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.

Sidi Sayed Mosque in the Old City

Manek Chowk

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.