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.
Saturday, September 27, 2008
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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