this what you do for your independence day?”
“Uh, we usually uh, just eat food and hang out and talk,” I explained. “Not too much singing. But we can if you want,” I offered.
“Oh no,” he said. He looked relieved.
“So, shall we eat?” We shepherded people towards the kitchen, mostly to avoid more awkwardness.
The food having been distributed and everyone settled with their plates, there wasn’t much talking as everyone enjoyed their food while listening to the soothing sound of Hindi film songs (we figured this was better for the atmosphere) from Vanisha’s ipod. The sound of chewing and the clinking of silverware was broken by the principal who had finished his food.
“So I can,” he paused, “go now?” He looked unsure.
We were taken aback. “Uh, yeah, sure.”
“Okay.” He smiled. “Thank you. You are our guests and now we are yours.” He smiled again and was out the door.
We looked at each other and then had to look away so we wouldn’t laugh. This was obviously the worst party of all time.
The principal’s departure served as a kind of stimulant for conversation, however, and soon we found ourselves laughing away with Yashpalbhai and Sejalben and Jaydeepbhai, who until this point I had never, ever heard speak.
At the end of the night, we let on that we had obtained some fireworks from the village. “You do these for your independence day?” They asked.
“Yeah, it’s kind of the main event,” we explained.
We had bought one huge firework, which no one wanted to volunteer to light.
“There’s a hospital nearby?” I asked them.
“Yes,” they replied, confused.
“Okay, then I’ll do it,” I said with a smile.
All the hostel boys gathered outside of their door as we went to light it. The wick caught and then everyone was running for cover behind some pillars, and for a moment we weren’t sure it would work until suddenly we were all surprised by the huge “BOOOOOOOOOOOM”.
It shot up into the air and exploded into a thousand colors. Beautiful. With cries of “happy independence day”, our guests retreated back into their house and we returned to ours to clean.
Best,
Cat
Wednesday, July 2, 2008
Making House Calls
Dear dedicated reader,
This past weekend, we have come to a compromise over the ban on going to students houses. We are still testing the boundaries of this compromise, but at least it has arrived.
Two students from the 9C class, the one which I used to teach and is now Melissa’s, are also in Vanisha’s spoken English class. These two boys, conveniently named Amin and Amir, told us that they wanted to take us on a tour of the town, just as the fan club of girls who follow Priya around constantly have done. “We will pick you up at 11!” They told us excitedly.
Every day, they reminded us that we were to meet them at 11 o’clock. Where they were going to take us, they had no idea. When they came for us, we were prepared for anything: sunscreen, bugspray, water, snacks. “Where will we go?” We asked them.
“To the greenhouse,” they said plainly.
The greenhouse turned out to be a mere 5 minute walk from our house, out on the main road of Kadod that leads to other villages. The boys strolled along with few words for us or each other. Touring with them was distinctly different than the clingy, chatty girls, who pointed out this and that local curiosity or repeated gossip they had heard from their mothers. The boys were purposeful and silent.
On reaching the location, they confidently strolled up to the high double doored metal gate which isolated this place from the public thoroughfare and opened it without a second thought. We tentatively followed behind. The idea of private property seems very loose here: children guide us through public and private forums as they please and no one seems to mind. All doors are open in this small village.
Inside, there was a shed in front of a massive glass and tarp structure which I assumed must be the green house. Outside the shed, women workers with their saris hiked up to their knees crouched, sorting flowers into buckets. To my delight, I saw that the flowers they were so carefully handling were Gerber daisies, my favorite.
After spending some time in the lovely, but furiously hot greenhouse, we were led away back to the main road and down some formerly unnoticed gully towards the houses of the students themselves. Along the way, the students pointed out some of the places of interest which factored importantly into their lives. “There, there is my brother’s shop,” or “Here is my house, over there”.
On reaching Amin’s house, we were lovingly ushered into the front room, which was very dark, as most Indian houses tend to be. We were given the place of honor, just under the fan, and family and neighbors crowded around as Amin’s sister offered to do our mehndi (henna on your hands). She did Priya’s first, and while we watched we were offered “cold drinks” or soda by the family, who produced 4 welcome glass bottles of Indian Sprite ‘Limca’.
As Amin’s sister did Priya’s second hand, Vanisha joked, “Don’t drink too much Limca, Priya…” The mehndi has to stay on your hands until it hardens which can take from several hours to all night long. You want to keep it on as long as possible so that it becomes as dark as it can get. This means that certain things, like eating and going to the bathroom, can become…well, difficult.
“No, no,” Amin’s sister assured us. “You can take it off by 3 o’clock.” Only three hours away.
Melissa had hers and finally I had mine. I had been holding out in case we were going to play Frisbee with the boys who stay in the school hostel later, but since we wouldn’t have to keep it on over night and could still play, I gave in.
As so often happens, once we were finished and on our way out the door, Amir insisted that we visit his house as well. There we were served ‘cold drinks’ again, despite our weak protests. A number of neighbors crowded in to his house as well, among them many of the girls whom I teach in 9B.
“Teacher,” one of them said excitedly, “We are all working on our English homework this afternoon. To my house to see?”
“Chup raho!” (Shut up!) Amir said crossly and continued in Gujarati, “They are already here you leave them alone, they are at my house!”
This made everyone laugh, including us once Vanisha had translated. However, Asiya insisted and we found ourselves dragged to her house, a room which was just above Amir’s filled with cooking pans neatly hung on the walls and onions under the bed, waiting to be sold in the next vegetable bazaar. There, her mother again produced a cold, sweating bottle of Pepsi, despite our now loud protests that we really were fine and it wasn’t necessary. The rules of Indian hospitality prevailed, and we carefully accepted another glass, making sure not to hold it with the fingers laden with drying mehndi.
Photo albums having been produced and a list of relatives abroad gone through, it was time for us to go. This time, another student of mine appeared and insisted that I got to her house as well. “On one condition,” we said, carefully. “No cold drinks!”
“Oh yes, yes,” she said immediately, taking us by the hand and leading us a little down the way.
However, what should await us when we arrived, but 4 freshly poured glasses of Pepsi. We looked from them to her mother’s open, smiling face, and kindly held out our hands to accept them. On the sly, we tried to offer them up to the small kids who had followed us through our journey from house to house, but none would accept. It was their duty to be good hosts; ours, to be good guests. And so, we drank.
By the time we reached home, the mehndi was cracking off our hands, almost dry. Priya showed me how to take a kitchen knife and scrape the now dry mint-root smelling paste off of my hands to reveal the red-orange color underneath. It should stay for about a month and every time I look at my hands I feel a little thrilled.
Best,
Cat
This past weekend, we have come to a compromise over the ban on going to students houses. We are still testing the boundaries of this compromise, but at least it has arrived.
Two students from the 9C class, the one which I used to teach and is now Melissa’s, are also in Vanisha’s spoken English class. These two boys, conveniently named Amin and Amir, told us that they wanted to take us on a tour of the town, just as the fan club of girls who follow Priya around constantly have done. “We will pick you up at 11!” They told us excitedly.
Every day, they reminded us that we were to meet them at 11 o’clock. Where they were going to take us, they had no idea. When they came for us, we were prepared for anything: sunscreen, bugspray, water, snacks. “Where will we go?” We asked them.
“To the greenhouse,” they said plainly.
The greenhouse turned out to be a mere 5 minute walk from our house, out on the main road of Kadod that leads to other villages. The boys strolled along with few words for us or each other. Touring with them was distinctly different than the clingy, chatty girls, who pointed out this and that local curiosity or repeated gossip they had heard from their mothers. The boys were purposeful and silent.
On reaching the location, they confidently strolled up to the high double doored metal gate which isolated this place from the public thoroughfare and opened it without a second thought. We tentatively followed behind. The idea of private property seems very loose here: children guide us through public and private forums as they please and no one seems to mind. All doors are open in this small village.
Inside, there was a shed in front of a massive glass and tarp structure which I assumed must be the green house. Outside the shed, women workers with their saris hiked up to their knees crouched, sorting flowers into buckets. To my delight, I saw that the flowers they were so carefully handling were Gerber daisies, my favorite.
After spending some time in the lovely, but furiously hot greenhouse, we were led away back to the main road and down some formerly unnoticed gully towards the houses of the students themselves. Along the way, the students pointed out some of the places of interest which factored importantly into their lives. “There, there is my brother’s shop,” or “Here is my house, over there”.
On reaching Amin’s house, we were lovingly ushered into the front room, which was very dark, as most Indian houses tend to be. We were given the place of honor, just under the fan, and family and neighbors crowded around as Amin’s sister offered to do our mehndi (henna on your hands). She did Priya’s first, and while we watched we were offered “cold drinks” or soda by the family, who produced 4 welcome glass bottles of Indian Sprite ‘Limca’.
As Amin’s sister did Priya’s second hand, Vanisha joked, “Don’t drink too much Limca, Priya…” The mehndi has to stay on your hands until it hardens which can take from several hours to all night long. You want to keep it on as long as possible so that it becomes as dark as it can get. This means that certain things, like eating and going to the bathroom, can become…well, difficult.
“No, no,” Amin’s sister assured us. “You can take it off by 3 o’clock.” Only three hours away.
Melissa had hers and finally I had mine. I had been holding out in case we were going to play Frisbee with the boys who stay in the school hostel later, but since we wouldn’t have to keep it on over night and could still play, I gave in.
As so often happens, once we were finished and on our way out the door, Amir insisted that we visit his house as well. There we were served ‘cold drinks’ again, despite our weak protests. A number of neighbors crowded in to his house as well, among them many of the girls whom I teach in 9B.
“Teacher,” one of them said excitedly, “We are all working on our English homework this afternoon. To my house to see?”
“Chup raho!” (Shut up!) Amir said crossly and continued in Gujarati, “They are already here you leave them alone, they are at my house!”
This made everyone laugh, including us once Vanisha had translated. However, Asiya insisted and we found ourselves dragged to her house, a room which was just above Amir’s filled with cooking pans neatly hung on the walls and onions under the bed, waiting to be sold in the next vegetable bazaar. There, her mother again produced a cold, sweating bottle of Pepsi, despite our now loud protests that we really were fine and it wasn’t necessary. The rules of Indian hospitality prevailed, and we carefully accepted another glass, making sure not to hold it with the fingers laden with drying mehndi.
Photo albums having been produced and a list of relatives abroad gone through, it was time for us to go. This time, another student of mine appeared and insisted that I got to her house as well. “On one condition,” we said, carefully. “No cold drinks!”
“Oh yes, yes,” she said immediately, taking us by the hand and leading us a little down the way.
However, what should await us when we arrived, but 4 freshly poured glasses of Pepsi. We looked from them to her mother’s open, smiling face, and kindly held out our hands to accept them. On the sly, we tried to offer them up to the small kids who had followed us through our journey from house to house, but none would accept. It was their duty to be good hosts; ours, to be good guests. And so, we drank.
By the time we reached home, the mehndi was cracking off our hands, almost dry. Priya showed me how to take a kitchen knife and scrape the now dry mint-root smelling paste off of my hands to reveal the red-orange color underneath. It should stay for about a month and every time I look at my hands I feel a little thrilled.
Best,
Cat
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