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
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
