Experiment #15: My First Thanksgiving

I was not expecting to have a special Thanksgiving this year, in a country where “Indians and Pilgrims” has a different meaning, and “thank you” is rarely part of a person’s vocabulary.

But last night, 40 of Manav Sadhna’s friends and family joined for an internationally inspired dinner, cooked by the volunteers. We experimented with sweet potatoes to make a pudding for dessert (which turned out more like sweet potato soup), invested several hours into a decadent paneer butter masala, and wrapped up the untraditional feast with caramel popcorn balls – which were quite a crowd pleaser.

After dinner, I joined Sunilbhai, an MS staff member, to deliver some of the delicious leftovers to two children he has been very connected with in the Old City.

I had met Karan and Tejashwari once before, about three weeks ago on Karan’s tenth birthday. The brother and sister are adorable, loving, and full of spunk. Yesterday was the first time I visited their home.

As I entered, Tejashwari greeted me warmly by wrapping her arms around my waist and burying her head under my arm. I hugged her tightly back.

Sunilbhai commented on the shocking sea-green color the children had recently painted the walls, and the pictures of their parents that had been hung up.

After the death of their parents five years, Teju, now 14, and Karan have lived on their own. They spent a brief stint in a children’s hostel in Gandhi Ashram, about three years ago. During their time at the Ashramshala, Karan began showing signs of a skin infection. Medical tests soon revealed that both he and his sister are HIV positive.

The children did not find it easy to live in the hostel. The constant schedule and routine made them unhappy, as they were used to living independently and doing as they wished. In addition, the teachers at the hostel worried about them living and playing in such close contact with other children.

Although there are other hostels in India especially for children like Karan and Teju, most of them require the boys and girls to live separately, which they are not willing to do.

They returned to their home from the Ashramshala, and ever since have been taking care of each other. Watching the prem, or love, between the siblings is truly touching. Together, they manage their house – cleaning, cooking, and washing all on their own.

Although Teju and Karan live alone and have certainly matured beyond their age due to their circumstances, there is no doubt that they are still children and want to enjoy a childhood filled with playfulness and mischief.

After welcoming Sunilbhai and I into their home, Teju rushed to find a Barbie doll she had just been gifted by the Make-A-Wish Foundation. She sat the doll down next to me and insisted that I help her dress it properly and comb its hair. Meanwhile, Karan was excitedly showing Sunilbhai the remote control car he had received.

After we left, Sunilbhai divulged his deep worry about the children. He explained that the area that they live in one of the worst neighborhoods in Ahmedabad. Although the kids have a good rapport with their neighbors, who often supply them with groceries, they have no one to look after them continuously. As a result, they have discontinued their HIV treatment.

“They don’t go to school. They don’t have much discipline. And worst of all, they don’t have an understanding about their disease,” Sunilbhai went on. “Teju is getting older now too. She is already 14. Unless they are put in a controlled environment, they might end up in real trouble.”

I’ll end with a thought that was read at prathna yesterday morning: Gratitude and sorrow cannot coexist

It’s a simple and powerful idea. The act of being thankful fundamentally negates self-pity and distress.

Despite their tragic and unfortunate circumstances, Karan and Teju are full of life and love. They enjoy whatever little they have to the fullest, and such enjoyment of simple pleasures leaves no room for sorrow in their tiny home.

Sometimes our lives need to be shown against a different background to reveal the good things we have come to take for granted. This may have been the first Thanksgiving that I have felt real gratitude for the countless blessings in my life.

I went to bed last night with my heart filled with thanks, and my brain filled with anxiety about the sweet brother and sister.

Experiment #14: Lost in Translation

For breakfast this morning, my Australian (Korean-born) housemate Soo, made banana pancakes. I haven’t done much cooking in the volunteer house, after an incident about two months ago when a lizard found its way into a cooking pot.

But Soo’s pancakes were delicious, and having her bubbly presence in the kitchen makes our small house, often devoid of natural light, feel large and warm.

Just now, she peeked her head into the bedroom and asked if I’d like to be a guinea pig as she experiments on how to best flavor a fresh brew of chai. I can never say no to chai, though I often wish I could-- as I’ve seen how much sugar people add to it here.

What smells like cardamom and ginger delight to my Indian self, smells suspiciously of diabetes to my young, hypochondriac, American self. It’s a struggle to balance these two brains, often in contradiction with each other.

I feel like my experience here has brought me to a point of convergence of the many brains I’ve embodied, and worlds I’ve known during my life.

First, there is the world of an American college student. The volunteer house is currently filled with girls from all over the globe in various stages of their education. We share stories about the best pizza back home, and how wonderful a pedicure would feel after walking through the slum in open-toe shoes for three months. They understand the tensions of figuring out how to put a college education to use in a way that feels fulfilling and significant, and the insecurities and frustrations that arise when we work with people from different cultures. But often, I find myself wishing that I wasn’t surrounded by people who are familiar with the mass-consumption and extreme ambition I left at home. They are a reminder that the lifestyle I’ve taken a break from still exists, and will have to be faced sooner or later.

Then, there is the world of an Indian daughter. I was raised eating khichdi and khadi, like any typical Gujarati household. My mom attempted to teach me how to roll proper round rotli when I was about nine, and we always promptly removed our shoes upon entering the house. Yet, I ate Eggo waffles for breakfast and grew up in a home that cheered for the 49ers and the Giants. Despite the obvious “Indian” forces that have shaped me, I was for all intensive purposes, an American.

In Manav Sadhna, I often feel like I am a daughter to the older staff members, with a pressure to act as a proper Indian daughter should. I should touch the feet of my elders when I greet them, to ask for blessings, and keep my hair tied in a simple, modest braid, slicked down with coconut oil. I’ve definitely grown an understanding and appreciation for traditional customs, during my time here, but I have not been able to completely embrace them. Perhaps it’s the feeling of being an imposter – trying to adopt customs that are not my own, to be accepted by this community.

Finally, there is the world of a seeker of spiritualism. The ideas of karma, nirvana, and atma (soul) have made appearances in my life for as long as I can remember. My mom has been a faithful advocate of the power of spirituality in finding happiness, and forceful in her insistence that the rest of the family find a similar faith. Perhaps it was a case of teenage rebellion, or simply a lack of context in my trouble-free childhood, but these beliefs had never truly struck a chord with me.

Everyday, I see people with lives drenched in tragedy and uncertainty, who somehow manage to make it through each day. This setting has brought new meaning to the spiritual terminology I’ve been listening to for years. It is not a solution to the problem; it’s a lens through which to look at our problems and untangle the unfair or unexplainable circumstances we are dealt.

The problem with living at the edge of so many worlds is that the logical course of action in one world, may not convert so logically into another. Each world gauges value by a different metric.

I worry that the value I add to my life here will be lost in translation when I return home and to school. The importance of spirituality and service at Manav Sadhna has fostered my belief that faithful service will contribute to bringing humanity forward, even if the results are not immediate or tangible, and as a result, bring me forward.

However, in the setting of competition at college, tangible results seem to be the only thing that matters at the end of the day. We measure our worth in terms of grades and income, on an individual level, and by the abstract figures of GDP and stock values, on a larger scale. 

Yet, the single number of a GPA that is meant to embody one’s intelligence is really just a reflection of what limited knowledge a person happened to know at a given time.  It (most often) doesn’t reflect a curiosity in pursuing new experiences, or the ability to survive in a resource-poor setting.  Similarly, a country’s GDP is supposed to be a measure of economic prosperity and quality of life, though it includes the amount of money spent on advertising by cigarette companies, to build jails for convicts, and to clear trees in order to build sprawling new highways (borrowed from John Robbins’ essay, “The Economics of Happiness”).

In essence, these tools all fail as they attempt to quantitatively measure things—intelligence, success, prosperity, happiness – that are inherently qualitative in nature.

I haven’t yet decided how to translate the value I have earned in India to my life back home. And, I haven’t yet decided if I’m okay with presenting my friends and family in America with the un-translated version, and allowing them to piece together their own renditions of my experience, determined by what represents value in their world.

Experiment #13: Happy Diwali

I've been down with a cold for the past five days. While the rest of Ahmedabad has been outside setting off fireworks and lighting candles to celebrate the festival of lights, I've been medicated in bed.

Apparently, I'm not the only one with a less than perfect Diwali. On Thursday, the headline in The Times of India read "Dark Diwali for Obama; Democrats lose House polls". My experience over the past two months has shown that The Times is a less than stellar gem of journalism, with front page news often recapping what film stars Salman and Priyanka had to say about each other last night.

But this melodramatic announcement made me think-- even though I haven't had a chance to get out of the house for my first Diwali in India, I haven't been completely isolated from the celebrations. Fireworks go off outside my window at all hours of the night, and each evening my uncle's neighbors come around to distribute prasad or sweets. And yesterday, my cousin, aunt and I made a colorful rangoli in front of the house. There's really no such thing as a dark Diwali in India, so lucky for Obama that India is the first stop in his visit to Asia.

Anganwadi children light taramandal sticks

Rangoli design and lighted divas outside our home

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.