Experiment #28: Maa no Mamta

For the past 10 years, Indu has had the toughest job in the world. She works 24/7, receives no compensation, and has never had a vacation day. Yet if you ask her, she’d tell you there is no other way she would have rather spent this past decade.

Indu’s ten-year old son Guru has suffered from cerebral palsy since birth. When not in his mother’s arms, his frail body lies contorted on the floor, unable to support his own weight. He cannot feed himself, speak, or sit upright on his own, much less walk. At some points, his limbs, emaciated from lack of solid food, are no thicker than my thumb. His eyes constantly wander between the faces that stand over him, showing no trace of recognition. His expression is most often frozen in a far-away look of discomfort.

The exception is his response to new sounds: clapping, the jingle of manjiras, or bells, and whistling. Guru’s eyes light up. His protruding jaw stretches into a smile that feels unfamiliar on his skinny face.

Due to his condition, Guru needs constant attention. But even after ten years, Indu shows no signs of fatigue. She never complains. She never puts her own needs before the many demands of her ill son. She never shows signs of self-pity, but rather, she seems to glow whenever she is given a small chance to serve Guru – wiping sweat from his forehead, pouring cool water drop-by-drop into his mouth because he cannot swallow, swatting flies away from his face as he sleeps.

Although Indu’s life has been forced into a disheartening routine – structured around the needs of her son’s syndrome, leaving no room to think about herself, to relax for one moment, to breathe freely – she admits that if Guru were to die, her world would be devastated. She cannot imagine moving forward in a life without her son, despite the stark limitations his condition has cemented on their lives.

There is no greater form of seva than motherhood.

Over the past six months, I have meditated on the idea of unconditional love. It is the basis of true service – love without expectation. It is not easy to achieve, especially for myself, with 21 years of ego poured like concrete into my psyche. But mothers show a great example.

When I found myself frustrated with the troublemaking tweens at the Sabarmati street school, I was often reminded of a quote that is painted outside of Manav Sadhna: every child is a message that God is not yet discouraged of man.

Each child I have met during my time in India, no matter how dirty and unwashed, unrefined in their behavior, or absentminded in their studies has shown the promise of a successful human being, and a beautiful soul. Their raw, uncouth manners have slowly chipped away at my solidified ego, inviting me to put my assumptions aside and do what I can to help them realize their potential.

Only when my actions become about truly empowering them, rather than empowering myself with my own lofty ideas of service, can we both grow. I can’t say I’ve reached that point. But I do know how much I worry about those kids. I know how upset I become when they show disrespect to each other, or worse, when they show disrespect to themselves.

I imagine that the strong feelings I have for my street school children, as their didi, or older sister, are maybe 1% of what a mother feels for her child. While my understanding of these children’s potential came as small glimpses into their character as our relationship grew, a mother never doubts the beauty and strength in her child. A mother’s seva is cultivating those virtues in a child, and developing a beautiful soul for the world to benefit from.

Two weeks ago, Guru and his mother met a CP specialist for the first time. She explained that sometimes, as painful as it is, Indu has to let Guru struggle. After a lifetime to spoon-feeding her son (literally), Indu has prevented Guru from developing the skills and motor functions to do simple things, like suck on solid food, chew, and swallow. According to the specialist, a mother’s love is so strong, that sometimes it must be kept in check, allowing a child to learn to live on his own.

My mom is my best friend. Her pet name for me is, ironically, Didi.  She has set a brilliant example of how to be a beautiful person and a beautiful soul. She has let me make my own mistakes, even though I know it has often been unbearable for her to see me falter and disregard her advice. But she is always there, regardless of the time zone, to wipe my tears and give me the strength that only a mother can.

I have learned more about seva from her than from these seven months in India. And I can only hope to one day be able to match her displays of unconditional love. 

Experiment #27: Empty Spaces

It's been hard this week to say goodbye to a handful of people who have shaped my time in India so heavily. With each goodbye, I've felt a little less connected to the present, which feels foreign without so many familiar faces.

First, I bid farewell to Suzanne from Paris. The beautiful lawyer, friend, and quasi-sister taught me so much about self-growth and strength. Seeing how far she has progressed on her own internal journey during these 5 months in an unknown, uncomfortable country, brought tears to my eyes.

The next goodbye was one I had been dreading for weeks. Rebekka from Germany has survived 7 months in India, taking every circumstance as an opportunity for adventure. She is fearless. While I have cried, tried to hide from aspects of this environment that seem scary to deal with, she has dove head first into these elements and the culture. I did not use the kitchen in our home for the first 10 days I was here. Only after she arrived, showing me that the occasional lizard on the ceiling or scurrying spider won't disrupt cooking (that much), did I dare to venture into the dimly lit room.

Amma means mother. Saying goodbye to Amma, my dance instructor for the past 7 months, on Wednesday felt like a rite of passage. Amma is a short, stout woman with hips that could never afford a proper aramandi. But her face is bold and expressive, a reminder of the beautiful Bharatnatyam dancer she once was. My dance lessons with Amma have always been complemented by lessons for life. She has taught me that "it will pain", but we cannot stop and rest every time it hurts, or else our mind and body will never grow stronger. Amma has constantly nagged me to smile. When my forehead wrinkles in concentration as I practice a new dance, or my expression sags in exhaustion as Amma strikes the rapid third-speed beat of of an adavu, or step, Amma barks at me that I am depressing the audience. She has taught me that I cannot just plaster a performance smile on my face and expect anyone to buy it. "Smile from the inside."

But most of all, Amma has always reminded me that, "Dance is a gift, life is a gift. Dance is beautiful, life is beautiful."

The final goodbye of the week made me recollect my experience here, and view it in a more scrutinizing light. Virenbhai, one of the founders of Manav Sadhna, left to spend 6 months in the U.S., as he does every year. At his farewell, he reminded us that our priorities should be our personal journey, the progress of our children, and the progress of our country.

Even though I'm still in Gandhi Ashram, surrounded by the Manav Sadhna spirit, I've found myself thinking about this experience in the past tense. Being present is hard when there are empty spaces left - empty beds in my house, empty seats at prathna each morning, empty blocks of time in my schedule. Rather than filling that emptiness with an appreciation of where I am at this moment, I instead fill it with the memories of what used to be, and the excitement of what is to come.

This seems to be a recurring theme in my life.  I have wasted too much time looking over my shoulder at what has passed, and squinting my eyes to see into the future that has not yet come into focus. With 18 days left here, my goal is to value and experience each moment wholly.

Experiment #26: Bath Time

Yesterday morning, three unkempt, unwashed street children found their way into Manav Sadhna. Upon meeting them and asking their names, it was decided that the three of them deserved - and very much needed - a bath.

I was recruited to bathe the little girl, Preethi. Preethi was dressed in a bright red frock, caked with dust and stained from weeks of continuous wear. Her hair was decorated with fly-away leaves that stuck in her locks, stiff with dirt and sweat.

How to describe the experience of bathing a child? It's difficult to find words to describe the emotions associated with such a simple task.

Preethi's series of expressions may say it all. At first, she was shy, hiding her face behind the tulle frills of her frock. Even she, probably no older than 8 years, was able to comprehend the love and intimacy associated with washing someone else.

But after some coaxing along the lines of, "You are going to look just like a film star," she obliged, scurrying into the bathroom and shedding her clothes quickly into a pile in the corner.

I poured the icy water, refreshing in the stale Ahmedabad heat, over her head. She shut her eyes tightly and shivered comically, shocked by the temperature. Her mouth opened into a smile, reminding me of the way I feel when I bite into cold watermelon in the hot afternoons. It read, "This is just what I needed."

I scrubbed her skinny limbs with a bar of pink soap that she found great joy in rubbing on her face. When I rinsed her off, waves of brown water appeared on the white tile of the bathroom.

After dressing her in a fresh frock from the Manav Sadhna stash and plaiting her hair neatly, I asked Preethi if she'd like to see herself in the mirror.

"No."
"Why not?"
"If I'm clean, I won't be able to go begging."

Her cast her eyes down, showing concern in the way that children do, masked behind innocence and the desire to not add negativity into a situation. I wasn't sure how to respond.

"You look so beautiful."

That was clearly the wrong thing to say. Her eyes shot up to meet mine, carrying a look of great worry.

"Didi, give me 100 rupees, yeah?"
"100 rupees? What for?"
"My mother said I can't come back home until I beg and get 100 rupees."

Again, words eluded me.

"I'm sorry, I don't have 100 rupees to give you."

Both a truth and a mistruth. Street children who beg at the busy intersections always manage to stir up the burning sensation of guilt and helplessness in my gut, when they reach out their empty hands in my direction. One one hand, I want to help them - to give them something to make their childhoods less bleak. But on the other, my time at Manav Sadhna has given me the perspective to realize that giving money to a beggar is not adding value to his life. Instead of empowering him, it will encourage him to seek charity without doing hard work.

For Preethi, I had hoped that giving her a bath and a little bit of loving attention, would be one step in the direction of her future empowerment. But although my intention was to come from a space of love, for the beautiful girl (who really did end up looking like a little movie star), I'm afraid the immediate consequence of her new, clean self, was not to her liking. 

Experiment #25: His Story

It is impossible to look into the eyes of a starving man and eat without offering him to join you.

This idea was shared in a Wednesday meditation a few weeks ago. Human nature dictates that we will do what is in our power to minimize someone’s suffering, if we are aware of his story.

The latter part of that sentence is key. If we are aware of his story. But how often, do we assume that we know someone’s story – his background, his intention, his burdens – based only on a single snapshot of his life that we are exposed to?

Last week, I had the chance to sit with Bharatbhai, a mentor and coordinator for the children taking part in the EKATVA production, and learn about his own journey with Manav Sadhna.

Ten years ago, Bharatbhai took part in EKTA, the first international dance tour arranged by Manav Sadhna, that took fourteen children from the slums around the world. From EKTA, he realized a passion for dance. Today, he is simultaneously working toward his own goal of being a dancer, while sharing his passion with children in the slums.

Before this conversation, my impression of Bharatbhai has been built on superficial encounters and my own observation of how he interacts with his friends, his family and the children he works with.

I’ve noticed he is young at heart, sometimes lacking the maturity I would expect from a teacher. I’ve assumed he can be unreliable, based on his poor punctuality. And I’ve observed his sensitivity in moments of hurt and vulnerability.

But as we sat across from each other in the shade of Gandhi Ashram, my assumptions were thrown back in my face and my ignorance of who Bharatbhai really is, was revealed.

He told me about going to polish shoes with his elder brother as a young child. They could not afford shoes to protect their bare feet against the blistering pavement and dirt roads of Ahmedabad summers. In the mornings, they would dig through piles of rubbish in the slum and find discarded slippers, a mismatched pair for each of them. And in the evenings, before jumping on the bus to return home, they would kick off their secondhand slippers, later sprinting the length of road from the bus stop to their house upon their smarting soles.

He recalled what it was like to be in EKTA while his ailing father, bed-ridden after breaking his hip and suffering from tuberculosis, slowly faded into poorer and poorer health. Weeks before the production was scheduled to leave for America, Bharatbhai’s father passed away.

“That was a terrible day for all of us,” he says, pausing to swallow his tears.

Despite his anger and grief, Bharatbhai still travelled to the U.S., saying it was his father’s wish to see him visit that foreign land.

Now, nearly ten years later, Bharatbhai is experiencing a similarly heartbreaking parallel as EKATVA prepares to tour the globe. For the past months, his mother’s health has been deteriorating. He has watched as high blood pressure and diabetes have worn her down and filled their tiny home with worry.

“If something happens to Mummy, I don’t know what we will do,” he says, again choking up. “After Pappa died, she held us together.”

As the EKATVA journey is reaching a climax of preparation, his mind is always at home, anxious that he his helpless to relieve his mother’s illness.

I watched in silence as Bharatbhai fiddled with the ring on his pinky, trying to find the right words to continue.

In that moment, what I had perceived to be immaturity, re-appeared as an effort to relive a childhood heavy with sorrow. His lack of reliability was instead framed as the behavior of a man with many obligations, subtle but burdensome. And his sensitivity shined in a personality that had been forced to fight and watch things slip out of his grip.

Experiment #24: The Final Wicket

The time is 18:55. Crossing Subhas Bridge Circle.

On any normal day, this is nearly impossible. With the non-stop stream of honking buses, rickshaws and motorbikes, we are lucky to make it across with just a few hairs shaved off our arms rather than a few years shaved off our lives.

But this particular Wednesday, I could have lied down in the middle of the road and meditated.

The usually bustling pani puri vendors at the corner had closed up early. The vegetable market at the corner was eerily stagnant.

Everyone in Ahmedabad was glued to the television. The city (and probably the entire subcontinent) had more or less shut down for the cricket match of the decade. India vs. Pakistan.

I went through various chapters of fair-weather fandom while growing up, each time committing my temporary loyalty to a team whose name appeared in headlines and schoolyard discussion that month. But I’ve never understood the passion which real sports fans pledge to their teams.

I’ve never experienced the angst of uncertainty while an umpire’s decision is pending. Or the deep-rooted disappointed of watching my team’s players flounder. Or the unchecked thrill of winning a critical match.

Until this week.

With Pakistan at bat, 28 balls and 30 runs stood between India and a place in the Cricket World Cup Finals. It looked good for India, but victory wasn’t locked in yet.

As the bowler wound up for each ball, everyone in the room watched the screen unblinkingly, the tension thick.

Not a six. Not a six. Not a six.

If the sentiment at that moment can be summed up in three words (and I assure you, it cannot), that is it. Not a six.

(For those of you illiterate in cricket terminology, a six is the cricket equivalent of a home run.)

With each successive ball, we allowed ourselves to breath a little easier, trying not to celebrate too early.

And then, with two balls to go, and no hope left for Pakistan, the final wicket fell. After a split second of silence, the city erupted.

I don’t mean that figuratively.

The roads that had been whisper-quiet just minutes before were filled with dancing children, shouting men and entire families sharing celebratory hugs and tears. Fireworks peppered the streets non-stop. The beating of drums and metal spoons against cookware created the backdrop for the unforgettable night.

Myself and a dozen other Manav Sadhna volunteers and staff piled onto the roof of the Manav Sadhna car to drive through Ahmedabad and congratulate our fellow Indians. Spirits were so high that even Suzanne from France and Jeanne from Holland became Indian for those few hours, touched by the celebrating masses.

Bharat Mataji ki…Jai! Hail Mother India!

India vs. Pakistan can assume many meanings. Hindu-Muslim tensions. The nuclearization of the sub-continent. The dispute over Kashmir.

The political and religious conflicts between these two countries have manifested themselves in ugly ways. People have been persecuted, killed, and made to live on opposite sides of boundaries – both real and imagined. So when the players from their respective cricket teams met in Mohali Stadium last week, Indians and Pakistanis had much more invested in the match than ordinary sporting bets.

It was a bloodless, refereed opportunity to settle the score of many decades, while the entire world watched from their living room.

Even I, with a cricket knowledge limited to what I learned from Aamir Khan in the movie Lagaan, felt ecstatic in those post-victory moments, simply from the realization of how many millions of people had their hopes pinned on those men in the sky blue India uniforms.

I was so proud.

And yesterday, as I watched India beat Sri Lanka by six wickets to win the World Cup, even after suffering through several distressing overs early on, I too jumped up and down like a cricket fanatic.

After nearly six months in this beautiful and vibrant country, I can assure you this is one team I will not be cheering for only in fair weather. Especially since the 100+ degree April temperatures are anything but fair.   

Experiment #23: Sandals and Sabji

Kamalaben is the head cook in the Manav Sadhna kitchen. Once, some time in October, I had mentioned to her that I love bhinda nu shak, a cooked okra sabji, and since then she has surprised me on multiple occasions with my favorite dish at lunchtime.

It feels frivolous to find happiness in such little details of my day, but the happiness is not a result of the spicy okra; rather it is a product of Kamalaben’s intention to give me something I enjoy. Bhinda nu shak would not be nearly as satisfying if it was prepared by someone who didn’t know my preference, just as a coincidence.

Last week, Kamalaben had bought a pair of brand new chappals, or sandals. As per custom in most Indian households, we remove our shoes and leave them on a rack outside Manav Sadhna before entering. On the day Kamalaben happened to wear her new chappals to work, a group of elderly widows from the slum were visiting Manav Sadhna

The good news is a poor old lady in the slum received a pair of almost-new sandals to protect her feet on the walk home.

The bad news is Kamalaben hadn’t exactly planned to gift her sandals to anyone that day.

Virenbhai, a founder of Manav Sadhna, told me and another volunteer what had happened, and how disappointed Kamalaben had been.

The next day, we wrapped a pair of new chappals in neon paper, wrote KAMALA on it in big letters, and left it on the shoe rack, hoping some other Kamalaben would not come by and pick it up.

Later that afternoon, someone tipped off Kamalaben about the package awaiting her. Virenbhai and I happened to be standing near the doorway when she unwrapped her gift.

At that moment, her smile was great.

Usually, Kamalaben’s smile is wide, direct, and unabashed, revealing a gap in her teeth. But this smile was different. It was delicate and lingering. There was more smile in her eyes than with her mouth.

I don’t know if we got her the right size for her feet, or if the bronze color we chose is to her liking. But real happiness is not about the sandals or the sabji. It’s the gratitude when the blessings in life (the people who take care of us in big ways and small ways, the opportunities for learning, the comforts we don’t appreciate until they’re taken away) are revealed.

Experiment #22: Heartbreak

I’ve often mentioned the group of children I teach at the Sabarmati street school. Over the past five months, my relationship with them has evolved, and our mutual understanding of each other has fluctuated. I know their flaws. They know my weaknesses. I know they have bad habits of swearing and telling lies. They know how to test my patience.

Despite their bad behavior, limited attention span, and lack of ambition, I return to teach them each afternoon. I don’t mean to imply that I’m doing something great for the Sabarmati street children. Quite the opposite. I look forward to the two-hour period I spend with them each day as a constant in the otherwise unpredictable and emotionally trying environment that surrounds me. They keep me grounded and moving forward. When heat, mosquitoes and homesickness threaten to break my spirit, I remember that they will be waiting for me at 4:00 pm – a reason to wake up and face the day.

Manav Sadhna’s work involves a “value-based education” for the children we serve. Often, my lessons at street school involve a half-hour lecture on the importance of being punctual, and another half-hour on the reasons one should not hit his or her neighbor. It’s frustrating that the actual academic component of the curriculum makes such slow progress, but in the context of these children’s lives, the immediate value of personal hygiene and interpersonal skills far outweigh the potential usefulness of knowing their ABC’s.

This month’s lessons have been focused on discipline. My ideas of how students should be disciplined differ greatly from those of Kiranbhai, the official teacher at this street school. Kiranbhai grew up in an environment similar to these children, and went to a municipal school just as most of them do. He relates to the roughness of their home-life and the toughness of overworked government teachers. We’ve had many arguments about his use of corporeal punishment to discipline the children. He believes that threatening to slap them around, and occasionally following through, is the only way to get through to these children. I believe that it’s a cop out. Resorting to physical punishment may stun them into silence for a few hours, but the ideas of non-violence and compassion that are so central to the Manav Sadhna vision cannot be taught by teachers who do not subscribe to their importance.

Although I stand firmly by my position of no-hitting, I’m less resolute on how the goal of disciplining the class can be best achieved.

On Valentine’s Day, after an especially rowdy lesson, I was feeling discouraged and disappointed. My progress towards disciplining the class seemed to be going in the direction of generating a general dislike for the new “strict” me among the children. But as I walked to the road, Arun, a naughty fifth grader who I often have to scold, offered me a bright red rose.

“Happy Balentine’s Day Didi,” He declared proudly. I was touched by the sweet and simple gesture. I rested my hand on his shoulder and gave him a squeeze of endearment, but I refused to take the flower. “Give it to your mom,” I suggested, “It will make her so happy.”

Arun’s offering reminded me of how much love and tenderness I’ve developed for the Sabarmati children, and gave me hope that they reciprocated, just a little.

The following day, Kiranbhai agreed to try disciplining the kids by sending them home, rather than hitting them when they misbehaved. During prayer, when Kiranbhai tolerates absolutely no mischief, Arun peeked his eyes open and began giggling in the back row. Kiranbhai called him to the front of the class after prayer was completed, and berated him harshly at the same moment that his father was returning home from work.

Arun’s house is just a few meters away from the open area we use as our classroom, and we all sat in silence as his father dragged him away angrily. Kiranbhai attempted to continue the lesson without interruption, but the sounds of Arun sobbing and screaming as his father hit him, could not be ignored.

I felt sick. After a few minutes, Kiranbhai got up and went to retrieve Arun before his father did too much damage. He returned with the boy disheveled and puffy eyed, sporting red welts on his arms where his father had hit him with a stick.

My instinct was to wrap Arun in my arms and cry, but my guilt stopped me. Which is worse? Letting Kiranbhai slap the children around mildly, or sending them home to have their parents beat them so harshly? It was a lose-lose situation in my eyes.

At the end of the day, Kiranbhai explained to me a little about Arun’s home life. His parents had moved to Ahmedabad from a village, in hope of finding a better life, but were unable to move out of the slums. His father works at the railroad company during the days, and drives a rickshaw late into the night in order to support Arun and his two brothers. When they devalue their education and schooling, their father sees his efforts to give them a better life as a waste.

I don’t see these details as a justification for beating the young boy, but it does shed some light on the situation these families face. They are desperate to give a better life to their children, but the children lack the foresight to see that hard-work in school may one day have more pay off than an afternoon of playing in the river.

For the rest of the night, I could not get Arun out of my mind. I felt like I had failed as a teacher and a didi, older sister, by letting his father resort to such violence to discipline him.

Experiment #21: Dog Bite Season

The smell of urine and antiseptic lingered on the walls of VS Hospital, one of two government hospitals in Ahmedabad. While I was waiting in line to check-in, I was jostled from behind by a troupe of nurses in pale blue salwaars and white coats, pushing a rusty metal table on wheels that was meant to serve as a stretcher. On it, an old woman was curled in a ball, wailing, as they wheeled her into an operation theater.

Jagruti, the young girl I was accompanying to the hospital that day, looked at me wide-eyed and with a smile that is always plastered to her face and whispered, Didi, I’m scared.

Jagruti comes the street school I run at Sabarmati. She is one of the few children who has consistently attended the class over the past five months. My first memory of “Jagu” is during a lesson in September where I was lecturing the children about the importance of hygiene. When I asked the group to fess up if they had not brushed their teeth that morning, Jagu thrust her finger in the air proudly, wearing the same ear-to-ear smile she sported at the hospital. It’s her signature look – a tooth-bearing grin and no shame.

I remember explaining to Jagu that if she didn’t start brushing her teach regularly, her teeth would fall out and all she would be able to eat is khichdi (a liquidy blend of rice and lentils I was well acquainted with when my wisdom teeth were pulled). She just blinked at me and promised to brush that night. That promise has yet to be fulfilled…

My first impression of Jagruti was that she was not very clever. Her perpetual smile suggested that she was always in her own world, oblivious to what everyone around her was up to. But over the next few months, I fell in love with her. Always the first one to arrive to the lesson, we would send her to collect her tardy classmates from their homes. Despite not being able to read at all, or recite a single multiplication table, Jagu proved to be a diligent student. Any assignment we gave her would be completed in full the next day. Within two weeks, she knew her times tables better than half the other students.

On Thursday, when I learned that she had been bitten by a dog at school, she affirmed the fact with her signature smile. I explained that I would have to take her to the hospital the following afternoon for her shots, and her smile wilted a little bit.

The line for getting the injections was 50-people long when we arrived. Ramanbhai, the MS staff member who had accompanied us, explained that this is a season for dog bites. I don’t quite understand the logic, but the motley crew waiting to be given their shots seemed to support his claim. The man in front of us wore a fancy fitted suit, with a gaping hole down the back of his pant leg where a dog had jumped at him. A few people ahead of him, a two-year old boy was crying in his mother’s arms as blood soaked through his shirt-sleeve.

Jagruti gripped my arm tightly as we entered the injection room. A dozen nurses in training were administering the shots systematically, not stopping to even look the patients in the eyes.

I tried to comfort Jagu as she received three shots in her arm, telling her it was almost over. Then the nurse instructed her to lower her pants and turn over for a final injection in her bottom, at which point I shut my eyes and squealed. A moment later, I realized the shot was not meant for me and I reached to hold Jagu’s hand for comfort, but she was already pulling her pants up and ready to walk away.

I looked at her in amazement. “Did it hurt?” She just flashed her unbrushed teeth at me, and shook her head no. 

Experiment #20: To Live 1000 Years

When it turned midnight on my 21st birthday, I was serving hot chai to people on the streets of Ahmedabad. Instead of celebrating with my close friends and family, I celebrated with strangers and MS volunteers I've known for a few months. Instead of being showered with gifts and balloons, I got strange looks from night watchmen and rickshaw drivers, who wondered why I was offering them chai out of the blue.

Our chai pot was nearly empty when we met a family of 12 who lives in a little plastic tent at Stadium Six Roads. We divvied up whatever tea was left and handed out packets of biscuits to the children. When she heard it was my birthday, the mother said to me, "Tum jiyo hazaaron saal, saal ke din hon panchaas hazaar." 

Literally, this means "you will live one thousand years, each year with 5000 days." 

Her blessing was touching, and seeing the smiling faces of her children enjoying the hot tea made me feel less homesick on my birthday. 

Once we ran out of tea and packed up, Bhaskarbhai, one of the MS affiliates accompanying me on the chai distribution adventure thanked me for giving them all the opportunity to give people a little happiness that night. 

In the states, I've grown up with birthdays being centered around the idea of "me, me, me." What presents will I get? Who will wish me a happy birthday? How will I celebrate my completed year? In  India, everyone - even little children - celebrate their birthdays by giving to others and hoping for some blessings in return. It's a beautiful concept, but a difficult one to accept fully after 21 years of being trained to expect gifts and approval and love on my birthday.

Today also happens to be the anniversary Gandhiji's assassination. Schoolchildren and Ahmedabad residents congregated in Gandhi Ashram today, sat in front of his house, and remembered the impact he made on this nation. 

I'm not sure I would like to live one thousand years, since making it through just 21 years as a happy and healthy individual has proven difficult at times. But if I was blessed to live one thousand years like Gandhi, immortalized in the freedom of a country and the voices of thousands of Indians who were once oppressed by poverty and the caste-system, I probably have bigger struggles waiting for me.

Experiment #19: Anesthesia

What constitutes pain? The discomfort of feeling, or the lack of feeling?

Earlier this week I had a decision to make. My four wisdom teeth, all impacted, needed to come out, and the sooner - the better. The first oral surgeon we consulted, supposedly the best in Ahmedabad, took one look at my X-ray and stroked his chin in a not-so-reassuring way. "Your case is a veeeeeery interesting one..." He suggested we schedule my surgery ASAP, under general anesthesia.

Judging from his reputation, I assumed he was the best, and began to prepare my mind for the procedure. I had never had any sort of surgery before, so I decided that this was a good baby step. And how bad could it be? After all, I was going to be knocked out.

But of course, things rarely go as planned. My parents wisely consulted another oral surgeon for a second opinion. Surgeon #2's diagnosis was the same - I was growing four sets of crooked wisdom, all which would have to be removed eventually. However, he offered to do the surgery for half the cost as Surgeon #1, under local anesthesia.

I'm not a fan of going to the dentist, but then again, who is? All that poking around in your mouth, the horrible scraping sounds against teeth that seem amplified thanks to the proximity of the ear, and the acrid, unsettling taste of blood. The thought of being awake to hear, smell, and taste each prod and yank of the teeth pulling, sent me into a nervous tailspin.

My father, who had his wisdom pulled a few years back, and my mother, who's wisdom has never caused her any dental problems, tried to explain to me how foolish it was to go under general anesthesia when the procedure could easily be done with local.

I tried to explain to them how horrified I was of having a drill put to my gums - while being conscious.

Finally, reason and rationale reluctantly prevailed over my emotions. Yesterday at 12:30 pm, I squeezed my eyes shut, said a prayer, and opened my jaw with a feeling of doom.

I won't go into the details of the surgery. (I am trying to push all that yanking, twisting and drilling out of my mind.) But I will say, it was not peachy.

The most unsettling part of the whole ordeal was my inability to feel my lips and tongue once the local anesthetic took affect. I felt compelled to touch my chin and mouth every few minutes, just to make sure they were still intact. My lower lip especially, felt like an inflated balloon attached to my face.

After the surgery was over and my gums were stitched up, the surgeon asked me, "Was it painful?"

How to answer that question? There was the obvious discomfort of having the teeth forcefully separated from my jaw, but I'm not sure I would classify that as pain. Really, the painful part was not being able to speak once the surgery was over; not being able to express how upsetting it was to feel like my mouth had been taken over by aliens, while I was awake to witness it.

There would have been obvious pains associated with general anesthesia as well: the IV drip, the intubation tube to monitor my breathing, and the post-operative soreness. But I think I would have preferred to be in a state where I could not judge the discomfort of the actual procedure.

After all, that is what pain stems from in any situation - our judgement. There is a Buddhist saying, pain is inevitable, suffering is optional. We choose to judge our pain - to associate certain sensations with discomfort and others with pleasure. But when does it start? At what point in our lives are we programmed to dread the stick of a needle?

Studies have shown that the extent of pain we feel has both a biological component, and a psychological one. We appraise each situation, insist on reacting rather than observing.

To respond to Surgeon #2, I could simply grunt and narrow my eyes. In that moment, my reaction was in check - though not by choice, since the lower half of my face was still paralyzed.