catch-22

Unabashed stares. A sea of brown faces, primarily male. Women in vibrant, multihued clothing carrying infants.  Temples and mosques and churches and resonating chants. Child beggars and peddlers.Voices directed at me in three different dialects. Bewilderment over my “origin.” The fusion of pungent odors on the streets: piquant masala, animal dung, and gasoline emissions. After eleven months, the sounds and scents and visuals of India had become familiar.

I bid farewell to this dynamic land and braced myself for the reverse culture shock, but how can you really know what to expect? (Pep talk to self: Okay, you’re going back to New Jersey…people drive in lanes, there won’t be random animals all over the place, you can’t bargain but at least you can wear shorts…). The mental preparation had helped. Slightly.

My two oversized suitcases and I had arrived in Newark.

Brown, black, white people. Obese people. Strollers. Everyone walking in shoes. Ipads and nooks and kindles. Starbucks. (Coffee for 200 rupees?!) Men carrying babies. English words. Carpeted floors. Bagel shops.

Now I was the one staring.

It was all the things I had remembered, longed for, or forgotten. And it was startling. It’s interesting how you can grow completely accustomed to a culture, and yet still miss certain luxuries. Sure, I missed cereal and driving and winter while I was in India. But now I ruminate over all the little things that made my experience there.

No matter where I am now, I’ll miss something, won’t I? 

same difference?

She was telling me about how her husband was murdered. She was telling me about how she wanted her children to complete an education. She was telling me about how she wanted to afford her daughter a new dress for Diwali. But she wasn’t complaining. She was telling me, very simply, about her life.

Lalita was the school’s main cleaning lady. Although she couldn’t speak English, she could speak Kannada (my first language) and over the course of eleven months we formed a strong relationship. One afternoon, as she entered my room to clean, I was lying on my bed feverishly, unable to move. This was one of the numerous occasions I fell ill in India. I told her that the medication I had tried didn’t work, but insisted that I would eventually be fine. I was planning to wait it out. Soon after, Lalita ran home to her village – a least two miles away – to bring me her home remedy.

I couldn’t believe someone cared that much.

Something about speaking with a stranger in your native tongue – the one that is spoken by your family – makes you feel closer to that person. Anyone who can fluently speak more than one language will understand this sentiment. So yes, I felt close to Lalita. I felt like she could have been someone in my family. But the reality is: she could never have been someone in my family. Socioeconomically speaking. 

The degree to which social class, caste, and poverty intertwine and separate the entire course of the lives of the people in India is striking. While I was in India, I would meet people like Lalita, or my students’ parents and speak with them in Kannada; I would think: wow, this is just like my family. If my parents had never moved out of India, then this could have been me. But that just isn't true. My family in India is what you might classify as upper middle-class. Had I grown up in India, I would never have had to wipe the floors of strangers, walk barefoot for miles in the sun, or struggle for an education.

Had I grown up in India, I would never have met Lalita. I would also never have traveled through the country on overnight buses, ridden on elephants with a white girl in Kerala, spoken to Bollywood directors in Mumbai mansions, motorcycled through Goa, befriended European vagabonds in the Himalayas, confided in village women, or ended up in The Times of India after Cricket World Cup celebrations. I would not have had the same level of independence to explore as a female. Most importantly, I would likely not have met the students of Shanti Bhavan or cared so much that their lives are different because not everyone in India is the same.

Had I grown up in India, I would never have experienced life in the country through so many different perspectives. I would never have experienced the compassion of a village woman who treated me like a daughter. And I might never have known that real family can break the confines of socioeconomic class.

stranger no more

Four months ago, a small Indian woman approached me with her baby. Without hesitation, she plopped him onto my lap. As she stood unsteadily, the weight of her thin frame pressed against my side (interfering with what most Americans might call, “personal space.”) Leaning forward to unglue my damp back from the seat, I clasped my hands around the infant. I didn’t ask any questions. The bus began its bumpy journey.

On the village bus that I regularly rode from Shanti Bhavan to neighboring towns, this was a typical scene. Men, women, children – and occasionally, goats – crowded onto this large vehicle that teetered precariously down meandering rural roads. I usually found myself perspiring profusely as more and more people piled in, handing their bags and children to those seated, and wedging themselves into places I would never have surmised possible.

While reminiscing over my year in the globe’s most populated nation, I find myself recalling moments like this and thinking, maybe Indians in India have it right. In America, it would seem strange (and perhaps foolish) to hand a complete stranger your baby. What struck me most about the situation, however, is the level of familial trust Indians have amongst each other. Even when they are complete strangers.

It’s difficult to understand what I mean until you have experienced it. Every region through which I traveled in India – whether it was the villages around Shanti Bhavan, the Himalayan foothills, Kerala backwaters, or nearly forbidden Kashmir – I felt the warmth of the people I met. The genuine friendliness and helpful nature of the families with whom I stayed is something I have not witnessed nearly as often in much of the developed world.

Of course, it would be dishonest to paint a naively rose-colored picture. As a female traveling through India, I had my fair share of unpleasant encounters. This was primarily because I was determined to travel the local way. I rode regular-class trains, buses, and rickshaws. I walked when I could. I occasionally hitchhiked (not recommended). Because of this, however, I got a glimpse of India for what it really is. No sugar coating.

To shed some light on my unique perspective, I need to give a bit more background. I need to explain how I – a first-generation American girl of Indian descent – fortuitously experienced the country’s filthy rich, middle-class, and the destitute. Not merely experienced, but rather, formed relationships with individuals of all levels in the societal hierarchy. Friendships, even. But I will save that for my next entry. Until then, just know that India is brimming with more warmth than it’s often given credit for, and you'll find it in the most unlikely places. As I recently sat on a congested NYC subway, I found myself thinking a bit of nostalgia, that lady would never hand me her baby. It’s funny what you miss.

A new year, a new beginning

The cement floor felt cold against my cotton pants. On the screen in front of me, a grinning Indian man wearing a bandana around his long, sweaty hair was jumping around energetically. Suddenly, the scenery changed and he was alongside a group of similarly sweaty Indian men, all of whom were dancing and lip-syncing. Everyone sitting around me was cheering and hollering. Bewildered, I glanced at my watch. Twenty minutes until midnight. It became clear to me that I would be entering the New Year in this state of bafflement. Sitting in the Shanti Bhavan dining hall, watching a Tamil movie with a group of teenagers. Without subtitles.

As we counted down the seconds for the arrival of 2011, the kids grew increasingly excited. Following the (anti-)climactic stroke of twelve, the students all shook hands, hugged, and wished one another a happy new year. Then, we all headed back to our rooms for sleep.

I thought of my friends back home. Approximately eleven hours later, they too would be celebrating the dawning of the New Year. Like I had done in years passed, they would be attending parties and celebrating in a rather different manner. Being in India – and moreover in village – on occasions such as this reminds me that at age twenty-two, I am having an experience quite unlike that of (the majority of) my peers. Just a few years ago, I would never have imagined that my idea of “fun” during all the main American holidays would consist of simply enjoying the company of children.

The last few months of 2010 were distinct from every other year. Rather than attend a Halloween party with a group of rowdy 20-somethings, the volunteers and I created a haunted house for the kids. Rather than watch American football with my family on Thanksgiving, I danced to Indian songs with some 12^th graders. Rather than walking down snow-laden streets glittering with Christmas lights for the past month, each day I walk down a dirt path surrounded by coconut trees, entering a campus brimming with wildlife and enthusiastic children.

In the past five months that I have spent in India, I have felt nearly every emotion possible – euphoria, sympathy, anger, sorrow, fear, envy, loneliness, satisfaction, disappointment – and felt each with more intensity than I’ve ever experienced before. My students have brought tears to my eyes with their stories. I have laughed and cried with them, listened to their frustrations and apprehensions, and tried to make sense of their tragedies. I have been taken aback by the behavior of those I meet, by both kindness and cruelty. In so many ways, living at Shanti Bhavan appears to be the essence of simple, village life. A couple of months of living here, however, allowed me to understand the intricate dynamics of the culture and complicated family situations of the children.

Even though I am only halfway through my stay in this country, I already know that the end will arrive too soon. For now, I will embrace the New Year as a new beginning, watch those Tamil movies without complaint, and appreciate all that I have been given.

gimme some of that skippy!

Each of the 10^th grade boys at the table was demanding a piece of Prem’s chapatti. He tore it apart and gave them half of his dinner without stopping for a second to consider the altruism of this act. Incredulous, I watched the transaction.

It was Wednesday evening, and I was sitting with the sophomores for dinner. Earlier in the day, 15-year-old Prem had been injured while playing basketball; an older boy had hit him in the jaw with his elbow, causing Prem to bite down very hard on his tongue, which then bled. Because his tongue was so wounded, he was unable to eat the spicy Shanti Bhavan food, and was given a special dinner instead: two chapattis (flat, circular bread, very similar to tortillas) smeared with peanut butter. A rare treat.

In spite of his markedly painful condition, Prem was in good spirits. He went as far to inform the perpetrator of his injury that he had done Prem “a favor,” because he received special food. Moreover, he didn’t hesitate to share his small meal with the other students, who were each diligently finishing up their own large plates of rice. For children who are seldom allowed luxuries such as peanut butter for dinner, it’s amazing how willing they are to share their good fortunes.

Prem’s behavior is not an exception at Shanti Bhavan – it’s the rule. Whenever the students receive something that they are able to share with even a few others, they most certainly will. Perhaps it has been ingrained in them from a young age that they must be giving, as they don’t physically own very much; they share everything from clothes and makeup to books and bicycles. In terms of material goods, they possess nearly nothing. That which they have, they share.

On a daily basis, these children are inspiring. I frequently recall myself as a teenager; I cannot even begin to imagine overcoming their struggles at home, and then persevering in school with such poise – all the while retaining their compassion for others. Their kindness and humility are evident in the small things they do. I learn something new from my students every day. Did you know that one chapatti with peanut butter can be split five ways?

one rupee, two rupee, three rupee, four...

He couldn’t have been more than ten years old. The small boy trailed behind us, barefoot and dirty, holding out his hand for change. The volunteers and I piled inside our van, dismissing him as we shut all the doors. Tapping on my window, he stood resolutely, and pointed at his mouth. His gaze was piercing. I averted my eyes and feigned interest in a newspaper lying on the seat. There was a photo of a group of smiling students. Graduates of a prestigious school. First prize in something. The engine started and the car began to back out of the parking spot. He didn’t leave. Instead, he watched my expression intently, searching for a sign of pity. We drove away.

Each weekend the volunteers spend roaming Bangalore city, we are badgered by at least a dozen different beggars, but this particular boy stood out to me. In different circumstances, his persistence would not have seemed unusual. Given that we were already in a locked car that was backing out, however, his behavior struck me as odd. Moreover, he was a boy. The majority of beggars I have come across in India have been female – whether they are children, young women with babies, or elderly, crippled ladies.

I began to consider the boy’s situation. What kind of future does this child have? What could he likely be doing in ten, twenty years? There are limited possibilities. He is so young, but does not have something real to strive for. As a child, I went to school with an understanding that if I worked hard, I could do anything I wanted. This boy doesn’t go to school, have shoes, a real home, nor a constant source of food. I thought of the children at Shanti Bhavan. Well-groomed, playful, and content. For many of them, their fates may have resembled that of the young boy, had it not been for their education.

Hope. That’s what children are – hope for the future of their families. The students of Shanti Bhavan are just that, in the truest sense. Unlike the young boy begging for a few rupees on the street, they will graduate from college and achieve something unique. They will be the first in their villages to complete higher education, but it will mean something more than just a diploma and a degree. The path to a solid career signifies the potential to support a family, and generations of families. They will be productive members of society, and the eventual impact that they’ll have may be staggering. I look forward to seeing what they accomplish. Perhaps one day, I will pick up a newspaper and see the smiling faces of my former students. Graduates of Shanti Bhavan School. First prize in something.

when the student becomes teacher...

“Quiz me,” Praveen instructed me. I looked at him dubiously. It was barely 15 minutes into the class period. “Are you ready?” He grinned. “Of course.”

Praveen is one of the two Biology students in 11^th grade; most of the Shanti Bhavan students choose the Business track after 10^th grade, rather than science. Maheshwari, the other student, was absent from class this particular day; I told Praveen to read through the beginning of the chapter, and that I would quiz him afterward. The 11^th grade Biology class is currently learning from the 12^th grade syllabus, and the chapter of discussion was animal tissues. Not only is the content much more complex than anything I learned in Advanced Placement Biology, but it resembles material taught in university-level anatomy classes.

In less than fifteen minutes, Praveen had read through 25 pages of the chapter. Moreover, he had thoroughly comprehended all of it. He recited details that I had a hard time even finding when I read through it, and he would inform me their locations – page, paragraph – right down to the sentence. Incredible. It brought new meaning to the term “photographic memory.”

It’s difficult to imagine bright, talented students like Praveen working in fields, quarries, or in factories, doing menial labor. What Shanti Bhavan has done for these children goes beyond providing them an education – it has offered them a home, a family, and a future. Many of these students return to broken homes without parents, or with unhealthy familial relationships. Nearly all return to small village shacks, huts, or city slums. Understanding the backgrounds of the students has led me to realize the true impact that the institution has made for hundreds of students and their families. Just a stroke of luck led them to be chosen by Dr. George for a better life: one in which they can make their own paths with a promising future. While exploring the internet for international volunteer opportunities one auspicious afternoon, I stumbled across a website with the smiling face of a young Indian girl. The title read, “Shanti Bhavan’s Children’s Project.” Just a stroke ­of luck.