Something like an ending

I always suck at wrapping things up. In the end, I guess I couldn't find the words to finish up my experience in Delhi and in India. My last couple of weeks were in all ways incredible. My best friend has family in India. She and her Father, Mother, and Sister came to visit their family there and so I traveled to Bangalore and Mumbai with them. I'm writing from the States now. Yesterday I was driving down a quiet street with only a couple cars on a four lane road. I felt emptiness around me and suddenly missed the chaotic bus ride from my home in Delhi to the metro station. I came home and attempted to cook Indian food. It was okay. But I really miss the hole-in-the-wall food places my friends and I would go to in Delhi.

I know this was only the first of many trips I will be taking to India. I feel a part of me is still in India. And that India is now a part of who I am forever.

***

As for blogging, I enjoyed it so much. I am so grateful to everyone who read my posts. There may be more blogging in my future, but for now I am going to take time for my other writing projects. So this is adieu.

Love,
Anna

Dorris Again!

Dorris is back! Well, actually four Dorrises. And one Dorris is pregnant so there are about to be bahut  (a lot--in hindi) Dorrises!

BNE

BEST NIGHT EVER.

Amazing friends.

Good Music.

and Dude from Mexico City.

Pretty much BNE.



but also the saddest. I love all you guys, I am so sad that our time together is over. Best wishes to everyone and I will see you all soon!

Visiting an Orphanage

Yesterday, I went with my friend to visit the NGO she volunteers at. Naz, the NGO, is an orphanage for HIV positive children. The way Naz works is the first half of the day the children go to different schools throughout Delhi. Then, in the afternoon, volunteers help the children with the school homework and provide the children with personalized attention. Throughout my visit I went through several different emotions. Before arriving I was nervous-excited. I had never interacted with HIV+ children before. I had never been to an orphanage.

The orphanage was located in a very nice neighborhood in a nice house with several floors. Upon entering the house and walking up the stairs where girls and young boys lived, I noticed the bunk beds and cabinets, where children could keep their things. There were about 10 kids with kids coming in and out in a calm manner. One girl was playing with toy airplanes. Several girls where working on their schoolwork. A few very young children, maybe 4-6, were walking around and sitting with older children. I sat down with one sixth-grade girl, B*, and helped her with her homework. She had to read a story in English and define her vocabulary words. Then, she asked if I wanted to help her with her Hindi. I figured I would give it a shot, since I can speak pre-school level Hindi. She flipped open her literature-literature book and asked me if I could read Hindi. I told her I could—a wee bit. She handed me the book and said, “Okay you read.” I began to read at turtle-speed, it was like I was in Kindergarten all over again with my level-1 reading books. Plus, B was a strict teacher. She kept stopping to correct my Hindi. Several times she got frustrated that I wasn’t rolling my Rs properly and pronouncing the correct T sound (there are four T sounds in Hindi). I told her she was a very good Hindi teacher and that I was going to talk to my Hindi professor about hiring her as an assistant.

Somewhere, in the middle of reading an English story and reading Hindi, I suddenly got nervous that I was in this orphanage. A lot of the smaller children were coming and clinging to me. Many of the children had running noses and were coughing. I know the ways that the virus spreads, so I don’t know why I suddenly go so nervous. I also felt sad and happy for these children. It angered me that these children had been infected with HIV. I felt angry at the irresponsibility of parents if they knew they were infected and still had kids. Then again, maybe the parents were/are unaware of how HIV works. I also was happy that these children were being provided food and shelter at this NGO. Perhaps this is too awful and ironic to say, but honestly some of the children in this orphanage may be living in better conditions and eating better food than they might be having otherwise. Perhaps that’s to bold of a claim to make. I’m going to say it anyway, though.

Newsletter from the Naz organization!

*Can’t use her name.

A Conversation

I just had a conversation with a young man in a Delhi store about his Islamic religion. It started when I was asking questions about two items, which I can’t name currently because they are gifts for someone. This young man was asking where I was from and what I was doing in India, which are hot-topic questions often asked to travelers. I told him I was from the USA and that I was studying here in Delhi. From the Taqiyah he was wearing I knew he was Muslim, but he proceeded to tell me anyways. We got into a conversation of prayer and I was inquiring him on if he always prayed five times a day. He explained to me that no matter where he is, he always prays. Even if he is sick. If he were to miss a prayer, something bad could happen. He told me that his brother didn’t pray for a long time and had to spend a lot of time in the mosque studying and reading the Koran. After a few initial questions, I really just listened to what he said. In some ways it seemed he was defending his religion but it another way it seemed that he was so proud and in love with his Allah and religion that he simply wanted to tell me about. He told me that his sister covers her face, but not because she is forced, but because if she doesn’t something bad could happen to her—for her protection. This did irk me but, having been in Delhi and having had a lot more man eyes on me than usual, I now know that women here really don’t have any rights; I understood. Also, while maybe this young man’s family isn’t personally pressuring their women to cover up, I can understand that if other families do pressure their woman it could well indeed bring trouble to uncovered women.

I digress for a few moments. The other day a classmate of mine was doing a presentation on rape and sexual harassment in Delhi. She had interviewed several people, men and women, who all gave a similar response. They all believed that if a woman in Delhi is raped it was because she was asking for it, either by revealing too much skin or acting a certain way. They all said that it’s only human nature that men have such desires—so if women entice them it can only be the woman’s fault. This mindframe cannot be pinpointed to a religion, but to a cultural mindset that stems from patriarchal ignorance.

Then the young man asked me what my religion was. I knew it was coming. I mean we were having a religious conversation. I hesitated for a few seconds before telling him I was Jewish. This did not bother him. He essentially told me that my family was his family, my mother his mother, my brother his brother. It was sweet and not what I was expecting. I think this is going to be one of those conversations that stays around for a while and makes the brain churn.

Mo-Mos and Malaria!

2 power points, 1 paper and 2 more papers to go! Woot!

by the way...
Using Mosquitoes To Put The Bite On Malaria

Passover, Indian Style

Making Passover Food in Delhi

Jesus, Moses, and Mosquitoes

For all the academic work I haven’t been doing this semester, I am now making it ALL up for in these last few weeks. I also haven’t been sleeping very well for two reasons. One of the reasons I just killed while typing this sentence. If you could become a karate kid by zapping mosquitoes from the air, I’d be the karate queen! The second reason is because I watched Black Swan the other day. Pretty much one of the best movies I’ve seen in a long time, but actually that whole evil twin thing is really freaky. So last night when I was attempting to fall asleep, and the top of my toilet exploded, (literally—like I went to my bathroom and it was just there on the floor) I immediately jumped to the conclusion that my evil doppelganger was out to get me.

Also, I can now count my mosquito bites in Hindi. But I can only count up to ten in Hindi so I can’t have anymore than that…which I may. I also now have red polka dots on my bedroom walls. See, the walls in my room are white. But when you kill misquotes they squirt red. Hence, I’m decorating! Moreover (big transition word that college professors hate), I found out the chances of getting malaria in Delhi are extremely low. It only sucks because at least when I was running around my room at 11 at night killing mosquitoes with scrunched up wads of TP, I figured I was saving my health. But now, from an outside perspective, I just look crazy. Like a cat on catnip chasing one of those red laser lights.

Good news is I now know the importance of food. Had Delhi Belly Extreme while my Aunt and Dad were visiting, and didn’t want to eat food for 4 days. Finally I had to force down some roti and dal. I also now know when you’re death sick, you don’t want Indian food. You want American-Jew food. Like matzo ball soup. Which, I do have, but am saving for Passover sedar that my friend and I are gonna improvise on this Friday. No shank bone. Vegetarian house. Better news, my Hindi teacher wants us to put together a little talent show this Thursday in honor of Easter. So same friend and I, very much in honor of Easter, are asking the four Passover questions in Hindi. Here they are:

Why is this night different from all other nights:

 यह शाम दुसरे शामों से क्यों अलग है

On all other nights we eat leavened bread or matzah and on this night we eat only matzah: 

सभी अन्य रातों पर हम रोटी ख़मीरवाला या matzah खाते हैं, और इस रात को हम ही matzah खाते हैं.

On all other nights, we don't dip our food even once, and on this night we dip twice: 

सभी अन्य रातों पर, हम अपने भोजन में एक बार भी नहीं डुबकी करते हैं, और इस रात को हम दो बार डुबकी.
Why is it that on all other nights we eat all kinds of herbs, but on this night we eat only bitter herbs? 

ऐसा क्यों है कि सभी अन्य रातों पर हम जड़ी बूटियों के सभी प्रकार के खाने के लिए, लेकिन इस रात को हम केवल कड़वी जड़ी बूटीखाते हैं?

Why is it that on all other nights we eat either sitting or reclining, but on this night we eat in a reclining position?

ऐसा क्यों है कि सभी अन्य रातों पर हम खाने या तो बैठे याreclining, लेकिन इस रात को हम एक reclining स्थिति मेंखाया?

And best news, even though I shouldn’t speak too soon, is in all the time I haven’t really been doing academic work here…I’ve been writing. Not just blogging, but writing. And now I have a novel-length Microsoft word something on my hard drive to show for it. So I’m a novelist, just the starving artist, unpublished kind!

Jaipur+

While My Dad and Aunt were in town, we went to Jaipur! Photos Below:

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Malaria Kills Opportunities

Vampires are keeping me up at night. Literally. I spent an hour or more trying to kill mosquitoes last night. Here’s what happened:

There is this little night lamp pluggin type thing that emits mosquito repellant, however, mine was broken. I was about to go to sleep last night; I was all tucked in under bed, with my laptop tuned to some illegal site, so I could watch House M.D. online. I look up and across my room and there on the wall and ceiling are ten mosquitoes. I got up out of bed and went to go find the mosquito death spray made in Mumbai by the “Goody” hair brand in America. It’s that brand you see in Target when you go to buy bobby pins and headbands. Now, let me just tell you about this mosquito death spray. First of all, it’s called, “Hit! Kill Malaria.” Then, as if no one knows about malaria, the can gives you a brief bio of malaria…


Malaria kills opportunities. By buying this pack [can], you are securing your opportunities.


Okay, right, so now, without even having to wikipedia malaria, I am given a pretty good idea of what happens if you get malaria. Here is a math equation to show what happens if you get malaria:

Malaria is Y, O is opportunities, L is life, and M is 2012-world-ending like in the Mayan calendar…


Y=O (0)+L (0)+M (definite)


(Okay, and there is everything I learned in pre-cal!)

Anyways, so I go to find this death spray…but I can’t find it anywhere. So I go back to my room and sit on my bed and look at the little buggers on the wall and ceiling and think, “Well, there goes sleep tonight.” Then, I come up with this brilliant plan. If I kill all ten of the mosquitoes, I will be able to sleep peacefully. I observe that the mosquitoes linger on the ceiling but slowly make their way down to a lower part of the wall. I hunker down like a cat…actually I sit on the bed with a wad of cheap toilet paper in my hands and wait. The first one slid down and I ever so slowly crossed my room and squished it. It was gross. I threw it in my toilet.

By the time I had taken out a grand total of four mosquitoes, another mosquito had found its way into my room. My task seemed hopeless. I got on facebook and began to talk to my friend’s aunt who lives in India. It turns out, you can coat your body in coconut oil and that prevents mosquitoes from biting you. However, I did not having any coconut oil. So, I asked if Ghee would get the job done. Though I was given the go ahead, I decided against rubbing my body in Ghee. I mean, if it got hot enough in the night I might have roasted.

Then, I had another, classic-brilliant, Idea. I remembered that mosquitoes don’t come out in the winter. I decided I would turn on the AC in my room and make my room as cold as possible, hoping that the mosquitoes would either: A. Die of the cold, or B. Go away. Okay…so…I admit defeat, this idea basically failed.

At some point, I was so tired that I turned of the lights and decided to forgo my life’s opportunities. I would deal with malaria in the morning. Morning came. I was woken by the gentle hum of a buzz in my ear. After much slapping and squirming I was up. I have good news and bad news. Good: I don’t yet have malaria. Bad: I have been eaten alive. My whole body itches.

ERGO, I have come up with a scheme. However much garlic I can eat without dying—that is how much I am going to eat in order to ward of the mosquitoes. Well, that or I am going to buy a mosquito net. Speaking of which, I need to go spray my room with death spray. I finally found it!

Matters of Money

I hate reflecting. When teachers make me reflect I want to hurt a small mammal. It seems silly to go through thoughts that you have already experienced. My Dad and Aunt have come to visit me in Delhi and their experiences and commentary on events so far have me reflecting. My teacher warned us about this, how the longer you spend in a foreign place all the things that stood out at the beginning begin to blend in to mundane life. She told us that if family visits it recalls things forgotten. Like currency.

When I first arrived in India it was like being in a Sephora (makeup) store and having enough money to buy everything. I would pick out something and not think about the price in rupees because in USD everything was so inexpensive. My Dad and Aunt’s visit has brought me back to this memory. I have become so frugal. In economics we talked about purchasing power parity. I have realized how much I can buy with certain amounts of rupees, and so now 10 and 20 rupees has become just a meaningful amount as 5 and 10 dollars. In Delhi, I eat lunch everyday for 30 rs. In the states a good price for lunch is under $10. So of course you would never say “Oh well, it’s just 10 dollars that that taxi driver just screwed me over. All is right in the world.” Here, I have begun to do the similar thing with rupees. If I get take a bus for 5 rs. instead of 10, then that’s the bus I want to take. Saving ten rs. here and there, though it’s less than a quarter, might buy me lunch the next day!

Also, I have been taking my Dad and Aunt to my favorite places in Delhi and I’m beginning to get sentimental about my departure from India. Today is definitely one of the days where I love Delhi and can never leave. Of course, I know I will leave, and deep down don’t think Delhi would be the ideal place for me to live-live. But it does make me wonder about living in NYC…but only if I can ride elephants to and from work.

just photos

Trip to Goa

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Class Field Trip to Himachal Pradesh


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Water for Sunburn*

It’s midterm and paper time here in Delhi! As a nice little break in between tough weeks, IES took the group on a spring break trip to Goa. Goa is prime beach town with a slightly more prep feel than the lazy town, chill time, Caribbeans and more churches per street that Baptist belt Memphis. The first two days we spent mostly touring around old churches and renovated mansions that could be hotels. I have to say, I’ve listened to more Michael Jackson in those two days in Goa than I have in the last ten years in America. I would have to say he’s second best man to Jesus in Catholicville, Goa. On the third day we all hit the beach. Best Day Ever. It was perfect. My friends and I spent all day in the water body surfing. Though, my skin hates me for attempting to go from winter white to summer orange all in one day. Now, I’m a little lobster red. As always, I’m hugely relieved back to be in Delhi away from over priced chintzy goods and back in the heart of Indian cuisine (as oppose to Portugal influenced seafood).

I realize now that after being deprived of north Indian cusine for three whole days I am ultimately screwed for when I return to America. At the airport, some guy tried to sell me a 40 rupee Samosa (ab. $.50) compared to the five rupee samosoas we get in Delhi and I nearly flipped out. Ugh. I can never pay $2.50 for a samosa appetizer at Little India again.

*AND yes, the Goan airport really does sell water that says it's good for sunburns...

Poop War with Color Mixed In

The last weekend was the celebration of Holi.

While there is a religious meaning behind the festive celebration, it has become like every other holiday and taken on its own modern day meaning. Essentially, Holi is a day where people run around and throw colored powders and dyes on one another…and then anything else you can throw on people (eggs, mud, my friend and I rubbed our sandwiches on each other's faces..). Saturday I stayed inside for fear of the outside world…so I did homework instead. But Sunday, my house mom’s extended family and I had a full fledge color war! I must say, I think my niceness got in the way of me throwing mud on people…

Moment: so mud in Delhi? Let’s think about all the stray dogs and wandering cows in Delhi…yeah, general rule if it’s brown don’t touch it!

…Of course, the “brown rule” didn’t stop my house mom’s niece and nephew-in-law from giving me a mud facial. Unfortunately for me, my mouth was open! (If I die of Giardiasis…)

A Little Bit of India at Your Side

Here are some videos taken around Barefoot College from last weekend.

The man showing us around was in charge of using puppets and puppet shows to bring awareness to the villagers on topics such as health, governmental issues and changes involving the village, and for entertainment of course! Here he gives us a one of a kind show! Oh, and he only spoke Hindi! 

We spent an evening talking to a local self-help group of women. Self help groups are usually woman based, where woman collectively attempt to save money and get loans to cover certain expenses. Sometimes they work. This time they really didn't. But the ladies sung us a song after they talked with us. In return my group sung "Row, Row, Row Your Boat (the only song we could thing of that we all knew. Why??)," but I failed to record it. Oops.

Woman working a hand loom at B.C.

Learning about how the solar panels work.

 Here are some videos taken at the Barefoot  College's School, grades primary through high school. In Hindi. And sorry for the vertical and horizontal camera movements...something for me to improve upon...

To Walk a Mile *UPDATED~photos*

Students at a school run by Barefoot College

Does education define ones life, what one can do?
I spent this last weekend in Tilonia, which is a block of small villages between Jaipur and Ajmer, Rajasthan. I went with my socio-economic class to observe the inner workings of Barefoot College. Unlike an American school where people must complete many years of education before attending, Barefoot College exists for any and everyone within the surrounding areas. In the villages where girls typically have a 5th grade education, 8th if lucky, and it is something if boys are making it to high school*, Barefoot College requires no specific amount of education to attend. The college runs entirely on solar power, drinks harvested rain water, eats communally, and operates collectively as a whole. As a non-government organization, the school runs off of grants, donations, and a small amount of self generated income.

The school teaches people from all over, including people coming from Africa, vocational skills, such as putting together batteries used to collect energy from the solar panels to actually engineering the iron rods and glass fixtures that make up the solar panels.


Can one achieve great accomplishments without knowing how to read?
While spending time in Tilonia, we were taken around the villages to meet two extraordinary people, both women—who have moved mountains. The first woman we met was a veteran mid wife who had helped deliver 400-600 babies. She told us her story in the village dialect of Hindi, which was translated through the founder of Barefoot Collage into [Delhi] Hindi so that our Professor could tell us in English. Her parents were killed at the age of 11, and being completely illiterate, this woman went on to attend classes on how to be a mid-wife. Though she could not read or write, she paid very good attention in the lessons and feels she, “came out at the top of her class.” She is considered a goddess by a certain village, where a baby was stillborn. Having learned CPR she was able to bring the baby to life after it was pronounced dead two hours prior. Amidst all of this, she has rallied thousands of women to stand up for their rights.

Several years ago, a woman was forced, and potentially drugged, to leap onto the burning body of her dead husband. The mid-wife, gathering many women, bussed down to where the court case was being tried and protested against such a heinous crime. Then, some time later, a 12 year old girl’s legs were cut off by a man wanting to steal her thick silver anklets. These particular anklets are a cultural necessity, and are placed on the children at a young age so that when the foot and leg grows it becomes impossible to take them off. What is worse: the man who did this was financially very comfortable. Again, the mid-wife and many other women went to protest. The man was put in jail and the girl was given enough means to support her. (Happy ending: the girl is now married and has a child.)

Later, my class met with the local sarpanch (the village leader), who was also a woman. This woman had made the National Rural Employment Guarantee Act (NREGA) run quite smoothly. However, she had once had to confront a man of a manger level position who oversaw the workers; he was embezzling money from other workers. The man was fired, but soon came after this woman. He sent a gang of men to beat and rape her. The woman was not harmed, but when she tried to press charges against the man, the local courts/police would not do anything about it. She kept going to higher and higher levels of the judicial system until finally she was able to press charges against the man. Now he is in jail.

Woman on a water break,
working under NREGA to plant trees.

What defines a society?
The villages surrounding the Barefoot College are people of mostly lower caste, specifically people of the scheduled caste (SC—previously called the untouchables), scheduled tribe (ST), and below poverty line (BPL). Barefoot College works to teach these people how to collect rain water for drinking and works to provide them with education. Gandhi says, “Remove [the Poor’s] chronic poverty and his illiteracy and you will find the finest specimen of what a cultured, cultivated, free citizen should be.”** This quote speaks to Barefoot College’s accomplishments as they make available education and work to provide the common villager with a reliable income and feeling of self-worthiness.

I also feel it compels worlds apart to examine each other’s strengths. One of the resources Barefoot College provides are sanitary napkins for girls and women. It is hard to believe that in this day and age many women are still literally on the rag. I was able to observe how these pads are made. First, cardboard is recycled and turned into a fluffy dry pulp. The pulp is stuffed into the neat folds of a cloth-like-fabric that is eco-friendly. Then the fabric is stitched along the sides to prevent the pulp from sliding out. The entire pad is biodegradable/ These sanitary napkins along with the college’s collection of rain water, and use of solar power begs the question, Could a poor village in India be more sustainable than well to do cities in America?

Can contentedness, happiness, and tranquility exist down a dirt road, surrounded by poverty and mustard fields?
During my stay at the Barefoot College I felt completely at peace. The “campus” is calm and quiet. Every person knows his/her job and works diligently on task. Our meals were prepared for us and afterwards we were responsible for washing our plates. No tables or chairs were provided for eating on or sitting on; we ate on rugs lining the ground. Our rooms that we stayed in were comfortable yet only the minimum: beds with sheets, a ceiling light and fan. We shared communal bathrooms and had to carry hot water from the downstairs faucet up to the second floor in our buckets. Nonetheless, we all commented on how peaceful we felt, and how nice of an atmosphere the place engendered.

Interested in crafts, clothes, and accessories made in Tilonia? Support the the local artisans!
---

*There are many reasons that children do not always achieve high levels of education. For girls there are two general reasons: 1) Whole villages may only span the distance of half a kilometer. Elementary education is required for each village, but middle and high school may be many kilometers away. As girls get older, parents fear having them travel far distances to school, lest they get raped. 2) As girls get older they are needed/required to watch younger siblings while parents work (in the fields or at job sites). For boys, parents do not fear their lengthy travels, but may need them to stay home and work. Barefoot College has established many night schools for children who need to work during the day, such as tending to and grazing their goats/cows/livestock during the day. I was able to attend one of these night schools. Our class had had a jam packed day and we were all exhausted, while children who had worked hard all day were eagerly and hungrily learning about their Hindi alphabet.
**(Mind of Mahatma Gandhi http://www.mkgandhi.org/momgandhi/chap76.htm)


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Sperm Counts + Weddings

all in the family

The other night I went to an Indian wedding. For some reason, I was expecting an indoor wedding and women dressed in their finest outfits. The one wedding that I attended was outside, with big red tents set up for food and appetizers. Gold couches had been placed along the lawns for people to sit. Especially for people to sit and watch the bride and groom sit on a loveseat-like-couch, on a platform, and recite their wedding vows. Tables with gold table covers were placed around the lawn for people to sit at and eat. It must have been a more casual wedding; some women were dressed in expensive saris while some wore jeans and a nice kurta top. The order of this wedding was different than weddings in the U.S. First, the bride’s side of the family arrived at the actual place where the wedding was being held, whereas the groom’s side of the family went to a set location about two kilometers from where the wedding was to be held. Then the groom and all the men on his side of the family danced the couple of kilometers down to where the bride’s family was waiting. I walked down with the women, who were walking on the side of the street while the men danced. The groom rode down in a horse drawn carriage, while the bands played the drums and horns to accompany all the dancing. When the men got very close to the wedding location, the women were allowed to join in with the dancing.

Once everyone arrived at the wedding location, dinner was served buffet style, starting with appetizers (of course)! There was a whole section designated for appetizers; tasty street foods (dosas, chaat, all kinds of tikki) that were catered in and made fresh by cooks behind their stations. Then there was the main entrée buffet, which included all the staples like palak paneer, chana masala, potato curry, dal, etc. Deserts were a few different local varieties, such as gulab jamun and jellabies.

When the bride came out, my first thought was that she looked very sad. I had heard that this was an arranged marriage and thought she was simply unhappy. But, upon asking my indian friend, it actually turns out that the bride is suppose to be sad and appear sad, because she is leaving her family. So, now I have no idea what she must have been thinking, though I am still very curious.

***

I am headed out of town to Rajasthan this weekend, but wanted to leave you all with a funny note. While riding the subway this morning, I saw a poster (in the woman’s car) on “the effects of smoking [cigareetes]” insinuating why men shouldn’t smoke. It had three
bullet points for reasons against smoking.

1. Smoking lowers sperm count
2. Smoking makes sperms less effective in reaching the egg (I’m paraphrasing)
3. Smoking makes a man impotent.

So, India…I’m getting the feeling that children are a big part of Indian life here. Fear not cancer, fear not the harmful effects of smoking on the environment, fear not how smoking ages a person, no, fear the inabilty to reproduce. I don’t know India, if I were a a billion strong I might just keep smoking…

Photos of the Weddings:

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My men AB and JD

The reason I haven’t posted in so long is because I have just had an amazing, busy, weekend.

Painting by Deori

Thursday, I went to the India Habitat Center (IHC), which is only a couple kilometers from my school. The IHC holds all types of convention meetings, and cultural/art exhibits. I went to the current art exhibit and saw works by two different artists: Raja Deori and Mangeram Sharma. Deori’s paintings were very unique and as he told me “nothing [you] have ever seen before.” One of the interesting things about his works was that he sketches an images and then washes over it with thinned paint, but he paints over everything, including the picture frames that encased the original sketches. Sharma’s work was very clean and colorful. Most of his works were reinterpretations of the Mahabharata, which is a Hindu text.


Friday, I went to a science museum in Delhi, the National Science Centre(NSC). It was…not exactly the American Natural History Museum in New York City. In fact, this museum was laid out in a way I doubt any pubic building could ever be designed in America. The science museum was 6 “levels” but only three floors. I went up three flights and then back down three flights through all the exhibits. And when I say up then down, I mean literally there was only one way to get from exhibit A to exhibit B. Picture any major museum in America--there are usually one or two central staircases and several elevators. If you want to look at, say, “Orange Flowers of Ancient China” on floor three before whatever exhibit is on the first floor, you can easily walk up the stairs, or take an elevator, to the 3rd floor. Now, at the NSC, I had to walk through each floor and go through all the exhibits to find the next staircase that would lead me to the next floor. By the final exhibit I was actually a bit anxious because I couldn’t figure out where the stairs were to take me back down and out of the building, AND I had just gone through a mirror maze and had almost gotten lost among my reflections! Pretty much all I was thinking about was what would happen if there was a fire...this seems to be my fallback thought whenever I'm not able to easily find a fire exit...weird. It was during this moment of anxiety that I had a unique experience; one of the guards at the museum (the kind decked out like this:

Seriously though, doesn’t this scream, Top Gun: India meets Tom Cruise?)

came up to me because I had passed by a couple of the “hands on science-interactive pieces of the exhibit”—things like pushing a button or pulling a rope to see how the ecosystem works or how hurricanes forms, optical illusions, and magic tricks, etc. So, he went around with me and showed me each little science activity. It was kind of adorable, especially when he said, “Okay, stay here,” and then walked behind a wall unit. I was staring at a plate of fruit on a counter, when all of a sudden his head popped up on the plate of fruit (you have to envision this middle aged guard with a mustache and green beret…). Of course he made me go behind the wall and stick my head up and out of an area cut out from the wall and counter. Very cute.

After the science museum, I went to the National Handicrafts & Handlooms Museum, which was alright. I stumbled upon a lecture going on at the museum about certain festivities that occur in Kerala. One of the festivals the speaker was talked about was how he was a part of a matriarchal society, and how when a woman gave birth to a girl a huge celebration was thrown in his village!

Saturday happened to be mon anniversaire, so I decided to spend all day watching Robert Rodriguez’s El Mariachi trilogy (Desperado + Once Upon a Time in Mexico) mostly because I wanted to watch Antonio Banderas and Johnny Depp…In between movies, I had lunch with my house mother and some extended family members. I really enjoy talking to and hanging out with them! In fact, I had a very interesting conversation with one of my house mother’s relatives where he told me there were 52 states in America. He said Alaska and Hawaii were the two extra. I was pretty sure there were only 50 states in America, but for some reason did not feel confident enough to voice my opinion because I have been discovering that Indian people are ridiculously smart about the world. (Sorry Dad, money down the drain…) Luckily, when I googled it, I was indeed right (thank the lord and all my elementary school teachers)! I also went out for a nice and grossly expensive sushi dinner and had—a legal by American standards—glass of wine, though the drinking age in India is 25. Fail.

Sunday was BDE! My house mother, the girl that works for us, and I cooked a huge meal for my friends that were coming over for dinner. (okay, they cooked, I watched.) I went to this store in the mall that sells imported American food (Cha-Ching $$$) and bought some Betty Crocker cake mix and funfetti icing! It was such a fun day and evening and I have way too pictures of cake baking. Baking an American cake in India is tricky. Mostly because everything is in the metric system and I cook in cups and tbs! So I had to do way too much math for my birthday party, so I just added a little extra butter and everything came out great!

Photos of the big day:

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Difference in Numbers

India Islamic Culture Centre

In an effort to learn about Islam, I went to the India Islamic Cultural Centre (IICC) today. I walked from my school to the IICC, which was only couple of kilometers. I have passed the IICC often, as it is located on Lodi road, which is the way the auto takes me to school. Blue tiles façade the IICC’s red brick building with large white letters that read in three different languages: India Islamic Cultural Centre. The building is quite magnificent in both its size and design. The main entrance of the building sits between two large wings. Upon entering, I was greeted by a beautiful sea green glossy floor with a circular stairway that led up to the second floor. To my left was a library; upstairs was the auditorium and a coffee shop. I was hoping that the centre would have some gallery or exhibition that would help me understand the Islamic religion, though I had no real luck with this. However, I went to library thinking I would explore some text. I happen to be a horse lover…right when I entered the library there was a magazine with a rider and horse in a show jumping competition; the magazine was entitled, “Saudi Aramco World.” Get this, the oil company, Saudi Aramco, in Texas publishes this magazine in an effort to “increase cross-cultural understanding. The bimonthly magazine's goal is to broaden knowledge of the cultures, history and geography of the Arab and Muslim worlds and their connections with the West” (http://www.saudiaramcoworld.com/issue/201101/). Very interesting. Wonder how you’re fairing now S-n-A…. Aside from the magazine doing a cover on Al Sharbatly and his horse winning silver at the World Equestrian Games in Kentucky, there was also an article about how Arabian horses came to America through Homer Davenport. After the magazine, I went upstairs to the coffee shop. It was pretty nice, except for my expensive 20 rupe. chai. (Chai usually cost 5 rs.)

After the IICC I decided to walk the one or two kilometers to the Jor Bagh Metro station. Best Idea Ever—I found myself in the middle of Jor Bagh Colony Market (remember how I mentioned every colony had it’s own little market?) Well, this market had a little bookshop…I obviously have an addiction. Walking into the bookshop was like a slice of eating downtown on Beale Street for mothers’ day brunch with piano jazz playing in the background. Love it. There was this little old Sikh man manning the shop, and I went up to him and asked if he could recommend something in fiction that I wouldn’t be able to put down. He recommend (and I bought): Island Beneath the Sea, by Isabel Allende, a book set in the old deep south at the beginning of the 1800’s; I also got, Room, by Emma Donoghue, the same author of The Boy in the Stripped Pajamas. I’m going to start reading them as soon as I finished (geek alert) my book by Stephen Hawking, The Grand Design, which is attempting to explain to the layman (me) how quantum physics and this M-Theory holds the key to discovery the universe’s creation. It’s a totally hilarious read, filled with witty metaphors using goldfish bowls to compare what is reality really, and constant jabs at Christianity and Catholicism. (I mean after all, The Church did basically condemn everything Mr. Hawking stands for.) The two books cost me 1000 rs. I think it's amazing how I freak out when I spend 1000 rs, but in America I would throw down 20 bucks or more on a nice meal and a movie. Not everything in Delhi/ India is cheap. But when I can eat three meals a day under 200 rs and can buy a whole outfit at around 500 rs, it just feels weird to spend so much in one moment. But I love my books. Ahh.

The Chatteled Woman

India is making me a feminist. I have never considered myself a feminist. I mean, I know that technically every woman is a feminist…but I just never really associated myself with women that forgo wearing bras or refuse to shave their legs. I also never really thought about my American foremothers that fought for women’s’ equality among men. However, Delhi is making me realize how equal I am to men compared to other parts of the world. In America, I have never felt objectified or unequal to any guy. I am not really talking about that feeling every women gets when she walks to her car late at night—the fear that something could happen. I’m talking about the actual realization that you can’t make a statement or request help from a certain person, or even pay your own bill at a restaurant because of your sex.

 I am a very independent person—I do not like to have to rely on other people for assistance, though I will ask for help when I need it. One afternoon, I had decided to go to a yoga class in a part of Delhi I was not familiar with. When I finished my class, it was dark outside and rush hour so it was very hard to find an auto to take me home. In fact, I couldn’t find one. I did begin to get scared, especially since there were men around but no women on the street. Ahead, on a street corner, I saw several police officers/traffic cops. One of them was a woman. “She will help me,” I thought, but when I asked her for help, for where I might find an auto, she just acted like she didn’t understand English. The male cops didn’t do anything. 30 minutes later, after I had gone to an outdoor restaurant and asked for assistance, a man finally said he would help me. Of course this is the moment that starts off every Lifetime movie, Young girl meets a seemingly sweet guy… but I didn’t really have any other options. So I decided I would stay alert and see where he led me (hopefully to autos) and run like hell if necessary. Guess where he led me to? Yes, right back to those traffic cops. He talked to one of male cops and to the women, both in perfect English, and told them they needed to help me flag down an auto. The woman cop responded to me in English. Without the man’s presence, they were unwilling to help me. It is this patriarchy that is beginning to drive me insane.

One day, my guy friend and I went to lunch. Mid way through the meal he tells me, “Notice that the waiter won’t even look at you.” And sure enough, when I had tried to order my food, the waiter had looked to my guy friend and taken my order from him.

It’s not only these moments that irk me. I consider myself a sweet person that will stand her ground if necessary. Here, I feel eyes constantly looking at me. I understand the eyes of wonder, the eyes of children and people not use to “white skin” or whatever you want to call it. I understand when grown sons come up to me at touristy sights and ask “My mother would like to take a picture with you?”  This is not the starring I am talking about. I am talking about that stare of the predator on the prey. When I take the bus to and from the metro I notice that guys never take their eyes off me—if I look at them it is considered inappropriate, as if I’m sexually promiscuous so I just sit there and look out the window. Then there are the moments when I feel my hand being grabbed in heavy crowd—not an accidental bump, but a lingering grasp that I have to shove off. Men in India aren’t supposed to touch women, not to shake hands, not a hug, not an arm around the shoulder. Men try and do all these things with foreign women. It’s weird when I feel violated because some guy touched my hand. Now I understand how Jane Austen’s libertines felt about them ankle bones showing.

If I were in the states, I would probably rip anyone who did this to me into tiny little bits of chewed up flesh. In Delhi, they call this Eve-teasing, where a guy or group of guys stares or violates a woman in any way. Yet, I’m not sure that anything is ever done about it. On days where I feel I love Delhi and never want to leave, I remember that my life here as a woman would never be an independent one. Women trying to buy cars or houses must have their husbands sign off on the contract, even if the women are financially sound. When I fill out forms, I am always required to put down my father’s name. I love my father, but why must I be dependent to his title? These things make me cringe and shudder when I think about domestic violence in India. I would have to say that I finally understand Annie Oakley and why she wanted to do everything better than a man. Until women can over-prove themselves, how will the chained woman ever break free?

Self Worthiness

I find that I am asking myself very heavy questions today. I would say that I go through this—what I will call the “oblivious-over conscious” cycle—maybe once a week or so here in Delhi. I always start off hitting the big, cheap, markets in town. Then, as the week moves forward I begin to feel slightly guilty as I pass the beggar children on the street; eventually, I begin to feel hopeless with the wide array of missing body parts and improvised living arrangements of the street people. I hear things like parents, in certain desperate situations, disfiguring and amputating their children’s body in order to provide them with a more likely income on the streets. You see women holding babies, begging for money to buy food, and all I can ever think: is the baby really their own. Then I begin to get angry at India. I see children flipping cartwheels and donning costume mustaches. All for what? Change? What will this child do when he can no longer fit through the small circle he shoves his body through to entertain the stalled driver? There is an education act in India that says all children must go to school. Where is this child being educated? Will he know how to fish when he is grown?

All these things I was thinking about today. I decided that since I didn’t wouldn’t to go home right away I would look for a non-shopping activity to bide my time. I walked the 3 km or so to a Tibetan museum and bookshop house. I have wanted to learn more about Tibet, especially since there is the refugee community here in Delhi.

It is quite remarkable how two different worlds—many different worlds—can live simultaneously on the same street that am driven up and down on twice a day, four days a week. As I walked out of my gated school, I ventured down a street I often go down. Autos and bikes are parked along the street, cars and buses drive along casually and sparingly. A market lies across the street behind the large, fenced in, houses, private guards posted at every mailbox. As I came to the end of my street, I walked through the roundabout and came to one of the more famous Dargahs (monument/ tomb) that are speckled throughout the city. Behind this Dargah lies a whole world of a community, big and narrow alleyways winding and turning, full of life. Sheep and goats adorn the thin sidewalks, thick slabs of meat hang from a handful of shops—this is (usually) how you know when you’re in a predominately Muslim community.

***

Okay…Here, I have to be honest with myself. I would never blame my upbringing or my country; I wonder if it is even accurate to attribute these thoughts to America’s recent political and global events and/or to my faith. It’s actually extremely hard to type this, I’m just going to say it and lay it on the table: I have noticed that when I am in an area where I know there to be a large percentage of Muslims, I get nervous.

I pause here to wonder if the issue at hand is one of me being a woman? To be an issue of potential ignorance—half heresy—of women’s treatment in the Middle East…and being closer than ever to the Middle East than when I was in the states?

Now, I know this is silly—that the events in the middle east, America’s war, the constant fighting between Israel and Palestine, the Jews and the Muslims—should not hinder me from observing and interacting with a group of people that are unrelated to these events…and yet? However, when I was winding my way through this predominantly Muslim neighborhood, I felt my self becoming attuned to women in burkas and men in taqiyahs. I do wonder if what it was more than anything was me as a female, and not being sure if I was dressed appropriately for the Muslim faith (burkas/Hijabs). I did see some women without head coverings, dressed as I was. From an outside perspective of myself, I really dislike having noticed this about me. I have had many Islamic friends and neighbors in the states. Should being on the other side of the world change a faith? A group of people? I think there is nothing worse than a Jewish person harboring any intolerance amongst any other group of people...and yet that appears to be me?

If you are Muslim, I do apologize for how I feel. Let me work on this and provide updates.

Bricks and Balloons *UPDATED pictures and video*

Never feed a monkey... especially when 

dude behind you yells that their dangerous.

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For those of you that don’t know, bricks and balloons is a “game/ice breaker” where a person lists one negative (brick) and then a positive (balloon). As one of my friends once said, “You have to tie balloon around the brick to make the brick float away.” So here it goes…

Brick: 

Dorris is gone. I went to wash my face this morning and my saheli (Hindi for girlfriend to be used only among girls) was gone. I stared at the spot where she use to curl up in the corner and hang upside down. There was this little pang in my heart…and then I washed my face.

Balloon: 

I went to Agra this weekend, which is where the Taj Mahal and many other old ruins/tomb sites/ forts are located. It was a fun weekend, though I had to wake up at 5 AM for two mornings in a row. While the Taj was beautiful and definitely worth seeing, it didn’t really do anything for me. Maybe on part because I have just seen so many tomb sites and old ruins that the grandeur and majesticness of them has dulled. Also, of all the tombs I have been to, the Taj felt most like an actual tomb. When I walked inside the Taj I immediately saw the tomb where Shah Jahan had had his wife buried. A small lantern dangled above the tomb; otherwise, the room was eerily dark, giving off a somber feeling. The walls of the room were beautiful marble with flower designs, and a matching fence like barrier that circled the tomb. As I exited the Taj and came out onto he back terrace area, I was able to look out over what seemed like all of Agra. It was a rainy day, so there was this magical light mist encircling the Taj and its gardens. Of course, all us girls on the trip just assumed the Taj was one of those places where it never rains and the sun always shines, since every picture of the Taj is a clear blue sky kind of day. So you can imagine how we all felt on the bus when we finally arrived to the Taj at 6 in the morning, some of us wearing sarees—all of us wearing picture-makeup for our Taj photo.

Please check back soon for more photos! 

Delhi in a nutshell

Yesterday, I went back to the Tibetan market, which is located within the Tibetan Refugee camp in Old Delhi. Don’t think Rwandan refugee camp; it’s more like the Little Italy community in New York. (I couldn’t bring my self to compare it to China Town—though I suppose the China Town in NYC is not directly related to the problems in Tibet…)  The other day my friend and I ventured to this market and saw the beautiful yak and wool shawls. Unfortunately, I was low on cash and couldn’t buy any. I decided yesterday to go back, even though I couldn’t find anyone that was free in the afternoon to go with me. I actually really enjoyed having the chance to travel through Delhi alone and take complete charge of getting to the market and back home by myself. (Mom, it was safe. I didn’t get raped, kidnapped, or murder.) Having now gone to the Tibetan community twice, I think it may be one of my favorite areas in Delhi so far. It’s not particularly pretty or clean, it’s not 100% quiet or friendly, but there aren’t many foreigners around.

In fact, I always walk the mile or so from the metro to the market and back; I find the walk exposes me to a raw and unfiltered view of Delhi life. There are people milling about the streets, children walking to and from school, cows and pigs digging through trash—I really like it. There was this group of piglets digging through a pile of trash. All of a sudden they started playing like puppies do. It was basically adorable…Along the street sidewalks, which are impossible to walk on because shops, parked bikes, and people line them, are various stores. I like the motorcycle-bike-auto repair shops because as you walk along there will be mechanical parts lying everywhere and usual some guys talking in Hindi about how to fix something (I like to think that’s what they’re talking about).

Once I actually arrive at the Tibetan market/refugee community, I always feel like I’ve stepped out of Delhi and into somewhere else. Tibet maybe? People don’t speak in Hindi, of course that’s because they aren’t Indian/from Delhi. In this market, you can find pretty much what would be found at any other market. Except, I don’t know of any other market, yet, where you can find such beautiful, plush, wool and yak shawls and scarves.

As I was leaving the market, many auto and taxi drivers asked me, as always, if I wanted their services. This brings me to something I have noticed about Delhi, and Indian culture—the loudest words are spoken the quietest. What do I mean? For instance, when I wanted to tell the auto/taxi drivers “no,” I merely bobbed my head once to the side and put my hand out as if to say “enough.” (Head bobbling is done by most people as a sign of “yes/okay,” but also as sort of an all answer kind of motion.) You would be surprised how often this works. I do it when beggars come to my auto at stop lights, and use it all the time when auto drivers are pestering me to take their vehicles. If I say “no” verbally, I find it is not respected as much, especially when people come up to me for money.

In a similar way, I find Delhi to also be a quiet city. Of course, it’s a city, and the horns of cars and clanging metal in cooking pots fills up the crowded streets. But honestly, because I can’t understand most—okay basically all Hindi being spoken, there actually isn’t that much for my ears to pick up. If I’m walking through a crowded, noisy, market, I feel peaceful and calm, just as if I were walking down a nature trail.

This being said, there is certainly noise in Delhi…take the area outside and above my house. For some unknown reason, the person that lives above our apartment always, always, finds five in the morning a great time to start doing construction on their house. God knows what on! I’ll hear hammering and running water and just the universe being created! Also, right outside my bedroom there lies a small public courtyard, and in this courtyard is a Dhobi, which is a person who washes clothes. Actually, I think the person outside my bedroom irons clothes… Nonetheless, this person likes to get an early start— five am—and will start filling his buckets with water. The best one, Oh, the best one is on Sunday mornings. Sunday is the one day I, usually, get to sleep in. And by sleep in, we’re talking like 9-9:30 thanks to the fact that my body is used to waking up at 6 during the week. However, Sunday also happens to be the day this trash man comes to pick up the trash. I’m not talking the American style, where the huge stinky blue truck drives around and throws people's trash into the back mouth part—I’m talking Indian-style! This guy rides around on a bike for one, maybe a couple hours, yelling at the top of his lungs for people’s trash. And this starts maybe around 7 or 8…

P.S. So guess who took another mildly cold shower with like only ONE gallon of water!! Me! Yay! Okay so here is the reason: in Delhi, pretty much everyone has to pipe in fresh, good, water into their house. The water out of the faucets you can’t drink, but it’s okay to bathe in. However, there are these tanks where you have to pipe in your water from, and they sometimes get low on water. When this happens you have to press a button and bring more water into the tank. But this morning when I woke up and went to the bathroom, I didn’t realize the water level was low. So I put my bucket under the faucet and turned on the hot water. I got a little water in before the water thinned into a small little stream, but the water hadn’t really heated up yet.  Anyways, it was all okay because I got to talk with my friend Dorris and was like, “Hey girl what up!”

My friend, Dorris...

This is my friend Dorris:

Dorris

She lives in my bathroom. Every couple of days, when I finally get to showering, we talk and catch up on life. At first, like any spider-human relationship, I was really scared of her. I thought she was going to eat me, possibly wrap me up in a silvery web, all while I was butt naked taking my bucket bath. Alas, she's not like that. She usually stays in her little corner. Sometimes, she gets thirsty and crawls along the wall. Then, I take a handful of water and splash it against the wall. She really likes this. She hunkers down against the wall and does what I assume to be drinking. There use to be another spider in the bathroom, but I don't know where he went. That's okay, because I wasn't particularly fond of him. I am now pretty fond of Dorris. You may think this is a not serious post. This is a completely serious post. Seriously! I get worried that someday she will be swept away. No! I like Dorris because she probably eats the mosquitos that are tying to give me malaria.

Peace out Dorry. See you tomorrow morning when I finally wash my hair.

P.S. Dad: this does not mean you are off spider duty when I return home. Spiders in Memphis are not my friends, thus you still have to come and kill them (and roaches) when I scream. xoxo.

P.P.S: Dad, guess what! Today in my economics class, we went over this whole regression table thing. We've been learning it for a couple of days know. Anyways. So today my teacher just like pulls out all this pre-calculus non-sense; he starts teaching us about logarithms (logs) and how it proves this whole regression table data stuff. I kind of got it. At one point he began to talk about fractions within logs, but I was like, "hold up," this was not in the class description. (He still talked about them.)  To make a whole story (and a lot of X and Y equations) short, I actually understand it. I'm just a tad upset though, because I thought once I got into college, math would be a thing of the past. Especially all the pre-cal math. Nope. Nope. They use math over here in India too, gosh darn it!