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