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.
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