A young boy and his father went to the river to bathe. As they were washing, the boy saw a woman nearby also taking a bath.
He stared at the woman with great concern. "Pappa, what is wrong with that woman's chest? Why does it look so different than mine? Is there something wrong with her?"
The father explained, "No my son. One day that woman will be a mother. And when the day comes that she has a child, she will be able to feed that child milk from her breast."
At that moment, the boy's whole world changed. He was struck with an startling moment of clarity. He thought, even before we enter this world, God has already made preparations for us to be taken care of. He is looking out for us even before we exist. What is the point of feeling anger, depression and fear? He has already paved the road for our future.
----
I'm all for believing that we have control over our own destinies. But controlling one's destiny doesn't mean controlling the circumstances in life. Once we accept that what happens is just a product of the universe's infinite colliding factors, maybe then we can stop lamenting our lack of control, and move on to appreciating each circumstance as a gift waiting to be unwrapped.
Saturday, December 18, 2010
Monday, December 13, 2010
Experiment #17: Kerosene
Last week, Kiranbhai and I organized a vali meeting to meet the parents of the kids at the Sabarmati street school. On Saturday afternoon, we spent two hours going around to all of the children's homes and introducing ourselves to their mothers. Many of them didn't know where their kids have been disappearing to to each afternoon for the past seven months.
Most of the mothers were gracious. They would welcome us in, insist on making fresh chai or running out to get a cold soda for us, and turn on the light in the house - reserved for emergencies or special occasions. Some of the mothers were apathetic. They were shy, disinterested, or busy in their housework. We would inform them quickly of the meeting at 4:30 on Tuesday afternoon where a sahib, or leader, from Gandhi Ashram would come to talk to them, and then went on our way.
When 4:30 on Tuesday afternoon finally came around, Kiranbhai and I walked up to the meeting spot with a bucket of hot nasto for the kids and a bag of sweets and snacks for the mothers. We were welcomed by two of our students, and a stray dog that visits our sessions often. The children explained that their mothers were not coming.
Kiranbhai looked at me that way he often does when we're faced with a problem. His expression read, This is unfortunate, but not all together unexpected. As he continued to stroke his chin and think, I demanded answers from the children. Why aren't your mothers here? Didn't you remind them of the meeting? Why did we come to your homes personally to invite them here?
Their response was unexpected. Each month, the government rations out kerosene to the community. Usually the kerosene distribution is scheduled for the 2nd of the month, but this time it was delayed by a few days...and happened to land on the same date and time as our vali meeting. Kiranbhai asked me to go to the children's homes and try to gather as many mothers as I could, before Maheshbhai, the sahib from Gandhi Asrham, arrived.
I tried my best, but after half an hour of chasing the children around to their homes, I was exhausted and frustrated. My Gujarati, although greatly improved over my 3+ months here, is not nearly colloquial enough to express the importance of this meeting to the mothers. Most of them were squatting in the kerosene line which stretched out of the neighborhood and across the street.
The conversations went something like this:
Masi, we called you to come at half past four. This meeting is especially for you.
But we have to fill our kerosene.
When will you be done?
We might be here until late night.
Can't someone else stand in line for you until the meeting is over?
No.
Why not?
I don't know.
Sahib is coming all the way from Gandhi Ashram. How will it look if no one shows up?
We have to fill our kerosene.
At the time, I was nearly boiling with tension. I couldn't understand why these mothers could not request their neighbor, or elder daughter, or friend to keep their spot in line for just half an hour. The meeting we had arranged was especially for them to learn about Manav Sadhna and the type of education we were trying to bring their children.
Eventually the meeting proceeded. Although there was less than perfect attendance, we were able to share with those present, the values that we hoped to impart to their children and the importance of those values starting at home.
Later that night, Kiranbhai and I were invited to have dinner at the home of one masi who has been very helpful as we have started up this street school. We sat in darkness in her tattered home as she rolled rotli by the light of a small kerosene lantern. Today, because she had guests, Masi was cooking the rotlis on a kerosene stove, rather than the slower, cheaper coals-burning stove she usually used. As she mechanically rolled perfectly round rotlis, she talked to us about the life she hoped her children could have, outside of the danger and poverty she was bound to. She told us how smart her children were, even though they love to do tofan masti, mischief, and how grateful she is that we have started a school here for them.
The women in this area know very little of the world outside of their home and their families, but they know what they have to do to survive. Even if they wanted to attend the parents meeting, the possibility of losing a month's supply of kerosene just did not seem logical to them.
I subconsciously have an ego when I interact with the people in the slum, based on the idea that I know a world much larger than they have every experienced. Maybe that's true. Maybe I've flown here from across the globe. But it is times like that moment in Masi's dimly lit home that my ego was slapped in the face and reminded to go into hibernation. I may know a world filled with much more diverse circumstances than theirs, but I cannot even begin to imagine the values and instincts they have learned in order to survive against the odds they are dealt.
In my mind, I saw as a choice between kerosene or becoming aware of how to move their children forward in life. In their minds, it was a choice between keeping their families warm in the December chill or visiting with outsiders from Gandhi Ashram who think they know what's best for their children.
Masi's dinner of thick rotli, cauliflower sabji and onion on the side, was delicious.
Most of the mothers were gracious. They would welcome us in, insist on making fresh chai or running out to get a cold soda for us, and turn on the light in the house - reserved for emergencies or special occasions. Some of the mothers were apathetic. They were shy, disinterested, or busy in their housework. We would inform them quickly of the meeting at 4:30 on Tuesday afternoon where a sahib, or leader, from Gandhi Ashram would come to talk to them, and then went on our way.
When 4:30 on Tuesday afternoon finally came around, Kiranbhai and I walked up to the meeting spot with a bucket of hot nasto for the kids and a bag of sweets and snacks for the mothers. We were welcomed by two of our students, and a stray dog that visits our sessions often. The children explained that their mothers were not coming.
Kiranbhai looked at me that way he often does when we're faced with a problem. His expression read, This is unfortunate, but not all together unexpected. As he continued to stroke his chin and think, I demanded answers from the children. Why aren't your mothers here? Didn't you remind them of the meeting? Why did we come to your homes personally to invite them here?
Their response was unexpected. Each month, the government rations out kerosene to the community. Usually the kerosene distribution is scheduled for the 2nd of the month, but this time it was delayed by a few days...and happened to land on the same date and time as our vali meeting. Kiranbhai asked me to go to the children's homes and try to gather as many mothers as I could, before Maheshbhai, the sahib from Gandhi Asrham, arrived.
I tried my best, but after half an hour of chasing the children around to their homes, I was exhausted and frustrated. My Gujarati, although greatly improved over my 3+ months here, is not nearly colloquial enough to express the importance of this meeting to the mothers. Most of them were squatting in the kerosene line which stretched out of the neighborhood and across the street.
The conversations went something like this:
Masi, we called you to come at half past four. This meeting is especially for you.
But we have to fill our kerosene.
When will you be done?
We might be here until late night.
Can't someone else stand in line for you until the meeting is over?
No.
Why not?
I don't know.
Sahib is coming all the way from Gandhi Ashram. How will it look if no one shows up?
We have to fill our kerosene.
At the time, I was nearly boiling with tension. I couldn't understand why these mothers could not request their neighbor, or elder daughter, or friend to keep their spot in line for just half an hour. The meeting we had arranged was especially for them to learn about Manav Sadhna and the type of education we were trying to bring their children.
Eventually the meeting proceeded. Although there was less than perfect attendance, we were able to share with those present, the values that we hoped to impart to their children and the importance of those values starting at home.
Later that night, Kiranbhai and I were invited to have dinner at the home of one masi who has been very helpful as we have started up this street school. We sat in darkness in her tattered home as she rolled rotli by the light of a small kerosene lantern. Today, because she had guests, Masi was cooking the rotlis on a kerosene stove, rather than the slower, cheaper coals-burning stove she usually used. As she mechanically rolled perfectly round rotlis, she talked to us about the life she hoped her children could have, outside of the danger and poverty she was bound to. She told us how smart her children were, even though they love to do tofan masti, mischief, and how grateful she is that we have started a school here for them.
The women in this area know very little of the world outside of their home and their families, but they know what they have to do to survive. Even if they wanted to attend the parents meeting, the possibility of losing a month's supply of kerosene just did not seem logical to them.
I subconsciously have an ego when I interact with the people in the slum, based on the idea that I know a world much larger than they have every experienced. Maybe that's true. Maybe I've flown here from across the globe. But it is times like that moment in Masi's dimly lit home that my ego was slapped in the face and reminded to go into hibernation. I may know a world filled with much more diverse circumstances than theirs, but I cannot even begin to imagine the values and instincts they have learned in order to survive against the odds they are dealt.
In my mind, I saw as a choice between kerosene or becoming aware of how to move their children forward in life. In their minds, it was a choice between keeping their families warm in the December chill or visiting with outsiders from Gandhi Ashram who think they know what's best for their children.
Masi's dinner of thick rotli, cauliflower sabji and onion on the side, was delicious.
Sunday, December 5, 2010
Experiment #16: Birthday Candles
When Nimeshbhai and I went out yesterday to buy decorations for a birthday party he was throwing for Vir (Kamlaben's son), we could not find a single birthday candle in the shape of a "1". We found plenty, though, in the shape of "0".
In addition to decorations, noisemakers, and birthday hats, Nimeshbhai went all out for the little one's big day. He ordered pav bhaji, a spicy Indian fast food-type item, and cake for more than 30 people. We went early to decorate the area around Kamlaben and Kamleshbhai's home. Within a few minutes of blowing up balloons and unrolling streamers, 15 or so kids from the slum joined in to help.
We hung balloons from the low hanging branches of the trees around the home, and wrapped the clotheslines (still adorned with clean laundry) with crepe paper. By the time we were done, the colorful and glittering toran, or decorations, tricked the eye into thinking we weren't standing in a slum.
Vir watched as this all went on, unaware that all this celebration was for him, but giggling as always as he was showered with attention.
When the time came to light the cake, I went forward to arrange the candles. As I was about to strike the match, several voices protested. Nimeshbhai and the other Manav Sadhna family who were attending, explained to me that they have a different tradition: instead of blowing them out, the birthday boy lights a candle.
"We want his new year to be filled with light," explained Jayeshbhai, "not darkness."
In addition to decorations, noisemakers, and birthday hats, Nimeshbhai went all out for the little one's big day. He ordered pav bhaji, a spicy Indian fast food-type item, and cake for more than 30 people. We went early to decorate the area around Kamlaben and Kamleshbhai's home. Within a few minutes of blowing up balloons and unrolling streamers, 15 or so kids from the slum joined in to help.
We hung balloons from the low hanging branches of the trees around the home, and wrapped the clotheslines (still adorned with clean laundry) with crepe paper. By the time we were done, the colorful and glittering toran, or decorations, tricked the eye into thinking we weren't standing in a slum.
Vir watched as this all went on, unaware that all this celebration was for him, but giggling as always as he was showered with attention.
When the time came to light the cake, I went forward to arrange the candles. As I was about to strike the match, several voices protested. Nimeshbhai and the other Manav Sadhna family who were attending, explained to me that they have a different tradition: instead of blowing them out, the birthday boy lights a candle.
"We want his new year to be filled with light," explained Jayeshbhai, "not darkness."
Thursday, November 25, 2010
Experiment #15: My First Thanksgiving
I was not expecting to have a special Thanksgiving this year, in a country where “Indians and Pilgrims” has a different meaning, and “thank you” is rarely part of a person’s vocabulary.
But last night, 40 of Manav Sadhna’s friends and family joined for an internationally inspired dinner, cooked by the volunteers. We experimented with sweet potatoes to make a pudding for dessert (which turned out more like sweet potato soup), invested several hours into a decadent paneer butter masala, and wrapped up the untraditional feast with caramel popcorn balls – which were quite a crowd pleaser.
After dinner, I joined Sunilbhai, an MS staff member, to deliver some of the delicious leftovers to two children he has been very connected with in the Old City.
I had met Karan and Tejashwari once before, about three weeks ago on Karan’s tenth birthday. The brother and sister are adorable, loving, and full of spunk. Yesterday was the first time I visited their home.
As I entered, Tejashwari greeted me warmly by wrapping her arms around my waist and burying her head under my arm. I hugged her tightly back.
Sunilbhai commented on the shocking sea-green color the children had recently painted the walls, and the pictures of their parents that had been hung up.
After the death of their parents five years, Teju, now 14, and Karan have lived on their own. They spent a brief stint in a children’s hostel in Gandhi Ashram, about three years ago. During their time at the Ashramshala, Karan began showing signs of a skin infection. Medical tests soon revealed that both he and his sister are HIV positive.
The children did not find it easy to live in the hostel. The constant schedule and routine made them unhappy, as they were used to living independently and doing as they wished. In addition, the teachers at the hostel worried about them living and playing in such close contact with other children.
Although there are other hostels in India especially for children like Karan and Teju, most of them require the boys and girls to live separately, which they are not willing to do.
They returned to their home from the Ashramshala, and ever since have been taking care of each other. Watching the prem, or love, between the siblings is truly touching. Together, they manage their house – cleaning, cooking, and washing all on their own.
Although Teju and Karan live alone and have certainly matured beyond their age due to their circumstances, there is no doubt that they are still children and want to enjoy a childhood filled with playfulness and mischief.
After welcoming Sunilbhai and I into their home, Teju rushed to find a Barbie doll she had just been gifted by the Make-A-Wish Foundation. She sat the doll down next to me and insisted that I help her dress it properly and comb its hair. Meanwhile, Karan was excitedly showing Sunilbhai the remote control car he had received.
After we left, Sunilbhai divulged his deep worry about the children. He explained that the area that they live in one of the worst neighborhoods in Ahmedabad. Although the kids have a good rapport with their neighbors, who often supply them with groceries, they have no one to look after them continuously. As a result, they have discontinued their HIV treatment.
“They don’t go to school. They don’t have much discipline. And worst of all, they don’t have an understanding about their disease,” Sunilbhai went on. “Teju is getting older now too. She is already 14. Unless they are put in a controlled environment, they might end up in real trouble.”
I’ll end with a thought that was read at prathna yesterday morning: Gratitude and sorrow cannot coexist
It’s a simple and powerful idea. The act of being thankful fundamentally negates self-pity and distress.
Despite their tragic and unfortunate circumstances, Karan and Teju are full of life and love. They enjoy whatever little they have to the fullest, and such enjoyment of simple pleasures leaves no room for sorrow in their tiny home.
Sometimes our lives need to be shown against a different background to reveal the good things we have come to take for granted. This may have been the first Thanksgiving that I have felt real gratitude for the countless blessings in my life.
I went to bed last night with my heart filled with thanks, and my brain filled with anxiety about the sweet brother and sister.
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
Experiment #14: Lost in Translation
For breakfast this morning, my Australian (Korean-born) housemate Soo, made banana pancakes. I haven’t done much cooking in the volunteer house, after an incident about two months ago when a lizard found its way into a cooking pot.
But Soo’s pancakes were delicious, and having her bubbly presence in the kitchen makes our small house, often devoid of natural light, feel large and warm.
Just now, she peeked her head into the bedroom and asked if I’d like to be a guinea pig as she experiments on how to best flavor a fresh brew of chai. I can never say no to chai, though I often wish I could-- as I’ve seen how much sugar people add to it here.
What smells like cardamom and ginger delight to my Indian self, smells suspiciously of diabetes to my young, hypochondriac, American self. It’s a struggle to balance these two brains, often in contradiction with each other.
I feel like my experience here has brought me to a point of convergence of the many brains I’ve embodied, and worlds I’ve known during my life.
First, there is the world of an American college student. The volunteer house is currently filled with girls from all over the globe in various stages of their education. We share stories about the best pizza back home, and how wonderful a pedicure would feel after walking through the slum in open-toe shoes for three months. They understand the tensions of figuring out how to put a college education to use in a way that feels fulfilling and significant, and the insecurities and frustrations that arise when we work with people from different cultures. But often, I find myself wishing that I wasn’t surrounded by people who are familiar with the mass-consumption and extreme ambition I left at home. They are a reminder that the lifestyle I’ve taken a break from still exists, and will have to be faced sooner or later.
Then, there is the world of an Indian daughter. I was raised eating khichdi and khadi, like any typical Gujarati household. My mom attempted to teach me how to roll proper round rotli when I was about nine, and we always promptly removed our shoes upon entering the house. Yet, I ate Eggo waffles for breakfast and grew up in a home that cheered for the 49ers and the Giants. Despite the obvious “Indian” forces that have shaped me, I was for all intensive purposes, an American.
In Manav Sadhna, I often feel like I am a daughter to the older staff members, with a pressure to act as a proper Indian daughter should. I should touch the feet of my elders when I greet them, to ask for blessings, and keep my hair tied in a simple, modest braid, slicked down with coconut oil. I’ve definitely grown an understanding and appreciation for traditional customs, during my time here, but I have not been able to completely embrace them. Perhaps it’s the feeling of being an imposter – trying to adopt customs that are not my own, to be accepted by this community.
Finally, there is the world of a seeker of spiritualism. The ideas of karma, nirvana, and atma (soul) have made appearances in my life for as long as I can remember. My mom has been a faithful advocate of the power of spirituality in finding happiness, and forceful in her insistence that the rest of the family find a similar faith. Perhaps it was a case of teenage rebellion, or simply a lack of context in my trouble-free childhood, but these beliefs had never truly struck a chord with me.
Everyday, I see people with lives drenched in tragedy and uncertainty, who somehow manage to make it through each day. This setting has brought new meaning to the spiritual terminology I’ve been listening to for years. It is not a solution to the problem; it’s a lens through which to look at our problems and untangle the unfair or unexplainable circumstances we are dealt.
The problem with living at the edge of so many worlds is that the logical course of action in one world, may not convert so logically into another. Each world gauges value by a different metric.
I worry that the value I add to my life here will be lost in translation when I return home and to school. The importance of spirituality and service at Manav Sadhna has fostered my belief that faithful service will contribute to bringing humanity forward, even if the results are not immediate or tangible, and as a result, bring me forward.
However, in the setting of competition at college, tangible results seem to be the only thing that matters at the end of the day. We measure our worth in terms of grades and income, on an individual level, and by the abstract figures of GDP and stock values, on a larger scale.
Yet, the single number of a GPA that is meant to embody one’s intelligence is really just a reflection of what limited knowledge a person happened to know at a given time. It (most often) doesn’t reflect a curiosity in pursuing new experiences, or the ability to survive in a resource-poor setting. Similarly, a country’s GDP is supposed to be a measure of economic prosperity and quality of life, though it includes the amount of money spent on advertising by cigarette companies, to build jails for convicts, and to clear trees in order to build sprawling new highways (borrowed from John Robbins’ essay, “The Economics of Happiness”).
In essence, these tools all fail as they attempt to quantitatively measure things—intelligence, success, prosperity, happiness – that are inherently qualitative in nature.
I haven’t yet decided how to translate the value I have earned in India to my life back home. And, I haven’t yet decided if I’m okay with presenting my friends and family in America with the un-translated version, and allowing them to piece together their own renditions of my experience, determined by what represents value in their world.
Saturday, November 6, 2010
Experiment #13: Happy Diwali
I've been down with a cold for the past five days. While the rest of Ahmedabad has been outside setting off fireworks and lighting candles to celebrate the festival of lights, I've been medicated in bed.
Apparently, I'm not the only one with a less than perfect Diwali. On Thursday, the headline in The Times of India read "Dark Diwali for Obama; Democrats lose House polls". My experience over the past two months has shown that The Times is a less than stellar gem of journalism, with front page news often recapping what film stars Salman and Priyanka had to say about each other last night.
But this melodramatic announcement made me think-- even though I haven't had a chance to get out of the house for my first Diwali in India, I haven't been completely isolated from the celebrations. Fireworks go off outside my window at all hours of the night, and each evening my uncle's neighbors come around to distribute prasad or sweets. And yesterday, my cousin, aunt and I made a colorful rangoli in front of the house. There's really no such thing as a dark Diwali in India, so lucky for Obama that India is the first stop in his visit to Asia.
Apparently, I'm not the only one with a less than perfect Diwali. On Thursday, the headline in The Times of India read "Dark Diwali for Obama; Democrats lose House polls". My experience over the past two months has shown that The Times is a less than stellar gem of journalism, with front page news often recapping what film stars Salman and Priyanka had to say about each other last night.
But this melodramatic announcement made me think-- even though I haven't had a chance to get out of the house for my first Diwali in India, I haven't been completely isolated from the celebrations. Fireworks go off outside my window at all hours of the night, and each evening my uncle's neighbors come around to distribute prasad or sweets. And yesterday, my cousin, aunt and I made a colorful rangoli in front of the house. There's really no such thing as a dark Diwali in India, so lucky for Obama that India is the first stop in his visit to Asia.
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| Anganwadi children light taramandal sticks |
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| Rangoli design and lighted divas outside our home |
Sunday, October 31, 2010
Experiment #12: Ekatva
Do poor people in America know how to speak English? At first the question struck me as silly and obvious.
On Friday afternoon, I was sitting in Gandhi's Prathna Bhumi or Prayer Ground with 18 boys and girls from the slums, and Nimeshbhai, a Manav Sadhna volunteer. Nimeshbhai is coordinating a dance and drama production starring these children, following the example of a show created by Manav Sadhna ten years ago. The theme of the production will be ekatva, meaning oneness.
After Nimeshbhai introduced me to the group, the children's hands popped up, eager to ask me questions.
Why did you want to come to India and work with poor people? I was impressed by the clarity of the question coming from a 12-year-old. It's a question I've been asking myself for a while now, and I'm not sure I've yet settled on an answer. I rattled off a trite response about wanting to experience life in a different country, and made a mental note to think more about it later.
Are there poor people where you come from? What are poor people in America like? Do they live in slums?
I tried my best to answer their questions in my broken Gujarati. But more than the language barrier, the difficult part was expressing myself honestly and sincerely. The subject of "poor people" is not one that comes up often in my conversations, and I felt a pressure to give somewhat diplomatic answers to these children.
But when 11-year-old Vicky asked me if poor people in America know English, I realized that my diplomacy was out of place with this audience. My discomfort was stemming from the fact that the children's questions acknowledged that they were poor, and also acknowledged that I knew that they were poor. But they were not embarrassed. They were simply trying to find something to relate to in the strange land of America, which became a little less foreign once they realized that poor people live there as well.
Vicky's question, which seemed simple at first, revealed how deep his understanding of ekatva really is. He assumed that poor people in America cannot be much different than poor people in India. And to a large extent, he's right. Regardless of where they live, people who live in poverty are disadvantaged, hungry, and unable to reach they're full potential because of the economic and social limitations they've been dealt.
Yes, for the most part, everyone in America knows English. The kids were stunned. In India, English is a mark of a good education, and often a good education is a mark of money. Rather than shattering their feeling of oneness with Americans, this revelation about English made the children more interested to find out about the foreign culture.
This sentiment - the feeling of being united despite differences- is one I'm familiar with. The current Manav Sadhna volunteers are residents of four different continents. This experience we have been drawn to by of our mutual passion and interest for service is enriched by our distinct backgrounds.
Yesterday, two Americans, two Brits, an Australian, a German, a Frenchman and a Spaniard all visited the "Old City" of Ahmedabad for dinner. We shared spicy pav bhaji and kulfi from the street vendors and silently prayed that we wouldn't be running for the bathroom in the morning. Afterward, we walked through the streets, trying to take in the subtle beauty of Ahmedabad at night.
The Old City really is beautiful, but the beauty is hidden under years of dust, litter and attempts at modernization. The building facades are covered by torn and yellowing posters of Bollywood film stars from an older generation; the peeling paint and rusty windows eclipse the striking architecture and design during the daytime.
But at night, as the crowds thin and the vegetable vendors pack up their goods, there's a calmness in the streets that drew my attention to the buildings. After the founding of Ahmedabad, a wall was built along the circumference of the city to protect it from invasion. Today, Ahmedabad has expanded far beyond the original "walled city", but many of the original gates (called darwaja in Gujarati) still stand. In the yellow light of the street lamps, the intricate carvings and elegant architecture of thron darwaja (three gates) were eye-catching.
We ended the night by packing our party of eight into an auto rickshaw (meant for three) and speeding back to the Ashram.
On Friday afternoon, I was sitting in Gandhi's Prathna Bhumi or Prayer Ground with 18 boys and girls from the slums, and Nimeshbhai, a Manav Sadhna volunteer. Nimeshbhai is coordinating a dance and drama production starring these children, following the example of a show created by Manav Sadhna ten years ago. The theme of the production will be ekatva, meaning oneness.
After Nimeshbhai introduced me to the group, the children's hands popped up, eager to ask me questions.
Why did you want to come to India and work with poor people? I was impressed by the clarity of the question coming from a 12-year-old. It's a question I've been asking myself for a while now, and I'm not sure I've yet settled on an answer. I rattled off a trite response about wanting to experience life in a different country, and made a mental note to think more about it later.
Are there poor people where you come from? What are poor people in America like? Do they live in slums?
I tried my best to answer their questions in my broken Gujarati. But more than the language barrier, the difficult part was expressing myself honestly and sincerely. The subject of "poor people" is not one that comes up often in my conversations, and I felt a pressure to give somewhat diplomatic answers to these children.
But when 11-year-old Vicky asked me if poor people in America know English, I realized that my diplomacy was out of place with this audience. My discomfort was stemming from the fact that the children's questions acknowledged that they were poor, and also acknowledged that I knew that they were poor. But they were not embarrassed. They were simply trying to find something to relate to in the strange land of America, which became a little less foreign once they realized that poor people live there as well.
Vicky's question, which seemed simple at first, revealed how deep his understanding of ekatva really is. He assumed that poor people in America cannot be much different than poor people in India. And to a large extent, he's right. Regardless of where they live, people who live in poverty are disadvantaged, hungry, and unable to reach they're full potential because of the economic and social limitations they've been dealt.
Yes, for the most part, everyone in America knows English. The kids were stunned. In India, English is a mark of a good education, and often a good education is a mark of money. Rather than shattering their feeling of oneness with Americans, this revelation about English made the children more interested to find out about the foreign culture.
This sentiment - the feeling of being united despite differences- is one I'm familiar with. The current Manav Sadhna volunteers are residents of four different continents. This experience we have been drawn to by of our mutual passion and interest for service is enriched by our distinct backgrounds.
Yesterday, two Americans, two Brits, an Australian, a German, a Frenchman and a Spaniard all visited the "Old City" of Ahmedabad for dinner. We shared spicy pav bhaji and kulfi from the street vendors and silently prayed that we wouldn't be running for the bathroom in the morning. Afterward, we walked through the streets, trying to take in the subtle beauty of Ahmedabad at night.
The Old City really is beautiful, but the beauty is hidden under years of dust, litter and attempts at modernization. The building facades are covered by torn and yellowing posters of Bollywood film stars from an older generation; the peeling paint and rusty windows eclipse the striking architecture and design during the daytime.
But at night, as the crowds thin and the vegetable vendors pack up their goods, there's a calmness in the streets that drew my attention to the buildings. After the founding of Ahmedabad, a wall was built along the circumference of the city to protect it from invasion. Today, Ahmedabad has expanded far beyond the original "walled city", but many of the original gates (called darwaja in Gujarati) still stand. In the yellow light of the street lamps, the intricate carvings and elegant architecture of thron darwaja (three gates) were eye-catching.
We ended the night by packing our party of eight into an auto rickshaw (meant for three) and speeding back to the Ashram.
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| Sidi Sayed Mosque in the Old City |
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| Manek Chowk |
Sunday, October 17, 2010
Experiment #11: Privilege
The most interesting experiences I have here are those when I enter someone's home in the slum. In Ramapir no Tekro, I never really know what to expect. The living conditions of the community vary between the poorest extreme of no electricity and no solid roof, and the upper extreme including cable TV in addition to all the basic necessities.
I clearly remember the shock of entering the battered home of a family of six, and hearing the dramatic music of an Indian television serial playing in the corner.
But for the most part, the community here survives on the bare minimum. Comparatively, the modest volunteer home I live in is borderline extravagant, with a refrigerator and western-style bathroom. Besides the occasional cockroach or lizard (which I've learned to take care of without much harm), the house is sturdy, comfortable and lovely. But what have I done to deserve this beautiful home?
This week I met an old woman who was widowed 25 years ago. Since then, she has lived on an income of 45 rupees a day from her laborious job as a ragpicker. She can barely pay the rent on her shoddy one-room home each month, let alone pay back the loans she has taken out from several neighbors.
While thousands of impoverished individuals live in crowded and questionably built structures, I have the luxury of the Manav Sadhna volunteer home because I have devoted three and a half months to their service- all because of my status as "volunteer".
For a while now, this misalignment has been bothering me. While volunteerism is linked to the ideas of selflessness and service for the greater good, more and more am I realizing that it is also linked to privilege. I was privileged enough to be able to leave my life in America behind for a short time and come to Manav Sadhna in the name of service. I am privileged enough to survive for three months without any income and focus solely on the seva (service) for the poor, because I can withdraw money from my Indian bank account without worrying that the balance will run out.
Along with privilege and the concept of volunteerism comes a certain detachment from my experiences. I am in the unique position of being able to witness life in the slum firsthand, but with the understanding that this is not my life and never will be. I can visit the tekro one afternoon and play with children whose parents make barely 50 rupees after a hard day's work, and then in the evening go to a fancy mall in Ahmedabad and spend 60 rupees on the rickshaw ride.
This detachment is not limited to my experiences in the slum. Even on weekends when I spend time with my upper-middle class family, I manage to remain an observer. Their household is run so differently than the one I was raised in, that as I go through the motions of their daily routine sometimes I feel like I'm an actor in a play that runs until December, rather than a participant in their Indian way of life.
I clearly remember the shock of entering the battered home of a family of six, and hearing the dramatic music of an Indian television serial playing in the corner.
But for the most part, the community here survives on the bare minimum. Comparatively, the modest volunteer home I live in is borderline extravagant, with a refrigerator and western-style bathroom. Besides the occasional cockroach or lizard (which I've learned to take care of without much harm), the house is sturdy, comfortable and lovely. But what have I done to deserve this beautiful home?
This week I met an old woman who was widowed 25 years ago. Since then, she has lived on an income of 45 rupees a day from her laborious job as a ragpicker. She can barely pay the rent on her shoddy one-room home each month, let alone pay back the loans she has taken out from several neighbors.
While thousands of impoverished individuals live in crowded and questionably built structures, I have the luxury of the Manav Sadhna volunteer home because I have devoted three and a half months to their service- all because of my status as "volunteer".
For a while now, this misalignment has been bothering me. While volunteerism is linked to the ideas of selflessness and service for the greater good, more and more am I realizing that it is also linked to privilege. I was privileged enough to be able to leave my life in America behind for a short time and come to Manav Sadhna in the name of service. I am privileged enough to survive for three months without any income and focus solely on the seva (service) for the poor, because I can withdraw money from my Indian bank account without worrying that the balance will run out.
Along with privilege and the concept of volunteerism comes a certain detachment from my experiences. I am in the unique position of being able to witness life in the slum firsthand, but with the understanding that this is not my life and never will be. I can visit the tekro one afternoon and play with children whose parents make barely 50 rupees after a hard day's work, and then in the evening go to a fancy mall in Ahmedabad and spend 60 rupees on the rickshaw ride.
This detachment is not limited to my experiences in the slum. Even on weekends when I spend time with my upper-middle class family, I manage to remain an observer. Their household is run so differently than the one I was raised in, that as I go through the motions of their daily routine sometimes I feel like I'm an actor in a play that runs until December, rather than a participant in their Indian way of life.
Friday, October 8, 2010
Experiment #10: Roshni and Vir
When I first met Kamlaben, I was surprised by how young she looked. We could totally be friends, I remember thinking to myself. When I first heard her story, I had pictured a woman looking older, mature and with the weight of many worries on her mind. But she looked like she could pass for 22 or 23.
I still don't know exactly how old Kamlaben is, but I've visited her home in the tekra a couple of times and played with her two young children. Her daughter Roshni is 4, and her son Vir is 10 months. I use the term "played" very loosely. Vir is a beautiful and happy baby. He smiles and goes openly to anyone. Just being around the child is a joy. Roshni is the complete opposite. She is quiet and shy, reserving the few words she does speak for her parents, Kamlaben and Kamleshbhai.
Roshni, her mother, and her father are all HIV positive.
The first visit I paid to the family's home, a fragile hut constructed of plastic, tin sheets and wooden branches, was for the purpose of convincing Roshni to take spirulina. Spirulina is a dietary supplement derived from a species of algae, that has been shown to have tremendous nutritional and health benefits for the undernourished. According to Kamlaben, Roshni refused to take the fragrant (not in the sweet-smelling sense of the word) powder in milk, and her husband was even less willing to give it a try. That day I brought ice cream to mix the spirulina powder with, in hopes that offering Roshni that sweet treat would make it easier to give her the supplement.
But Roshni was not fooled. She would not even look at the ice cream I placed in front of her, the specks of green powder were a give away that the spirulina had been added.
Before I left, Kamleshbhai and I chatted. It's hard not to get too attached to Vir, but I know we shouldn't let him get attached to us.
This was hard to hear from the father, but seeing the family looking so healthy and happy, it is easy to forget that three of them have HIV. Kamleshbhai asked more about spirulina, and I explained its value especially for patients with compromised immune systems.
I visited the family again this morning. Kamlaben came outside to greet me, and it already feels like we're old friends. In their small, dimly lit home, Roshni was passed out asleep on a cot. Kamleshbhai and Vir played in the corner as Kamlaben explained to me that Vir has fallen sick with a cough and cold. I immediately became concerned for the rest of the family. Before I could object to Roshni being exposed to her ill little brother, Kamleshbhai told me that he has begun taking spirulina caplets.
He hasn't felt any effects yet, but I urged him to give it another week. It was not until that moment that my eyes were opened to this family's situation. With Vir the only HIV negative member of the household, his mother and father seem to be resigned to counting the days until he is orphaned. With a little bit of persuasion in the context of preserving their family, Kamleshbhai began taking the spirulina.
On my way out, Kamlaben's finger began bleeding from a paper cut. She ran off quickly to wash her wound. I was surprised at my reaction when I saw the red color dripping from her finger. I was scared. Both for her and her family, but also for me.
Is that bad?
I still don't know exactly how old Kamlaben is, but I've visited her home in the tekra a couple of times and played with her two young children. Her daughter Roshni is 4, and her son Vir is 10 months. I use the term "played" very loosely. Vir is a beautiful and happy baby. He smiles and goes openly to anyone. Just being around the child is a joy. Roshni is the complete opposite. She is quiet and shy, reserving the few words she does speak for her parents, Kamlaben and Kamleshbhai.
Roshni, her mother, and her father are all HIV positive.
The first visit I paid to the family's home, a fragile hut constructed of plastic, tin sheets and wooden branches, was for the purpose of convincing Roshni to take spirulina. Spirulina is a dietary supplement derived from a species of algae, that has been shown to have tremendous nutritional and health benefits for the undernourished. According to Kamlaben, Roshni refused to take the fragrant (not in the sweet-smelling sense of the word) powder in milk, and her husband was even less willing to give it a try. That day I brought ice cream to mix the spirulina powder with, in hopes that offering Roshni that sweet treat would make it easier to give her the supplement.
But Roshni was not fooled. She would not even look at the ice cream I placed in front of her, the specks of green powder were a give away that the spirulina had been added.
Before I left, Kamleshbhai and I chatted. It's hard not to get too attached to Vir, but I know we shouldn't let him get attached to us.
This was hard to hear from the father, but seeing the family looking so healthy and happy, it is easy to forget that three of them have HIV. Kamleshbhai asked more about spirulina, and I explained its value especially for patients with compromised immune systems.
I visited the family again this morning. Kamlaben came outside to greet me, and it already feels like we're old friends. In their small, dimly lit home, Roshni was passed out asleep on a cot. Kamleshbhai and Vir played in the corner as Kamlaben explained to me that Vir has fallen sick with a cough and cold. I immediately became concerned for the rest of the family. Before I could object to Roshni being exposed to her ill little brother, Kamleshbhai told me that he has begun taking spirulina caplets.
He hasn't felt any effects yet, but I urged him to give it another week. It was not until that moment that my eyes were opened to this family's situation. With Vir the only HIV negative member of the household, his mother and father seem to be resigned to counting the days until he is orphaned. With a little bit of persuasion in the context of preserving their family, Kamleshbhai began taking the spirulina.
On my way out, Kamlaben's finger began bleeding from a paper cut. She ran off quickly to wash her wound. I was surprised at my reaction when I saw the red color dripping from her finger. I was scared. Both for her and her family, but also for me.
Is that bad?
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
Experiment #9: Fences
I have two stories I'd like to tell. The first is a story of ignorance.
Yesterday, Bharatbhai, one of the staff members at Manav Sadhna, invited thirty pregnant women to his home for lunch, in honor of his father's death anniversary. Bharatbhai's wife, mother and sister-in-law spent all morning in the kitchen, frying puris, chopping vegetables, and chilling water bottles for the guests.
When I arrived at their home shortly before the guests, I was pleasantly surprised. The home was small, but beautiful. It was crowded, nestled in a small corner of the tekra, but it was clean. The walls were decorated with posters of Hindu deities, much like the streets of Ahmedabad are plastered with Bollywood film posters. The amenities were simple - a small fridge, a fan, a television all stocked in one room, but the porch and window sills were covered with lush, green potted plants. The house felt rich.
When the pregnant women arrived, I flocked to give them attention. For the past month I have been visiting each of them at their home to check in on their health, diet, and general well-being. They were all radiant - dressed in their finest sarees for the occasion and drenched in the maternal glow of their last few months of pregnancy. Bharatbhai and I guided them into the house and distributed dishes and spoons.
As I was busy doling out spoonfuls of sabji, I noticed a couple of women standing by the entrance of the courtyard. Their faces were tense. Whispers were passing through the rest of the women and the atmosphere was growing more heated. I continued my duty of serving the seated guests, hoping someone would clue me in to the disruption.
Later, after the soon-to-be-mothers were contently fed, I asked Shitalben, the Anganwadi lady who had brought over a group of the pregnant women, about the fuss. She looked around nervously.
It's because of caste. At first I didn't understand. Cast? I asked.
They won't eat in Bharatbhai's home because they come from a different caste, she explained. Their Mataji (God) will not allow them to eat their food.
Then it clicked. The realization felt like a bright light had been shined in my eyes; I wanted to squint and look away but the thought paralyzed my train of thought for a moment. It was an uncomfortable thought to digest. Here, Bharatbhai and his family had invested so much time, effort and compassion into creating this meal, and the women were refusing because of caste differences? This was my first direct exposure to any reference of castes in India, and I was shocked. I looked at Bharatbhai. I'm not sure if his eyes were watering, or just reflecting in the bright sunlight, but he shook his head dismissively and said, Don't worry about it.
The second story is about teaching.
Every day I go to a newly formed street school in the area by Gandhi Ashram known as Sabarmati. While the living conditions in Ramapir no Tekro are not great, they cannot be compared to the poverty in Sabarmati. Few homes have real walls, even less have electricity. The children who come to the school are dirty, with uncombed hair and a severe lack of discipline.
On Monday, when Kiranbhai, the street school teacher, and I showed up at Sabarmati, we were surprised to find a metal fence erected around the people's homes. Kiranbhai explained to me that the land is owned by the Ahmedabad Railroad Company, and they have put up fences to discourage people from squatting on their land.
To make our way to the meeting place for the school, we had to crawl through a ditch dug under the fence. Only three children were to be found around the meeting area. They explained that because of the fences, the path from the other children's homes was blocked, and they could not make it to the afternoon lesson.
Kiranbhai and I crawled back through the ditch to the other side of the fence, and followed the kids who ran in front of us to lead us to the other homes. After a short walk, we were faced by another fence.
I will never forget the sight of the tiny boys and girls standing on the other side of the fence. They were holding their notebooks and pencil boxes, ready to come to school, but trapped by the railroad company's blockade. In order to make it around the fence, they would have to walk around the entire squatter's area, nearly a 20 minute walk.
Kiranbhai looked at me and stroked his beard. We have a problem... he said. I felt hopeless. It was hard enough to tame the kids when they did come to the school. They were talkative and easily distracted, and lacking respect for the teacher. But now the struggle is actually finding them a way to get to the school's meeting area. I suggested that we take out one of the metal planks in the fence, allowing the skinny children to wiggle their way through, but that idea was vetoed quickly by the neighbors.
The railroad company has their pets living among us. They'll find out in one day, and have the plank replaced in no time. That will just cause more problems for us.
Yesterday the attendance at the school was low again, but I was hopeful to see more than three children. Kiranbhai and I are still plotting a way to find the children an easy path to the school, but only time will tell if our ideas are implementable and sustainable.
While I feel so strongly that these kids need attention and education and discipline to succeed, I am only now realizing the cultural implications that will result if they are deprived. Kids have no prejudice - they only want to learn and play and grow. But when their role models, their parents and their playmates teach them that they cannot learn beside, eat beside or walk beside their companions of a different caste, how will they grow up to be intelligent citizens?
We have to start early. We have to find a way for the Sabarmati children to bypass the fences erected around their homes. We have to teach them that invisible fences of untouchability and cast separation have no place when it comes to education and compassion.
Yesterday, Bharatbhai, one of the staff members at Manav Sadhna, invited thirty pregnant women to his home for lunch, in honor of his father's death anniversary. Bharatbhai's wife, mother and sister-in-law spent all morning in the kitchen, frying puris, chopping vegetables, and chilling water bottles for the guests.
When I arrived at their home shortly before the guests, I was pleasantly surprised. The home was small, but beautiful. It was crowded, nestled in a small corner of the tekra, but it was clean. The walls were decorated with posters of Hindu deities, much like the streets of Ahmedabad are plastered with Bollywood film posters. The amenities were simple - a small fridge, a fan, a television all stocked in one room, but the porch and window sills were covered with lush, green potted plants. The house felt rich.
When the pregnant women arrived, I flocked to give them attention. For the past month I have been visiting each of them at their home to check in on their health, diet, and general well-being. They were all radiant - dressed in their finest sarees for the occasion and drenched in the maternal glow of their last few months of pregnancy. Bharatbhai and I guided them into the house and distributed dishes and spoons.
As I was busy doling out spoonfuls of sabji, I noticed a couple of women standing by the entrance of the courtyard. Their faces were tense. Whispers were passing through the rest of the women and the atmosphere was growing more heated. I continued my duty of serving the seated guests, hoping someone would clue me in to the disruption.
Later, after the soon-to-be-mothers were contently fed, I asked Shitalben, the Anganwadi lady who had brought over a group of the pregnant women, about the fuss. She looked around nervously.
It's because of caste. At first I didn't understand. Cast? I asked.
They won't eat in Bharatbhai's home because they come from a different caste, she explained. Their Mataji (God) will not allow them to eat their food.
Then it clicked. The realization felt like a bright light had been shined in my eyes; I wanted to squint and look away but the thought paralyzed my train of thought for a moment. It was an uncomfortable thought to digest. Here, Bharatbhai and his family had invested so much time, effort and compassion into creating this meal, and the women were refusing because of caste differences? This was my first direct exposure to any reference of castes in India, and I was shocked. I looked at Bharatbhai. I'm not sure if his eyes were watering, or just reflecting in the bright sunlight, but he shook his head dismissively and said, Don't worry about it.
The second story is about teaching.
Every day I go to a newly formed street school in the area by Gandhi Ashram known as Sabarmati. While the living conditions in Ramapir no Tekro are not great, they cannot be compared to the poverty in Sabarmati. Few homes have real walls, even less have electricity. The children who come to the school are dirty, with uncombed hair and a severe lack of discipline.
On Monday, when Kiranbhai, the street school teacher, and I showed up at Sabarmati, we were surprised to find a metal fence erected around the people's homes. Kiranbhai explained to me that the land is owned by the Ahmedabad Railroad Company, and they have put up fences to discourage people from squatting on their land.
To make our way to the meeting place for the school, we had to crawl through a ditch dug under the fence. Only three children were to be found around the meeting area. They explained that because of the fences, the path from the other children's homes was blocked, and they could not make it to the afternoon lesson.
Kiranbhai and I crawled back through the ditch to the other side of the fence, and followed the kids who ran in front of us to lead us to the other homes. After a short walk, we were faced by another fence.
I will never forget the sight of the tiny boys and girls standing on the other side of the fence. They were holding their notebooks and pencil boxes, ready to come to school, but trapped by the railroad company's blockade. In order to make it around the fence, they would have to walk around the entire squatter's area, nearly a 20 minute walk.
Kiranbhai looked at me and stroked his beard. We have a problem... he said. I felt hopeless. It was hard enough to tame the kids when they did come to the school. They were talkative and easily distracted, and lacking respect for the teacher. But now the struggle is actually finding them a way to get to the school's meeting area. I suggested that we take out one of the metal planks in the fence, allowing the skinny children to wiggle their way through, but that idea was vetoed quickly by the neighbors.
The railroad company has their pets living among us. They'll find out in one day, and have the plank replaced in no time. That will just cause more problems for us.
Yesterday the attendance at the school was low again, but I was hopeful to see more than three children. Kiranbhai and I are still plotting a way to find the children an easy path to the school, but only time will tell if our ideas are implementable and sustainable.
While I feel so strongly that these kids need attention and education and discipline to succeed, I am only now realizing the cultural implications that will result if they are deprived. Kids have no prejudice - they only want to learn and play and grow. But when their role models, their parents and their playmates teach them that they cannot learn beside, eat beside or walk beside their companions of a different caste, how will they grow up to be intelligent citizens?
We have to start early. We have to find a way for the Sabarmati children to bypass the fences erected around their homes. We have to teach them that invisible fences of untouchability and cast separation have no place when it comes to education and compassion.
Sunday, September 26, 2010
Experiment #8: Accepting Indian Standard Time
On Thursday, when I was getting out of the rickshaw at my dance class, the driver told me the ride was 20 rupees. I looked at him. He looked back. I raised my eyebrows. He raised his back.
Everyday this ride costs me 15 rupees. Why is it 20 today? I asked, annoyed and with a little bit of attitude.
The rickshaw driver's face went blank. Oh behn (sister), I didn't realize you were from here. Okay okay, just give me fifteen.
I handed him the bills, gave him a smile as I turned to walk away, and did a celebration dance in my head. So maybe I still look like a foreigner - but at least my Gujarati is convincing enough to scare away cheating rickshaw drivers.
One month after arriving in India, I've graduated from "obvious NRI" to "possible foreigner with sloppy Gujarati". Along with this graduation, I've learned to let go of some of my western worries.
While I could tell Manav Sadhna was an amazing place from the beginning, over the past few weeks there have been some aspects of life here that have been frustrating and difficult for me to adapt to. The work day begins at 10:45 with prathna. By the time prayer and announcements for the day are done, it's nearly lunch time. Very few people have a schedule for the day or the week, and all plans are somewhat tentative. If a meeting is scheduled to start at 2 pm, it's a fair bet that all attendees won't be present until 2:30.
I come from a culture where keeping to a schedule, staying organized and being punctual are paramount values. I was given a planner in middle school to promote habits of "time management" and kids are constantly encouraged to think about the goals they want to achieve- by the end of the day, the end of the week, and for the future. So adjusting to a lifestyle where no one expects a list of accomplishments at the end of each day, has been pretty unnerving.
For the first several days, I would come home from a long day and feel exhausted and content. But then I would try to identify exactly what I had accomplished. I would analyze what progress had been made during the day, and what direct role I had in it. What labor did I put in? What ideas did I provide? And slowly, I would find my mind heating up, and my contentment would boil away only to be replaced with disappointment. I'd realize that I didn't really do much at all. I didn't move mountains, I didn't implement project ideas, I didn't relieve TB for the growing percentage of the slum afflicted with the disease. And because I didn't do any of these things, my mind decided that I had not done anything.
But even though the staff at Manav Sadhna always seems to have their watches set to IST (Indian Standard Time), and I can count on very few people having a plan for their day, they have been able to move mountains. They have created a presence in the slum, and have touched thousands of families with compassion and hope.
It's a very western idea that in order to feel content, you must have achieved something- that in order to be successful, you must have something to show at the end of a day's work. But why? On Wednesday, I spent the afternoon in the community center at the slum. I played with children for a few hours, made several new pint-sized friends, and even received a few kisses from one of the girls. As I left to go home that evening, Ramilaben, one of the community center workers who I have spent several hours talking to over the past week, took both my hands in hers and asked me to come visit her home. We walked to the edge of the slum where her son and daughter were playing at home. She made me chai and the four of us laughed and shared stories over tea and snacks. It felt like home.
At the end of that day, I had not made any progress on my growing list of ideas for projects with MS. But I felt so happy. In order to make the most of my time here, one has to embrace the ways of Manav Sadhna. I may not leave here with any great legacy, but if I can give (and receive) love even a little bit of love, then maybe I can convince myself that everything will be okay.
Everyday this ride costs me 15 rupees. Why is it 20 today? I asked, annoyed and with a little bit of attitude.
The rickshaw driver's face went blank. Oh behn (sister), I didn't realize you were from here. Okay okay, just give me fifteen.
I handed him the bills, gave him a smile as I turned to walk away, and did a celebration dance in my head. So maybe I still look like a foreigner - but at least my Gujarati is convincing enough to scare away cheating rickshaw drivers.
One month after arriving in India, I've graduated from "obvious NRI" to "possible foreigner with sloppy Gujarati". Along with this graduation, I've learned to let go of some of my western worries.
While I could tell Manav Sadhna was an amazing place from the beginning, over the past few weeks there have been some aspects of life here that have been frustrating and difficult for me to adapt to. The work day begins at 10:45 with prathna. By the time prayer and announcements for the day are done, it's nearly lunch time. Very few people have a schedule for the day or the week, and all plans are somewhat tentative. If a meeting is scheduled to start at 2 pm, it's a fair bet that all attendees won't be present until 2:30.
I come from a culture where keeping to a schedule, staying organized and being punctual are paramount values. I was given a planner in middle school to promote habits of "time management" and kids are constantly encouraged to think about the goals they want to achieve- by the end of the day, the end of the week, and for the future. So adjusting to a lifestyle where no one expects a list of accomplishments at the end of each day, has been pretty unnerving.
For the first several days, I would come home from a long day and feel exhausted and content. But then I would try to identify exactly what I had accomplished. I would analyze what progress had been made during the day, and what direct role I had in it. What labor did I put in? What ideas did I provide? And slowly, I would find my mind heating up, and my contentment would boil away only to be replaced with disappointment. I'd realize that I didn't really do much at all. I didn't move mountains, I didn't implement project ideas, I didn't relieve TB for the growing percentage of the slum afflicted with the disease. And because I didn't do any of these things, my mind decided that I had not done anything.
But even though the staff at Manav Sadhna always seems to have their watches set to IST (Indian Standard Time), and I can count on very few people having a plan for their day, they have been able to move mountains. They have created a presence in the slum, and have touched thousands of families with compassion and hope.
It's a very western idea that in order to feel content, you must have achieved something- that in order to be successful, you must have something to show at the end of a day's work. But why? On Wednesday, I spent the afternoon in the community center at the slum. I played with children for a few hours, made several new pint-sized friends, and even received a few kisses from one of the girls. As I left to go home that evening, Ramilaben, one of the community center workers who I have spent several hours talking to over the past week, took both my hands in hers and asked me to come visit her home. We walked to the edge of the slum where her son and daughter were playing at home. She made me chai and the four of us laughed and shared stories over tea and snacks. It felt like home.
At the end of that day, I had not made any progress on my growing list of ideas for projects with MS. But I felt so happy. In order to make the most of my time here, one has to embrace the ways of Manav Sadhna. I may not leave here with any great legacy, but if I can give (and receive) love even a little bit of love, then maybe I can convince myself that everything will be okay.
Sunday, September 19, 2010
Experiment #7: Anganwadi Ladies
I have met a group of superheroes. Superheroes dressed in sarees.
The Anganwadi Project, under Manav Sadhna's umbrella of service in the slum, is a government sponsored program for child-care. Manav Sadhna has built and restored 79 Anganwadis (pre-schools) in Ahmedabad, to date. The women who run the Anganwadis mostly live in or near the slum, and although they may seem like simple day-care workers at first observation, they are SO much more.
Shitalben is the worker at Anganwadi #5 in Ramapir no Tekro. I visited her this week and spent some time walking through the area around her Anganwadi. Shitalben knew every person we passed. And by "knew", I don't mean that she just knew their name. She knew how many children are in the family, whether the youngest daughter had recovered from malaria, if the father was able to go back to work after hurting his back, and the due dates of all the pregnant women. She makes daily visits to those she is concerned about, to make sure the mother is taking her prenatal vitamins, to scold young boys for chewing tobacco and skipping school. And all of this without any appreciation from the families she takes care of like they are her own. The women who she chases after to put their kids in school are lazy and rude; the young people she offers guidance to are content with their unstructured lives.
After an afternoon with Shitalben, I felt such an outpouring of love and gratitude toward her. I tried to express what an impressive job she was doing, but my gratitude was lost in translation by my broken Gujarati. While organizations like Manav Sadhna are started by those with visions for great change, women like Shitalben do the legwork- connecting with the community, trying to inspire the apathetic and direct the vagrant. For every ten times Shitalben makes an effort to change someone's habits, maybe one of those instances will result in the smallest improvement. But in one week, she can make a dozen tiny improvements that in a lifetime can change the destinies of a dozen children.
The next afternoon, I visited Harshaben's street school in the tekra. In addition to teaching older children in the afternoons, Harshaben is an Anganwadi worker in the mornings. As I was sitting at the front of the classroom, I noticed a girl crying in the back row, trying to suppress her tears but letting out a conspicuous hiccup every few minutes. I recognized the girl from a previous class when I had been asked to teach the students some basic English. I remember feeling hurt by her lack of interest and by the way she rolled her eyes at me when I taught the class to ask, "What is your name?". Harshaben called the girl, Asha, up to the front of the class and asked her to stop crying and tell her what was wrong.
A circle of children surrounded Asha as she explained, interrupted by sniffles, that her Kaki (aunt) had beat her. Harshaben's face was stiff and sad. She explained to me, Both her parents are dead. She lives with her Kaki who makes her do all of the housework. The other students piped in also, telling Harshaben that Asha's Kaki would not let her go to school or play with the rest of them in the evening. Asha's attempts at composing herself failed at that moment, and Harshaben wrapped her in her arms and rocked her like a mother would do. She told Asha to pray to God for strength and that everything would be okay.
The next morning at prathna (prayer) I prayed for Asha and for the Anganwadi ladies. I prayed that Asha would have the opportunity to learn and have a childhood, and that the compassion and strength of women like Shitalben and Harshaben could be universal.
The Anganwadi Project, under Manav Sadhna's umbrella of service in the slum, is a government sponsored program for child-care. Manav Sadhna has built and restored 79 Anganwadis (pre-schools) in Ahmedabad, to date. The women who run the Anganwadis mostly live in or near the slum, and although they may seem like simple day-care workers at first observation, they are SO much more.
Shitalben is the worker at Anganwadi #5 in Ramapir no Tekro. I visited her this week and spent some time walking through the area around her Anganwadi. Shitalben knew every person we passed. And by "knew", I don't mean that she just knew their name. She knew how many children are in the family, whether the youngest daughter had recovered from malaria, if the father was able to go back to work after hurting his back, and the due dates of all the pregnant women. She makes daily visits to those she is concerned about, to make sure the mother is taking her prenatal vitamins, to scold young boys for chewing tobacco and skipping school. And all of this without any appreciation from the families she takes care of like they are her own. The women who she chases after to put their kids in school are lazy and rude; the young people she offers guidance to are content with their unstructured lives.
After an afternoon with Shitalben, I felt such an outpouring of love and gratitude toward her. I tried to express what an impressive job she was doing, but my gratitude was lost in translation by my broken Gujarati. While organizations like Manav Sadhna are started by those with visions for great change, women like Shitalben do the legwork- connecting with the community, trying to inspire the apathetic and direct the vagrant. For every ten times Shitalben makes an effort to change someone's habits, maybe one of those instances will result in the smallest improvement. But in one week, she can make a dozen tiny improvements that in a lifetime can change the destinies of a dozen children.
The next afternoon, I visited Harshaben's street school in the tekra. In addition to teaching older children in the afternoons, Harshaben is an Anganwadi worker in the mornings. As I was sitting at the front of the classroom, I noticed a girl crying in the back row, trying to suppress her tears but letting out a conspicuous hiccup every few minutes. I recognized the girl from a previous class when I had been asked to teach the students some basic English. I remember feeling hurt by her lack of interest and by the way she rolled her eyes at me when I taught the class to ask, "What is your name?". Harshaben called the girl, Asha, up to the front of the class and asked her to stop crying and tell her what was wrong.
A circle of children surrounded Asha as she explained, interrupted by sniffles, that her Kaki (aunt) had beat her. Harshaben's face was stiff and sad. She explained to me, Both her parents are dead. She lives with her Kaki who makes her do all of the housework. The other students piped in also, telling Harshaben that Asha's Kaki would not let her go to school or play with the rest of them in the evening. Asha's attempts at composing herself failed at that moment, and Harshaben wrapped her in her arms and rocked her like a mother would do. She told Asha to pray to God for strength and that everything would be okay.
The next morning at prathna (prayer) I prayed for Asha and for the Anganwadi ladies. I prayed that Asha would have the opportunity to learn and have a childhood, and that the compassion and strength of women like Shitalben and Harshaben could be universal.
Thursday, September 16, 2010
Experiment #6: Sitting Cross-legged
This week I started taking classical Indian dance lessons at a dance academy near Gandhi Ashram. The style of dance I'm learning is called Bharatanatyam, with its name derived from the words Bhava (expression), Raga (music), Tala (rhythm), and Natya (musical theater). This is actually my second attempt at learning Bharatanatyam -- the first time was when I was five years old, and I left the class crying after 10 minutes because the instructor was stern with me. I hope this time is more successful.
During my first lesson, my teacher, Maheshwariben, instructed me to sit in aramandi. This posture involves fanning your feet outward and sitting down low with your knees bent. "Knees out more!" Maheshwariben repeated several times. I could only look at her apologetically with sweat beading on my forehead. I was too embarrassed to explain that it was physically impossible for my knees to spread any further. After a few minutes of watching me struggle, Maheshwariben got the point.
"It's because you come from the west," she explained sagely. "You sit in chair too much. If you sit with legs folded like me, you have beautiful aramandi." She then proceeded to lead me through a series of yogic exercises to improve my posture.
Maheshwariben's observation about sitting in chairs is right on point. Even in preschool, I remember sitting at a desk all day, with just a brief period each day when I would be asked to sit on the floor "Indian-style". In India, chairs and desks are reserved for special guests and the elderly. When I visit the street schools in the tekra (slum), I'm fidgeting and achy after 15 minutes of sitting on the hard concrete floor, while the children around me are comfortable and poised.
Yesterday night, I joined a fellow volunteer from MS and about ten other young people for an evening of silence and meditation. For one hour, we joined in an apartment to close our eyes and meditate together, the idea being that our joint spiritual energy would produce a more favorable environment. After thirty minutes of sitting cross-legged and meditating, I tried my hardest to block out negative thoughts from my mind, but all I could think about was the strain in my hip and my foot falling asleep.
When it comes to comfort, this position doesn't seem like the ideal way to meditate, but according to Buddhists, sitting in this "lotus position" lets the energy from your feet rise upward into the rest of your body. If that's the case, it explains why people in this country are so well balanced and have such positive energy -- the energy from the soles of their feet is strengthening their awareness of soul.
While I'm in India, I'm going to learn how to sit cross-legged. I'm going to become more flexible, both in body and mind.
During my first lesson, my teacher, Maheshwariben, instructed me to sit in aramandi. This posture involves fanning your feet outward and sitting down low with your knees bent. "Knees out more!" Maheshwariben repeated several times. I could only look at her apologetically with sweat beading on my forehead. I was too embarrassed to explain that it was physically impossible for my knees to spread any further. After a few minutes of watching me struggle, Maheshwariben got the point.
"It's because you come from the west," she explained sagely. "You sit in chair too much. If you sit with legs folded like me, you have beautiful aramandi." She then proceeded to lead me through a series of yogic exercises to improve my posture.
Maheshwariben's observation about sitting in chairs is right on point. Even in preschool, I remember sitting at a desk all day, with just a brief period each day when I would be asked to sit on the floor "Indian-style". In India, chairs and desks are reserved for special guests and the elderly. When I visit the street schools in the tekra (slum), I'm fidgeting and achy after 15 minutes of sitting on the hard concrete floor, while the children around me are comfortable and poised.
Yesterday night, I joined a fellow volunteer from MS and about ten other young people for an evening of silence and meditation. For one hour, we joined in an apartment to close our eyes and meditate together, the idea being that our joint spiritual energy would produce a more favorable environment. After thirty minutes of sitting cross-legged and meditating, I tried my hardest to block out negative thoughts from my mind, but all I could think about was the strain in my hip and my foot falling asleep.
When it comes to comfort, this position doesn't seem like the ideal way to meditate, but according to Buddhists, sitting in this "lotus position" lets the energy from your feet rise upward into the rest of your body. If that's the case, it explains why people in this country are so well balanced and have such positive energy -- the energy from the soles of their feet is strengthening their awareness of soul.
While I'm in India, I'm going to learn how to sit cross-legged. I'm going to become more flexible, both in body and mind.
Sunday, September 12, 2010
Experiment #5: Micchami Dukkadem
"The [poorest people] in the slums don't have money for food, but they always have money for celebration,"Ajaybhai told me the other day. At the time I thought he was joking...
Yesterday was an incredible day in India -- Three different celebrations from three different religions fell on the same day.
Muslims celebrated Eid, the last day of Ramzan (Ramadan). Hindus celebrated Ganesh Chaturthi, the birthday of the elephant-headed god Ganesh. And Jains celebrated Samvatsari, the end of Paryushana.
Walking down the streets of Ram Rahim Tekro, one of the slums which Manav Sahdna is involved in, I would never have guessed that Hindu-Muslim conflicts have plagued this country for more than 50 years. Muslim boys and girls, dressed in shiny new clothes, were hugging each other and saying, "Eid Mubarak!" And beside them, Hindu boys and girls were pushing a statue of Ganesh down the middle of the road and singing wildly. Later that day, I got an email from my dad wishing me "Michchhami Dukkadem", (which literally means "forgive me for all my bad deeds") and reminding me how much he loves me.
It was a day for sharing festivities and sharing love openly.
In the Manav Sadhna building, there is a poster that lists several of the religions represented in India (Hinduism, Sikhism, Buddhism, Christianity- just to name a few) and highlights a single letter in the name of each to spell out "Indians". The bottom of the poster reads, "Build bridges, not barriers". Watching the celebrations in the city gave me an image to associate with this idea.
With all of the happiness and love permeating the city, I almost forgot that yesterday was also September 11th. I hope all of the prayers imparted in Ahmedabad and the rest of the country, gave some peace to the families and loved ones of those who were lost 9 years ago.
Yesterday was an incredible day in India -- Three different celebrations from three different religions fell on the same day.
Muslims celebrated Eid, the last day of Ramzan (Ramadan). Hindus celebrated Ganesh Chaturthi, the birthday of the elephant-headed god Ganesh. And Jains celebrated Samvatsari, the end of Paryushana.
Walking down the streets of Ram Rahim Tekro, one of the slums which Manav Sahdna is involved in, I would never have guessed that Hindu-Muslim conflicts have plagued this country for more than 50 years. Muslim boys and girls, dressed in shiny new clothes, were hugging each other and saying, "Eid Mubarak!" And beside them, Hindu boys and girls were pushing a statue of Ganesh down the middle of the road and singing wildly. Later that day, I got an email from my dad wishing me "Michchhami Dukkadem", (which literally means "forgive me for all my bad deeds") and reminding me how much he loves me.
It was a day for sharing festivities and sharing love openly.
In the Manav Sadhna building, there is a poster that lists several of the religions represented in India (Hinduism, Sikhism, Buddhism, Christianity- just to name a few) and highlights a single letter in the name of each to spell out "Indians". The bottom of the poster reads, "Build bridges, not barriers". Watching the celebrations in the city gave me an image to associate with this idea.
With all of the happiness and love permeating the city, I almost forgot that yesterday was also September 11th. I hope all of the prayers imparted in Ahmedabad and the rest of the country, gave some peace to the families and loved ones of those who were lost 9 years ago.
Thursday, September 9, 2010
Experiment #4: Homesick
There are times when I'm perfectly content here, when I don't think about what's next or what's happened, and just throw myself completely into the present moment. And then there are times like this morning when I wish I was waking up in my own bed without mosquito bites covering my feet. I can't pinpoint what exactly I'm missing from home, but I have the feeling that I'd feel just as homesick no matter what time zone I wake up in.
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
Experiment #3: Living with Gandhiji
Sunday marked the beginning of the Jain holiday Paryushana, which lasts eight days and is a time for intensive self-introspection. Most people associate Paryushana with fasting, and it is widely believed that fasting increases one's spiritual awareness. On Monday I did upvas, which is a full day's fast with no food, and water only between sunrise and sunset. I'm not sure that I can say I was more aware of my soul, though in the evening hours I was definitely much more aware of how empty my stomach was. But I can understand the theory behind this practice - I have definitely experienced those times after an especially filling or heavy meal that I'm too groggy to focus on anything, much less connect with my soul (food coma, anyone?).
When I arrived at Manav Sadhna, the volunteer coordinator urged me to take some time each day to meditate. She said that the Ashram where I am working and living for these 15 weeks has incredible spiritual vibes, as Gandhi himself lived here some 80 years ago. So with Paryushana as another reason, I've been trying to put aside at least 20 minutes each day to sit quietly by myself and clear my mind. I'm approaching this whole meditation thing pretty blindly (the image that first came into my mind was Julia Roberts sitting with the toothless medicine man, saying "smile in your liver"). Since I'm just a beginner, clearing my mind completely is an impossible task. Instead, I've tried two different approaches. The first, is to meditate on a single idea or thought. The second, is to focus on my breathing and just observe the thoughts that pass through my mind.
I haven't been very successful with either. When I try to meditate on a single mantra, I usually find myself scolding my wandering mind, rather than internalizing the chosen words. And when I try to simply "observe the thoughts" in my mind, it's impossible for me to let them go without feeling some sort of emotional attachment or resentment.
I've decided against another upvas for the time being, but instead I've limited myself to one meal a day for the remainder of Paryushana. I'm hoping a couple more weeks of meditation practice, and maybe I'll make some progress.
Today, while talking with a fellow volunteer about my fast, she mentioned something that really struck a chord. She said that rather than fasting for any religious or spiritual purpose, she just wants to understand what it would feel like to go hungry.
Everyday I go into the slums and see children who often don't know when their next meal will be. It's so difficult to guess a child's age here, because usually a 10-year old will look like she's not older than six. I may feel hunger pangs after not eating for one day, but at least I know that there is food available to me if I want it, and definitely if I need it. Yesterday I went to one of Manav Sadhna's street schools, which is a collection of children who gather in their community everyday to learn reading and writing from an MS volunteer. Many of these children need to work during the day to support their family, and don't have time to go to school or study. At the end of the lesson, Kiranbhai, the teacher at this particular street school, passed out biscuits (cookies, to us Americans) to all of the students, and I could just see the hunger in some of their eyes.
Gandhiji also went hungry during his lifetime, but this was by choice as well. In 1932, he went on a 21-day hunger strike to protest the British authorities in India. The hunger strike was part of his practice of satyagraha, involving nonviolent protest.
Everywhere I go these days, Gandhiji's words seem to follow me. And somehow, he always has the right thing to say. The walls of Manav Sadhna and the volunteer house I'm staying in are covered with his aphorisms. When I am alone in the house, feeling lonely and unsure of what I'm doing all the way on the other side of the world from my family and school, I'll read his words telling me that "The best way to find yourself is to lose yourself in the service of others". Earlier today I was frustrated at myself and with the way people often treat me as a foreigner here. On a tile in the office of Gramshree, Manav Sadhna's sister organization, the words of Gandhiji explained to me that the actions and opinions of others are not a result of anything I have done or the person I am, but rather a reflection of their own world and reality.
The quote I've taken to heart most during my time here, is not Gandhiji's, but it comes to mind every time I panic about my short time here and the impact I can only wish to make.
"We can do no great things, only small things with great love." -- Mother Teresa
When I arrived at Manav Sadhna, the volunteer coordinator urged me to take some time each day to meditate. She said that the Ashram where I am working and living for these 15 weeks has incredible spiritual vibes, as Gandhi himself lived here some 80 years ago. So with Paryushana as another reason, I've been trying to put aside at least 20 minutes each day to sit quietly by myself and clear my mind. I'm approaching this whole meditation thing pretty blindly (the image that first came into my mind was Julia Roberts sitting with the toothless medicine man, saying "smile in your liver"). Since I'm just a beginner, clearing my mind completely is an impossible task. Instead, I've tried two different approaches. The first, is to meditate on a single idea or thought. The second, is to focus on my breathing and just observe the thoughts that pass through my mind.
I haven't been very successful with either. When I try to meditate on a single mantra, I usually find myself scolding my wandering mind, rather than internalizing the chosen words. And when I try to simply "observe the thoughts" in my mind, it's impossible for me to let them go without feeling some sort of emotional attachment or resentment.
I've decided against another upvas for the time being, but instead I've limited myself to one meal a day for the remainder of Paryushana. I'm hoping a couple more weeks of meditation practice, and maybe I'll make some progress.
Today, while talking with a fellow volunteer about my fast, she mentioned something that really struck a chord. She said that rather than fasting for any religious or spiritual purpose, she just wants to understand what it would feel like to go hungry.
Everyday I go into the slums and see children who often don't know when their next meal will be. It's so difficult to guess a child's age here, because usually a 10-year old will look like she's not older than six. I may feel hunger pangs after not eating for one day, but at least I know that there is food available to me if I want it, and definitely if I need it. Yesterday I went to one of Manav Sadhna's street schools, which is a collection of children who gather in their community everyday to learn reading and writing from an MS volunteer. Many of these children need to work during the day to support their family, and don't have time to go to school or study. At the end of the lesson, Kiranbhai, the teacher at this particular street school, passed out biscuits (cookies, to us Americans) to all of the students, and I could just see the hunger in some of their eyes.
Gandhiji also went hungry during his lifetime, but this was by choice as well. In 1932, he went on a 21-day hunger strike to protest the British authorities in India. The hunger strike was part of his practice of satyagraha, involving nonviolent protest.
Everywhere I go these days, Gandhiji's words seem to follow me. And somehow, he always has the right thing to say. The walls of Manav Sadhna and the volunteer house I'm staying in are covered with his aphorisms. When I am alone in the house, feeling lonely and unsure of what I'm doing all the way on the other side of the world from my family and school, I'll read his words telling me that "The best way to find yourself is to lose yourself in the service of others". Earlier today I was frustrated at myself and with the way people often treat me as a foreigner here. On a tile in the office of Gramshree, Manav Sadhna's sister organization, the words of Gandhiji explained to me that the actions and opinions of others are not a result of anything I have done or the person I am, but rather a reflection of their own world and reality.
The quote I've taken to heart most during my time here, is not Gandhiji's, but it comes to mind every time I panic about my short time here and the impact I can only wish to make.
"We can do no great things, only small things with great love." -- Mother Teresa
Friday, September 3, 2010
Experiment #2: Making Friends
I made a new friend this week. His name is Dave. Dave is about 6 feet tall, has a long graying ponytail that hits the middle of his back, and has big crystal clear blue eyes. He definitely stands out in Ahmedabad.
I wasn't expecting to befriend a 60-something (I'm guessing that's how old he is) hippie from San Francisco, but in life I've found that we often find friends when we aren't actively looking. When I asked Dave what he did before coming to Manav Sadhna a year and a half ago, he just chuckled and said, "The easier question is what didn't I do. Let's see, I was never a truck driver- oh wait no, I did drive a truck for a couple of months."
It didn't take me more than a few minutes with Dave to realize that he loves to talk. In that way, we are a perfect match. During his 18 months in India he has picked up bits and pieces of Gujarati- enough to tell the lunch cook how many more roti he'll take, and the rickshaw drivers where he wants to go. But beyond that, my poor expatriate friend has few people to ramble on with about all of the exciting things he has seen and wants to see. While I wouldn't say I necessarily love to listen, I do enjoy the company of someone who I can understand comfortably, without having the pressure to make conversation.
Over the past few days I've found myself nodding my head and creasing my forehead as someone explains a project or aspect of Manav Sadhna to me at a mile-a-minute pace, while in my head I'm frantically trying to access all knowledge of Gujarati I have stored away in my brain. It's exhausting. The task of piecing together words I faintly recognize, while trying to fill in the gaps through inference and the speaker's tone, can really overload the brain.
Dave has it easy in that sense. No one expects him to know the language. But I do enjoy the opportunities to practice my Gujarati, especially with the small children in the slum. Most can immediately tell I am not from here originally (my cousin says it's because I have an "air of an American"), and their first question for me is Didi (big sister), where are you from? I tell them I am from America and that my Gujarati is not very good. I made a deal with one girl that I would speak in Gujarati with her, and she would speak in English with me so we could both practice our fluency.
The younger kids couldn't careless if I knew the language well. They mostly like to hold my hand and pull me around calling Pooja-didi, which I find so endearing. The older ones however, immediately began gossiping about me when I was introduced - this girl from America who dresses in funny jeans and talks with a funny accent. When they see me looking at them and realize that I can understand what they're saying, they run away giggling.
I wasn't expecting to befriend a 60-something (I'm guessing that's how old he is) hippie from San Francisco, but in life I've found that we often find friends when we aren't actively looking. When I asked Dave what he did before coming to Manav Sadhna a year and a half ago, he just chuckled and said, "The easier question is what didn't I do. Let's see, I was never a truck driver- oh wait no, I did drive a truck for a couple of months."
It didn't take me more than a few minutes with Dave to realize that he loves to talk. In that way, we are a perfect match. During his 18 months in India he has picked up bits and pieces of Gujarati- enough to tell the lunch cook how many more roti he'll take, and the rickshaw drivers where he wants to go. But beyond that, my poor expatriate friend has few people to ramble on with about all of the exciting things he has seen and wants to see. While I wouldn't say I necessarily love to listen, I do enjoy the company of someone who I can understand comfortably, without having the pressure to make conversation.
Over the past few days I've found myself nodding my head and creasing my forehead as someone explains a project or aspect of Manav Sadhna to me at a mile-a-minute pace, while in my head I'm frantically trying to access all knowledge of Gujarati I have stored away in my brain. It's exhausting. The task of piecing together words I faintly recognize, while trying to fill in the gaps through inference and the speaker's tone, can really overload the brain.
Dave has it easy in that sense. No one expects him to know the language. But I do enjoy the opportunities to practice my Gujarati, especially with the small children in the slum. Most can immediately tell I am not from here originally (my cousin says it's because I have an "air of an American"), and their first question for me is Didi (big sister), where are you from? I tell them I am from America and that my Gujarati is not very good. I made a deal with one girl that I would speak in Gujarati with her, and she would speak in English with me so we could both practice our fluency.
The younger kids couldn't careless if I knew the language well. They mostly like to hold my hand and pull me around calling Pooja-didi, which I find so endearing. The older ones however, immediately began gossiping about me when I was introduced - this girl from America who dresses in funny jeans and talks with a funny accent. When they see me looking at them and realize that I can understand what they're saying, they run away giggling.
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
Experiment #1: Baggage Claim
The scene at the Ahmedabad airport after myself and 300 other exhausted travelers arrived, was not especially welcoming. The 90 percent humidity was a not-so-pleasant change from the well air-conditioned store of recycled air in the airplane, and I was sweating profusely within five minutes of being shuttled into the customs area.
With that many tired Indians in one place, all vestiges of International culture and manners that may have been acquired overseas were dropped. And it became each man for himself.
To picture the scene at the baggage claim, imagine the parking lot at the mall on Black Friday: too many cars filled with anxious sale-seeking shoppers, and too few parking spots to accommodate them all. Eventually what happens is a halt in all traffic as cars just wait around for a satisfied shopper to return to their car and leave. But when that parking spot is cleared, the departing car has to maneuver its way out of the traffic jammed lot, and three cars swoop in from all directions to try and claim the empty space. This is not a time to be relaxed - only the aggressive stand a chance at making it..into the mall.
Around the baggage claim belt in the A'bad airport, there were far too few front row spots for all 300 travelers and their luggage carts. Soon, a sort of deadlock resulted and the same bags appeared and reappeared on the circulating belt for what seemed like hours. No one was able to make their way in to retrieve their bags, and no one was willing to budge and make room for someone else to get by.
I, trying to be logical, allowed several people to bypass me in the queue if they recognized their bag on the belt. Yet this sad attempt only seemed to heighten the madness, as the number of bodies clustered around the belt increased in number. And of course I somehow ended up at the back.
This is the way people think in India. With so many people, and limited resources, every man must fight for himself. You must push and not be afraid to honk your horn, or else, like me, you'll be left in the dust. Don't mistake this aggressive attitude as malicious. The culture is not to succeed at the expense of someone else, as it often seems to be where I come from (bell-curve grade distribution?). Rather, as the hoards of travelers were pushing and cursing their way through the crowds, their tone seemed to indicate a sentiment of unity, and understanding that everyone is in the same boat.
More than an hour later, I made it out of customs, frazzled, with my three suitcases in hand.
Welcome to India.
With that many tired Indians in one place, all vestiges of International culture and manners that may have been acquired overseas were dropped. And it became each man for himself.
To picture the scene at the baggage claim, imagine the parking lot at the mall on Black Friday: too many cars filled with anxious sale-seeking shoppers, and too few parking spots to accommodate them all. Eventually what happens is a halt in all traffic as cars just wait around for a satisfied shopper to return to their car and leave. But when that parking spot is cleared, the departing car has to maneuver its way out of the traffic jammed lot, and three cars swoop in from all directions to try and claim the empty space. This is not a time to be relaxed - only the aggressive stand a chance at making it..into the mall.
Around the baggage claim belt in the A'bad airport, there were far too few front row spots for all 300 travelers and their luggage carts. Soon, a sort of deadlock resulted and the same bags appeared and reappeared on the circulating belt for what seemed like hours. No one was able to make their way in to retrieve their bags, and no one was willing to budge and make room for someone else to get by.
I, trying to be logical, allowed several people to bypass me in the queue if they recognized their bag on the belt. Yet this sad attempt only seemed to heighten the madness, as the number of bodies clustered around the belt increased in number. And of course I somehow ended up at the back.
This is the way people think in India. With so many people, and limited resources, every man must fight for himself. You must push and not be afraid to honk your horn, or else, like me, you'll be left in the dust. Don't mistake this aggressive attitude as malicious. The culture is not to succeed at the expense of someone else, as it often seems to be where I come from (bell-curve grade distribution?). Rather, as the hoards of travelers were pushing and cursing their way through the crowds, their tone seemed to indicate a sentiment of unity, and understanding that everyone is in the same boat.
More than an hour later, I made it out of customs, frazzled, with my three suitcases in hand.
Welcome to India.
Thursday, August 26, 2010
Experiment #0: Packing
The countdown until I begin my travels has reached the 24 hour mark.
Packing my bags for this 15-week adventure has proved more difficult than I expected. While my usual travels involve week-long stays to comfortable and familiar places, or the bi-annual relocation from home to dorm, the necessities for this particular trip are less cut and dry.
In addition to the usual items (clothes, toiletries, chargers), I've filled my suitcases with some less conventional essentials:
- Six rolls of toilet paper: something that I take for granted at home and is considered excessive in India, but I'm not prepared to give up this particular luxury
- Four cans of heavy duty bug spray: the nurse at the travel clinic successfully scared me with the prospect of contracting Dengue fever, Chikungunya virus, and malaria
- Plenty of Luna bars: I've been warned not to eat out, in order to avoid the feared traveller's diarrhea, so these may be necessary to supplement my diet
And to allay my anxieties of having too much free time on my hands, I've packed half a dozen books to keep me occupied. The works of David Sedaris, Paul Farmer and T.C. Boyle will be keeping me company during my 20+ hours of flight time and the uncertain months ahead of me.
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"Manav Sadhna is engaged in constructive humanitarian projects that cut across barriers of class and religion while addressing issues faced by socio-economically neglected segments of society".
Based on the Gandhian values of non-violence and compassion, Manav Sadhna (manav meaning individual, and sadhna meaning worship), was originally founded in 1990 by a group of volunteers who met each week to play with street children and share with them the basics of nutrition and hygeine.
Today, Manav Sadhna serves thousands of women and children in Ahmedabad through a spectrum of projects, which are created based on the needs and participation of the community.
Find out more here.
Packing my bags for this 15-week adventure has proved more difficult than I expected. While my usual travels involve week-long stays to comfortable and familiar places, or the bi-annual relocation from home to dorm, the necessities for this particular trip are less cut and dry.
In addition to the usual items (clothes, toiletries, chargers), I've filled my suitcases with some less conventional essentials:
- Six rolls of toilet paper: something that I take for granted at home and is considered excessive in India, but I'm not prepared to give up this particular luxury
- Four cans of heavy duty bug spray: the nurse at the travel clinic successfully scared me with the prospect of contracting Dengue fever, Chikungunya virus, and malaria
- Plenty of Luna bars: I've been warned not to eat out, in order to avoid the feared traveller's diarrhea, so these may be necessary to supplement my diet
And to allay my anxieties of having too much free time on my hands, I've packed half a dozen books to keep me occupied. The works of David Sedaris, Paul Farmer and T.C. Boyle will be keeping me company during my 20+ hours of flight time and the uncertain months ahead of me.
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"Manav Sadhna is engaged in constructive humanitarian projects that cut across barriers of class and religion while addressing issues faced by socio-economically neglected segments of society".
Based on the Gandhian values of non-violence and compassion, Manav Sadhna (manav meaning individual, and sadhna meaning worship), was originally founded in 1990 by a group of volunteers who met each week to play with street children and share with them the basics of nutrition and hygeine.
Today, Manav Sadhna serves thousands of women and children in Ahmedabad through a spectrum of projects, which are created based on the needs and participation of the community.
Find out more here.
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