i wasn't going to go home at xmas, partly because it takes 30 hours just to get there. although it's nice to see my family it's a bother, i thought (and expensive, if you consider i'm paid in rupees). but there is something terrible about missing christmas at home. i missed christmas two years ago when i was in indonesia, and i regretted it.
one of the things i like best about returning home to the house where i grew up is encountering new objects in the house or how they have been changed, moved or rearranged...different wallpaper here, a new appliance there; a whiter coat of paint on the floorboards; furniture and houseplants with new homes in different rooms. each time i go home i like to discover the changes that have occurred since i'd last left, and my mom gives me a kind of walk-through while she demonstrates some of the most noticeable differences and home improvements.
it's also entertaining to observe my brother and sister noting and voicing their opinions about those same things when they arrive on later flights from phoenix and new york, respectively. of course, once the "exploration" is done, the best part is breaking into good, red wine and exchanging stories late into the night.
so the idea of the christmas tree, cinnamon rolls, and seeing my family warmed my heart. but i was also somewhat afraid that if i went home then i would probably not want to return to india. i didn't want my cosy american lifestyle to interfere with giving bombay one last shot, so two weeks ago wednesday, just hours before the terrorist attacks, i went into the air india building to inquire about changing my flight to a date in may or june. it turned out that i could actually change the ticket date, for $125. i said i'd think about it and from there went to meet a friend in colaba.
just a half hour after i'd returned home that night, i got a text message from my roommate. she was having a drink at the bar-restaurant just across the street from where i had been only an hour before. it read something like this: "hi, where are you? there are men shooting people in the streets by leopold's cafe. they have machine guns."
well, that was just about the most unbelievable text message i'd ever received in my life, and at first i figured it was a ridiculous rumour. how could i have known that it was the beginning of a reality that would become the world's focal point the following day? i knew that it wasn't a joke when an indian friend called me later and told me not to go out and then explained everything (i have no t.v.). i felt sick. i felt the same way when i logged on to the internet the next morning, only to find shocking photographs on the NYTimes' and Times of India's homepage: the beautiful taj mahal hotel, one of mumbai's most beautiful buildings, was illuminated by night in its own flames.
so it only took few hours and that handful of extremists to remind me about why i actually should return home to visit my family. i only needed that as a wake-up call. two weeks ago last night, on the night of the attacks, i was sitting at indigo deli in colaba, having dinner with an american friend. we were just 100-150 metres down the street from the taj mahal hotel, and had left in a taxi only about 15 or 20 minutes before the men struck there. we were probably standing in the street and hailing a cab just as those guys were pulling up in their ammunition-filled boat.
the most horrifying realisation came a few days later, when a dud of a bomb was found planted across the street from the deli where my friend and i had dined. Had it gone off, the four-by-two metre arabic windows would have shattered and exploded in on all of us. the bombs were set to go off just as we were leaving the deli.
so it has been a lot to think about, that we hadn't randomly been just down the street at leopold's café that night, where seven diners and several waiters died when those guys paid their bill, got up, unzipped their backpacks and opened fire...that i hadn't stopped at victoria terminal on my way home, that i wasn't at the taj having a drink with friends...that this bomb just across the street hadn't detonated. in some respects, i don't think i've really processed what's happened here yet. today i'm just looking forward to seeing our christmas tree, jumping around in some clean snow, breathing fresh michigan air, and hanging out with the fam for a short week.
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
when he kissed me, i yelled bloody murder
i had totally forgotten to write this when it happened three weeks ago. i was so pissed off when it happened i could not see the humour in it. looking back now, it is kind of funny.
it was 11 p.m. i was coming back from gold's gym in bandra in a rickshaw and getting out at the train station to get home. i'd noticed my driver kept stealing glances at me in his rearview mirror, but this has become so commonplace to me that I don't usually think twice about it (red hair/white skin combo seems to be fascinating to everyone here, so they stare...especially children).
since i'd done this trip at least 50 times, i knew the fare was 12 rupees (about a quarter). so i'd folded the ten rupee note into a quarter of its size and placed the 2 rupee coin on top to hand it up to him once he'd stopped the rickshaw. it looked like a little placemat with a plate on it. in order to keep the coin from slipping off, i actually had to press the note/coin combo into his palm, and i carefully but quickly did this (as was the norm for me as i exited the ride).
but something strange, and unfamiliar, happened this time. as i started to move to the left to get out of the rick, i felt that something held my right arm back. i looked up to find that the driver had grabbed my hand, the one that was placing the money into his palm, and had begun to kiss it.
in india, it is Absolutely Forbidden to touch women, or for women to touch men: this is yet another taboo and i'm really careful to obey that unwritten rule. so, shocked, i snatched my hand away and cursed myself for not knowing something witty yet angry to say in hindi. instead, i yelled at him in english. "WHAT are you doing?" i yelled. then i yelled it a second time, louder.
people all around the rickshaw started to stare, and then i got out and moved really close to his face, shaking my index finger near his nose. "don't you ever, EVER! touch a woman like that!" i screamed. now people were stopping on the street to see if i was okay, and were peering over at me with curious eyes. the rick driver recoiled as if he was a turtle going back into his shell and then hurriedly, abashedly raced away at full throttle on his lawnmower engine. it was then i realised i should have slapped him.
i was left there on the street thinking, why did he do that? as i walked toward the trains i wondered if it was because i am western, and therefore a slut in his eyes, which gave him an open invitation to do that when i tried to put the money in his hand? (by the way, NO, i did not touch his palm.) is it that this man was sexually frustrated, perhaps a young guy who could be either muslim or hindu, with a wife in a faraway village, and he just hadn't thought before his instincts had gotten the better of him? or could it just be that he has seen some western films and felt this would be a romantic thing to do, because richard gere or james dean had done it? he saw that the western chicks dug it, and it seemed to work quite well for those guys. so i'm left with that question and am still wondering. still, my workmates found the story entertaining. "that would only happen to you!" they laughed when i told them.
an indian friend said it is all the above and none of the above (regarding my hypotheses on why he did it). an american friend said i need to make a game of all my frustrations re: living in india, and discover the fascinating social behaviors and phenomena, esp. male. he said i should see it as an experiment and bring sociology and anthropology into it all. my indian girlfriend told me, solemnly, "anne, look, you really need to start being more careful now." that scared me! and my iranian friend told me to cover my hair. then she started laughing.
it was 11 p.m. i was coming back from gold's gym in bandra in a rickshaw and getting out at the train station to get home. i'd noticed my driver kept stealing glances at me in his rearview mirror, but this has become so commonplace to me that I don't usually think twice about it (red hair/white skin combo seems to be fascinating to everyone here, so they stare...especially children).
since i'd done this trip at least 50 times, i knew the fare was 12 rupees (about a quarter). so i'd folded the ten rupee note into a quarter of its size and placed the 2 rupee coin on top to hand it up to him once he'd stopped the rickshaw. it looked like a little placemat with a plate on it. in order to keep the coin from slipping off, i actually had to press the note/coin combo into his palm, and i carefully but quickly did this (as was the norm for me as i exited the ride).
but something strange, and unfamiliar, happened this time. as i started to move to the left to get out of the rick, i felt that something held my right arm back. i looked up to find that the driver had grabbed my hand, the one that was placing the money into his palm, and had begun to kiss it.
in india, it is Absolutely Forbidden to touch women, or for women to touch men: this is yet another taboo and i'm really careful to obey that unwritten rule. so, shocked, i snatched my hand away and cursed myself for not knowing something witty yet angry to say in hindi. instead, i yelled at him in english. "WHAT are you doing?" i yelled. then i yelled it a second time, louder.
people all around the rickshaw started to stare, and then i got out and moved really close to his face, shaking my index finger near his nose. "don't you ever, EVER! touch a woman like that!" i screamed. now people were stopping on the street to see if i was okay, and were peering over at me with curious eyes. the rick driver recoiled as if he was a turtle going back into his shell and then hurriedly, abashedly raced away at full throttle on his lawnmower engine. it was then i realised i should have slapped him.
i was left there on the street thinking, why did he do that? as i walked toward the trains i wondered if it was because i am western, and therefore a slut in his eyes, which gave him an open invitation to do that when i tried to put the money in his hand? (by the way, NO, i did not touch his palm.) is it that this man was sexually frustrated, perhaps a young guy who could be either muslim or hindu, with a wife in a faraway village, and he just hadn't thought before his instincts had gotten the better of him? or could it just be that he has seen some western films and felt this would be a romantic thing to do, because richard gere or james dean had done it? he saw that the western chicks dug it, and it seemed to work quite well for those guys. so i'm left with that question and am still wondering. still, my workmates found the story entertaining. "that would only happen to you!" they laughed when i told them.
an indian friend said it is all the above and none of the above (regarding my hypotheses on why he did it). an american friend said i need to make a game of all my frustrations re: living in india, and discover the fascinating social behaviors and phenomena, esp. male. he said i should see it as an experiment and bring sociology and anthropology into it all. my indian girlfriend told me, solemnly, "anne, look, you really need to start being more careful now." that scared me! and my iranian friend told me to cover my hair. then she started laughing.
Sunday, November 30, 2008
the shit. has hit. the fan. (to use my favourite colloquialism)
i knew that when i came to india i would probably learn much more about tolerance, patience, and acceptance. but some days i feel that my experience has become a f***ing ridiculous nonstop torture chamber: my luck is running on empty, so i'm expecting something good must happen soon, based only on the principles of mathematical probability. please don't mind my vulgar language and take it all with a grain of salt... but i've been needing to vent and will now do it here after i've cried on a few friends' shoulders.
in the last two to three weeks, the following series of events has occurred. I:
1) have discussed salvaging an ex-relationship with my ex-swedish boyfriend;
2) had a malaria scare, in which my health insurance did not cover the hospital bill;
3) have fallen down a marble staircase at mahim station, badly bruising my a** and probably nearly breaking my arm;
4) have left my bloody wallet filled with cash and credit/ATM cards in the back of a taxi, which was never brought back or turned in to the u.s. consolate;
5) have been exhausted from running on very little sleep each night;
6) have been ill with a cold-cum-sinus infection as a result;
7) have given up on the tata indicom corporation for its ridiculous customer service to fix my internet connection
8) was offered the possibility of a promotion which was then retracted;
9) was very possibly nearly a victim of the terrorist attacks on mumbai;
10)am having a career crisis in which my current job is unsatisfactory and does not match its posted job role expectations for which i accepted the position;
11) currently have another job offer which i need to accept by tuesday.
i'm not complaining but just saying life has been a bit rough for the last 2-3 weeks and is the reason i have not had time (or energy) to post anything here. jag måste ha att göra med stora högar skit. so i'm looking forward to tomorrow and a new week: hopefully terrorist-free and filled with some major positive changes.
in addition to the above, my little pentax camera is currently not corresponding with my computer, so i cannot post photos from the GOOD things that i think have occurred in the last two weeks... so i will post a couple of shots here, which are from the past or which i've dragged off my friend's picasa album:
i attended the most fabulous wedding, ever, i think...or at least it ties for first place with my friends' japanese/english wedding in sintra, portugal.
as you can see in the pic (click to enlarge if you wish) i'm wearing a sari which was tailor made and bought for me by my friend shailaja ...the bride in the pic below. the wedding involved a weekend getaway to a fabulous resort up north; nights spent at hotels in colaba with a group of friends; endless amounts of amazing indian food in the form of several days of brunching, dining, drinking, and a bbq-ing on the beach in murud. we girls also got mehndi designed on our hands at a friday night cocktail party (before the festivities began) at shai's parents' place. needless to say, fabulous is an understatement.
in other news, i made my début in bollywood as an extra in the film, yuvvrajj ('crowned prince' in hindi). apparently it's bombed at the box office but i have been spotted by students, colleagues and friends in at least three spots at the credit run. so i will hit the cinema later this week with some fellow western co-stars to take in the great horrors and pageantry of the bollywood technique. fun times!
one night early in the month, my roommate annika, our friend alan and i walked into a cafe and discovered that we had won 300 rupees (about $6 or 42SEK) worth of food, coffee, and anything we wanted at the counter. why? my roommate was wearing a purple scarf and was the first person to wear the "lucky color" accessory that day. we won a big bag, filled with boxes and boxes and BOXES of stuff: breads, cakes, desserts, cookies, etc in addition to the drinks we'd ordered. we were distributing it to squatters on the streets of mumbai from the rickshaw and on the walk home, feeling much like the santa claus of the south. in the pic is annika, alan and the owner of candie's (the little cafe up in bandra):
here are some long exposure shots from a breezy early november evening at a drive-through street kitchen in colaba. two friends and i had gone there for dinner...quite amazingly, i've yet to fall ill from eating at any street kitchen.
last weekend, it was actually at this famous and patented place that my dear parsi friend actually tricked two friends and me into eating a delicious dish (which, from the texture, i'd guessed was mozzarella or cottage cheese sauteed and served in a sauce). I found out afterwards that i'd consumed the brains of a billy goat. i was half disgusted, half amused at my friend's clever technique of "order and devour," in which my other two friends and i hadn't known what each dish was until after we'd finished it (since he'd ordered in hindi). very funny...still laughing about that classic and horrific moment of realization.
in the last two to three weeks, the following series of events has occurred. I:
1) have discussed salvaging an ex-relationship with my ex-swedish boyfriend;
2) had a malaria scare, in which my health insurance did not cover the hospital bill;
3) have fallen down a marble staircase at mahim station, badly bruising my a** and probably nearly breaking my arm;
4) have left my bloody wallet filled with cash and credit/ATM cards in the back of a taxi, which was never brought back or turned in to the u.s. consolate;
5) have been exhausted from running on very little sleep each night;
6) have been ill with a cold-cum-sinus infection as a result;
7) have given up on the tata indicom corporation for its ridiculous customer service to fix my internet connection
8) was offered the possibility of a promotion which was then retracted;
9) was very possibly nearly a victim of the terrorist attacks on mumbai;
10)am having a career crisis in which my current job is unsatisfactory and does not match its posted job role expectations for which i accepted the position;
11) currently have another job offer which i need to accept by tuesday.
i'm not complaining but just saying life has been a bit rough for the last 2-3 weeks and is the reason i have not had time (or energy) to post anything here. jag måste ha att göra med stora högar skit. so i'm looking forward to tomorrow and a new week: hopefully terrorist-free and filled with some major positive changes.
in addition to the above, my little pentax camera is currently not corresponding with my computer, so i cannot post photos from the GOOD things that i think have occurred in the last two weeks... so i will post a couple of shots here, which are from the past or which i've dragged off my friend's picasa album:
i attended the most fabulous wedding, ever, i think...or at least it ties for first place with my friends' japanese/english wedding in sintra, portugal.
as you can see in the pic (click to enlarge if you wish) i'm wearing a sari which was tailor made and bought for me by my friend shailaja ...the bride in the pic below. the wedding involved a weekend getaway to a fabulous resort up north; nights spent at hotels in colaba with a group of friends; endless amounts of amazing indian food in the form of several days of brunching, dining, drinking, and a bbq-ing on the beach in murud. we girls also got mehndi designed on our hands at a friday night cocktail party (before the festivities began) at shai's parents' place. needless to say, fabulous is an understatement.
in other news, i made my début in bollywood as an extra in the film, yuvvrajj ('crowned prince' in hindi). apparently it's bombed at the box office but i have been spotted by students, colleagues and friends in at least three spots at the credit run. so i will hit the cinema later this week with some fellow western co-stars to take in the great horrors and pageantry of the bollywood technique. fun times!
one night early in the month, my roommate annika, our friend alan and i walked into a cafe and discovered that we had won 300 rupees (about $6 or 42SEK) worth of food, coffee, and anything we wanted at the counter. why? my roommate was wearing a purple scarf and was the first person to wear the "lucky color" accessory that day. we won a big bag, filled with boxes and boxes and BOXES of stuff: breads, cakes, desserts, cookies, etc in addition to the drinks we'd ordered. we were distributing it to squatters on the streets of mumbai from the rickshaw and on the walk home, feeling much like the santa claus of the south. in the pic is annika, alan and the owner of candie's (the little cafe up in bandra):
here are some long exposure shots from a breezy early november evening at a drive-through street kitchen in colaba. two friends and i had gone there for dinner...quite amazingly, i've yet to fall ill from eating at any street kitchen.
last weekend, it was actually at this famous and patented place that my dear parsi friend actually tricked two friends and me into eating a delicious dish (which, from the texture, i'd guessed was mozzarella or cottage cheese sauteed and served in a sauce). I found out afterwards that i'd consumed the brains of a billy goat. i was half disgusted, half amused at my friend's clever technique of "order and devour," in which my other two friends and i hadn't known what each dish was until after we'd finished it (since he'd ordered in hindi). very funny...still laughing about that classic and horrific moment of realization.
Friday, October 31, 2008
Today, A Relaxing Morning and Why I Felt Like a Kid Again
Okay everyone, I've written some uplifting entries here as opposed to the usual discussions about poverty....hope you enjoy.
Like Tuesday, I also had today (Thursday) free for the holiday. The thing is, I didn’t know too many others who had today off, so I decided to have an “Anne day.” I slept in until 9.00, lounged around my flat and leisurely got dressed, went to the gym in Bandra, showered, and then flip-flopped across the street to a trendy little café where I sat and read this week’s TIME magazine nearly cover to cover.
I sat outside on the café’s patio in the shade of some palmy fronds (probably the only Western person who has done so in the history of the place….I despise air conditioning), ordered eggs Benedict, which I hadn’t eaten in about five years, and drank an iced latte blended to a frappe with a scoop of ice cream. Although I’d already had an amazing and relaxing morning, I decided to move on to get a facial at an acquaintance’s salon.
By mid-afternoon I was on my way back to my flat. I was just about to turn the corner inside my neighbourhood when I saw this little brown puppy coming up from behind me. Suddenly he became visibly happy: wagging his tail, running, and pouncing in my direction. But instead of running directly towards me he stopped and crawled under a car which sat parked between us. Confused, I tried to coax him out.
But then, as I squatted near the car, made some kissing noises and started speaking Swedish baby-talk to him, three little noses made their way towards my hand from the shade of the automobile. I had discovered three puppies, all apparently living under this car!
I think people had mistreated them, since they were a little frightened of me. But I coaxed them out, ran upstairs to get my camera and go through the fridge, came back and attempted to feed them last night’s leftovers, which they wouldn’t touch. It was difficult to get a shot of them all at once since they would not sit still.
But they were so playful and sweet, and reminded me what it must be like to have so much energy and see the world through such fresh eyes. I was happy to have discovered them, I suppose, because I think it’s the first time I’ve seen puppies since… I cannot remember. (I tried not to think about that they were probably rabid and carrying lots of unique diseases…just avoided getting my hands or body too close….)
As I watched them at play I thought about how to a puppy, a new day is a big adventure. They discover new things and play and experience life to its fullest. I thought, that’s how I should experience life here in India (figuratively, of course)…tumbling around, running up to new things, chasing after things that interest me, sniffing around for good stuff and barking up trees after the bandicoot.
In retrospect, perhaps the puppies taught me a lesson. Perhaps I shouldn’t focus so much on my work and on the poverty in India, but make more time for my own happiness. Here, for 15 minutes, I got to feel like a kid again: laughing and playing on the lawn with these curious little creatures.
N.B. This version is a draft…my computer crashed and did not save the better version…will be reworked next week
Like Tuesday, I also had today (Thursday) free for the holiday. The thing is, I didn’t know too many others who had today off, so I decided to have an “Anne day.” I slept in until 9.00, lounged around my flat and leisurely got dressed, went to the gym in Bandra, showered, and then flip-flopped across the street to a trendy little café where I sat and read this week’s TIME magazine nearly cover to cover.
I sat outside on the café’s patio in the shade of some palmy fronds (probably the only Western person who has done so in the history of the place….I despise air conditioning), ordered eggs Benedict, which I hadn’t eaten in about five years, and drank an iced latte blended to a frappe with a scoop of ice cream. Although I’d already had an amazing and relaxing morning, I decided to move on to get a facial at an acquaintance’s salon.
By mid-afternoon I was on my way back to my flat. I was just about to turn the corner inside my neighbourhood when I saw this little brown puppy coming up from behind me. Suddenly he became visibly happy: wagging his tail, running, and pouncing in my direction. But instead of running directly towards me he stopped and crawled under a car which sat parked between us. Confused, I tried to coax him out.
But then, as I squatted near the car, made some kissing noises and started speaking Swedish baby-talk to him, three little noses made their way towards my hand from the shade of the automobile. I had discovered three puppies, all apparently living under this car!
I think people had mistreated them, since they were a little frightened of me. But I coaxed them out, ran upstairs to get my camera and go through the fridge, came back and attempted to feed them last night’s leftovers, which they wouldn’t touch. It was difficult to get a shot of them all at once since they would not sit still.
But they were so playful and sweet, and reminded me what it must be like to have so much energy and see the world through such fresh eyes. I was happy to have discovered them, I suppose, because I think it’s the first time I’ve seen puppies since… I cannot remember. (I tried not to think about that they were probably rabid and carrying lots of unique diseases…just avoided getting my hands or body too close….)
As I watched them at play I thought about how to a puppy, a new day is a big adventure. They discover new things and play and experience life to its fullest. I thought, that’s how I should experience life here in India (figuratively, of course)…tumbling around, running up to new things, chasing after things that interest me, sniffing around for good stuff and barking up trees after the bandicoot.
In retrospect, perhaps the puppies taught me a lesson. Perhaps I shouldn’t focus so much on my work and on the poverty in India, but make more time for my own happiness. Here, for 15 minutes, I got to feel like a kid again: laughing and playing on the lawn with these curious little creatures.
N.B. This version is a draft…my computer crashed and did not save the better version…will be reworked next week
Diwali: A Couple of Days Spent Relaxing and in the Hawking Zone of Colaba
Everywhere in Mumbai, it’s evident that Diwali is in full force. Many thresholds are decorated with the tell-tale colours and symbols of holiday festivities.
Even the Taj President Hotel is lit up by night in a Pepto-Bismol shade of fuchsia.
Like most Indians we had Tuesday off for Diwali, so my two roommates and I took the Hindu holiday to visit a Muslim mosque. On the way to the train station, we were greeted by street kids who were happy to speak a little English with us. Eating popsicles and armed with orange plastic guns, they posed for a shot in front of a bus stop near Mahim Station.
Although it was sweltering and upwards of 34 degrees C, I was glad to finally get the opportunity to visit Haji Ali, one of Mumbai’s oldest mosques right on the sea.
The mosque is like something out of a movie. (Actually, Bollywood often opens some of its films with Haji Ali in the backdrop.)
No photos were allowed inside the mosque, so I just have this one of me with Annika as we covered our hair prior to entering. Shivapriya had already made her way into the mosque. This pic makes me laugh.
Later that night I met up with Avantika and her landlord, who is a member at the exclusive President Radio Club in Colaba and who invited us to join her and her family for dinner. The food was fabulous, and so were the fireworks.
On the way home I took some long exposure shots to show the hot night, Churchgate Station at 10 p.m. from inside my train car, and a view from the train window out into Mumbai from where I sat, first class men’s compartment, more for safety than out of loneliness.
Even the Taj President Hotel is lit up by night in a Pepto-Bismol shade of fuchsia.
Like most Indians we had Tuesday off for Diwali, so my two roommates and I took the Hindu holiday to visit a Muslim mosque. On the way to the train station, we were greeted by street kids who were happy to speak a little English with us. Eating popsicles and armed with orange plastic guns, they posed for a shot in front of a bus stop near Mahim Station.
Although it was sweltering and upwards of 34 degrees C, I was glad to finally get the opportunity to visit Haji Ali, one of Mumbai’s oldest mosques right on the sea.
The mosque is like something out of a movie. (Actually, Bollywood often opens some of its films with Haji Ali in the backdrop.)
No photos were allowed inside the mosque, so I just have this one of me with Annika as we covered our hair prior to entering. Shivapriya had already made her way into the mosque. This pic makes me laugh.
Later that night I met up with Avantika and her landlord, who is a member at the exclusive President Radio Club in Colaba and who invited us to join her and her family for dinner. The food was fabulous, and so were the fireworks.
On the way home I took some long exposure shots to show the hot night, Churchgate Station at 10 p.m. from inside my train car, and a view from the train window out into Mumbai from where I sat, first class men’s compartment, more for safety than out of loneliness.
A Typical Morning on My Way to Work
It’s Diwali, or the Festival of Lights: probably the biggest Indian holiday. Monday on my way to work I snapped some shots of what’s going on around here in Mahim and then later in Cotton Green, near where I get off the train to walk to my ofc…pretty typical, actually, and not much out of the ordinary.
Due to the holiday, there are lanterns everywhere. I saw this mammoth lantern being constructed on the street by the bamboo weavers a week ago.
The post office in Mahim is usually dead. Today, the one day I needed to mail two letters, it was swamped. Typical.
Walking towards the train, I usually pass a little diner, I guess you could call it, or in Swedish gatukök (street kitchen). There, a shopkeeper sets out his little fried treats, which I think are “pure veg.”
Then, a little further down my street, there’s the man who prepares his pile of coconuts for the day. Today he wielded his machete with as much style and grace as usual, and if I had more time I’d like to just park on the sidewalk and film him on my little Pentax.
I’m going to have to sample one of those coconuts someday soon. My friend Pradnya has a mom who is a doctor and warned me when they were visiting: “Whatever you do, you MUST NOT drink from those street vendors’ straws: they reuse them. You’ll get Hep B!” From one extreme germaphobe to another, that was an effective warning.
Getting off the train and walking to work I pass two lazy bulls every morning. They are constantly eating sugar cane and enjoying their status in Indian society. Since it’s a holiday this week, they had extra cane on the cart that morning. Lucky for them, life is sweet.
Due to the holiday, there are lanterns everywhere. I saw this mammoth lantern being constructed on the street by the bamboo weavers a week ago.
The post office in Mahim is usually dead. Today, the one day I needed to mail two letters, it was swamped. Typical.
Walking towards the train, I usually pass a little diner, I guess you could call it, or in Swedish gatukök (street kitchen). There, a shopkeeper sets out his little fried treats, which I think are “pure veg.”
Then, a little further down my street, there’s the man who prepares his pile of coconuts for the day. Today he wielded his machete with as much style and grace as usual, and if I had more time I’d like to just park on the sidewalk and film him on my little Pentax.
I’m going to have to sample one of those coconuts someday soon. My friend Pradnya has a mom who is a doctor and warned me when they were visiting: “Whatever you do, you MUST NOT drink from those street vendors’ straws: they reuse them. You’ll get Hep B!” From one extreme germaphobe to another, that was an effective warning.
Getting off the train and walking to work I pass two lazy bulls every morning. They are constantly eating sugar cane and enjoying their status in Indian society. Since it’s a holiday this week, they had extra cane on the cart that morning. Lucky for them, life is sweet.
How I Managed to Get Online: A Saga Shortened to Four Pghs
Little did I know the ways in which accessing the internet (something that shouldn’t be hard to do in a land of tekkies) could be so time-consuming, flabbergasting, and outright ridiculous. It took me nearly eight weeks: Yes. Eight Weeks to have access to and communicate with my people out there in the world. And you can imagine that, since I’m such a net junkie, that this was not an easy period for me. It was probably also one of the reasons I had a mini-breakdown.
I started to write all of it down here but then realised it would bore everyone to tears. So to summarise: It took eight weeks. It involved men visiting with paperwork, and then visiting separately to install the wires from the rooftop. It involved calling a supervisor 30 to 40 times to get a technician back here to finish the installation. And when he came, I couldn’t believe it.
In the photo you see various wires. As I watched from my balcony, one guy on my rooftop threw a cable to a guy onto the building next to mine, who threw the cable onto building #18 (two buildings from mine). Then he just yelled down to me, ‘okay, we’re going to lower the cable to your balcony. Just grab it and pull it in !’ They lowered the cable, slowly, swaying it back and forth so that it brushed against the metal cage that surrounds my balcony, allowing me to grab it. I pulled in the wire, he came downstairs, fished it through the doors, and voila! Finito.
This is India. This is how things are done. So now I have a cable just hanging from the rooftop of my building, three stories up, to my balcony, and coming in through my French doors. Too funny! One final note: as I write this, I’m having trouble with my connection. I called them four days ago but because of the Diwali holidays, they haven’t yet sent someone out. Hope this is resolved soon.
I started to write all of it down here but then realised it would bore everyone to tears. So to summarise: It took eight weeks. It involved men visiting with paperwork, and then visiting separately to install the wires from the rooftop. It involved calling a supervisor 30 to 40 times to get a technician back here to finish the installation. And when he came, I couldn’t believe it.
In the photo you see various wires. As I watched from my balcony, one guy on my rooftop threw a cable to a guy onto the building next to mine, who threw the cable onto building #18 (two buildings from mine). Then he just yelled down to me, ‘okay, we’re going to lower the cable to your balcony. Just grab it and pull it in !’ They lowered the cable, slowly, swaying it back and forth so that it brushed against the metal cage that surrounds my balcony, allowing me to grab it. I pulled in the wire, he came downstairs, fished it through the doors, and voila! Finito.
This is India. This is how things are done. So now I have a cable just hanging from the rooftop of my building, three stories up, to my balcony, and coming in through my French doors. Too funny! One final note: as I write this, I’m having trouble with my connection. I called them four days ago but because of the Diwali holidays, they haven’t yet sent someone out. Hope this is resolved soon.
A Good Day at Work
One day at work was particularly nice: it was a Friday, and my birthday at that. The kids were waiting for me, quietly (a rare surprise), and all yelled out in unison upon my arrival: “HAPPY BIRTHDAY, ANNE DIDI!” Needless to say I was pleased. These guys are only 14 years old…that’s quite an accomplishment. I praised them promptly and took their photo.
One of the perks about work is that I, like most Indians, get to run around barefoot when the environment allows. The weather is beautiful, the kids are sitting in a circle, I’m just listening to their discussion about the literature and guiding it, and we’re all barefoot. I would be such a hippie, if only I liked patchouli, marijuana and tye-dyed garb.
One of the perks about work is that I, like most Indians, get to run around barefoot when the environment allows. The weather is beautiful, the kids are sitting in a circle, I’m just listening to their discussion about the literature and guiding it, and we’re all barefoot. I would be such a hippie, if only I liked patchouli, marijuana and tye-dyed garb.
Thursday, October 16, 2008
I Walked in the Name of Gandhiji
October 2nd is Gandhi’s birthday, and a national holiday here. Many Indians slept in and ate a leisurely breakfast. But about 250 fellow employees, teachers, social workers, volunteers and students went on a walk throughout the slums of Mumbai in Gandhi’s name, and I was one of them. The idea was to go out into low-income and impoverished neighbourhoods and connect with people. From the photos, you can get an idea of how we interacted through some art activities and discussions.
Personally I had looked forward to going into Dharuvi (Asia’s biggest slum, here in Mumbai) to connect with people, mainly children. The idea was to do something positive in the name of Gandhi on his birthday: to be the change we want to see in the world.
But when the day came, I got up at 7 a.m. and cursed myself for agreeing to go through with the walk for two selfish reasons: because I hadn't slept enough, and because I was slightly hung over. I skipped breakfast, water, and brushing my teeth to get to the train on time. After meeting in a central location, all 250 of us separated into groups and set out for different quarters of the city (my group had been slated for Dharuvi). We traveled by bus and walked for some time, until at last our group entered the community. It was then that I began to feel some nuances of trepidation and a little anxiety.
Although I was smiling and distributing candies and stickers and pencils and crayons to children, inside I was a scared child, afraid of poverty, the choice I'd made to come to this seemingly backwards country, and the masses of people around me crammed into those small and tattered living quarters. Within minutes, I had distributed the things to the swarming children. Eventually my fear gave way to a positive energy that came not only from the kind gestures and words from the people of this neighborhood but from my inspiring colleagues who took time to hold children, talk to the people, shake hands and instruct (in hindi, of course. i couldn't do as much as a bystander although i did play with the children. It was a photo op sans Obama, a Big Mac without Clinton on his campaign trail. Although unseen to the world, a few these moments were perhaps the most inspiring I'd felt all year.
Once I began to feel comfortable about being there I remembered why I chose to come here for this job. I have been in the slums here before with my students, and was reminded that fifty percent of Mumbai’s residents live in similar conditions. Despite such circumstances, I found that the people of Dharuvi were in very high spirits: smiling, laughing, greeting us on a holiday. Children drew happily with the pens and crayons and paper that we distributed. They participated in a contest for prizes; they comically posed for photos and ran back to me to see the digital image; they danced and played around us, happy with the presence of strangers, simple stickers and balloons. Once again, I felt that train wreck collision of two worlds in my heart and was reminded that humility is precious.
The point here from my perspective was not to “save” the people from themselves, or enlighten or bring some kind of band-aid solution to the kids and their problems, but just to interact and understand and perhaps share a smile and a few words of Hindi or English with some fellow Mumbaikars for five minutes. It was a snapshot of life. By no means did I feel heroic or as if I was acting out of salvation. It was just a nice experience, to choose to spend a morning in a place that I’d otherwise not likely be, trying for a moment to "be the change," although I don't know how much we changed anything, but for making 45 kids smile and laugh for a few minutes ... in the name of India's fearless and legendary leader who owned nothing more than what he carried with him.
It isn’t really appropriate or justifiable to compare Sweden or the US to India for many reasons, but as I stood there surrounded by so many enthusiastic kids I remembered many of my American and international students in Göteborg, Trollhättan and Grand Haven who had everything yet were the most unhappy people in the world. A significant percentage of my high school students, esp. in the US, demonstrated negative attitudes in the classroom about school (that it "sucked," for ex) and/or were on anti-depressants and struggling through a lot of "problems," yes, BIG problems, stemming from too many choices in a society that offers too much.
Here, by contrast, children here today demonstrated so much gratitude in receiving simple gifts of pencils and paper. These children, who have no toys but for makeshift kites assembled with plastic and twine, greeted us only with warmth and smiles. I wondered for a moment about these two types of classrooms, feeling more like a student in the classroom of Dharuvi, and acknowledging a simple revelation that I had chosen this path that has become my life.
My Struggle with the Idea of Status
It’s pretty hard to accept that status is such a big deal in this place. I think it's the worst thing about living here: people want to flaunt their status. It’s not like you can be working class or a pink collar teacher and be proud of it, go out to the pub with friends, discuss the world’s problems over a few pints and go home. Here, to go out for drinks (or at least seek psychotherapy through friendly banter at the pub), you almost need to be rich, because alcohol costs too much. Oh, and there are no pubs. There are places like Hard Rock Café, where waiters and clientele get up on the tables to dance to ACDC. It’s just hard to find a nice, quiet, dark pub. In fact, I haven’t found one yet. The closest thing to it is Jeffrey’s, an Australian pub…but the noise and music (and the quintessential and annoying “Man from Down Under” song in Aussie pubs) just gets on my nerves, as does the crowd.
One acquaintance of mine comes from a lot of money. Her diamond engagement ring is one of the biggest I've ever seen. One evening while we were riding in a cab together, I mentioned that there is no drinking culture in India... to which she responded: “Oh, a lot of people drink here after work!” but the thing is, it’s just her crowd who is drinking (mainly the rich). Those are the people who go to the country club and horse races.
Interestingly, I’m caught in the middle of the status strata since I’m an expat in this country and everyone believes I have a lot of money to throw around. If I go out, of course there is only a certain number of places that offer, for example, beer or Chinese food or bottled water. By default I am grouped with a class of people I wouldn’t normally associate with. Additionally I’m fair so that automatically places me into a “respected” category, like a higher caste. It's really, really sick.
But back to the taxi conversation regarding one acquaintance's comment about drinking culture. When this woman told me about her experiences studying in the U.S., she mentioned that Americans could learn a lot from Indians. I, of course, was interested in hearing more because I am very keen on cultural understanding and obviously understanding this culture. The reason, she answered, was that Americans need more spare time to enjoy life, and not work so much. Indians have so much time to socialise, she said, because all their cooking, cleaning, and dirty work is done for them…so they are able to enjoy life to the fullest.
Her ideas perplexed me mainly because she fails to see that her crowd comprises only a few percent of this city's population.... though if I had come from her background perhaps I could perhaps see her point. The thing was, there were people in the car whose parents or families were those workers. So I just told her that the biggest difference, perhaps, is that a lot of Americans (or Swedes, even more) take pride in their work…and that includes washing your car on Sundays, ironing one’s own shirts, and the act of taking a scrub brush to our toilets. It’s not a big deal, and we do not believe we are above those tasks, which are considered remedial here.
All I can say is that I really miss going out with my fellow colleagues for a beer on Fridays to discuss the workweek and how we can create change in the schools where we work. Here, going out for a beer is more of an expensive privilege and it includes hanging out with people who encourage discussing a lot of corporate bullshit. I know I was constantly annoyed by Swedish culture, but there is something to be said about a society in which almost everyone can enjoy the same privileges. Here …this idea is as foreign as much as absolutely impossible.
It’s still a pretty incredible idea to me that I am wining and dining with the privileged by night, some of who are the wealthiest people in the city, and then spending hours by day with the poorest children. My life has become this: two extremes, in every respect. The mediocrity and idea of “lagom” in Sweden is definitely gone now…it’s either everything or nothing now.
One acquaintance of mine comes from a lot of money. Her diamond engagement ring is one of the biggest I've ever seen. One evening while we were riding in a cab together, I mentioned that there is no drinking culture in India... to which she responded: “Oh, a lot of people drink here after work!” but the thing is, it’s just her crowd who is drinking (mainly the rich). Those are the people who go to the country club and horse races.
Interestingly, I’m caught in the middle of the status strata since I’m an expat in this country and everyone believes I have a lot of money to throw around. If I go out, of course there is only a certain number of places that offer, for example, beer or Chinese food or bottled water. By default I am grouped with a class of people I wouldn’t normally associate with. Additionally I’m fair so that automatically places me into a “respected” category, like a higher caste. It's really, really sick.
But back to the taxi conversation regarding one acquaintance's comment about drinking culture. When this woman told me about her experiences studying in the U.S., she mentioned that Americans could learn a lot from Indians. I, of course, was interested in hearing more because I am very keen on cultural understanding and obviously understanding this culture. The reason, she answered, was that Americans need more spare time to enjoy life, and not work so much. Indians have so much time to socialise, she said, because all their cooking, cleaning, and dirty work is done for them…so they are able to enjoy life to the fullest.
Her ideas perplexed me mainly because she fails to see that her crowd comprises only a few percent of this city's population.... though if I had come from her background perhaps I could perhaps see her point. The thing was, there were people in the car whose parents or families were those workers. So I just told her that the biggest difference, perhaps, is that a lot of Americans (or Swedes, even more) take pride in their work…and that includes washing your car on Sundays, ironing one’s own shirts, and the act of taking a scrub brush to our toilets. It’s not a big deal, and we do not believe we are above those tasks, which are considered remedial here.
All I can say is that I really miss going out with my fellow colleagues for a beer on Fridays to discuss the workweek and how we can create change in the schools where we work. Here, going out for a beer is more of an expensive privilege and it includes hanging out with people who encourage discussing a lot of corporate bullshit. I know I was constantly annoyed by Swedish culture, but there is something to be said about a society in which almost everyone can enjoy the same privileges. Here …this idea is as foreign as much as absolutely impossible.
It’s still a pretty incredible idea to me that I am wining and dining with the privileged by night, some of who are the wealthiest people in the city, and then spending hours by day with the poorest children. My life has become this: two extremes, in every respect. The mediocrity and idea of “lagom” in Sweden is definitely gone now…it’s either everything or nothing now.
Saturday, September 27, 2008
Where Reality Meets Idealism
I was listening to Radiohead’s lyrics in “All I Need” the other day and remembered seeing the video back in the spring. Here's one verse:
I'm the next act
Waiting in the wings
I’m an animal
Trapped in your hot car
I’m all the days
That you choose to ignore
The lyrics are about a person suffering in a relationship, but I think they also capture the idea of being victimized by poverty.
The video shocked me, because in many ways it captures the idea why I made the decision to come here. If you havent seen it go to youtube to check it out. But essentially it compares and contrasts the lives of two boys: one Western and one Eastern. In the end, after viewing the routines of both boys simultaneously on a cut screen, you see that the American boy is actually wearing the shoes that the Chinese boy has made and it leaves you with the question about why the world is this way. But these lyrics also capture what I feel some days when I am walking through the streets and I can’t believe I’m not dreaming (or having a nightmare).
Last night, my friend and I were stepping out of a club and into his car after we paid for the valet parking. As the car door was held open for me I noticed a woman watching me from across the street. She was just lying there, half reclined, about to go to sleep for the night. After living in Sweden for four years, that is just absolutely shocking to see it firsthand because poverty like that doesnt exist there. It’s still amazing to consider that this is how so many people live, just strewn about on the streets, lined up like grey matchsticks on the sidewalk amongst rubble and the darkness.
Then earlier this week on the train home from work I think I experienced one of the most harrowing events I’d ever encountered. But each time I am confronted with a harrowing experience, I become more immune to feeling as bad as I did the previous time. So I saw this and thought, My god! but simultaneously, Seen that before: no big deal. A month ago I would have thought, My god. Hell on earth. Oh my god. And then I would have spent at least an hour or two thinking about what I saw. Perhaps it’s the amount of public defecation that goes on down here that will eventually create a kind of immunity to just about everything.
But on the train, I was standing in a not-so-crowded first class car. The train started to move just after a stop and suddenly a pack of five or six women and children jumped on. The reason I say pack is because they did indeed resemble a group of wild dogs…hair in bunches and bleached from the sun, wearing rags, yellow teeth … looking—and behaving—like animals. Once on the train, the children began to make rounds, going to each woman, tapping, holding eye contact with pleading eyes and extending hands out and then back again towards their mouths.
So one of these urchins who looked perhaps like one of Dickens’ worst nightmares approached me and proceeded to beg. I just looked straight down at her and said, quietly, “Jiao” (meaning, simply “Go” in Hindi), not in a condescending way but more like a discerning “I can’t be bothered” way, and flicked my wrist, gesturing towards her. I can’t believe I actually do this now because at one time I would have only given money, immediately and without a second thought.
Needless to say for the first time, I think in my life, I felt like a heartless bitch for dashing that girl’s hopes. But when you see it every day and you live on a modest salary, you eventually realise you can’t do it anymore. There are just too many people, and all of them need and want money. I’ve chosen to give food when I can, but that’s all that I can do. Survival is the unwritten law of this jungle, and that is also what I have learnt to do. It’s really amazing what this place can do to a person after only seven weeks.
I don’t know if it was part of the begging act or not, but just after the girl surrendered hope and moved on to the next woman to ask for money, one of the two children who belonged to the two ragged mothers (who sat on the floor and looked no more than 18 or 20 years old) began to wail and scream with such ferocity that it chilled me to the bone. The crying wouldn’t stop but I couldn’t look to find out what was going on; it was too painful to hear it, and I knew that to see whatever was happening would have surely been worse. But I finally did glance over at this screaming child in the arms of the teen mother, and the look on the mother’s face was of extreme anguish and despair. Her head was between her knotted fists, and her fists nearly covered her ears, as if she couldn’t take the poverty or the task of being a mother anymore.
My only thought was, Are we not human? This woman is obviously suffering and living in her own hell. As women, how could we sit or stand in that train car and not feel that woman’s fear and desperation, made public by the cries of her child? We were standing there listening to iPods and reading the paper, and she and her child were seen, and treated, no better than animals might be. I looked at her and for the millionth time felt that collision of two worlds in my soul, that of mine and hers, and pondering that everyone is just mingling and carrying on like it is nothing much to think about.
Then I had the horrible wish that I could be more like the people around me, who seemed totally detached from the entire act, especially when one woman stepped forward and told this woman to get off the train at the next stop with the English words, “First Class” thrown in. So my question is, where is the right balance, where you acknowledge that pain in a sensitive way and use that as fuel to take action to make change in the world, yet not become too emotionally involved? It is a fine tightrope and I’m walking it. This entire situation of what I saw on the train is a perfect analogy of the work I’m doing and why I’m doing it. And I still think I have gone insane.
Other than learning to deal with the begging and children following me around as if I’m the Pied Piper (and believe me there is a Hell of a lot of it, esp if you are white skinned and red haired), the last work week has actually been, I believe, my first normal week since I’ve left Sweden: normal in that I’m finally running and going to the gym on a regular basis; I have a regular daily routine and my food/cleaning/wash/etc sorted; normal in that I know that when I get in a cab I’ll probably spend a half hour to an hour in it, and normal in that my bigger problems are in the process of being solved.
I was at rock bottom last Friday when I was sick, hacking in bed that night by 10 p.m. after I’d had a complete breakdown in front of my supervisor at the office. Why, you ask? It could have been, perhaps, a combination of my lack of physical exercise, no internet access at home, lack of contact with friends/family, pent-up everyday frustrations, layers of culture shock, and the resulting cold/flu that kept me in bed for three days (plus throw in a few financial worries and an issue or two with details regarding my work contract). That night, just before coming home, I went to take out 2800 rupees from the ATM (about 70 USD). But somehow I entered one zero too many and ended up taking out 700 USD. So I survived another rough week there.
But things are much better this week after I have attempted to address all the above one by one. I also got a gym membership at Gold’s Gym. (Must write an entire segment on the hi-may women I see there and the live DJ spinning after 9 p.m. Incredible and even better than the nice gyms in NYC!) Still cannot believe I am actually a member at Gold’s….just not really digging that crowd, but still! there must be a few people like me there.
Sorry no pics this time. You’ll have to use your imagination until I load them next time...but there will be quite a few then.
I'm the next act
Waiting in the wings
I’m an animal
Trapped in your hot car
I’m all the days
That you choose to ignore
The lyrics are about a person suffering in a relationship, but I think they also capture the idea of being victimized by poverty.
The video shocked me, because in many ways it captures the idea why I made the decision to come here. If you havent seen it go to youtube to check it out. But essentially it compares and contrasts the lives of two boys: one Western and one Eastern. In the end, after viewing the routines of both boys simultaneously on a cut screen, you see that the American boy is actually wearing the shoes that the Chinese boy has made and it leaves you with the question about why the world is this way. But these lyrics also capture what I feel some days when I am walking through the streets and I can’t believe I’m not dreaming (or having a nightmare).
Last night, my friend and I were stepping out of a club and into his car after we paid for the valet parking. As the car door was held open for me I noticed a woman watching me from across the street. She was just lying there, half reclined, about to go to sleep for the night. After living in Sweden for four years, that is just absolutely shocking to see it firsthand because poverty like that doesnt exist there. It’s still amazing to consider that this is how so many people live, just strewn about on the streets, lined up like grey matchsticks on the sidewalk amongst rubble and the darkness.
Then earlier this week on the train home from work I think I experienced one of the most harrowing events I’d ever encountered. But each time I am confronted with a harrowing experience, I become more immune to feeling as bad as I did the previous time. So I saw this and thought, My god! but simultaneously, Seen that before: no big deal. A month ago I would have thought, My god. Hell on earth. Oh my god. And then I would have spent at least an hour or two thinking about what I saw. Perhaps it’s the amount of public defecation that goes on down here that will eventually create a kind of immunity to just about everything.
But on the train, I was standing in a not-so-crowded first class car. The train started to move just after a stop and suddenly a pack of five or six women and children jumped on. The reason I say pack is because they did indeed resemble a group of wild dogs…hair in bunches and bleached from the sun, wearing rags, yellow teeth … looking—and behaving—like animals. Once on the train, the children began to make rounds, going to each woman, tapping, holding eye contact with pleading eyes and extending hands out and then back again towards their mouths.
So one of these urchins who looked perhaps like one of Dickens’ worst nightmares approached me and proceeded to beg. I just looked straight down at her and said, quietly, “Jiao” (meaning, simply “Go” in Hindi), not in a condescending way but more like a discerning “I can’t be bothered” way, and flicked my wrist, gesturing towards her. I can’t believe I actually do this now because at one time I would have only given money, immediately and without a second thought.
Needless to say for the first time, I think in my life, I felt like a heartless bitch for dashing that girl’s hopes. But when you see it every day and you live on a modest salary, you eventually realise you can’t do it anymore. There are just too many people, and all of them need and want money. I’ve chosen to give food when I can, but that’s all that I can do. Survival is the unwritten law of this jungle, and that is also what I have learnt to do. It’s really amazing what this place can do to a person after only seven weeks.
I don’t know if it was part of the begging act or not, but just after the girl surrendered hope and moved on to the next woman to ask for money, one of the two children who belonged to the two ragged mothers (who sat on the floor and looked no more than 18 or 20 years old) began to wail and scream with such ferocity that it chilled me to the bone. The crying wouldn’t stop but I couldn’t look to find out what was going on; it was too painful to hear it, and I knew that to see whatever was happening would have surely been worse. But I finally did glance over at this screaming child in the arms of the teen mother, and the look on the mother’s face was of extreme anguish and despair. Her head was between her knotted fists, and her fists nearly covered her ears, as if she couldn’t take the poverty or the task of being a mother anymore.
My only thought was, Are we not human? This woman is obviously suffering and living in her own hell. As women, how could we sit or stand in that train car and not feel that woman’s fear and desperation, made public by the cries of her child? We were standing there listening to iPods and reading the paper, and she and her child were seen, and treated, no better than animals might be. I looked at her and for the millionth time felt that collision of two worlds in my soul, that of mine and hers, and pondering that everyone is just mingling and carrying on like it is nothing much to think about.
Then I had the horrible wish that I could be more like the people around me, who seemed totally detached from the entire act, especially when one woman stepped forward and told this woman to get off the train at the next stop with the English words, “First Class” thrown in. So my question is, where is the right balance, where you acknowledge that pain in a sensitive way and use that as fuel to take action to make change in the world, yet not become too emotionally involved? It is a fine tightrope and I’m walking it. This entire situation of what I saw on the train is a perfect analogy of the work I’m doing and why I’m doing it. And I still think I have gone insane.
Other than learning to deal with the begging and children following me around as if I’m the Pied Piper (and believe me there is a Hell of a lot of it, esp if you are white skinned and red haired), the last work week has actually been, I believe, my first normal week since I’ve left Sweden: normal in that I’m finally running and going to the gym on a regular basis; I have a regular daily routine and my food/cleaning/wash/etc sorted; normal in that I know that when I get in a cab I’ll probably spend a half hour to an hour in it, and normal in that my bigger problems are in the process of being solved.
I was at rock bottom last Friday when I was sick, hacking in bed that night by 10 p.m. after I’d had a complete breakdown in front of my supervisor at the office. Why, you ask? It could have been, perhaps, a combination of my lack of physical exercise, no internet access at home, lack of contact with friends/family, pent-up everyday frustrations, layers of culture shock, and the resulting cold/flu that kept me in bed for three days (plus throw in a few financial worries and an issue or two with details regarding my work contract). That night, just before coming home, I went to take out 2800 rupees from the ATM (about 70 USD). But somehow I entered one zero too many and ended up taking out 700 USD. So I survived another rough week there.
But things are much better this week after I have attempted to address all the above one by one. I also got a gym membership at Gold’s Gym. (Must write an entire segment on the hi-may women I see there and the live DJ spinning after 9 p.m. Incredible and even better than the nice gyms in NYC!) Still cannot believe I am actually a member at Gold’s….just not really digging that crowd, but still! there must be a few people like me there.
Sorry no pics this time. You’ll have to use your imagination until I load them next time...but there will be quite a few then.
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
N.B. on my last entry.
One of my friends has just pointed out in an email to me that some of what I'd written in my last entry could be perceived as offensive (or, more specifically, it was kind of offensive that a friend of mine had said India could be considered a "country from hell"). Of course, people who don't like India can go to one building, called the airport, and gladly leave the place behind. That I agree with and have considered doing that myself in retrospect of all that has been going on with me in the last six weeks.
The point was that I AM a spoiled, bourgeois, American product of my society. That’s why I write (facetiously) “Poor me.” The first lines of my last entry should be seen as self-pitying in that my background is thwarting my very ability to understand a culture.
Of course I am dealing with some other stuff right now, like a mini-mid-30 crisis and mini-career-crisis, which has led me to ask questions such as, “What am I doing here?” and "Why Am I Doing This?" but these blog entries are really my passing thoughts, like the tumbleweed title that one holds.
But in the last week my luck has actually not improved. I’ve been sick at home for two days; have lost my keys and have been locked out twice; burned myself in the shower from the over-zealous hot water heater; and have done a few other absent-minded things. I’ve been shat on by two birds in two consecutive weeks. So things can only get better from here…unless I have an intestinal parasite. More on that later, but anything is possible at this point. One must be open to live, right?
In good news I may make it to the Swedish crayfish party here in Bombay which takes place in two weeks' time, if they allow me the late RSVP. Until then I am resting and trying to manage my more trivial tasks (and survival).
The point was that I AM a spoiled, bourgeois, American product of my society. That’s why I write (facetiously) “Poor me.” The first lines of my last entry should be seen as self-pitying in that my background is thwarting my very ability to understand a culture.
Of course I am dealing with some other stuff right now, like a mini-mid-30 crisis and mini-career-crisis, which has led me to ask questions such as, “What am I doing here?” and "Why Am I Doing This?" but these blog entries are really my passing thoughts, like the tumbleweed title that one holds.
But in the last week my luck has actually not improved. I’ve been sick at home for two days; have lost my keys and have been locked out twice; burned myself in the shower from the over-zealous hot water heater; and have done a few other absent-minded things. I’ve been shat on by two birds in two consecutive weeks. So things can only get better from here…unless I have an intestinal parasite. More on that later, but anything is possible at this point. One must be open to live, right?
In good news I may make it to the Swedish crayfish party here in Bombay which takes place in two weeks' time, if they allow me the late RSVP. Until then I am resting and trying to manage my more trivial tasks (and survival).
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
I Am A Spoiled Princess or, A Tumbleweed of Meaningless Thoughts Blowing Through My Mind
Poor me. A friend of mine back home said that India is “just one of those countries where it’s hell on earth” and I agreed. Sometimes I feel I am really suffering some major inconveniences and hardships in yucky India. I keep thinking I’m about to have a breakdown in dealing with understanding everything. I am a spoiled, whiny child yet simultaneously ashamed. If you haven’t guess yet, yes, I’m about to spin out more of my thoughts into a web about the clashing of two completely different worlds: my own and that of my students.
I think about my students perhaps too much because I cannot believe what they endure. They have no possessions other than their books and some clothes, and many live in makeshift homes that are probably flooded as the rain pours down outside at this moment. Compared to them, I have everything: a flat, running water, clothes that I change on a regular basis, education, and the potential to buy almost whatever I want. I have contacts, opportunity. Many of them do not have access to those things, or don’t (yet) have the finesse to acquire such prospects.
While I’m grappling with this subtle third-world “shock,” they are regularly dealing with one or more of the following: rat bites, disease, hunger, an alcoholic parent, many younger siblings to feed, a single, overworked and/or illiterate parent, malnutrition, verbal abuse. Despite these hardships they sacrifice everything for their families’ survival. They lack basic stuff that we all have: Toilets. Beds. Yet they live every day with a smile and a LOT more laughter than I can evoke. A few of my students as young as 17-18 years old actually bear strands of white hair, a sign of either malnourishment or abuse of drugs, albeit something minor like sniffing glue as young children to stave off hunger.
The day I thought about and realized the cause of my students’ white hair, I felt ashamed for allowing such self-pity (like what I’ve been whining about here in my blog) to occupy my mind. Still, I wonder: is what I’m doing here worth it? I’m working quite a lot just for the experience. I may change a few lives, but at what expense? Am I not just growing older, and making myself more senile in the process, to think about it all? And how could there be such discrepancy in the world, if there were a god? It is agonizing to encounter such shameless and raw suffering, just outside my door, and to look it in the eye makes one pause for a moment. The squatters near the train station and basket weavers in the streets: what will become of their babies, hanging in afghans tied at the ends to two posts along the roadside? I’m just walking by them on the way to work. But that’s their permanent home, on the street. That life, the one of simplicity and survival, is pretty amazing, and humbling, and touching.
My students are the most honorable, dedicated and persistent kids. They want the best for their families and will do whatever it takes to achieve some of the simplest comforts in life. When kids’ parents are earning 100 rupees a day (around 2.50 USD), it makes you realize why India and China will rule the world in less than two decades. Masses of these people have nothing, and will do whatever it takes to earn something. They can’t even afford to buy a mobile phone.
My students don’t wanna wash cars or make tiffins. They are the children of the car washers and tiffin cookers, and they are gonna get what they want by educating themselves. These kids are smart and are on the cusp of acquiring what the middle class here already has: access to a pretty solid education. American children, wake up! Your competition has arrived. Summer school is to be in session because you’ll need to learn Hindi and Chinese. And these guys will kick your butts in grammar because I taught them. Well, at least 35 of them.
I think that coming from Sweden has made the discrepancy even more glaring than if I had come from living in New York or someplace else in the U.S. In Sweden, no one has a servant. Okay, no one except the royal family and maybe Zlatan and his wife in Malmö. Here, everyone who lives in a flat has a servant and usually several at that: a cleaner, a cook, a person who does the washing and ironing, and a car washer. Many hire drivers, and that’s all that those drivers do: drive their employers to work, from work, to the gym, take the kids to clarinet and tennis lessons… all day. Then there’s also usually a separate woman who washes the toilet and bathroom (from one of the lowest castes). Here, the market is huge for less attractive jobs because there are a lot of jobs and a lot of laborers who need the work.
Personally I have three such servants, though they are not live-in. And I must note that it is the weirdest feeling in the world to pay someone 5 U.S. cents to iron one of my shirts, one, because I have always taken great pride in ironing my own things, but two because I feel I’m exploiting the person (because I’ve also been made to iron shirts as a nanny for some bastards in Italy) and three it’s cost and time-efficient to refuse when I’m commuting for just over two hours a day from my home to the office to the school and back again.
In conclusion to this jumble of thoughts, and because it is really late now, I’m wondering a lot about what my friends and family have been asking me: What are you going to do in India? And I am thinking and reconsidering what I am doing here and I am trying not to think that but breathe instead as I encounter the masses at the train station, all staring vaguely at me. They are asking me the same thing with their eyes. And at this point I don’t really know. But I am living in the present, frightening, wonderful moment.
I think about my students perhaps too much because I cannot believe what they endure. They have no possessions other than their books and some clothes, and many live in makeshift homes that are probably flooded as the rain pours down outside at this moment. Compared to them, I have everything: a flat, running water, clothes that I change on a regular basis, education, and the potential to buy almost whatever I want. I have contacts, opportunity. Many of them do not have access to those things, or don’t (yet) have the finesse to acquire such prospects.
While I’m grappling with this subtle third-world “shock,” they are regularly dealing with one or more of the following: rat bites, disease, hunger, an alcoholic parent, many younger siblings to feed, a single, overworked and/or illiterate parent, malnutrition, verbal abuse. Despite these hardships they sacrifice everything for their families’ survival. They lack basic stuff that we all have: Toilets. Beds. Yet they live every day with a smile and a LOT more laughter than I can evoke. A few of my students as young as 17-18 years old actually bear strands of white hair, a sign of either malnourishment or abuse of drugs, albeit something minor like sniffing glue as young children to stave off hunger.
The day I thought about and realized the cause of my students’ white hair, I felt ashamed for allowing such self-pity (like what I’ve been whining about here in my blog) to occupy my mind. Still, I wonder: is what I’m doing here worth it? I’m working quite a lot just for the experience. I may change a few lives, but at what expense? Am I not just growing older, and making myself more senile in the process, to think about it all? And how could there be such discrepancy in the world, if there were a god? It is agonizing to encounter such shameless and raw suffering, just outside my door, and to look it in the eye makes one pause for a moment. The squatters near the train station and basket weavers in the streets: what will become of their babies, hanging in afghans tied at the ends to two posts along the roadside? I’m just walking by them on the way to work. But that’s their permanent home, on the street. That life, the one of simplicity and survival, is pretty amazing, and humbling, and touching.
My students are the most honorable, dedicated and persistent kids. They want the best for their families and will do whatever it takes to achieve some of the simplest comforts in life. When kids’ parents are earning 100 rupees a day (around 2.50 USD), it makes you realize why India and China will rule the world in less than two decades. Masses of these people have nothing, and will do whatever it takes to earn something. They can’t even afford to buy a mobile phone.
My students don’t wanna wash cars or make tiffins. They are the children of the car washers and tiffin cookers, and they are gonna get what they want by educating themselves. These kids are smart and are on the cusp of acquiring what the middle class here already has: access to a pretty solid education. American children, wake up! Your competition has arrived. Summer school is to be in session because you’ll need to learn Hindi and Chinese. And these guys will kick your butts in grammar because I taught them. Well, at least 35 of them.
I think that coming from Sweden has made the discrepancy even more glaring than if I had come from living in New York or someplace else in the U.S. In Sweden, no one has a servant. Okay, no one except the royal family and maybe Zlatan and his wife in Malmö. Here, everyone who lives in a flat has a servant and usually several at that: a cleaner, a cook, a person who does the washing and ironing, and a car washer. Many hire drivers, and that’s all that those drivers do: drive their employers to work, from work, to the gym, take the kids to clarinet and tennis lessons… all day. Then there’s also usually a separate woman who washes the toilet and bathroom (from one of the lowest castes). Here, the market is huge for less attractive jobs because there are a lot of jobs and a lot of laborers who need the work.
Personally I have three such servants, though they are not live-in. And I must note that it is the weirdest feeling in the world to pay someone 5 U.S. cents to iron one of my shirts, one, because I have always taken great pride in ironing my own things, but two because I feel I’m exploiting the person (because I’ve also been made to iron shirts as a nanny for some bastards in Italy) and three it’s cost and time-efficient to refuse when I’m commuting for just over two hours a day from my home to the office to the school and back again.
In conclusion to this jumble of thoughts, and because it is really late now, I’m wondering a lot about what my friends and family have been asking me: What are you going to do in India? And I am thinking and reconsidering what I am doing here and I am trying not to think that but breathe instead as I encounter the masses at the train station, all staring vaguely at me. They are asking me the same thing with their eyes. And at this point I don’t really know. But I am living in the present, frightening, wonderful moment.
India: Proof that the Chaos Theory Thrives
Every day I experience something and I think, my god, crazy! I can’t believe that’s just happened! Tonight I was thinking, I can’t believe how crowded this train is. It can’t get any more crowded. And this is first class! The train stopped, and suddenly 25 seemingly dignified sari-clad ladies transformed to rugby players: upon boarding they stepped on feet, pushed and shoved, flailed elbows to gain some space. This is just one example of how life here takes the shape of a mini-riot, because we’re all just dealing with the idea of surviving. There is no victory. I realised at that point that there was no room for me to hold my book (or attempt to read, or replace the book in my bag, for that matter).
Perhaps there is an international phenomenon involving trains. It could be an interesting thing to look into, if I had the time. I do recall with some annoyance that the Swedes and Norwegians acted similarly when I boarded the train from Oslo to Göteborg at the Trollhättan stop on Friday afternoons. But that was a far cry from what is going on here. Back then all that Scandinavian “aggression” was wasted on worrying about whether a seat was to be found a clean, safe, quiet train. Here, the act of boarding trains involves some hard-core defense moves, and it could be lethal. Seriously. I’m talking about trains built from WWII times, with doors wedged open, travelling at high speeds over bridges and flyovers more than 20 meters above the ground…death could be as creative as proposals in the suicide bunny series books.
On a typical evening I walk to the train station on the side of the street packed with cars, buses, people, water buffalo, and other miscellany because the sidewalks are often dilapidated. Cars honk to ‘warn’ that they we coming up from behind. Mosques are chanting daily prayers, people are yelling and pushing or not walking fast enough, and it’s about 33 degrees outside (upwards of 90 F). You breathe in blue exhaust toxins like mercury and carbon dioxide. So learning to cope with that is just one hurdle. One day last week, I was about to cross the street. But then I spotted a huge white bull, taller than I am, with pink polished horns that were each about 3 feet long. It was like a dream, and I was mesmerized by it.
The bull was slowly making its way towards me in the middle of a thoroughfare. I just stood there, dumbfounded and watching him. Attached to and behind the bull was a brightly decorated chariot with a man in costume at the helm. He was holding a whip made of flowers. Above him on a kind of shelf was a phonograph, and Hindi music was chanting full blast from its loudspeaker. Incense was billowing from every corner of the chariot. I had to look away and cross the road, because if I had stood there much longer I would have been run down either by a bus or the bull himself. I still cannot get over what could possibly have been going on with all of that! I’ve asked some Hindu people at work, but they have no idea.
So chaotic is pretty “normal” here, from what I can gather: it’s a way of life, and I am trying to learn to ride the wave. It’s not easy to stop thinking about what is going on, like that day with the bull. I wanna know the answer, and I have to try to learn to accept that I’m not gonna always get the answer here. Maybe that’s why life is not so chaotic for the Indians, because they breathe instead of thinking so much sometimes. But for little spoiled Western princesses like me, it can become overwhelming. After a series of so many unfamiliar sights and experiences, one is left bewildered and wondering, “What am I doing here?” It’s sometimes too much for my brain to process, and I just try to remember to take a breath. Some nights I pass out in bed by 10 p.m. while I’m reading.
One such night, I had completely succumbed to Mr. Sandman early on when I was jolted out of my dreams by several huge explosions that had occurred just below my balcony. I leapt from my bed only to discover fireworks in the sky and the neighborhood statue of Ganesh (the elephant-headed god) on a truck just below me. Firecrackers, drums, cymbals, dancing, shouting and fanfare complemented the swirl of colors just below me, to my astonishment. I then remembered that it was immersion day. After a certain number of days of worship, the statue is escorted through the neighborhood via each building to be put out to the sea. The people in the district walk him there to the seaside and return him home by sinking him in the sea. At that very moment a friend rang me from Sweden. “What is going on?!” was the first thing he said in reaction to the noise when I picked up. I could only laugh.
Chaotic: my classroom and routine in the school is much the same way. Class starts ten minutes late because the kids are taking a break or running around outside. Not abnormal…the kids in that group are still quite young, like 13 or 14 years old. Now that I’m ‘Anne didi,’ meaning ‘big sister Anne,’ as all teachers are called ‘big sister’ as a suffix here, that has become my title. So they yell out answers in class, preceded by my title, “DIDI! I Know! I Know the answer!” It’s a little inspiring that they are so enthusiastic but it’s annoying and giving me a headache. I’m trying to teach them to raise hands but have been unsuccessful thus far. Now they are raising hands, standing up, yelling “Didi!” and the answer all at the same time. Complete chaos. I am trying to breathe.
One nice chaotic thing is lunch at my office. At 1 p.m., everyone tears into her packed tiffin and just starts tearing into everyone else’s, too. Sharing food at lunch is apparently a sign of camaraderie and affection, and I like it a lot. There is no such thing as double dipping; people actually pass spoons around. And these aren’t everyday, middle-class people…they are some of Bombay’s poorest sitting alongside Bombay’s richest wives and daughters. The richest wives’ tiffins are cooked and packed by servants. The poorest teachers’ tiffins are cooked and packed by them. The richest are the big spenders and trust fund babies who don’t have to work, so they volunteer or work for nearly nothing. The poorest are often the brightest students coming up from municipal schools who became teachers through Akanksha. Where do I fit in? I don’t fall into either category. I’m just dipping my spoon into all the good food and sharing mine as well.
Perhaps there is an international phenomenon involving trains. It could be an interesting thing to look into, if I had the time. I do recall with some annoyance that the Swedes and Norwegians acted similarly when I boarded the train from Oslo to Göteborg at the Trollhättan stop on Friday afternoons. But that was a far cry from what is going on here. Back then all that Scandinavian “aggression” was wasted on worrying about whether a seat was to be found a clean, safe, quiet train. Here, the act of boarding trains involves some hard-core defense moves, and it could be lethal. Seriously. I’m talking about trains built from WWII times, with doors wedged open, travelling at high speeds over bridges and flyovers more than 20 meters above the ground…death could be as creative as proposals in the suicide bunny series books.
On a typical evening I walk to the train station on the side of the street packed with cars, buses, people, water buffalo, and other miscellany because the sidewalks are often dilapidated. Cars honk to ‘warn’ that they we coming up from behind. Mosques are chanting daily prayers, people are yelling and pushing or not walking fast enough, and it’s about 33 degrees outside (upwards of 90 F). You breathe in blue exhaust toxins like mercury and carbon dioxide. So learning to cope with that is just one hurdle. One day last week, I was about to cross the street. But then I spotted a huge white bull, taller than I am, with pink polished horns that were each about 3 feet long. It was like a dream, and I was mesmerized by it.
The bull was slowly making its way towards me in the middle of a thoroughfare. I just stood there, dumbfounded and watching him. Attached to and behind the bull was a brightly decorated chariot with a man in costume at the helm. He was holding a whip made of flowers. Above him on a kind of shelf was a phonograph, and Hindi music was chanting full blast from its loudspeaker. Incense was billowing from every corner of the chariot. I had to look away and cross the road, because if I had stood there much longer I would have been run down either by a bus or the bull himself. I still cannot get over what could possibly have been going on with all of that! I’ve asked some Hindu people at work, but they have no idea.
So chaotic is pretty “normal” here, from what I can gather: it’s a way of life, and I am trying to learn to ride the wave. It’s not easy to stop thinking about what is going on, like that day with the bull. I wanna know the answer, and I have to try to learn to accept that I’m not gonna always get the answer here. Maybe that’s why life is not so chaotic for the Indians, because they breathe instead of thinking so much sometimes. But for little spoiled Western princesses like me, it can become overwhelming. After a series of so many unfamiliar sights and experiences, one is left bewildered and wondering, “What am I doing here?” It’s sometimes too much for my brain to process, and I just try to remember to take a breath. Some nights I pass out in bed by 10 p.m. while I’m reading.
One such night, I had completely succumbed to Mr. Sandman early on when I was jolted out of my dreams by several huge explosions that had occurred just below my balcony. I leapt from my bed only to discover fireworks in the sky and the neighborhood statue of Ganesh (the elephant-headed god) on a truck just below me. Firecrackers, drums, cymbals, dancing, shouting and fanfare complemented the swirl of colors just below me, to my astonishment. I then remembered that it was immersion day. After a certain number of days of worship, the statue is escorted through the neighborhood via each building to be put out to the sea. The people in the district walk him there to the seaside and return him home by sinking him in the sea. At that very moment a friend rang me from Sweden. “What is going on?!” was the first thing he said in reaction to the noise when I picked up. I could only laugh.
Chaotic: my classroom and routine in the school is much the same way. Class starts ten minutes late because the kids are taking a break or running around outside. Not abnormal…the kids in that group are still quite young, like 13 or 14 years old. Now that I’m ‘Anne didi,’ meaning ‘big sister Anne,’ as all teachers are called ‘big sister’ as a suffix here, that has become my title. So they yell out answers in class, preceded by my title, “DIDI! I Know! I Know the answer!” It’s a little inspiring that they are so enthusiastic but it’s annoying and giving me a headache. I’m trying to teach them to raise hands but have been unsuccessful thus far. Now they are raising hands, standing up, yelling “Didi!” and the answer all at the same time. Complete chaos. I am trying to breathe.
One nice chaotic thing is lunch at my office. At 1 p.m., everyone tears into her packed tiffin and just starts tearing into everyone else’s, too. Sharing food at lunch is apparently a sign of camaraderie and affection, and I like it a lot. There is no such thing as double dipping; people actually pass spoons around. And these aren’t everyday, middle-class people…they are some of Bombay’s poorest sitting alongside Bombay’s richest wives and daughters. The richest wives’ tiffins are cooked and packed by servants. The poorest teachers’ tiffins are cooked and packed by them. The richest are the big spenders and trust fund babies who don’t have to work, so they volunteer or work for nearly nothing. The poorest are often the brightest students coming up from municipal schools who became teachers through Akanksha. Where do I fit in? I don’t fall into either category. I’m just dipping my spoon into all the good food and sharing mine as well.
Thursday, September 4, 2008
This Week, A Roller Coaster of Emotions
The last week has been a huge roller coaster ride…from my camera’s disappearance to my personal crises and questioning everything I believe in...I'm trying to live in the present and accept the reality of things here and now, to feel and understand the positive aspects and the drawbacks of working with my new students and then meeting some new friends along the way. I have been physically exhausted, expending huge amounts of energy emotionally—getting my head around what is going on here—and physically—exposure to two new languages (Marathi and Hindi), new food, climate, and sensory overloads every time I go out. I cannot remember a time where I have felt so overheated, and physically and emotionally drained as I have this past week.
Today is Ganesh (the Hindu god)’s birthday, and it’s one of the biggest holidays and celebrations in 
society has a huge shrine that
includes his statue, made of painted clay or plaster (see my pics: I tried to see 51, which is considered auspicious). Seeing Ganesh being welcomed into Pradnya’s family’s neighbourhood was definitely soemthing to remember! There was a vibrant, positive energy on the streets and in homes, ricocheting everywhere, throughout the hearts of people Hindu and non-Hindu alike. Compassion surrounded us; drums and cymbals deafened us; the dancing and fanfare of the ceremony were as potent as the ubiquitous incense.
Of all the religious ceremonies I’ve ever experienced (and believe me, Catholics and Hindus share a lot when it comes to worshipping idols), this was probably the most fantastic, musical, loving and spiritual. Rich or poor everyone celebrates in a similar way. Nothing bad should happen on this day in the Hindu world, and every creature has the right to live and enjoy life. So to celebrate the day and partake in cultural observation I met with Pradnya (visiting friend from UMich), her brother and her parents who are originally from here. They happen to be in town for a few weeks. I really felt a strong and positive spirit in India today, and I hope that this positive energy along with the will of Ganesh, god of good fortune and prosperity, will continue.
We went to visit at least ten neighbourhood shrines of Ganesh that captured some of his most heroic and notable deeds in defending humanity. (N.B. Ganesh still seems a little scary to me…I do not particularly care for his elephant head. You can read more about him to understand the elephant head and how that evolved.)
Another accomplishment from this week is that I finally made it to the fabulous international textile store, Fabindia, to buy curtains and my bedspread. I spent less than $30 for those things plus a matching bath towel…and my room looks completely transformed! I am thoroughly enjoying the warm and vibrant colours (note the before and after pics). I would have liked to buy the sheer, silk curtains but my neighbours would be able to see through them.
In other developments, as I’m trying to forget about my camera, I’m reminded that material things are just that: material and not permanent fixtures in life. I am trying to accept that I'm back to where I started before I had the camera. 
I did, however, go to the U.S. Consulate in Mumbai to get a signed and stamped affidavit to show that my camera was in fact stolen, in the case that my new credit card covers the camera in the case of theft…still waiting to hear on that. The Consulate visitation was the direct result of my visit to police station, whereby the police officer told me, “If someone had a key to your flat, it is not considered a break-in.” The police, evidently, are not the ones you turn to in the case of theft. Pradnya’s parents told me that they had lived here until their mid 20s, and they had never once visited a police station.
N
o internet at home yet so I’m still uploading pics, the blog and emails at work. Hope to get a regular system at home or find a cyber cafe in the neighbourhood for regular visitation sometime in the very near future. All the photos you see here are done with my trusty Pentax Optio pocket.
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