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.
Sunday, September 26, 2010
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.
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