Birthday Surprise! (for you)

Dear dedicated reader,

So, I have an announcement to make, in honor of the fact that it is my birthday and this is (hopefully) the one day of the year on which I can do no wrong:

I have pierced my nose.

Some of you were already aware of this news, but since my two most dedicated readers were not (namely, my grandparents), I feel it is now time to come clean.

I have always, secretly, wanted to do this, but there was continually some obstacle or another preventing me. I considered it the last time I was in India, but I didn’t want to be “that girl who went to India and got her nose pierced” (I was already that girl who went to India, after all). The thought flitted through my mind my senior year of college, but at that juncture was looking for a job and didn’t think it was the right timing. I thought about it again my first year out of college but by then was working in a school and didn’t feel like enquiring what the school’s policy was on facial piercing. And so I put it off and put it off and put it off.

It was in this frame of mind that, at the slightest suggestion from the interns, about two months ago I made up my mind to get it done here in Kadod. Nose piercing for women is practically ubiquitous here and I felt more comfortable going to the local Kadod jeweler to have it done than I would to any piercing parlor in the US.

One night while we were watching television at the principal’s house, I happened to mention my intention to Aunty (which I have taken to calling the principal’s wife) and to Sejalben, who immediately suggested that we go the next day. My stomach lurched slightly: so soon? Just like that? After all this time of waiting and postponing, I could just go and get it done tomorrow? I felt excited and nauseous all at once.

The next evening, Sejalben instructed us to gather at the car. We piled inside, five in the back seat, Aunty in the front and Jaydeepbhai driving. I assumed, because we were going by car, that the jeweler must be in Bardoli and mentally steeled myself for the long ride. Imagine my surprise when after a two minute drive up the main street of Kadod, Jaydeepbhai abruptly stopped the car on the side of the road and Aunty instructed us to get out! We were in front of a small shop that I had never noticed before, whose glass window was set slightly up from the road such that you had to climb a few steps in order to enter the premises. I nervously did so, just behind Aunty and Sejalben, taking off my sandals before entering as is customary.

Inside, the jeweler was sitting behind a dusty glass counter, through which I could see an array of gold jewelry large and small. Aunty quickly explained in Gujarati the purpose of our visit and he obligingly took out a piece of cardboard, through which a number of gold nose pins had been unceremoniously shoved for safe-keeping.

Their sizes ranged from marble to pin head sized gold balls. After some deliberation and consultation with the others, I chose the second to smallest one. “People will barely be able to see this,” Sejalben declared. “I think you are doing this piercing for yourself only!”

In some ways, I was.

The jeweler indicated that I should take a seat on a plastic stool, and he took the nose pin that I had selected out of the cardboard. I was so nervous, I didn’t check to see if he had sterilized it or not: in retrospect, this was probably not very diligent. He came around the counter and stood over me. I took one last look at Priya and Vanisha, both of whom had their noses pierced.
“Are you sure this doesn’t hurt?” I asked them. They assured me it did not.

I steeled myself.

The next thing I knew, he had taken the end of the nose pin itself and shoved it through the cartilage in my nose. It took exactly a fraction of a second and then it was over. I blinked.

“That’s…it?” I said incredulously.

Priya and Vanisha were surprised. “I’ve never actually seen anyone do that with the nose pin itself before!”

My ordeal, however, had one final stage. The man, focusing his eyes on my nose, reached behind him and grabbed some metal pliers off of the glass counter. He slowly brought them up towards my nose and inserted them into my nostril.

“OW!” I flinched as he turned the end of the nose pin into a spiral so that it would stay in and not fall out of my nose. In a moment, his work was finished.

“Uh, okay, that hurt,” I declared. My eyes watered a little as he brought a mirror for me to admire my newly acquired facial feature in. I looked at it wonderingly. It was done!

As I stood, I could still see the gold glint out of the corner of my eye, even without the mirror. This was slightly disconcerting, but all of the others reassured me that after a few days I wouldn’t even notice it anymore.

“Just don’t eat channa (chickpeas) or anything sour,” Vanisha advised me.

“Why?” I asked curiously.

“Because it will cause a bump to be there,” she explained. The science of this is unclear to me, but I wasn’t willing to risk it.

So far, it’s been a month and all is well. I’ve changed the nose pin to a small diamond, which merited another trip to the jeweler after a misled attempt to try and change the pin myself, the details of which I will not terrify you with.

In the words of my friend Brian, “Cat, you got your nose pierced in a village in rural India? You aren’t going to be able to give blood for a long time…”

Best,
Cat

P.S. Babby, please don’t be mad!

My "Duty"

Dear dedicated reader,

The rules of Indian hospitality continue to confound me.

Yesterday to my horror, I was told by my co-teacher Tabussum that one of the school peons who has been so kind and helpful to us, Vikrambhai, had been in an accident. The subject came up because another of the school’s peons was making the rounds in the staff room to collect donations to pay for Vikram’s hospital bills. Apparently, he had been doing some work from the school and had fallen from a desk and cut his leg. There had been some blood, but as it didn’t seem serious, no one was overly concerned. After school, he had gone immediately to his farm and strongly exerted himself in this work, which led to the wound in his leg becoming infected. He had gone to the hospital for an operation, but the operation had been unsuccessful, so now he is in a hospital in Surat.

Saddened by this news and eager to help out, I asked to be able to put my name down for a contribution as well. She cheerfully passed me the paper on which she had written her name and said I could give whatever I felt comfortable giving. I was told that since my money was in the guesthouse, I simply had to find Manubahi (the peon taking up the collection) the following day and give him my donation.

Last night, I carefully put aside the money that I would donate with my school things so I would not forget, and this morning I went in search of Manubhai. I found him after only a short while, talking to another male staff member just outside the computer lab. I pulled the money out of my pocket and made to hand it to him.

He looked from me to the money and back and shook his head.

“What’s wrong?” I asked, in Hindi. In English, I added, “This is for Vikrambhai.”

He shook his head and said something that I didn’t understand. I looked at him, confused, and he shook his head again.

At the moment, Dhirinbhai, the computer teacher whose English is excellent, came down the stairs and Manubhai looked at him and repeated what he had said.

“What’s the problem?” I asked Dhirin.

“You see, you are our guest, at this school, and so we cannot accept your money,” he said, repeating what I suppose Manu had been trying to say.

I made a face. “What is this,” I said, trying to hide my irritation, “this is for Vikrambhai, he’s been so good to us!”

“Yes, I understand that,” Dhirinbhai said, “but ‘Sir’ has instructed us not to take your money.”

I didn’t know what to say, so I made another impatient face. There was an awkward pause where they looked at me and could clearly see my displeasure at this pronouncement.

“Sir has told you this,” I repeated.

“Yes,” Dhirinbhai said again, “and I think that if it’s a problem, you had best talk to him.”

“I will,” I said.

I went upstairs to the principal’s office. I was a little nervous, as my last encounter with him had been over the bicycle, and while I was sure that this would not still be a sore subject, I couldn’t help feeling a little apprehension. However, I soon quelled this with the thought that really this was too much. I couldn’t help donate to someone’s hospital bill because I was a ‘guest of the school?’

It was a few minutes before his office was free for me to enter, so I had this time to think over what I would say.

He welcomed me in and indicated that I should sit.
“What do you need?” He asked me with a smile.

“Sir,” I began slowly, “I heard from the other teachers that Vikrambhai has had an accident.”

“Yes,” he said, with concern, “he is in the hospital in Surat. Yesterday I have been to see him and he is doing well. He should be well in – 15 days, I think.”

I was relieved to hear this news. “Sir, I saw that the staff has taken up a collection for his hospital bills and I would also like to donate, but I’ve been told that you say I cannot do so?” I phrased it as a question.

“You are our guest, and therefore we cannot take your money,” he explained slowly.
”Yes, I understand,” I said, “but Vikrambhai has done so much for us since we’ve been here and been so nice to us… I really want to help.”

“Yes, I know,” he said, “but it is not necessary for a guest to give money.”

I pressed on, and suddenly had a flash of inspiration. “Sir, I really feel it is my duty to give money to the collection, as Vikram has been so good to us and it would not be right for me not to do so.” I had heard this line before from almost every Indian I know: It was Dhirinbhai’s duty to help us establish our cell phones, it was the principal’s duty to provide us with games and entertainment, it was our acquaintance Manishbhai’s duty to take tea to his mother each day at her shop.

This appeal seemed to affect him. “If you want to give money, I have no objection,” he said at last.

“I do,” I insisted.

He called for Manubhai to bring the list into his office and I was finally allowed to hand him the money that had been in my pocket. He seemed pleased, and I wondered if it was mere formality that had not allowed him to say yes before.

Confound the rules of Indian hospitality. Who should have to appeal to give money for someone’s hospital bills?

Best,
Cat

An Unexpected Solution

Dear dedicated reader,

And just like that, as things are wont to happen in Kadod, my bike problem has been solved.

Of course, the solution came out of one of the bike’s very problems: the attention it draws. You see, seventh period I went to take my all boys class, 9D. With exams starting this week, they have been rowdier than usual recently, and today was no exception.

“Please take out your books and your notebooks,” I began.

“Teacher—“ One student interrupted. “We don’t have.”

I looked around the room at the sixty five faces looking back at me blankly. “You didn’t bring your books?” I asked them incredulously. “All of you?”

“Teacher – “ the same student started, “we – no class… 6th….”

I have learned, over the past few months to decipher such incoherence as I am often on the producing side of it when trying to speak in Hindi to other adults.

“You thought you weren’t going to have class after 6th period because exams start tomorrow,” I finished for him.

He looked relieved. “Yes, teacher.”

“Well,” I said, addressing the whole class, unsure of what to do, “I assume you all brought notebooks and pens. Or,” I added sarcastically, unable to help myself, “are these basic tools of the school day at home as well?”

The students began shuffling around in their bags for their notebooks and pens. I looked at the clock and winced at the wasted instructional time, and at the fact that I now had to make an impromptu lesson plan that would capture their attention for the next 25 minutes. “Since your exam is approaching, very soon, it would seem, I’ve prepared a review of Units 5 through 7 for today..."

I settled the students into busily copying some review notes that I had written on the board when one of the students named Vicky called me over.

“Teacher, Spoken English class is today?” He asked quietly as the students around him vigorously copied what I had written on the board. Since the interns have left, Melissa and I have assumed responsibility for before and after school one hour Spoken English instruction.

“Yes, I think so,” I said.

“But, school will be out early. No eighth period. Exams,” he replied. I hadn’t anticipated this. Perhaps if I could understand the Gujarati announcements in the morning I too would be in the know, but as it is, it has become a matter of course for me to obtain my information on the fly this way.

“Well, I guess we’ll see who shows up,” I said with a shrug. I was about to walk away when the same student stopped me.

“Teacher,” he said quietly, “Your bicycle?”

I had to laugh a little. “Yes, it is mine.”

“From Bardoli?”

“Yes.”

“And you ride it?”

“Well,” I confided, “I did, but there is some problem in it.”

He looked excited. “Teacher, I service your bicycle!” He said it so loudly some of the other students stopped copying what was on the board.

“We’ll talk about this after class,” I said, giving the teacher-look to all who stopped copying, causing them to laboriously take up the task once again.

After an arduous twenty more minutes of corralling the sixty five students’ attention on the last period of the day before school lets out early and the day before exams begin, the bell rang and the students poured out of the classroom, pushing each other in their race to see who could sprint to the gate (and freedom) first.

A few of my boys from the afternoon Spoken English class hung back, including Vicky. It took me a minute to realize that the reason they were hanging around was to see my bicycle.

“All right, let’s go,” I said, laughing. As we walked over to the house I explained the problem about the chain. They listened studiously and nodded a few times. After reaching the house, they waited on the porch (as per the rules about students not being allowed in our guesthouse) as I wheeled the bike out from its hiding place in our sitting room.

“Oh teacher,” they cooed, “very nice cycle.” I fielded the normal questions: where did you get it, how much did you pay, how did you bring it back, how much did you pay, why did you pick this one, how much did you pay, all as gracefully as I could. Then it was time for business.

Vicky and another student, Amir, crouched down to examine the chain. They spotted the problem in under one minute and explained it to me in even less time.

“Teacher, the chain is too loose,” they said, pulling at the offending part to show me. They explained that I can get it fixed in town and that they’ll come on Sunday to take me to the place (a relative of Amir’s) to get it fixed.

Problem solved, just like that. I have to agree with Melissa’s observation: “We should just ask the kids everything. They are so helpful and way less judgmental!”

True that.

Best,
Cat

Unanticipated Problems

Dear dedicated reader,

So, I suppose that I should not be surprised that not everything is working out quite the way I’d anticipated with my new bicycle.

First of all, it has attracted far more attention and questions than I ever could have anticipated. I believe that there are a few reasons for this:

Reason #1: I am unavoidably hard to miss in this small village. Everyone in town knows everything I buy, everything I do, how much I spend on chocolate in a week, how much I spend on phone calls, where I walk, who I talk to and whose shops I patronize. Nothing is secret here. So, it should come as no surprise that morning after I buy my bike, I go out in the village to buy some bread and every student as well as many adults I run into ask me about my new cycle.

Reason #2: Buying a bike here is akin to buying a car. In a village where so many people get around by bicycle and many cycle to and from their villages on a daily basis, cycling is not seen as a leisure activity but rather as transportation, driven by the necessity to be at work or to be back at one’s home. As I live at the place that I work, the purchase becomes something of a cultural puzzle.

Reason #3: I have yet, I have realized suddenly, to see a woman actually pedaling a bicycle. Riding on the back, sure, but pedaling? No.

What have I gotten myself into?

All of this is compounded by the fact that, after taking a morning ride on Sunday, I have realized that my shiny new bike may have some not so shiny problems.

I set out early on Sunday morning, excited to test out the new bike when the traffic and the weather would be a little more favorable. As I walked the bike outside the gates of the school, the guard looked at me questioningly. “Where are you going?” He asked me in Hindi.

“Um, to wander,” I replied. It is, after all, practically the national past time.

After wheeling it some way, I finally pulled together my confidence and jumped on. As I began to pedal, I felt unsure at first, especially as one of the many chickens that wanders through the market darted into my path, but having faced this obstacle my confidence grew and soon I was peddling along at a respectable speed.

I encountered a few of my students as I navigated the winding back ways of Kadod: I didn’t dare take the main street for all the attention that it would attract, even at this hour of the morning, and I didn’t feel like parading the fact that I had a new bike just yet. The few students I did see looked at me in smiling disbelief: What on earth is the American teacher doing now? written across their faces.

I had just peddled out to the main road and was approaching the town garden on the outskirts of Kadod proper when I heard a large cracking sound as I pushed the pedal down with my left foot.

I paused for a moment. That couldn’t be good.

After coasting for a few moments, I tried pushing the peddle again with my feet, and the crack came again, louder this time and all of a sudden the tension in my pedals was gone. I squeezed the hand brakes, bringing the bike to a stop on the side of the road.

I dismounted and crouched down to see what the problem was. The chain had disengaged from the two tracks. I fiddled with it for a moment, trying to figure out how to put the chain back on. Why hadn’t I paid better attention when Spence was teaching me all those things about bike care in January? I fiddled with it some more. All I succeeded in doing was getting bike grease all over my palms.

I took a deep breath out and thought about what to do.

Luckily, I didn’t have to think long. “Ma’am!” I heard someone call from over my shoulder.

I looked back. A skinny young man who was sitting outside his shop was calling to me and gesturing that I bring over the bike. I obliged, and watched as he sat down to fix the problem. A couple of older men who were sitting and enjoying their morning chai came over to watch the excitement.

After a few moments, he had restored the chain to its original position and I was thanking him and was on my way.

I felt happy: problem solved, people in Kadod were so nice, and life was good. I was about to hit the open road, past the very outskirts of Kadod when I heard the same loud crack and the tension was gone yet again. I was only about 300 yards from the last site of repair.

I stopped once again and examined the problem. This really can’t be that hard, I thought. I’m sure I can do this. But after fiddling with it for 5 or 6 minutes, I found that I was still as baffled as I’d been the first time.

Up the hill next to the road a little ways was a series of tribal homes. One of the men from these came up behind me and gestured that I should move aside and let him try. He mumbled some things to me which I couldn’t understand and I obliged once again.

This time, the chain had seriously disengaged and it was some time before he got the bike up and running again. I was ready to take off when he put up a hand to stop me, indicating that I should wait. He called something up the hill and one of the woman ran off.

She quickly returned carrying a plate full of some kind of ash or sand, which she sprinkled up and down the bike chain, I assume to give it some traction so it would stop slipping off. I thanked him profusely and was on my way again.

No sooner had I pedaled just out of sight of their house, but the crack resounded once again. I cursed and jumped off the bike, this time seriously irritated. What the hell was wrong with my bike? I was determined to fix it myself this time, with no assistance, since it seemed that the problem itself was determined to be reoccurring.

After some 10 minutes of fiddling, I was able to reengage the chain and was off and running. I had decided, after some irritation, to turn around and peddle home since this expedition was turning out to be less successful than I had previously hoped.

The problem, however, of the chain disengaging happened no less than four more times between there and returning to the house. It came to the point where I considered walking the bike home.

Frustrated, I finally dismounted the bike outside the gate of the school and walked it inside. What to do? Who could I ask for help? Should I take the bike back? Was this a normal problem? Had I spent my money foolishly? All these questions were in the fore and back of my mind.

I think the hardest part is that this bike has been the first purchase that we didn’t necessarily need, but rather wanted. So, already there is some guilt. The idea of being able to ride the bike out into the countryside seemed so healthy, so enjoyable. I suppose reality is rarely so picturesque.

And in the meantime, I need to figure out how to fix my bike. It’s red shininess is already starting to grate on my nerves.

Best,
Cat

My New Bike!

Dear dedicated reader,

I have acquired a shiny, beautiful red bicycle.

Ever since I arrived here, I have wanted a bicycle. Despite the fact that the driving here is at best erratic, the country roads here are generally empty and I can only get so far on foot. Though I know there is not so much to explore, still, the promise of freedom from my immediate surroundings was enough to keep my cycling dreams alive.

I have been slowly doing my research via my students. A number of them have bicycles, and from gradual questioning I deduced where a bike could be found and how much I should pay. When I mentioned my cycling aspirations to the director of the Foundation he didn’t seem opposed, and this encouraged my fledgling dream to grow into the full force of action.

Last weekend, Melissa and I ventured out to the nearest town, Bardoli, as we are sometimes wont to do. After checking up on my phone which is in the process of being unlocked, buying some hairclips and (to our delight) discovering Bardoli’s one and only Baskin and Robbins, we found ourselves looking for shelter from the rain. It was then that I saw the cycle shop.

A shop in India can mean any number of things: a proper glass windowed building with shelves upon which wares have been neatly arranged for perusal by a shopper, a room that opens up into the street with a counter and good stashed behind like medicine and batteries at a gas station or a garage of sorts with commodities hanging every which way and piled high to the ceiling. This bike shop was of the last sort, with bikes piled this way and that, making it so difficult to enter the garage like structure that Melissa and I merely waited under the edge of the tin roof to be noticed by the men repairing cycles left and right.

Finally, a man came to me and said, “Bolo!” which in this particular situation basically meant “Tell me what you want!”

“I…uh… need a bike,” I said in hesitating Hindi. I wasn’t exactly sure what the procedure would be here, as I’ve never even bought a bike from a proper bike shop in the US.

“Ladies cycle?” He said gruffly, after I repeated myself.

“Er, yes, for me,” I replied.

He yelled something to someone over his shoulder and a thin man scurried to bring out a beautiful red one speed bike with hand brakes and a cute little bell on the handle bars. I looked at Melissa.

“I mean, that’s pretty much perfect, right?” I asked her. It was truly a gorgeous bike.

“It looks good to me,” she said, admiringly.

It felt so impulsive, but the next thing I knew, I was asking the man how I could get this bike back to Kadod with no car, and he insisted that we could take it back in an autorickshaw for merely 80 rupees. How we were to fit Melissa, myself and the bike in was a mystery to me, but one that was soon solved as I saw how they were preparing to load the bike in and tie it at a cross angle in the back of the auto.

“One last thing,” I asked them, “Do you know where I can find a helmet?”

“A helmet?” They asked me with a funny look on their faces. It might have been amusement.

“Uh, yes,” I made a motion like I was putting something on my head. Not even motorcyclists wear helmets here, so the it’s not so strange that the concept was foreign to two bike dealers.

“One minute,” they said. I thought my luck was just too good. A bicycle and a helmet? Unbelievable!

After a few moments of waiting, the thin man who had brought out my cycle turned up again and pushed two round pieces of plastic with straps attached into my hand.

I looked at the owner questioningly.

“Helmets,” he said gruffly by way of explanation. I turned the pieces of plastic over in my hand. Oblong shaped, they were clearly meant for children. On the inside was printed, “THIS HELMET IS NOT FOR SAFETY PURPOSE AND IS A TOY.”

“Uh, thanks,” I said. Then he loaded us into the auto and they tied the bike on. The ride back to Kadod was an exhilarating one. I finally had my bike! However, despite my elation, there was a part of me that was cringing in anticipation of the scene that I knew it would cause when on our return. I was right to worry.

As soon as we reached the temple, the autorickshaw began to accumulate children, looking at the red cycle with awe. “Miss!” They asked me. “Is it for me?”

I laughed. “No, it’s for me!” I said with embarrassment.

They ran alongside as the auto slowed to approach the gates of the school. “You can ride a bicycle, teacher?” They asked in disbelief. I chuckled and nodded.

As they opened the gate to allow the auto to enter to unload the bike, I checked and saw that the principal’s car was indeed in the driveway. I had hoped that perhaps the principal’s family would not be home when we got back; it would make the process of at least unloading the bike slightly less… spectacular. They were still inside their house, so a little ray of hope was there that I could get the bike in without their seeing.

However, covert operations are not possible in my life here: as soon as we pulled in, all the hostel boys who were hanging around in the main courtyard came over and crowded around the auto, making it impossible for us to even get out.

“Ma’am! Ma’am! What is this cycle?” They yelled at me excitedly.

“It’s, uh, for me,” I said, my embarrassment increasing with every second of attention. The principal was sure to come out with all the commotion. The boys helped untie the strings holding the bicycle in place and helped me unload it. Melissa and I practically fell out of the back behind it.

As soon as I recovered my balance, I saw the principal standing on the porch, looking at the cycle, then at me. He made what I like to call the Indian “what-the-hell” gesture: a shaking of the upturned palm with index and middle finger pointed out, something like unscrewing an upside down jar.

“Uh, Melissa,” I said, “Can you take care of the auto while I take care of this situation?” She nodded understandingly.

I hurried up the walk towards the principal’s porch where his face still had that annoyed, questioning look.

“What is this?” He asked me as soon as I arrived.

“Uh, sir, it’s a cycle,” I said.

“But, why have you bought this?” He asked.

It was at this moment that I realized that it would be difficult for me to explain to him why I bought it. I couldn’t say “So that I can get away from here sometimes,” or “Sometimes it’s nice to have some alone time,” or simply “For some freedom” because any of those, from his perspective, wouldn’t be understandable. I was tongue-tied. Finally I found myself saying, in a meek voice, “For exercise?”

“But, we have so many cycles here,” he exclaimed. “We would have given you one.”

For a moment I felt foolish. But then I thought about how complicated it all was: how dependent we are on them, and how if I had asked them and they hadn’t had one they would have been obliged by the rules of hospitality to go find one and how even if I had asked them for one how long it might have taken before I could ride it and I just said, “I’m sorry, I didn’t know. But I can leave this one for the next people, so, it’s not so bad.”

“You have spent your money in vain,” he said. I felt terrible. A look of disappointment came across his face.

My face must have shown my discomfort because he suddenly said, “It’s all right. It’s all right.” He asked how much I paid and where I bought it and I told him and he said, more to himself than to me I think, that it was too late for us to take it back.

“I’m sorry,” I tried again.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” he said with a smile.

I wasn’t really sorry, though, as terrible as that may seem. I was thinking about when I could take out my new cycle and ride it out of town.

Best,
Cat

Kids and Glitter

Dear dedicated reader,

Daybal (whose name, it turns out, we may have been mispronouncing the entire time that we’ve known her) came by this morning between our morning Spoken English class and the beginning of school. We have about forty five minutes to try and put our saris on before the beginning of school and we had just completed this when she appeared at our front door.

“Can you come by my class today?” She asked. She teaches the Junior KG at the English Medium School associated with Kadod High School. It just opened this year and has only Junior KG through 1st grade. She teaches the smallest of the small kids, some only three years old.

“Sure, we’d love to, what’s happening?” I asked her.

“Today is Janmashtami, the birth of Krishna, so we celebrate with the small boys dressing up as Krishna and the small girls dressed up as Radha.” I remembered from my “Female Goddesses and Hinduism Class” in college that Krishna is an incarnation of the god Vishna and his consort’s name is the gopi (or goat care-taker) Radha. Their love is held up as an example for all in Hindu mythology, at least, as far as I remember. She told us to come by around 11:30 and we promised we would.

Lucky for us, the sheet of rain that had been pouring all morning decided to pause for the five minutes or so that it took us to walk down to the English Medium School which is located just on the other side of the temple next to the high school. We tenderly opened the gate and walked in.

As soon as we entered, we were surrounded by women in saris who took us by the wrist and led us into the classroom next to Daybal’s. “Here, take” they said in English, forcing my finger into a soft, white looking substance. “Eat,” they pushed my hand towards my mouth.

I licked my finger and instantly tasted that simple lipid otherwise known as butter. It had been mixed with sugar, which immediately brought back the words of my friends from Delhi (“Those Gujaratis mix everything with sugar!”) this past weekend. They laughed as I made a face.

“Here,” they said, pushing a packet of tannish ground up substance into my hand. “Take this as well. You eat this spice today in honor of Krishna’s birth.”

“Should I, uh, eat it now?” I asked warily.

“You can eat now or later, as you wish,” they said cheerily.

“I think I’ll, uh, eat this later,” I said, thanking them and putting it in my pocket.

Their instructions having been given, they left me alone to survey the room. I looked around and saw a sight cuter than baby puppies: small children, dressed in full glittery costume, parading around to religious music, clapping in time. Some of the children seemed confused so their teachers were firmly helping them parade in a circle by taking them by the shoulder and pulling them in the desired direction. The little children looked wide eyed at all the adults crowding around them, taking pictures. As I was admiring this scene, I heard “Madam!”

The call had come from Manishbhai, a man in the village who had come by a few weeks earlier to get help studying for an English exam that he hopes will help him emigrate to the US or Australia. His mother sells bananas in the bazaar and insists on giving us bananas for free in exchange for our paltry half hour of assistance to her son, despite our insisting on paying for the bananas. His 3 year old son is in the English medium school and was participating in the pageant, as he proudly pointed out to us. The smiling son sported a sparkling, decorative headdress, a variety of necklaces and the typical dhoti style pants.

“Your son is participating also?” I asked him in my best Indian English.

“Yes madam, yes!” he replied enthusiastically. “He is doing very well, I think. This, madam, is the birth of Krishna today and we celebrate. Radha is also there.”

Just as we spoke, a crowd began to gather underneath a clay pot that had been decorated and hung from the ceiling. One of the small boys was hoisted on top of his proud father’s shoulder and took a couple of weak swings with his flute at the pot. After one, two, three tries, he made solid impact and the pot dramatically cracked open, coconut milk fly everywhere, including all over the hi-tech looking CD player sitting on the table, which began to skip, causing me to wince. Not a lot of thought must have gone into the positioning of said pot. No one seemed to care as the coconut paste dripped down the display screen.

There was a scrambling on the ground underneath the pot and I realized that it also contained chocolates which the small bedecked Radhas and Krishnas were hastily picking up in their fat fists. The adults pushed them out of the way and took the coconut paste in their hands from the floor and began smearing it on the faces of the kids, who made faces as the paste was spread on their round cheeks.

Daybal brought us some coconut soaked chocolates in an outstretched palm and insisted we take some, which we gingerly held in our palms, unsure whether to eat them or whether we even wanted to with the strange-smelling coconut paste all over them.

Of course, as is always the fashion, our appearance caused an unnecessary ruckus as the principal of the primary school who was also present insisted that we pose with the English Medium Teachers and the students in a photo. One of the small girls grabbed the flap of my kurta after the picture was taken. I recognized her as a small child whose sister was in one of my classes. “Ma’am, this is my friend,” she said sweetly in English, gesturing with a mehndi-ed hand to her similarly garbed friend.

“Yes, yes, I am the friend,” the other girl chimed in.

Oh man. Why can’t the US have a holiday where we dress little kids up in glittery clothing?

Best,

Cat

A Remarkable Person

Dear dedicated reader,

It is unusual to meet a really remarkable person.

Last week while our director was visiting, I met one. His name is Nanubhai Nayek, and he is the namesake of the Foundation that I work for: the Nanubhai Education Foundation. As a former principal of Kadod High School, he managed the school from 1956 to 1983 and all of us had the pleasure of having tea with him.

His reputation preceded him. Having been a student during his time as principal, the driver who took us to see him at his house that afternoon expounded on his virtues for the entirety of the ride, much to our listening pleasure.

“In the time of Nanubhai,” he explained (in Gujarati translated by our director),“there was discipline in the school. No student would even think of cutting up in class – students would practically pee their pants if the principal came into a class. Teachers were afraid of being pulled into his office because they knew he’d yell at them fiercely – and he knew all the students’ names and knew all the students’ families. A family wouldn’t even think of questioning him if he hit a kid – they’d know their child had done something pretty bad. And boy, if he caught you – you were dead. There was discipline then. Once I had my shirt untucked and I still remember how he yelled at me even to this day. The board trusted him, but if they questioned a decision he made, he’d always keep a letter of resignation in his pocket and he’d take it out and say, “I’m the boss of this school and if you question my judgment, I resign!” Of course, they never took it.”

The driver went on. “He knew when kids cut school, too. If he found out someone was skipping school, he’d hop on his bicycle and go right down to the picture hall and pull those boys out of there by their ears and take them back to school. During the holidays, he’d go through all the teachers’ classrooms and test every bench and every desk and if he found anything missing, a nail, a wobbly leg, he’d make a note of it and harangue a teacher later for not fixing it. But,” the driver explained, “he was fair and generous too. For the poor students who could not afford uniforms, he’d have them come down to the school on Sundays and do grounds work for the school upkeep for a few hours and then pay them 100 rupees for the work so they could buy what they needed. But he never gave out charity – he believed the students should work hard.”

Our director echoed this, explaining that when he had approached Nanubhai with the idea of starting the Foundation a few years ago, Nanubhai had explained that the Foundation was not to give full scholarships. “Only give part scholarships, so the students still have to work some,” he explained.

The driver nodded and continued. “I have this book, The ‘Gita,” he held it up and looked back at us while simultaneously narrowly dodging an oncoming truck. “Every Saturday, Sir would read this to us and teach us how to live our lives.” He looked thoughtful. “I keep it to this day because of what he taught us then.”

My mind having been filled with these stories all the way from Kadod to Bardoli, I felt a little intimidated to meet the man behind them. As we pulled up to the gate of his large, pink house, we got out and I felt filled with a kind of apprehension.

A smiling, elderly gentleman appeared at the door of the house. “Come in!” He said enthusiastically with a wave of his hand. He disappeared into the house and we followed.

As we sat, I looked over at this man whose reputation had preceded him. He was tall and thin, but not in the way that most Indian men are thin – he had a very athletic look to him, despite being 84 years old. He was dressed in an impeccably neat white button down that had been carefully tucked into his long khaki pants. He had a stately look, though his eyes seemed far away.

He and our director chatted for a few moments in Gujarati. Our director introduced the four of us and explained that we had been doing work on behalf of the Foundation for the past two months at his high school.

Then he turned and addressed in the English of the intellectual class from the time of Raj. “How are you finding it here?” He asked us. We explained that we were happy and chatted about our work at the school. After a few moments, this topic was worn out and an awkward silence descended upon the room.

I broke it as I had a thought. “Sir,” I said, “Our director has told us that you were here to witness Gandhiji coming to Bardoli.”

He smiled. “Yes, I met him,” he said with some satisfaction. “You see,” he began, “in 1942, Gandhiji began the “Do or Die” and “Quit India” movements because he believed the Britishers should be out of India. And in that year, I took a year off from my college – I was in my second year of B.A., and I attended meetings and prayers and supported the movement.”
I was rapt. I waited for him to continue. “Hitler, the Germans, they were crooked,” he explained, “but then the British won and the next thing was for Free India.”

He continued to explain about Sardar Patel, and a number of the other Gujarati freedom fighters. He remembered when each came to the area and what they had done. After he finished, he fell silent and looked into the distance as though he were far away, transported to another time by telling these stories. To think, he had actually seen these people in the flesh!

“Sir,” our director encouraged, “tell them about your trip to the USA.”

He came back. “Well,” he began, “I have now over 100 students in the USA. And when I retired, there was a large function in 1983 to celebrate my retirement. My students in the USA wanted to do something for me, and so they arranged a trip for me.”

He told us about how the thing he was most impressed by in the US was its honesty. This surprised me. He illustrated his point by telling us the story of how he was once in a car with one of his former students and they were pulled over by a policeman for speeding. “In India,” he explained, “This would be resolved through a matter of a small bribe to the policeman and you’d be on your way. But here, it was not like this. When my student told him he was taking his former principal to the party, the policeman merely told him he could contest the ticket in court, if he so desired.” He leaned back, satisfied. “I was much impressed.”

When it was time for us to leave, I felt reluctant to go. I shook his hand and told him sincerely what a pleasure it was to meet him.

“Come back and visit,” he said in his stately English.

I intend to.

Best,
Cat

For example...

Dear dedicated reader,

Sejalben came to me the other day and asked when I was free.

My knee-jerk reaction was, “Why?” I mean, here, you never know.

“My 8th standard English class has told me that they want to meet you,” she said. “Can you come? When are you free?”

I breathed a sigh of relief. I thought perhaps she had found a forgotten disc of her already four hour wedding video which we watched a week ago. To be fair, I enjoyed most of – er, one hour of it.

We compared schedules and settled on a period today when she had that class and I was free. “They simply want to ask you some questions,” she explained. “They have not met you and they want to meet you.” I said I’d be happy to do it.

When the appointed day arrived, I met Sejalben in the staff room and she motioned for me to follow her upstairs. The 8th and 9th grade all-girl classes are ferreted away in the same hidden part of the third floor of the school. Why they are isolated in this way I don’t know – perhaps it is related to the amount of giggling that they do.

As she entered the class, the students stood up in their customary manner and said, “Good afternoon, madam” in the same well-rehearsed, choral manner that they do when I enter my classes. She waited until she had reached the front of the room, put down her things and straightened before she said. “Good afternoon, you may sit,” in clear English. I stood in the corner, awkwardly clutching my teaching materials as I eyed the room, searching for a free space on one of the packed benches to sit.

She motioned that a few of the girls should move from the first row bench. I almost protested, but as the girls motioned for me to sit, I caved and took my place.

Sejalben turned to me, “Just wait five minutes, all right? I have to teach one of the modal verbs first, and then they will ask you some questions.”

I nodded and settled in to watch her teach. The opportunity for observation was welcome.

She began to write on the board, explaining as she went in a mix of Gujarati and English that the girls would be learning the verb “may”.

Having explained that “may” means there is some possibility, she started out with a few examples. “There are many clouds in the sky,” she wrote, “so it may rain.”

“Aishwarya has come in first place in the exam last year, so she may come in first again this year.”

“Hirel is sick, so she may not come to school.”

She turned to the girls, having explained these sentences thoroughly in Gujarati. “You understand?”

One of the girls sitting in the first bench asked her a question so quietly that I couldn’t catch it.

“That’s right,” Sejalben replied. “Another example would be, there are bombs in Surat, so there may be more explosions.”

I was taken aback. Who knew that 25 (defused) bombs found in the aftermath of the explosions in Ahmedabad in a city less than an hour away from here could be fodder for instructional example? Not me…

Best,
Cat

P.S. I'll be in Delhi for the next 5 days so the next update will be Wednesday, August 20th.

Not That Kind of Hospital Visit...

Dear dedicated reader,

I had a hunch that at some point we would get a tour of Kadod’s hospital: I just didn’t know how detailed a tour it would be. The director of our Foundation is visiting this week and so we’ve spending most of the week showing him what it is that we’ve been doing over the last two months. He doesn’t often get the opportunity to visit Kadod and see the work that the Foundation does first hand, so it’s been a busy week.

One aspect of the Foundation’s work that I was not aware of is that it contributes a small amount of money a year to the local hospital here. I was aware that Kadod had a hospital: One sunny afternoon a student named Pooja approached me with special dispensation from her teacher to take me to see the town mango tree (how the inspiration for such a field trip came about I’m still not sure) and during this time she also took me by the local hospital. We did not go inside that time, since it was so close to when the news reports came out I knew it would just cause an unproductive hullabaloo and preferred instead to view it merely from the outside. On this occasion, I asked Pooja whether she thought it was a big hospital.

“You can see for yourself,” she said, gesturing expansively.

I replied that I hadn’t had much opportunity (thankfully) to see many hospitals in India.

“It is big,” she replied confidently. I wasn’t so sure.

In reality, it is a small rural hospital, but one that is very well run by the people who manage it (as far as I can tell). It has two or three permanent doctors and between eleven and eighteen visiting doctors from Bardoli, the nearest town, who keep regular hours each afternoon a week. Each year, the Foundation gives what by US standards is a relatively small donation but by Indian standards is quite a large one, so whenever the director comes to Kadod, they ask him to come by the hospital for speeches and a small presentation. This is how the four of us came to see the inside of the facilities.

We were ushered into the main office where one of the board members from the school who also plays a large role in the administration of the hospital welcomed us. He shook our director’s hand with fervour and gestured that we should sit. We had been warned to expect flowery speeches, but not to expect flowers. We were each handed a rose as we sat down, a gift for our service to the town of Kadod. The ceremony consisted of our presence, the two doctors from the hospital, our director and his uncle who lives in Kadod, and the trustee himself, who, undeterred by the smallness of the room or audience, gave a powerful speech on the state of the hospital as if he were addressing hundreds.

Afterwards, he offered to give us a tour.

We were first shown the exam room – “For a first time visit,” the board member explained, “someone must only pay 5 rupees for an exam.” This is roughly the equivalent of twelve cents. “After that, for a second or third or any following visit, they must only pay 3 rupees.” Unbelievable, I thought to myself.

He explained that many people in the surrounding villages depend on the hospital. “Kadod is a powerful village – it has fourteen thousand people,” he explained. “But,” he elaborated, “the surrounding villages are also powerful when put together and require the services of this very hospital.”

We were next shown to the lab, where blood work can be done for nominal prices. “We are not out for any profit,” he explained carefully. “We charge only what is required, and for those that cannot pay there is some help from the government.”

I could, however, barely focus on what he was saying as my eyes were drawn to some specimens that I saw in jars sitting on top of a glass cabinet behind the lab counter.

“Are those…” I began to say, but his eyes followed mine and he interrupted me.

“They are babies,” he said cheerfully. He deferred to the man behind the lab counter who began to explain that these were fetuses that had been preserved in formaldehyde.

“This one is four months,” the man explained, pointing, “this one is three months, this one is only a month and a half.”

I felt myself begin to feel sick, but I couldn’t tear my gaze away. Where had they come from? Vanisha, an aspiring doctor, asked some questions to the man in Gujarati, I assume about their origin, but I couldn’t understand his answers. As the others moved out of the room, I stared a little longer, then pulled myself away to follow.

The image of those partially formed babies floating in the jars haunted me as we moved on to the eye exam room. There, I saw to my delight that the eye charts were four sided blocks that could be rotated: one side for English letters, one for Hindi letters, one for Gujarati letters and finally one for numbered dots, I assume for those who are illiterate. All of the equipment that we observed looked totally modern – it was only the surrounding plastic chairs and bare walls that reminded you that you were in India.

The last stop of the tour was the “operating theatre” as the operating room is called in Indian English. The door was opened and we were told we could go in if we took our shoes off, but we merely peaked in through the door. There was no need and we didn’t to possibly contaminate anything. We were told that since the baby birthing center had opened four months ago, thirty-five babies had been born there, “so there is a great need for this facility to continue,” the board member explained. We heartily agreed.

The tour having been completed, we were ushered downstairs to the lobby and to the car which was waiting outside.

“If you will be here for one year, please come again!” The staff called after us as we went to leave. “But, you know, not for any medical reason!”

Best,
Cat

Science and Technical

Dear dedicated reader,

So, I suspect that our appreciation of the Varkel biology, chemistry and technical labs may have been a little too vocal (despite the fact that we were only being polite).

Why do I suspect this, you ask?

Today, “sir” called us to his office. Apparently, 7th and 8th periods of our day were to be a tour of Kadod High School’s own science and technical labs.

We followed the principal, slightly confused at this summons, into the chemistry lab at the far end of the school. A dark affair, even with the light switched on, the room’s corners were covered in cobwebs and the cement of the floor looked cracked, dusty, and worn. It was the first time I had seen the lab and, on observing the vials of mysterious chemicals labeled on peeling stickers in scrawling handwriting lined up in rows and rows of wooden racks on the long lab table, I couldn’t help but think of Harry Potter’s potions class or alchemy lab of old.

Despite the dismal looking site, the principal explained that the science education at Kadod High School is first rate, which I had already suspected given the sharp, inquiring minds of my 11th science students when I had them in English class.

“You see,” he said, “there is no chemical that is too dear in price for us to purchase for the good of our students. It is not this way at all schools, but at Kadod High School we think this is important. So, no chemical, priced more or less, is too dear for our students.”

It was after this speech that I began to suspect from whence the inspiration for this sudden tour of the facilities had come.

He showed us each of the chemicals, carefully reading out the labels to our appreciative oohs and aahs. Genuinely impressive, however, was the cabinet of chemical mixtures that the students had made themselves. “This is toothpaste,” he showed us. The cabinet also included amongst its many vials, stamp ink and baking soda. Unfortunately, he explained, the students were no longer allowed to make these things as per government regulation. I briefly wondered what horrible accident could have occurred to prompt such a regulation’s passing.

We moved on next to the biology lab, where the kindly science teacher who always smiles at me in the staff room showed us the collection of preserved small animals: frogs, squid, snakes, insects. I kept my distance from these specimens, happy to look from afar. There was a reason I was happy that AP Biology didn’t have time to do any real dissections. The biology lab had the same dilapidated look as the chemistry lab. The bottled specimens and human skeleton only added to the haunting feeling I had walking through the facility.

Finally, we saw the technical labs. The technical labs are the equivalent of shop in the US except that this subject is taken with a far greater seriousness than you usually find at most schools in the US. The technical students, along with the science students are some of the top-scoring students in the school. The bell had rung for recess, but for 8F it was not be as the principal gave them a stern look as they left to join their free peers in 10 minutes of revelry. They were made instead to repeat for us what they had learned in the previous lesson.

Soon, the next class, 9F came in for welding instruction. As we walked to the building in which these students learn how to weld metal structures with precision, the principal pointed out one unusual facility: a “Science Park”, located behind the technical building.

As it was raining, we ourselves could not go out to explore the science park, so of course one of the school peons was called. The park itself resembled a jungle gym or a traditional playground, except that each structure was designed to illustrate a different concept in physics. The principal patiently explained each of the different experiential learning games from our dry position under an awning as the peon, who was quickly becoming soaked in the beating rain, unhappily followed his instructions to demonstrate each game for us. The whole idea of it was exactly the kind of instruction you want to bring into classroom learning, especially physics, so I was very impressed (though sorry for the unhappy peon).

The tour finished with our traipsing into the physics lab where we received a forty minute physics lesson in rapid English from the physics teacher, who attended an English medium university. While his instructional English was exceptional, his conversational English left a little to be desired. Most interesting for me was that my 11th science students were called in to listen.

Afterwards, as the girls went to leave, I asked them, “Could you understand him when he speaks this quickly?”
They nodded and smiled.

“I will have to change my lessons, I think,” I replied, thinking of the slow, simple English I use in class because my accent is difficult for the students to understand.

Throughout the tour, I kept thinking: Why wouldn’t a student want to go into sciences when all the most interesting class activities and instructional methods are employed by the teachers in this discipline. The principal showed us the many opportunities that students have to think critically, to solve problems on their own, to do hands on learning in small sections. What student wouldn’t want to have more opportunities to do this? And yet these opportunities are reserved only for the top-scoring students.

In contrast, we recently finished a unit in my English class where I wrote an essay on the board and the students copied it word for word, ostensibly so they can memorize it perfectly to reproduce it exactly for the exam. They will memorize not one, but three or four of these essays. Teaching them in any other way is out of the question as, if they make ANY mistake in grammar or spelling on the exam, they will lose significant marks. The system itself reinforces such ridiculous teaching methods for learning languages here. Why would any student willingly choose to focus on humanities when this is how they are taught and assessed?

But then I have to wonder: which came first? The teaching methods and assessment systems or the jobs which they are training students for? Indian scientific and technical jobs which pay well and ask the employees to use such critical thinking skills are more numerous than humanities jobs here which do the same. Is the educational system merely training students in the skills that they will need for the vocation that they qualify for with the marks that they receive?

I find that the longer I teach here, the more food that I have for thought.

Best,
Cat

KIPP India

Dear dedicated reader,

A few days ago we visited more schools for the Foundation in the hopes of finding good sites for expansion. These visits were as equally interesting and thought provoking as the last, though for different reasons.

For the first, I offer you a profile of Mandvi High School: 4000 students, 1-12, ~100 teachers. Average class size: 115. In some of the classes that I observed at Mandvi, there were so many students in the class that the teacher had literally no room to move around and had to stand stationary next to the front row desks which were just the beginning of the rows and rows which had been crammed into the every room.

The principal of Mandvi couldn’t have been nicer but even he seemed overwhelmed by the capacity issue. “How to teach 115 when they are in a class?” He said with a shrug. “I don’t know.”

In each class I saw, some students were busily copying away what was on the board and attentively listening to their teacher while others, especially those in the back row, were asleep. Outside of the classrooms, some students sat, dozing during their physical education class, or simply talking to their friends in a field next to the school. When the principal took us on a tour of the grounds, I watched two boys in blue uniforms scramble quickly over a fence and run as they saw the principal coming. With so many students, how can one possibly keep track of them all?

Our visit here was short lived. It seemed like the kind of school that one could easily get lost in.

As we pulled up to the next school that we were to visit, Varkel, the principal of Kadod High School turned to us.
“This school,” he announced, “got one hundred percent in their exams last year.”

Kadod High School and Varkel School and all of the schools that I’ve mentioned in this blog so far, are schools whose populations are made up of at least 85% SCST students. SCST is a common abbreviation here in India meaning ‘scheduled castes and scheduled tribes’ or students for whom there are special provisions made in both the Indian constitution and the local state constitution. These special provisions can include extra resources or funding for schools that have these students, special spots reserved for these people in state administrative positions, and other types of reservations. It is, as I understand it, India’s way of addressing problems of not only representation but also histories of institutionalized inequality.

I was anxious to see what this school Varkel was doing so right with the education of these students that they were getting 100% in their exams.

After the perfunctory introductions, the principal of Varkel took us on a proud tour of the school. As directed by the Foundation, we told him that we were most interested in the English program and the computer labs, but our tour was comprehensive. As we made our way into the biology lab, he told us that the school was open 365 days of the year.

“We have school here everyday!” He announced to us, waiting for our reaction.

“Really?” I asked. “Everyday?”

“The teachers come here everyday, no days off. The students can come here anytime to study. They have school 7 days a week, half day on Sunday,” he explained.

I pondered his words and my mind flitted to my other would be life as a KIPP teacher, the one I might have been pursuing if I wasn’t here. If you are unfamiliar with the Knowledge is Power Program model, these are a network of charter schools in low-income, low-access areas in the US that have extended the school day from 7:45 am to 5 pm to increase the opportunity to impact student achievement and have half days on Saturday. Their teachers are given cell phones which they must have on until 9 o’clock at night so students can call for homework help. Could I have stumbled on KIPP India?

As we went through the school, it was clear that the principal wouldn’t be interested in an initiative like ours at his school, but I was captivated by what I saw around the school. It was 2000 students strong, similar to Kadod High School, but everywhere we went, I saw students studying, reading books. Even students with free periods who were sitting outside were reading.

The man who was assisting the principal in the school tour told me that the principal had won an award for best principal in Gujarat. “He’s also the president of the principal’s association in this area,” he confided to me. I eyed the man in question, who was in the middle of telling us about the schools’ award winning Kho-Kho team (an Indian sport that would be too complicated to explain here. Needless to say you won’t be watching them televised in Beijing).

“Three hundred of our five hundred 12th standard students go on to college,” he explained as we headed back to his office for tea after our tour. I was impressed, though saddened that this was an impressive statistic.

As we left the school, I couldn’t help thinking that I’d want to come back and observe this remarkable school more. These thoughts were shatteed by a single sentence from the principal of Kadod High School.

“What did you think of the school?” He asked.

“I was very impressed,” I said honestly.

“Yes, they are good, but not as good as Kadod High School,” he said thoughtfully. “You see, they cheat in their exams. They let their students use their books.”

I was taken aback. “Really?”

“I was appointed by the state to look into it two years ago,” he explained.

KIPP India? Perhaps not.

Best,
Cat

The Great Mangal

Dear dedicated reader,


“Madam!” An excited Hitesh drew my attention over to his bench during a writing assignment in 9D. “Are you going to see the magic show?” He asked me in Hindi, with a big smile.

“Yes,” I answered, enforcing my English only class policy. “Are you?” The students had to pay 10 rupees if they wanted to see the show, so not all the students could go.

“Yes!” He said, raising his eyebrows and wiggling his head with excitement. He could barely sit still.

As soon as I begin to think that life is going to get boring here, something new happens. With yoga class over, I was in need of some new entertainment. Lucky for me, Mangal the Great must have heard my cry.

After lunch, I walked over the school auditorium, a term I use loosely as it is really just a large, stone building with an empty inside and a wooden platform for a stage. There are some stacked plastic chairs in the back for teachers. Outside, I could see the mountains and mountains of discarded shoes that indicated the students were inside, already seated.

As I entered the hall, I was first impressed by the sheer number of students that were able to fit on the floor. The entire 8th, 9th, and 10th grades had been brought in and were sitting practically in each other’s laps on a large tarp which covered the floor of the hall. I scanned across the black haired heads on the boys’ side for Hitesh. Finally I saw him, seated in the second row of boys, chatting excitedly with the other boys while waiting for the multicolored curtain which had been erected and hung across to hide the staging area.

I took a seat in one of the cream colored plastic chairs provided for the secondary teachers in the back. I had no class until the last period of the day, so I settled in, feeling excited to watch the show.

The music started and the students’ began to clap in time: I laughed out loud. The song they were clapping to was the Michael Jackson hit, ‘Thriller’.

There was a sound of someone speaking Gujarati into an echo-ey microphone and suddenly the curtain was pulled to the side, revealing a mustachioed man with shoulder length hair striding on to the stage in a full-body glittering sequined cowboy suit, smoking a cigarette.

“NAMASKAR!” The man boomed into the microphone (WELCOME!) in between puffs of his cigarette. He followed this with a number of other greetings that I couldn’t understand. He took a long puff and then (to my relief) threw away his cigarette.

“Well, that was hardly appropriate,” I thought as I eyed the hundreds of impressionable young students in front of me.

Turning back to the stage, however, I saw to my confusion that he was still smoking. I watched as took a long, dramatic puff and then, threw away his cigarette yet again, only to have it reappear in his hand, lit, a moment later. This cycle continued five or six times and each time the cigarette’s reappearance was greeted with loud cheers from the students, particularly the boys. The hall filled with the stink of his cigarette, and that was when I realized he wasn’t the only one smoking. His set up crew, lounging on the side, was also smoking and expelling each puff towards the crowd of delighted children.

Having completed this trick, the Great Mangal uttered a few comic words that drew hearty laughs from the students and teachers as the music restarted. As the tune wafted through the air and the students started to clap again, I realized, with some delight, that this time it was Macarena.

Mangal and his merry crew continued to amaze through producing plastic flowers out of jars, boxes and other assorted containers, pulling a rabbit rather fiercely out a hat by the ears, throwing a dove around the stage (and one time missing and throwing it into the waiting arms of a boy in the first row by accident). His assistants were both young men and young women clad in messy jeans and t-shirts, all of whom could have used a little coaching on adequate stage presence.

The person from whom they should learn was one of their band itself: a chubby, mulleted man wearing a sleeveless black sequined top and loose green pants who took every possible opportunity to make his way to the front of the stage and thrust his pelvis in a robotic, strange imitation of dancing out at the audience. The language barrier kept me from enjoying the cheap jokes of most of the show, but at these moments I laughed along with the rest of the crowd.

Although his tricks were standard, the students seemed to enjoy the show very much. Afterwards, I asked Hitesh which was his favorite trick.

“Cigarette! Cigarette!” he shouted.

Lovely.

Best,
Cat

The End of Yogercize

Dear dedicated reader,

I present to you the following image from the end of my yoga class:

Myself in the center of a wildly dancing crowd of middle aged Indians in saris and kurtas chanting “Western dancing! Western dancing!” while techno music blares from a large speaker set on the temple floor. Given the situation, I did what anyone in the same circumstance would have done: I taught them to do ‘the robot.’ Also, ‘the shopping cart.’ But ‘the robot’ was more popular.

But, Cat, I hear you ask, what series of events could possibly have led to such a circumstance?

I have been asking myself the same question. As my one friend remarked, “Cat, Indian yoga is freakin’ weird.”

After my last installment, I seriously considered quitting yoga altogether. However, I was convinced by Melissa, a much more devout yogi than myself, to stick with it, at least for one more day. I was pleased that I did: our eye-shadowed, Pol-pot-esque instructor must have decided that we had mastered so-hum, because we were permitted to move on to what the average, uninformed westerner regards as yoga. The following three classes were much more enjoyable.

On what we believed as to be our last day of the class, Melissa and I began our Sunday morning as we usually do: We had some tea, I went for a run. Just as I returned, red-faced and disgusting, from running circles around the school courtyard, Sejalben, looking perfect in her sari, came walking up the path to our house.

“You are going to yoga class today?” She asked me, eyeing my disheveled state.

“Definitely,” I replied.

“Well, it’s going on right now,” she informed me.

“Uh, what?”

We discovered, after a rushed 15 minutes of showering, dressing, and running hurriedly to the temple, that the yoga class had been going on since dawn. We arrived at approximately 10:30 am. As we entered the hall, we joined a large circle which had been formed by the class participants. It was clear that we had interrupted some kind of group activity.

The directions were explained to us as follows: “Ego? You know ego? That is what we are doing,” our instructor told us matter-of-factly.

Right. Of course.

She called a number of people up to the front by name. They were told (I assume) to line up and face the circle. They then conducted a series of short breaths, and she then gave an instruction that was unintelligible to me in Gujarati. Everyone began to laugh, and the people at the front looked at eachother, embarrassed. They then began to roam around the hall, pretending to attack people, drooling, and one of the men even pulled his shirt off over his head (exposing, unfortunately for the class, his generous belly and hanes underwear) and wandered around, eyes unfocused and glazed.

I looked confusedly at the woman sitting next to me. “Crazy,” she explained with a nod, then pointed to them, “They are crazy.” I then realized the purpose of the activity: to make a fool out of yourself in front of the whole class.

Great, I thought. That’s practically a daily routine for us.

This went on for some time. Each time, the instructor called someone or a few people up to the front and they had to do something new to embarrass themselves. She had people leapfrog and shake their butts in saris, pretend to be monkeys, writhe on the floor. I avoided her eyes, hoping that by pretending not to understand the directions I could avoid the inevitable. It was not to be.

“MELISHA! KETRIN! COME!” The chubby, eye-shadowed buddha summoned us to the front. I looked at Melissa, and pushed myself up from my sitting position.

As I stood at the front of the room, I eyed the crowd. They looked up at us, unblinking, intrigued. The laughter which had filled the hall a moment ago was gone as they wait to see what she would give the clueless Americans.

“Breathe,” she instructed. We did the series of short breaths we had seen the others do so many times.

At the end, I opened my eyes and held my breath, waiting for the pronouncement to come.

“Dance,” she said simply.

I froze. “Dance?” I repeated, turning around to look back at her.

“Dance!” She cried and motioned for me to turn around and face the expected audience.

There was a long pause, before my brain caught up with my body and I started to do that swimming dance, you know, the one where you put one arm in front, then the other, like you are doing the crawl? Melissa joined in and the two of us shook our thang in the middle of the circle.

The instructor must have switched on some music, because all of a sudden the hall was filled with upbeat Indian dance music. Melissa and I grabbed each others hands and started to awkwardly swing dance in time to the music, twirling each other and laughing.

Since we were the last ones to go, the rest of the circle joined in (after giving a glance to make sure it was sanctioned by the instructor) and the hall soon became the site of wild frolicking. Melissa and I tried to copy their trademark Indian dance moves, but soon were surrounded on all sides with clapping and calls for Western dancing.

And that, my friends, is how the spiritual crowd in Kadod learned to do the robot.

Best,Cat

P.S. They also gave us our money back for the class. Something about being their guests. Karma?

Yoga Class, Day 2

Dear dedicated reader,

The rules were simple: no medicine, no television, no newspaper, no chai or coffee, no food after 3 pm. Yet, somehow, I managed to break all of them before yoga class started once again at 6 pm.

And this is how I became acquainted with the concept of “punishment”. When we arrived at the class, we were asked to gather around the feet of our eye-shadowed instructor and she asked those who had faithfully followed the homework to stand. This directive, while not repeated in English, seemed clear enough, so I did not stand up. She asked the standing third of the room to move to the side. Then she turned her steely gaze to the rest of us.

She said some things in Gujarati and everyone remaining stood up. Being the GFL (Gujarati as a Foreign Language) student, I slyly mimicked them. Her further instructions must have been to get into pairs, because all of sudden, lines were forming and I found myself dragged by a plump Indian woman in a purple salwar into position across from her.

“Kaan pakaro!” Eye-shadow yelled (Take hold of the ears!)

My nervous system reacted as the woman across from me firmly took hold of my earlobes between her pudgy thumb and forefinger. After a dazed moment, I gingerly reached forward and took lightly grasped her earlobes as well, smiling apologetically. My partner, however, was all business.

I watched as the instructor yelled something further out and began to count purposefully in Gujarati. “Ek! (One!)” “Be! (Two!)” “Tin! (Three!)” As she counted, the pairs around us began to slowly bend their knees and descend towards the floor, wait a moment and then rise again as she counted on.

I felt myself being pulled downwards by my earlobes and quickly let the rest of my body follow. This exercise having been completed 10 times, the woman in the purple salwar grabbed my arm in a manner I’d become accustomed to in this class and said simply, “Run!” We were sent to run 5 laps around the length of the hall. This exercise was more welcome than embarrassing, though I was clad in an easy to move in salwar while many of the women were wearing saris and quickly stopped to walk to the remaining laps.

This reign of terror could be instituted at any time during class: if the instructor received an answer she did not like, if someone disagreed with her, the cry of “Kaan pakaro!” could be heard and the person would immediately grab hold of their own ears and do awkward knee bends.

The instructor gathered us once more around her feet and began to expound on a different topic (I assume) than the day before. She would pepper her speech with periodic participatory questions and hands would raise with a loud shout of “Ha! (yes!)” At these times, I too would raise my hand, though I had no idea what I was agreeing to.

The most confusing would be when she would ask a question and only half the group would raise their hand with a hearty “ha”: I was beginning to understand how my students feel when I ask broad, general questions in class: what am I saying about myself by raising my hand? What message am I sending by not raising it? Is there anyway out of this binary?

For the beginning of her speech, I amused myself by looking out of the door of the hall into the temple courtyard where some of my students were playing happily. They smiled and waved. I thought a little about how when I first arrived here, I had lamented the lack of neutral public space to just sit and relax (think coffee shop at home), not even realizing that the temple in fact served this function. The noise of the children, along with the persistent ringing of the temple bell, prompted the closing of the garage style hall door, effectively locking us in. There was nothing left to do but turn my attention back to the front, where the instructor was in the midst of punishing someone who had too ardently challenged her point.

The offender having been dealt with, my musings were interrupted by the only English phrase the instructor uttered in her one and half hour lecture: “You see,: she said, looking directly at me, “Responsibility is your response. You understand?”

I paused for a moment, and then slowly nodded yes, not wanting to rock the boat.

The compulsory break came soon after this enigmatic statement, so I did not have much time to contemplate its meaning.

During the break, Melissa and I attempted to set our blankets up in the back of the room in an empty spot once more, hoping that no one would notice and that we would be allowed this level of inconspicuousness: however, it was not to be.

One of the instructor’s assistants came to us and pointed to the fan: “It doesn’t work” she said to me in Hindi.

“That’s okay,” I replied, “We don’t mind.”

“The mosquitoes will come,” she said ominously, taking our blankets out of our clutches and walking back up to the front. There was nothing for us to do but follow.

After one and a half more hours of the oppressive so-hum breathing exercises, we were let free with the understanding that this time, ALL should do their homework or else risk more punishment.

We shall see.

Best,
Cat