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.

Experiment #18: Jet lag

A young boy and his father went to the river to bathe. As they were washing, the boy saw a woman nearby also taking a bath.


He stared at the woman with great concern. "Pappa, what is wrong with that woman's chest? Why does it look so different than mine? Is there something wrong with her?"


The father explained, "No my son. One day that woman will be a mother. And when the day comes that she has a child, she will be able to feed that child milk from her breast."


At that moment, the boy's whole world changed. He was struck with an startling moment of clarity. He thought, even before we enter this world, God has already made preparations for us to be taken care of. He is looking out for us even before we exist. What is the point of feeling anger, depression and fear? He has already paved the road for our future. 


----

I'm all for believing that we have control over our own destinies. But controlling one's destiny doesn't mean controlling the circumstances in life. Once we accept that what happens is just a product of the universe's infinite colliding factors, maybe then we can stop lamenting our lack of control, and move on to appreciating each circumstance as a gift waiting to be unwrapped.

Experiment #17: Kerosene

Last week, Kiranbhai and I organized a vali meeting to meet the parents of the kids at the Sabarmati street school. On Saturday afternoon, we spent two hours going around to all of the children's homes and introducing ourselves to their mothers. Many of them didn't know where their kids have been disappearing to to each afternoon for the past seven months.

Most of the mothers were gracious. They would welcome us in, insist on making fresh chai or running out to get a cold soda for us, and turn on the light in the house - reserved for emergencies or special occasions. Some of the mothers were apathetic. They were shy, disinterested, or busy in their housework. We would inform them quickly of the meeting at 4:30 on Tuesday afternoon where a sahib, or leader, from Gandhi Ashram would come to talk to them, and then went on our way.

When 4:30 on Tuesday afternoon finally came around, Kiranbhai and I walked up to the meeting spot with a bucket of hot nasto for the kids and a bag of sweets and snacks for the mothers. We were welcomed by two of our students, and a stray dog that visits our sessions often. The children explained that their mothers were not coming.

Kiranbhai looked at me that way he often does when we're faced with a problem. His expression read, This is unfortunate, but not all together unexpected. As he continued to stroke his chin and think, I demanded answers from the children. Why aren't your mothers here? Didn't you remind them of the meeting? Why did we come to your homes personally to invite them here?

Their response was unexpected. Each month, the government rations out kerosene to the community. Usually the kerosene distribution is scheduled for the 2nd of the month, but this time it was delayed by a few days...and happened to land on the same date and time as our vali meeting. Kiranbhai asked me to go to the children's homes and try to gather as many mothers as I could, before Maheshbhai, the sahib from Gandhi Asrham, arrived.

I tried my best, but after half an hour of chasing the children around to their homes, I was exhausted and frustrated. My Gujarati, although greatly improved over my 3+ months here, is not nearly colloquial enough to express the importance of this meeting to the mothers. Most of them were squatting in the kerosene line which stretched out of the neighborhood and across the street.

The conversations went something like this:
Masi, we called you to come at half past four. This meeting is especially for you.
But we have to fill our kerosene.
When will you be done?
We might be here until late night.
Can't someone else stand in line for you until the meeting is over? 
No.
Why not?
I don't know.
Sahib is coming all the way from Gandhi Ashram. How will it look if no one shows up?
We have to fill our kerosene.


At the time, I was nearly boiling with tension. I couldn't understand why these mothers could not request their neighbor, or elder daughter, or friend to keep their spot in line for just half an hour. The meeting we had arranged was especially for them to learn about Manav Sadhna and the type of education we were trying to bring their children.


Eventually the meeting proceeded. Although there was less than perfect attendance, we were able to share with those present, the values that we hoped to impart to their children and the importance of those values starting at home.

Later that night, Kiranbhai and I were invited to have dinner at the home of one masi who has been very helpful as we have started up this street school. We sat in darkness in her tattered home as she rolled rotli by the light of a small kerosene lantern. Today, because she had guests, Masi was cooking the rotlis on a kerosene stove, rather than the slower, cheaper coals-burning stove she usually used. As she mechanically rolled perfectly round rotlis, she talked to us about the life she hoped her children could have, outside of the danger and poverty she was bound to. She told us how smart her children were, even though they love to do tofan masti, mischief, and how grateful she is that we have started a school here for them.

The women in this area know very little of the world outside of their home and their families, but they know what they have to do to survive. Even if they wanted to attend the parents meeting, the possibility of losing a month's supply of kerosene just did not seem logical to them.

I subconsciously have an ego when I interact with the people in the slum, based on the idea that I know a world much larger than they have every experienced. Maybe that's true. Maybe I've flown here from across the globe. But it is times like that moment in Masi's dimly lit home that my ego was slapped in the face and reminded to go into hibernation. I may know a world filled with much more diverse circumstances than theirs, but I cannot even begin to imagine the values and instincts they have learned in order to survive against the odds they are dealt.

In my mind, I saw as a choice between kerosene or becoming aware of how to move their children forward in life. In their minds, it was a choice between keeping their families warm in the December chill or visiting with outsiders from Gandhi Ashram who think they know what's best for their children.

Masi's dinner of thick rotli, cauliflower sabji and onion on the side, was delicious.