A pair of pigeons keeps trying to make a nest on my windowsill. They’ve actually succeeded several times, and I have to knock it down, eggs and all. Knocking down the eggs makes me feel guilty, so I try to get rid of the nest before any are laid. Yesterday morning I opened the window to do just that. As I was pushing off the last few twigs, a gecko leapt onto my shirt. I’m not afraid of geckos, which are everywhere in India, but the surprise of it made me start writhing and shaking to try to knock it off. After a couple seconds it fell down onto the floor. It was about six or seven inches long from head to tail, and was a typical gecko like any of the others that come in my room to eat moths or bugs, and leave roughly one capsule-sized black turd on my floor per day. I smiled when I saw that it was nothing to be afraid of.
“Listen, gecko,” I said, “I don’t care if you want to come into my room, but don’t jump on my shirt!” It scampered away under my desk.
I then left for breakfast in the campus dining hall. I was enjoying my tea when I looked up to see a large langour monkey enter the building from the stairs leading to the roof. He must have gotten onto the roof from a nearby tree. “Oh my god,” I said, “a freaking monkey!” Languors are not dangerous, and are actually used in some cities (such as Delhi) to repel the smaller, more malicious macaques. I’ve seen many langours around India before, but this was the first time one had come into the dining hall.
Someone made a noise to scare the monkey back onto the roof, but it didn’t budge. I got up and yelled at it, but that didn’t help either. One of the guys who works in the kitchen ran up the stairs and chased it away with a stick, and then closed the door so it wouldn’t be able to get back in.
I left the dining hall smiling. I’ve always been partial to monkeys.
In the evening, I went to my room to use the toilet. Upon opening the lid, I saw that a lizard—several inches longer than the gecko, with a spiny back, a long, thin tail, and a small piece of toilet paper crowning his head—had somehow gotten inside. How he’d managed to get in I don’t know, because the lid had been on since morning. He was finding it difficult to get out, because the bowl was too slippery for his little feet to grasp.
I closed the lid, left my room, and used a communal toilet instead. I then went to the library, checked the dictionary for the Gujarati word for lizard, and told the librarian and the man in charge of discipline about the kanchindo in my toilet. The librarian laughed, but the disciplinarian was stern.
“Who is better,” he asked me in Gujarati, “David or kanchindo?”
I saw his point. I went back to my room, and used my toilet brush to shift the lizard from the bowl onto a flat piece of wood. The lizard was very antsy, but it wasn’t able to climb off because of the way it had grasped the wood. I dumped it onto the ground outside.
Then I went back to the library to find the disciplinarian. “Kanchindo toilet out,” I told him in awful Gujarati. “Kanchindo better not. David better!” He nodded in approval.
Wednesday, December 5, 2007
Saturday, November 17, 2007
Haircuts
So far I've had three haircuts in India. I was a bit nervous about getting a haircut at first, for two reasons. First, most Indians do not have curly hair, and barbers might therefore panic when seeing my head. Second, I didn't want to get lice or something from a comb that is used on everyone's head without being sterilized.
I got over both of these worries, though, for the same reason I've gotten over a lot of other similar worries: I have no choice.
My first haircut was during the orientation for the fellowship, at a town called Mussourie up near the Himalayas. The barbershop was tiny, but well-lit and in possession of some big mirrors and decent-looking scissors. The barber was pretty young, probably in his early 20's, but he was a real pro. After giving me a better haircut than many American barbers have given me, he even gave me a head massage. All told, it set me back 35 Rupees, including 5 Rs. as tip. That's about 90 cents.
My second haircut was a bit less of a positive experience. I live now just outside of a tiny village, so normal barbershop facilities aren't available. What is available, though, is a guy in a shack who has a pair of scissors, a straightedge razor, and a mirror. I went to see him about three weeks ago in the evening, around six, but since the sun was low in the sky and he didn't have electricity, and my curly hair would require more concentration than usual, he asked me to come back the next morning. I did, but the haircut wasn't nearly as good as the one I got in Mussourie. This barber was clearly intimidated by the curls, and kept trying to straighten my hair, which doesn't work very well. As a result, some parts were too short, others too long, and I wasn't particularly satisfied. It cost 15 Rupees, or about 37 cents.
Yesterday I went into the town of Sanand, about 8 km away, to a barbershop recommended by a co-worker. This one had electricity and a fan, which was nice. The smock they put on me had Japanese writing on it, and the barber was amused when I translated it for him. The haircut was decent, so I think this is the place I'm going to use from now on. It cost 20 Rupees, about 50 cents.
I haven't worked up the courage to get a shave from these guys, because it's all with a straightedge razor and something about letting a stranger hold a blade right on my jugular doesn't sit well with me. But I'll get a shave there at some point.
In other news, I'm going to try to embed some pictures into the blog entries. We'll see if it works. OK, it worked. The photo above is of the second haircut.
I got over both of these worries, though, for the same reason I've gotten over a lot of other similar worries: I have no choice.
My first haircut was during the orientation for the fellowship, at a town called Mussourie up near the Himalayas. The barbershop was tiny, but well-lit and in possession of some big mirrors and decent-looking scissors. The barber was pretty young, probably in his early 20's, but he was a real pro. After giving me a better haircut than many American barbers have given me, he even gave me a head massage. All told, it set me back 35 Rupees, including 5 Rs. as tip. That's about 90 cents.
My second haircut was a bit less of a positive experience. I live now just outside of a tiny village, so normal barbershop facilities aren't available. What is available, though, is a guy in a shack who has a pair of scissors, a straightedge razor, and a mirror. I went to see him about three weeks ago in the evening, around six, but since the sun was low in the sky and he didn't have electricity, and my curly hair would require more concentration than usual, he asked me to come back the next morning. I did, but the haircut wasn't nearly as good as the one I got in Mussourie. This barber was clearly intimidated by the curls, and kept trying to straighten my hair, which doesn't work very well. As a result, some parts were too short, others too long, and I wasn't particularly satisfied. It cost 15 Rupees, or about 37 cents.Yesterday I went into the town of Sanand, about 8 km away, to a barbershop recommended by a co-worker. This one had electricity and a fan, which was nice. The smock they put on me had Japanese writing on it, and the barber was amused when I translated it for him. The haircut was decent, so I think this is the place I'm going to use from now on. It cost 20 Rupees, about 50 cents.
I haven't worked up the courage to get a shave from these guys, because it's all with a straightedge razor and something about letting a stranger hold a blade right on my jugular doesn't sit well with me. But I'll get a shave there at some point.
In other news, I'm going to try to embed some pictures into the blog entries. We'll see if it works. OK, it worked. The photo above is of the second haircut.
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
One night in a village
This past week was Diwali, the Indian New Year. It’s probably the biggest festival of the year, and most people go back to their native village to celebrate with their families. I went to the home of one of the accountants here, whom I’ll call Suresh, though that’s not his real name. Suresh speaks English quite well, and lives in a village called Ranoda about 25 kilometers away with his parents and sisters.
I left for Ranoda on Friday, and took a series of three shared auto rickshaw taxis, each one packed with about eight people, though they should sit only three. The journey cost me less than fifty cents. I called Suresh when I arrived, and he came out to meet me. We walked together down the main road of the village—unpaved, though level and covered with gravel—and then took a left.
“The road to the right is for non-Dalits,” he said. In nearly every Indian village, the Dalits live in a separate locality some distance from the rest of the village. The road we were now on was in significantly worse condition than the main one; it was probably too narrow for a car or truck, and was fairly muddy.
Nearly everyone we passed was excited to see me. They all asked Suresh where I was from, and nodded in awe when they heard the word “America”. Suresh was clearly enjoying showing me off, but I didn’t mind. I’m sure I was the first foreigner to come into the Dalit locality (probably the overall village, too), and maybe even the first person from outside Gujarat. Soon a trail of people had formed behind us as we walked to Suresh’s house, winding between the houses and alleys. His house was two stories, and made of concrete and wood with an earthen floor. Suresh told me his grandfather built it fifty years ago.
Suresh’s sisters and mother smiled when they saw me. They sat me on a cot, and gave me some water and then tea. When I finished, I went on a short walk with Suresh. It was late in the day, around five-thirty, and it was really just beautiful, very much the picture of Indian village life that you might imagine. Balanced on their heads, women were carrying jugs of water or fodder for the buffalos. Old men, whose smiles displayed only half the number of teeth there should have been, were coming back home from the fields.
I left for Ranoda on Friday, and took a series of three shared auto rickshaw taxis, each one packed with about eight people, though they should sit only three. The journey cost me less than fifty cents. I called Suresh when I arrived, and he came out to meet me. We walked together down the main road of the village—unpaved, though level and covered with gravel—and then took a left.
“The road to the right is for non-Dalits,” he said. In nearly every Indian village, the Dalits live in a separate locality some distance from the rest of the village. The road we were now on was in significantly worse condition than the main one; it was probably too narrow for a car or truck, and was fairly muddy.
Nearly everyone we passed was excited to see me. They all asked Suresh where I was from, and nodded in awe when they heard the word “America”. Suresh was clearly enjoying showing me off, but I didn’t mind. I’m sure I was the first foreigner to come into the Dalit locality (probably the overall village, too), and maybe even the first person from outside Gujarat. Soon a trail of people had formed behind us as we walked to Suresh’s house, winding between the houses and alleys. His house was two stories, and made of concrete and wood with an earthen floor. Suresh told me his grandfather built it fifty years ago.
Suresh’s sisters and mother smiled when they saw me. They sat me on a cot, and gave me some water and then tea. When I finished, I went on a short walk with Suresh. It was late in the day, around five-thirty, and it was really just beautiful, very much the picture of Indian village life that you might imagine. Balanced on their heads, women were carrying jugs of water or fodder for the buffalos. Old men, whose smiles displayed only half the number of teeth there should have been, were coming back home from the fields.
In a clearing surrounded by houses, some kids were playing cricket. The houses there were fairly large (by village standards), concrete, and together formed a “U”, with the interior left open for hay, buffalos, and a tractor or two. The boys playing cricket invited me to join them, so I picked up the bat. I hit a few good balls, but they were pitching (or “bowling” in cricket terms) slowly for me. Everyone cheered when I had a good hit.
Suresh’s mother cooked dinner on a small wood fire just outside the house. Suresh and I were served first, so we ate sitting on a rug on the floor. The food was really good; there were several dishes, including a vegetable stew, lentils, rice, and Indian flatbread (roti). The rest of the family didn’t start to eat until Suresh and I had finished.
After dinner, the Diwali celebrations continued. People carried torches (crowned with buffalo dung, and soaked in coconut oil) to the banks of the pond, and stuck them in the ground there. It’s supposed to symbolize something, though I’m not sure what. Kids were lighting firecrackers and fireworks the whole time, and actually they didn’t stop until well into the next day.
When it was time to sleep, Suresh’s sisters lined up some wooden cots outside the house, and everyone slept in a row. I was too tall for the cot, and my legs stuck out, so it wasn’t the best night of sleep in my life. But that could also have been because of the nonstop firecrackers. At one point, I woke up to see a boy lighting a firecracker fifteen feet from my cot. I checked my watch; it was 4:30.
People were up and moving well before sunrise, and soon we had tea and crackers for breakfast. Suresh and I took another walk around the Dalit locality. I was offered tea by probably a dozen different households, and I accepted from a few. Oddly, the custom here is to pour the tea from the cup onto the saucer, and then sip directly from the saucer. I think the point is that it cools down more quickly that way. As is typical in Gujarat, the tea was made from boiled buffalo milk and black tea leaves. It’s a bit sweet for my taste, but still very good.
Suresh wanted to take a bath, so I continued my walk by the houses where I had played cricket the day before. I learned that the reason those houses were so big was that they had been built under a government plan implemented by Dr. B. R. Ambedkar, India’s foremost Dalit leader, now deceased and revered by many Dalits as something of a god. Ambedkar dedicated his life to the breaking of caste barriers, and was the main author of India’s constitution. As a result, Dalits receive legal protection and are given reserved spots for government jobs, called “positive discrimination”, the Indian version of affirmative action. The caste system is deeply ingrained in Indian society, however, and laws are often not enforced. Sadly, the condition of the Dalits in many places is not so different today than it was a hundred years ago; many are landless, uneducated, and relegated to the most menial, laborious work.
Anyway, I walked from house to house, and had tea with a few different people. Most had framed portraits of Dr. Ambedkar on their walls, usually next to a picture of a Hindu deity. Some homes had handlooms on the front porch; these probably belonged to Vankars—the Dalit sub-caste dedicated to weaving.
I spent the rest of the morning lounging around Suresh’s house with his extended family. They served us lunch, and afterwards we headed outside the village to see some other of his family members.
Near the village entrance was a temple compound, with one larger building and one smaller. It looked harmless to me, but Suresh pointed out that Dalits are forbidden from entering the larger temple, and have to be content with the smaller one. This is typical in India, as untouchability—the practice of treating Dalits as polluting by their very presence—is common in rural areas. Suresh also told me that though relations were good between the “upper” castes of the village and the Dalits, and the “upper” castes sometimes came into the Dalit locality, they wouldn’t drink tea or water from Dalit homes. Doing so would, in their minds, cause them to become “polluted”. “They come to my home, sit on the cots and talk to my family,” Suresh said, “but they don’t drink our tea. Never.” Some elderly Dalits are used to this discrimination and rarely complain, but the youth seem to assert themselves more actively.
So we spent the afternoon at the houses of some of Suresh’s relatives, drinking tea, eating sweets, and chatting. I spent the next night in a town called Dholka at the home of the manager of the vocational training school here. It was very pleasant, but lacked Ranoda’s charm. I’m planning on developing the pictures I took at Ranoda and giving them to Suresh’s family as a thank-you gift for treating me so well. Everyone loved my camera, and basically lined up to have a picture taken. Despite my poor Gujarati, I understood when one man told a neighbor, “Come on! Have him take your photo. Then people in America will see you!”
I have open invitations to come to many different villages here, but I’m going to make sure I go back to Ranoda at least once before I leave.
Suresh’s mother cooked dinner on a small wood fire just outside the house. Suresh and I were served first, so we ate sitting on a rug on the floor. The food was really good; there were several dishes, including a vegetable stew, lentils, rice, and Indian flatbread (roti). The rest of the family didn’t start to eat until Suresh and I had finished.
After dinner, the Diwali celebrations continued. People carried torches (crowned with buffalo dung, and soaked in coconut oil) to the banks of the pond, and stuck them in the ground there. It’s supposed to symbolize something, though I’m not sure what. Kids were lighting firecrackers and fireworks the whole time, and actually they didn’t stop until well into the next day.
When it was time to sleep, Suresh’s sisters lined up some wooden cots outside the house, and everyone slept in a row. I was too tall for the cot, and my legs stuck out, so it wasn’t the best night of sleep in my life. But that could also have been because of the nonstop firecrackers. At one point, I woke up to see a boy lighting a firecracker fifteen feet from my cot. I checked my watch; it was 4:30.
People were up and moving well before sunrise, and soon we had tea and crackers for breakfast. Suresh and I took another walk around the Dalit locality. I was offered tea by probably a dozen different households, and I accepted from a few. Oddly, the custom here is to pour the tea from the cup onto the saucer, and then sip directly from the saucer. I think the point is that it cools down more quickly that way. As is typical in Gujarat, the tea was made from boiled buffalo milk and black tea leaves. It’s a bit sweet for my taste, but still very good.
Suresh wanted to take a bath, so I continued my walk by the houses where I had played cricket the day before. I learned that the reason those houses were so big was that they had been built under a government plan implemented by Dr. B. R. Ambedkar, India’s foremost Dalit leader, now deceased and revered by many Dalits as something of a god. Ambedkar dedicated his life to the breaking of caste barriers, and was the main author of India’s constitution. As a result, Dalits receive legal protection and are given reserved spots for government jobs, called “positive discrimination”, the Indian version of affirmative action. The caste system is deeply ingrained in Indian society, however, and laws are often not enforced. Sadly, the condition of the Dalits in many places is not so different today than it was a hundred years ago; many are landless, uneducated, and relegated to the most menial, laborious work.
Anyway, I walked from house to house, and had tea with a few different people. Most had framed portraits of Dr. Ambedkar on their walls, usually next to a picture of a Hindu deity. Some homes had handlooms on the front porch; these probably belonged to Vankars—the Dalit sub-caste dedicated to weaving.
I spent the rest of the morning lounging around Suresh’s house with his extended family. They served us lunch, and afterwards we headed outside the village to see some other of his family members.
Near the village entrance was a temple compound, with one larger building and one smaller. It looked harmless to me, but Suresh pointed out that Dalits are forbidden from entering the larger temple, and have to be content with the smaller one. This is typical in India, as untouchability—the practice of treating Dalits as polluting by their very presence—is common in rural areas. Suresh also told me that though relations were good between the “upper” castes of the village and the Dalits, and the “upper” castes sometimes came into the Dalit locality, they wouldn’t drink tea or water from Dalit homes. Doing so would, in their minds, cause them to become “polluted”. “They come to my home, sit on the cots and talk to my family,” Suresh said, “but they don’t drink our tea. Never.” Some elderly Dalits are used to this discrimination and rarely complain, but the youth seem to assert themselves more actively.
So we spent the afternoon at the houses of some of Suresh’s relatives, drinking tea, eating sweets, and chatting. I spent the next night in a town called Dholka at the home of the manager of the vocational training school here. It was very pleasant, but lacked Ranoda’s charm. I’m planning on developing the pictures I took at Ranoda and giving them to Suresh’s family as a thank-you gift for treating me so well. Everyone loved my camera, and basically lined up to have a picture taken. Despite my poor Gujarati, I understood when one man told a neighbor, “Come on! Have him take your photo. Then people in America will see you!”
I have open invitations to come to many different villages here, but I’m going to make sure I go back to Ranoda at least once before I leave.
Friday, October 19, 2007
Untouched
For the last few weeks, I've been working in an office with two other people. AJWS says we shouldn't use the names of our coworkers in our blogs, so I asked one of them what name I could use for her. She chose Annie, which is short for Angela, her baptismal name (she's a Christian). Her real name is much more Indian-sounding, though. You'll have to take my word on that.
I can’t think of a day since I’ve been here when she didn’t announce her arrival in the morning by bursting through the door singing and dancing. She constantly has a smile on her face, even though she is busy doing work everyday for which she is terribly overqualified. For the past several months, she’s been scanning surveys on untouchability [the practice of treating Dalits--"untouchables"--as pariahs]. The work is basically mindless, but requires careful attention to minute details on the forms. Annie is a college graduate in mechanical engineering, speaks fluent English, has been in charge of a bunch of machines in a factory, has taught Computer Assisted Design and Videography/Photography, and could no doubt be making much more money working somewhere else.
She’s always joking with me, teaching me things about Gujarati culture or about this organization, and spends time helping me with something or other nearly every day.
Yesterday, she told me that she’d been the victim of an act of untouchability the day before. Annie lives in a building on the edge of campus with her husband, the organization’s chief engineer. Some of the married staff live in this building. Anyway, I’ll tell the story in her voice.
“Yesterday I was outside doing some laundry, hanging it up on the lines. The weather was cool and I was feeling good. Three women from the village were walking by and went to take some water from the faucet. I had a jug of water already out, and I told them to just take the water from the jug, so they could use cups. But they didn’t want it. I asked them why, and they said, ‘If you drink out of the well of a Valmiki [a sewage worker], then we will take water from your jug.’ I couldn’t believe it, these three women who were too good to drink from my cups but still wanted my water, talking to me like they were so much better than me! Oh, it made me so angry. So I told them, ‘If you don’t want to drink from my jug, then you can’t have water from my tap!’ They said, ‘Did you put the water in the ground? It’s not your water!’ But it was my tap, right by the building! I told them they had no right to talk to me like that, I’ve a BA, they can’t act like they’re such goddesses. They spent their whole lives in this little village, but because of their caste they’re too good for my water. They said, ‘If you have so much money, why are you living in this building, not even in your own house or apartment!’ They were Patels [a higher caste], these three. These Patels are always practicing untouchability. They’re the worst. I told them to leave and never come back, and never take water from the tap ever again.”
I was surprised that right by the campus of the organization, the village women still practiced untouchability. Annie told me about another experience she had in Sanand, the closest town. She’d gone with her husband to find a house to rent so they could have their own place and still live near the organization. They were having an interview with a landlord, and it was going fine until the landlord asked their caste. They said they were Dalits, and the landlord told them that, sorry, he only rents to Darbars [a dominant caste] and Patels. They tried a few other places, and it was the same. That is why they’re currently living in the building at the edge of campus.
In many ways, this vocational training center is a kind of oasis. Everyone treats each other equally, regardless of subcaste or gender. Annie’s stories served to remind me of the reality outside.
I can’t think of a day since I’ve been here when she didn’t announce her arrival in the morning by bursting through the door singing and dancing. She constantly has a smile on her face, even though she is busy doing work everyday for which she is terribly overqualified. For the past several months, she’s been scanning surveys on untouchability [the practice of treating Dalits--"untouchables"--as pariahs]. The work is basically mindless, but requires careful attention to minute details on the forms. Annie is a college graduate in mechanical engineering, speaks fluent English, has been in charge of a bunch of machines in a factory, has taught Computer Assisted Design and Videography/Photography, and could no doubt be making much more money working somewhere else.
She’s always joking with me, teaching me things about Gujarati culture or about this organization, and spends time helping me with something or other nearly every day.
Yesterday, she told me that she’d been the victim of an act of untouchability the day before. Annie lives in a building on the edge of campus with her husband, the organization’s chief engineer. Some of the married staff live in this building. Anyway, I’ll tell the story in her voice.
“Yesterday I was outside doing some laundry, hanging it up on the lines. The weather was cool and I was feeling good. Three women from the village were walking by and went to take some water from the faucet. I had a jug of water already out, and I told them to just take the water from the jug, so they could use cups. But they didn’t want it. I asked them why, and they said, ‘If you drink out of the well of a Valmiki [a sewage worker], then we will take water from your jug.’ I couldn’t believe it, these three women who were too good to drink from my cups but still wanted my water, talking to me like they were so much better than me! Oh, it made me so angry. So I told them, ‘If you don’t want to drink from my jug, then you can’t have water from my tap!’ They said, ‘Did you put the water in the ground? It’s not your water!’ But it was my tap, right by the building! I told them they had no right to talk to me like that, I’ve a BA, they can’t act like they’re such goddesses. They spent their whole lives in this little village, but because of their caste they’re too good for my water. They said, ‘If you have so much money, why are you living in this building, not even in your own house or apartment!’ They were Patels [a higher caste], these three. These Patels are always practicing untouchability. They’re the worst. I told them to leave and never come back, and never take water from the tap ever again.”
I was surprised that right by the campus of the organization, the village women still practiced untouchability. Annie told me about another experience she had in Sanand, the closest town. She’d gone with her husband to find a house to rent so they could have their own place and still live near the organization. They were having an interview with a landlord, and it was going fine until the landlord asked their caste. They said they were Dalits, and the landlord told them that, sorry, he only rents to Darbars [a dominant caste] and Patels. They tried a few other places, and it was the same. That is why they’re currently living in the building at the edge of campus.
In many ways, this vocational training center is a kind of oasis. Everyone treats each other equally, regardless of subcaste or gender. Annie’s stories served to remind me of the reality outside.
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
Garba till you can't Garba no more
"David-brother! You play Garba with me! You know Garba? You dance with me! Garba, Garba, hahaha!"
We're currently in the midst of Navaratri, a very popular festival that literally translates to "nine nights". There is some confusing religious significance to it, but it seems like what most people like about it is the Garba dancing. People have been talking about it for weeks. Two weeks ago after dinner, five or six guys were practicing, sans music, out behind the furniture workshop. They stepped in unison and clapped their hands, and eventually the night watchman, a skinny sixty-something man with a mustache and a scrunched up face, joined and started moving around too.
Three nights ago was the first night of Navaratri, and all the students here were excited. After dinner a stereo system was set up, and everyone began to gather around. Then the music started, and for one and a half hours, it was Garba and only Garba.
The dance is pretty simple, and only four steps. I eventually got it, but I'm sure I looked like a goofball compared to everyone who's been doing it since they were four years old. Everyone made a huge circle--probably more than a hundred people all in one circle--and did the dance in unison with the drum beat. The music sounded like all the other Indian music I've been hearing, but I'm sure my untrained ear was missing something.
Everyone got a kick out of me dancing, and the Videography and Photography students took enough pictures and movies of me to fill a hard drive.
It's pretty fun, but doing the same dance for an hour and a half gets a bit tedious. They're at it again tonight, but I'm taking some time off from Garba for now. Nine days of Garba is more Garba than I can handle.
We're currently in the midst of Navaratri, a very popular festival that literally translates to "nine nights". There is some confusing religious significance to it, but it seems like what most people like about it is the Garba dancing. People have been talking about it for weeks. Two weeks ago after dinner, five or six guys were practicing, sans music, out behind the furniture workshop. They stepped in unison and clapped their hands, and eventually the night watchman, a skinny sixty-something man with a mustache and a scrunched up face, joined and started moving around too.
Three nights ago was the first night of Navaratri, and all the students here were excited. After dinner a stereo system was set up, and everyone began to gather around. Then the music started, and for one and a half hours, it was Garba and only Garba.
The dance is pretty simple, and only four steps. I eventually got it, but I'm sure I looked like a goofball compared to everyone who's been doing it since they were four years old. Everyone made a huge circle--probably more than a hundred people all in one circle--and did the dance in unison with the drum beat. The music sounded like all the other Indian music I've been hearing, but I'm sure my untrained ear was missing something.
Everyone got a kick out of me dancing, and the Videography and Photography students took enough pictures and movies of me to fill a hard drive.
It's pretty fun, but doing the same dance for an hour and a half gets a bit tedious. They're at it again tonight, but I'm taking some time off from Garba for now. Nine days of Garba is more Garba than I can handle.
Saturday, October 13, 2007
Who are Dalits?
I'm working at a vocational training center for Dalits. But who are Dalits, and why do they need vocational training?
India's caste system has been around for 3,000 years and is closely linked to Hindu religion and culture. Though many believe it disappeared when India gained freedom and became a democracy in 1947, anything that has 3,000 years of history behind it cannot disappear so easily. The basic idea of the caste system, rooted in certain Hindu religious texts, is that one is obligated to fulfill one's dharma (role, or responsibility) by practicing the customs of the caste into which one is born. It is sinful to strive to be more than what your caste mandates.
The highest caste is called Brahmin, comprising about three or four percent of the population and traditionally society's priests. They continue to be the most educated and wealthy caste, occupying, for example, about 75% of judicial positions. There are all kinds of intermediate castes of merchants, landowners and farmers, maintaining different degrees of status, and these castes compose the vast majority of India's population.
And then there are Dalits. Commonly called "untouchables" in the West, Dalits are considered the lowest rung on the ladder of India's caste system. Surveys put them at around 16% of India's total population, which would make them about 175,000,000 strong. India's Dalit population is larger than the total population of Japan, roughly half as large as America's population, and about five times as large as Canada's. My point is that there are many, many Dalits, and the conception of a "minority" has to be shifted into larger terms than are usually used.
The dharma of the Dalits is to perform occupations considered ritually impure, including leatherwork, weaving, dealing with dead animals, and human waste disposal. They are sometimes called "untouchables", because of the idea that they are unclean, unholy pariahs. These ideas give rise to the practice of untouchability, avoiding the presence of Dalits as if they had the plague, refusing, for example, to allow them to use a water glass also used by non-Dalits.
At one point or another in India's history, Dalits have been victims of probably every crime imaginable. Many of these crimes continue to be practiced. Even today, a Dalit risks being beaten or murdered for: drinking from the well of a non-Dalit and "polluting" the water with his or her presence, entering a Hindu temple, questioning the authority of higher-caste power figures, trying to change his or her occupation, and so on. Dalit children are often ridiculed at school, and therefore have a higher dropout rate. But Dalit women have it the worst. In some rural areas, they are expected to have sex with members of higher castes whenever the latter desire, or risk injury to themselves or their families. Dalit girls are sometimes sold into sexual slavery for use as prostitutes at a particular temple, "married" to that temple's god but forced to have sex with any temple visitors who so desire. Though technically illegal, these crimes are often tolerated with a shrug or a wink from higher-caste officials and police. This is all well-documented in India, but for some reason it hasn't gained much notice abroad.
Today, Dalits generally fare better in cities than in villages. Cities offer a degree of anonymity, and occupational opportunites are much greater. One teacher here told me that about 20% of Dalits are fairly comfortable financially, and probably nearly all of them live in cities. In villages, however, untouchability is still frequently practiced. In the past, even the shadow of a Dalit was considered impure. Today a major issue is water access. For example, if a village has only one well, Dalits have to rely on a "touchable" to get it for them. Another untouchability issue is temple access. Another big issue is if a Dalit and a "touchable" wish to get married. Even today, this can lead to the murder of the Dalit.
The organization I work with fights for Dalit rights in several ways. One is by registering and legally challenging Dalit human rights abuses and crimes. Another is by training young Dalits at this vocational training center. The idea is to get them a marketable skill, enabling them to escape their caste-mandated occupation and become self-sufficient. Many Dalits (perhaps up to 40 million) serve as bonded laborers constantly in debt, so self-sufficiency is crucial. The courses offered here are geared towards maximum marketability, and include tailoring, mobile phone repair, metal fabrication, furniture construction, videography and photography, and about 12 or 13 others. This center also serves to build the character and self-confidence of the students, allowing them to grow in an atmosphere totally free of discrimination.
One of the things emphasized here is Dalit unity. There are many Dalit subcastes, separating the weavers from the leather-workers from those who deal with sanitation. But the philosophy here is that the only way to overcome discrimination is to not discriminate against others. If a Dalit weaver complains of upper-caste discrimination but discriminates against other Dalits considered lower than he is, his complaints don't have much value.
I didn't know any of this stuff before coming to India, and I may have gotten a few points wrong, but I think the general ideas are all correct. Anyway, that's Dalit 101!
India's caste system has been around for 3,000 years and is closely linked to Hindu religion and culture. Though many believe it disappeared when India gained freedom and became a democracy in 1947, anything that has 3,000 years of history behind it cannot disappear so easily. The basic idea of the caste system, rooted in certain Hindu religious texts, is that one is obligated to fulfill one's dharma (role, or responsibility) by practicing the customs of the caste into which one is born. It is sinful to strive to be more than what your caste mandates.
The highest caste is called Brahmin, comprising about three or four percent of the population and traditionally society's priests. They continue to be the most educated and wealthy caste, occupying, for example, about 75% of judicial positions. There are all kinds of intermediate castes of merchants, landowners and farmers, maintaining different degrees of status, and these castes compose the vast majority of India's population.
And then there are Dalits. Commonly called "untouchables" in the West, Dalits are considered the lowest rung on the ladder of India's caste system. Surveys put them at around 16% of India's total population, which would make them about 175,000,000 strong. India's Dalit population is larger than the total population of Japan, roughly half as large as America's population, and about five times as large as Canada's. My point is that there are many, many Dalits, and the conception of a "minority" has to be shifted into larger terms than are usually used.
The dharma of the Dalits is to perform occupations considered ritually impure, including leatherwork, weaving, dealing with dead animals, and human waste disposal. They are sometimes called "untouchables", because of the idea that they are unclean, unholy pariahs. These ideas give rise to the practice of untouchability, avoiding the presence of Dalits as if they had the plague, refusing, for example, to allow them to use a water glass also used by non-Dalits.
At one point or another in India's history, Dalits have been victims of probably every crime imaginable. Many of these crimes continue to be practiced. Even today, a Dalit risks being beaten or murdered for: drinking from the well of a non-Dalit and "polluting" the water with his or her presence, entering a Hindu temple, questioning the authority of higher-caste power figures, trying to change his or her occupation, and so on. Dalit children are often ridiculed at school, and therefore have a higher dropout rate. But Dalit women have it the worst. In some rural areas, they are expected to have sex with members of higher castes whenever the latter desire, or risk injury to themselves or their families. Dalit girls are sometimes sold into sexual slavery for use as prostitutes at a particular temple, "married" to that temple's god but forced to have sex with any temple visitors who so desire. Though technically illegal, these crimes are often tolerated with a shrug or a wink from higher-caste officials and police. This is all well-documented in India, but for some reason it hasn't gained much notice abroad.
Today, Dalits generally fare better in cities than in villages. Cities offer a degree of anonymity, and occupational opportunites are much greater. One teacher here told me that about 20% of Dalits are fairly comfortable financially, and probably nearly all of them live in cities. In villages, however, untouchability is still frequently practiced. In the past, even the shadow of a Dalit was considered impure. Today a major issue is water access. For example, if a village has only one well, Dalits have to rely on a "touchable" to get it for them. Another untouchability issue is temple access. Another big issue is if a Dalit and a "touchable" wish to get married. Even today, this can lead to the murder of the Dalit.
The organization I work with fights for Dalit rights in several ways. One is by registering and legally challenging Dalit human rights abuses and crimes. Another is by training young Dalits at this vocational training center. The idea is to get them a marketable skill, enabling them to escape their caste-mandated occupation and become self-sufficient. Many Dalits (perhaps up to 40 million) serve as bonded laborers constantly in debt, so self-sufficiency is crucial. The courses offered here are geared towards maximum marketability, and include tailoring, mobile phone repair, metal fabrication, furniture construction, videography and photography, and about 12 or 13 others. This center also serves to build the character and self-confidence of the students, allowing them to grow in an atmosphere totally free of discrimination.
One of the things emphasized here is Dalit unity. There are many Dalit subcastes, separating the weavers from the leather-workers from those who deal with sanitation. But the philosophy here is that the only way to overcome discrimination is to not discriminate against others. If a Dalit weaver complains of upper-caste discrimination but discriminates against other Dalits considered lower than he is, his complaints don't have much value.
I didn't know any of this stuff before coming to India, and I may have gotten a few points wrong, but I think the general ideas are all correct. Anyway, that's Dalit 101!
Wednesday, October 3, 2007
Yom Kippur in an Unlikely Place...
...is the title of this piece that I wrote for Temple Beth El in Stamford, and for the Buffalo Jewish Review, and for anything else that will publish it I guess (so bear that in mind--it's written for a particular kind of audience) Also, it's long. And when I pasted it in this box from MSWord, all the tabs for new paragraphs disappeared, and for some reason they won't re-tab now. Sorry.
“Khamasa Gate, Yehudi church,” I told the auto rickshaw driver. “Yehudi chuch.” He hadn’t responded when I said “Jewish temple,” or “Yehudi temple,” or even “Yehudi mandayr,” which means “Jewish temple” in Hindi.
“Ahh,” he said as recognition finally showed on his face. “Yehudi church! Khamasa, Khamasa. OK.”
I was trying to get to the only synagogue within several hundred miles, a place called Magen Avraham located in Ahmedabad, the largest city in Gujarat state, India.
It was Saturday, September 22nd, Yom Kippur. A week or so previous, I had found the congregation’s website, and scribbled down the name and address. The two other American Jewish World Service (AJWS) volunteers placed in Gujarat—though not near me—said they would meet me at the shul.
I was excited to participate in a Yom Kippur service—something familiar in such an unfamiliar place—but I didn’t know quite what to expect. Would the congregation be primarily foreign ex-pats, or a local community? I hadn’t had time to explore the website, so I had no idea.
The auto rickshaw pulled onto a bustling commercial street, full of Hindus and Muslims doing their normal daily business, and there—two buildings down on the left, between an apartment building and a snack stall, around the corner from a mosque—was Magen Avraham. I paid the driver 20 rupees (about fifty cents), stepped onto the street, and put on my kippah.
The synagogue had no watchman or greeter, so I just walked up the steps and looked through the sanctuary’s wide-open doors. A few dozen men were standing barefoot on white sheets covering the marble floor, their sandals piled haphazardly outside. They were dressed entirely in white, some in western-style shirts and pants, others wearing the Indian kurta—a long top that comes down close to the knees—but all of whom looked to be Indian.
After slipping off my sandals, I walked inside. It was a Sephardic-style shul; the bimah was towards the middle of the sanctuary, and there was a mechitzah separation, with the women’s section on a kind of balcony on the second floor. The women above also wore only white, though most of them either wore the elegant, flowing salwar kameez—a loose blouse and slacks set with matching scarf—or the more formal sari, midriff exposed as is standard with nearly all saris.
A few other things distinguished the synagogue. Two plaques engraved with the 10 Commandments were set above the arc, Hebrew on the right plaque and Hindi on the left. The sound of passing traffic and the market outside came through the open doors and windows, and—though initially off-putting—eventually seemed to blend in with it all. And, oddly, blinking Christmas lights were set along the bimah, completing the sometimes bizarre contrast between old and new that exists all over India.
Seeing me struggle to find my place in the relatively new Sephardic siddur, a man of about fifty came over to help. In decent but heavily accented English, he introduced himself as the vice-president of the synagogue, asked me where I was from, and then smiled and returned to where he’d been standing.
The melodies were unfamiliar to me, but I followed along in the Hebrew. After twenty minutes or so, another man walked over, introducing himself in perfect, American-accented English. I thought I’d found another foreigner, and shook his hand happily.
He said his name was Jacob, and asked me where I was from. I told him Buffalo, New York. “Oh,” he said, “the States! Great. And what are you doing in Ahmedabad? Traveling?”
I told him I was a volunteer through the American Jewish World Service’s World Partners Fellowship program, and that I would be working for about nine months at a vocational training center for Dalits (a low caste that suffers terrible discrimination), about 30 kilometers south of Ahmedabad.
I asked him where he was from. “Well, I’m from Ahmedabad,” he said, smiling. “I’m Indian, of course! As is everyone else in this synagogue.”
The quality of his accent surprised me, and I told him so.
“It’s my job,” he said, shrugging. “I teach American English to call center workers in Ahmedabad. The accent is just a gift I have.” He told me that Ahmedabad opened its first call center in 2000, and now employed some 15,000 people in the field. This kind of work brings in crucial white-collar jobs and capital to a very poor, developing area that desperately needs it.
“So,” Jacob said, shifting the conversation back to the service, “Do you have a white handkerchief?”
I told him I didn’t, but that I’d happened to bring a blue one. Jacob told me that everyone would soon spread out a white handkerchief onto the floor, and—fully prostrate—bow several times.
“Just follow what everyone else does,” he told me. “I’m not too religious myself, but it’s nice to do the ritual.”
So, about five minute later, I spread out my handkerchief and—mimicking those around me—got on my knees and bowed towards the arc. I’m sure I stood out as the only person using a non-white handkerchief, but no one else commented on it.
I was glad when the other AJWS volunteers, Adam and Anna, arrived during a break in the service. Before the next batch of prayers started, we took a short walk around the neighborhood. Both Hindus and Muslims seeing us come out of the synagogue were very friendly, shaking our hands, asking us where we were from and becoming excited when they heard the word “America”.
A parade honoring Ganesha—the Hindu god with the head of an elephant—passed on a nearby street. Aaron remarked that India is probably the only place in the world where you can go to a synagogue around the corner from a mosque and watch as a parade to Ganesha tramps past.
Back in the shul, I spent a few minutes talking with two of the older members of the synagogue. One told me that there are only about 65 Jewish families left in Gujarat, down from a population of some thousands only fifty years ago. Nearly everyone, he informed me, has emigrated to Israel or America, including his daughter.
“Matchmaking is a problem,” he said. “We get girls from Bombay, where there are more Jews.” Young Jews in this part of the world apparently do as the locals do, and rely on their parents to arrange suitable marriages.
After sundown the shofar was blown, though the 90-degree heat had apparently taken its toll on the blower, and he had some trouble getting a clear sound. As per local tradition, fresh-squeezed grape juice was then given out to everyone. I thoroughly enjoyed mine, though the heat had forced me to break my fast earlier in the afternoon.
Magen Avraham is surely different in many ways from my own synagogue back home, but despite these differences—or maybe because of them—I’ll definitely be heading back to Ahmedabad’s “Yehudi church” sometime soon.
“Khamasa Gate, Yehudi church,” I told the auto rickshaw driver. “Yehudi chuch.” He hadn’t responded when I said “Jewish temple,” or “Yehudi temple,” or even “Yehudi mandayr,” which means “Jewish temple” in Hindi.
“Ahh,” he said as recognition finally showed on his face. “Yehudi church! Khamasa, Khamasa. OK.”
I was trying to get to the only synagogue within several hundred miles, a place called Magen Avraham located in Ahmedabad, the largest city in Gujarat state, India.
It was Saturday, September 22nd, Yom Kippur. A week or so previous, I had found the congregation’s website, and scribbled down the name and address. The two other American Jewish World Service (AJWS) volunteers placed in Gujarat—though not near me—said they would meet me at the shul.
I was excited to participate in a Yom Kippur service—something familiar in such an unfamiliar place—but I didn’t know quite what to expect. Would the congregation be primarily foreign ex-pats, or a local community? I hadn’t had time to explore the website, so I had no idea.
The auto rickshaw pulled onto a bustling commercial street, full of Hindus and Muslims doing their normal daily business, and there—two buildings down on the left, between an apartment building and a snack stall, around the corner from a mosque—was Magen Avraham. I paid the driver 20 rupees (about fifty cents), stepped onto the street, and put on my kippah.
The synagogue had no watchman or greeter, so I just walked up the steps and looked through the sanctuary’s wide-open doors. A few dozen men were standing barefoot on white sheets covering the marble floor, their sandals piled haphazardly outside. They were dressed entirely in white, some in western-style shirts and pants, others wearing the Indian kurta—a long top that comes down close to the knees—but all of whom looked to be Indian.
After slipping off my sandals, I walked inside. It was a Sephardic-style shul; the bimah was towards the middle of the sanctuary, and there was a mechitzah separation, with the women’s section on a kind of balcony on the second floor. The women above also wore only white, though most of them either wore the elegant, flowing salwar kameez—a loose blouse and slacks set with matching scarf—or the more formal sari, midriff exposed as is standard with nearly all saris.
A few other things distinguished the synagogue. Two plaques engraved with the 10 Commandments were set above the arc, Hebrew on the right plaque and Hindi on the left. The sound of passing traffic and the market outside came through the open doors and windows, and—though initially off-putting—eventually seemed to blend in with it all. And, oddly, blinking Christmas lights were set along the bimah, completing the sometimes bizarre contrast between old and new that exists all over India.
Seeing me struggle to find my place in the relatively new Sephardic siddur, a man of about fifty came over to help. In decent but heavily accented English, he introduced himself as the vice-president of the synagogue, asked me where I was from, and then smiled and returned to where he’d been standing.
The melodies were unfamiliar to me, but I followed along in the Hebrew. After twenty minutes or so, another man walked over, introducing himself in perfect, American-accented English. I thought I’d found another foreigner, and shook his hand happily.
He said his name was Jacob, and asked me where I was from. I told him Buffalo, New York. “Oh,” he said, “the States! Great. And what are you doing in Ahmedabad? Traveling?”
I told him I was a volunteer through the American Jewish World Service’s World Partners Fellowship program, and that I would be working for about nine months at a vocational training center for Dalits (a low caste that suffers terrible discrimination), about 30 kilometers south of Ahmedabad.
I asked him where he was from. “Well, I’m from Ahmedabad,” he said, smiling. “I’m Indian, of course! As is everyone else in this synagogue.”
The quality of his accent surprised me, and I told him so.
“It’s my job,” he said, shrugging. “I teach American English to call center workers in Ahmedabad. The accent is just a gift I have.” He told me that Ahmedabad opened its first call center in 2000, and now employed some 15,000 people in the field. This kind of work brings in crucial white-collar jobs and capital to a very poor, developing area that desperately needs it.
“So,” Jacob said, shifting the conversation back to the service, “Do you have a white handkerchief?”
I told him I didn’t, but that I’d happened to bring a blue one. Jacob told me that everyone would soon spread out a white handkerchief onto the floor, and—fully prostrate—bow several times.
“Just follow what everyone else does,” he told me. “I’m not too religious myself, but it’s nice to do the ritual.”
So, about five minute later, I spread out my handkerchief and—mimicking those around me—got on my knees and bowed towards the arc. I’m sure I stood out as the only person using a non-white handkerchief, but no one else commented on it.
I was glad when the other AJWS volunteers, Adam and Anna, arrived during a break in the service. Before the next batch of prayers started, we took a short walk around the neighborhood. Both Hindus and Muslims seeing us come out of the synagogue were very friendly, shaking our hands, asking us where we were from and becoming excited when they heard the word “America”.
A parade honoring Ganesha—the Hindu god with the head of an elephant—passed on a nearby street. Aaron remarked that India is probably the only place in the world where you can go to a synagogue around the corner from a mosque and watch as a parade to Ganesha tramps past.
Back in the shul, I spent a few minutes talking with two of the older members of the synagogue. One told me that there are only about 65 Jewish families left in Gujarat, down from a population of some thousands only fifty years ago. Nearly everyone, he informed me, has emigrated to Israel or America, including his daughter.
“Matchmaking is a problem,” he said. “We get girls from Bombay, where there are more Jews.” Young Jews in this part of the world apparently do as the locals do, and rely on their parents to arrange suitable marriages.
After sundown the shofar was blown, though the 90-degree heat had apparently taken its toll on the blower, and he had some trouble getting a clear sound. As per local tradition, fresh-squeezed grape juice was then given out to everyone. I thoroughly enjoyed mine, though the heat had forced me to break my fast earlier in the afternoon.
Magen Avraham is surely different in many ways from my own synagogue back home, but despite these differences—or maybe because of them—I’ll definitely be heading back to Ahmedabad’s “Yehudi church” sometime soon.
Monday, October 1, 2007
First substantial post...ever
Well, first I should apologize for not doing a better job of writing in this blog or writing emails. My days here are very busy, but I could probably have made some time for it. So, sorry.
Where do I start? This is going to be hard, because over the past month and a half, I've experienced so much that deserves to be shared. Do I move chronologically, or start at the present and work backwards?
Well, I guess I'll start by detailing my day today, and from that you can probably get a sense of what my life is like here. I'll try to fill in the blanks of the past six or six and a half weeks sometime later. (Incidentally, it is AJWS's policy that fellows should not put the name of the organization they are working for in their blogs, so I'm not going to. If you want to know, email me!)
My alarm went off at 6:45, but it didn't pull me out of too deep a sleep; the pigeons that call my windowsills home had already been cooing their stupid heads off since some time soon after sunrise. Indians apparantly don't distinguish between pigeons and doves, so when I complain about it I'm just told that they're symbols of peace, and that the cooing is nice. People don't seem to understand my opinion that pigeons are filthy, worthless animals unfit to be called birds.
I lifted the mosquito net up and climbed out of bed, and moved over to my desk, which, besides my bed, is the sole piece of furniture in my room. I turned on the computer, and connected to the internet by way of my absurdly expensive wireless modem, purchased almost exactly a week ago. Being able to check the New York Times in the morning is calming for me, since I've been doing it almost every morning for the past 6 years or so. It was a bit odd not being able to do it for the first 5 weeks here; since I'm somewhat addicted to the news, I was going through a mild withdrawal.
After washing my face, brushing my teeth (with water from a small cooler I keep in my room, not from the tap) and putting on some clothes, I headed out of the dorm in which I'm staying and into the dining hall, about a two minute walk away. I brought my plate, bowl and spoon (all made of stainless steel) with me; everyone is responsible for their own dishes here. I sat at the teachers table, and said good morning to a few of the friends I've made. The lines for food were long, since there are about 170 students here, plus staff, so I waited until they'd shortened to go get my food. This morning's breakfast was some kind of yellow rice that I don't really know how to describe, and chai. When I finished eating, I went over to the washing area to clean my plate. First, I used my spoon to push some ash (leftover from the fire that cooked last night's meal) onto my plate and bowl, and then moved the ash around with my hand until it had wiped away the oil residue. Then, I washed my plate in the communal sinks. There are five sinks. The first is to rinse off the ash or dirt, and that is the only one with running water. The second is also for cleaning off the dirt, and you just kind of dip your dish into the sitting water. The third is soapy, and the fourth and fifth are for cleaning off the soap. All the "grey water" from the sinks is later used to water the plants on the campus here. It's part of the "eco-san" system that I'll describe later.
I brought my plate into the staff room, where I've been teaching English classes. It's a small room with a round table and a blackboard made of plywood painted black. I basically make my own teaching schedule, and I leave the first period free so I don't have to rush breakfast and can plan my lessons. So, from 8 till 9:30, I made some notes for the day's lessons, studied a bit of Gujarati, and zoned out a little. There was a 15 minute break at 9:30, and at 9:45 I started the advanced English class for the 5 best students from the computer course and the photography/videography course. I enjoy that class, because the students are enthusiastic and have a relatively high English ability. I taught for the full 90 minutes until the next break at 11:15. The staff then came in (it is the staff room, remember) and had tea. Everyone is always curious to see what's on the board.
From just before noon until 1, I had my first class with the police traning course students. That course is made up of 8 boys and 1 girl, all of whom are about 20 years old, give or take a few years. The instructor is a great guy who speaks English pretty well, had a graduate degree in something or other, and generally impresses me. The students are friendly, and remind me a bit of the sports course students I taught at one of my high schools in Japan, though of course they're older and more mature. But they are similar in that they are not shy at all, and have good senses of humor. One of them makes me call him Rocky, another goes by John Cena (who apparantly is a WWF star), and another goes out of his way to talk to me around campus.
Anyway, I did my self-introduction lesson (well-honed from two years in Japan), and had the students write introductions for themselves. The lunch bell rang just as we were finishing going over "classroom English" (with sentences like "Could you say that again please?" and "Please wait just a minute").
I grabbed my plate, and went over to the dining hall, again waiting until the lines had shortened before getting up. Lunch today was some kind of vegetable sauce thing and rotli, which is the Gujarati word for chapati, which is the Hindi word for what is basically a tortilla. It was a little spicy, and not the best meal I've had here. At the table, a few teachers asked me about the staff English class I was to teach in the afternoon, and I reminded them that today was for advanced English, Tuesday for medium, and Wednesday for basic. They seemed excited to come, and practiced by saying things like, "You want onion? Take onion! Food tasty, na? I am English!"
After lunch I taught the lower level students--about 12 of them--from the computer course. It actually went really poorly, despite the fact that previous classes had gone well. I think I was pushing them a bit too hard. It's hard to make classes when all the resources you have are a blackboard, some chalk, and a dictionary, but I should have made a greater effort to keep the lessons fun instead of overly focused on grammar. After the class finished (I ended it after only 45 minutes, because everyone looked out of it), I scribbled some ideas for English games to keep things interesting for them.
I used the next period to study Gujarati and make some additional notes for the staff class. At 5 (the end of classes for the students) I joined the students and staff in a snack of tea and little fried dough nuggets, and then went back to the staff room. Some of the teachers with the highest level of English didn't show up, so I ended up doing a class at a slightly lower level than I had planned, but it still went fine. I introduced myself for a while, and then had the teachers and staff write their own introductions. It went pretty well, and I felt good about it. Class ended at 6:30 (only an hour).
7 pm is "prayer" time. They use the word loosely, and what happens from 7 to 7:30 is not what I think of when somebody says the word prayer, but in any case it's pretty cool. Usually, it is lead by the guy who runs the organization, a really charismatic, intelligent man of about fifty who is basically awesome personified. But today he had to leave early for some other engagement (his presence is in high demand for all kinds of events, both within India and abroad...a few weeks ago he was in Switzerland for some human rights conference), so prayer was lead by a much younger staff member. Regardless, it followed the same structure of all the sessions. Everyone sat down on the floor of the prayer hall--the girls on the left, the boys in the right, lined up in neat rows. It began with a 5 minute silent meditation, following which one boy and one girl read something illustrating the theme of the day, and then the staff member leading the prayer lectured about the topic for about 15 minutes. At the end, as per usual, there was a song, this time lead beautifully by a female student and sung in the traditional Gujarati folk style. How can I describe it? I can't. Sorry.
After prayer was dinner at 7:30 (a rice-thing with spicy sauce), and now here I am in my room, typing away. The students have diary/reflection time in the prayer hall from 9 to 9:30, and I'm supposed to be there too, but I thought it was more important to finally write something in this blog.
I will definitely post more stuff and fill in some of the many holes I've left here. I'll try to write in this thing at least once a week, at least for the next few weeks. There's been so much that's been worth writing that I sometimes feel at a loss of where to even start, because if I want to get it all down I'd have to just summarize, which wouldn't do it justice. Feel free to email me any time you want. Take care!
Where do I start? This is going to be hard, because over the past month and a half, I've experienced so much that deserves to be shared. Do I move chronologically, or start at the present and work backwards?
Well, I guess I'll start by detailing my day today, and from that you can probably get a sense of what my life is like here. I'll try to fill in the blanks of the past six or six and a half weeks sometime later. (Incidentally, it is AJWS's policy that fellows should not put the name of the organization they are working for in their blogs, so I'm not going to. If you want to know, email me!)
My alarm went off at 6:45, but it didn't pull me out of too deep a sleep; the pigeons that call my windowsills home had already been cooing their stupid heads off since some time soon after sunrise. Indians apparantly don't distinguish between pigeons and doves, so when I complain about it I'm just told that they're symbols of peace, and that the cooing is nice. People don't seem to understand my opinion that pigeons are filthy, worthless animals unfit to be called birds.
I lifted the mosquito net up and climbed out of bed, and moved over to my desk, which, besides my bed, is the sole piece of furniture in my room. I turned on the computer, and connected to the internet by way of my absurdly expensive wireless modem, purchased almost exactly a week ago. Being able to check the New York Times in the morning is calming for me, since I've been doing it almost every morning for the past 6 years or so. It was a bit odd not being able to do it for the first 5 weeks here; since I'm somewhat addicted to the news, I was going through a mild withdrawal.
After washing my face, brushing my teeth (with water from a small cooler I keep in my room, not from the tap) and putting on some clothes, I headed out of the dorm in which I'm staying and into the dining hall, about a two minute walk away. I brought my plate, bowl and spoon (all made of stainless steel) with me; everyone is responsible for their own dishes here. I sat at the teachers table, and said good morning to a few of the friends I've made. The lines for food were long, since there are about 170 students here, plus staff, so I waited until they'd shortened to go get my food. This morning's breakfast was some kind of yellow rice that I don't really know how to describe, and chai. When I finished eating, I went over to the washing area to clean my plate. First, I used my spoon to push some ash (leftover from the fire that cooked last night's meal) onto my plate and bowl, and then moved the ash around with my hand until it had wiped away the oil residue. Then, I washed my plate in the communal sinks. There are five sinks. The first is to rinse off the ash or dirt, and that is the only one with running water. The second is also for cleaning off the dirt, and you just kind of dip your dish into the sitting water. The third is soapy, and the fourth and fifth are for cleaning off the soap. All the "grey water" from the sinks is later used to water the plants on the campus here. It's part of the "eco-san" system that I'll describe later.
I brought my plate into the staff room, where I've been teaching English classes. It's a small room with a round table and a blackboard made of plywood painted black. I basically make my own teaching schedule, and I leave the first period free so I don't have to rush breakfast and can plan my lessons. So, from 8 till 9:30, I made some notes for the day's lessons, studied a bit of Gujarati, and zoned out a little. There was a 15 minute break at 9:30, and at 9:45 I started the advanced English class for the 5 best students from the computer course and the photography/videography course. I enjoy that class, because the students are enthusiastic and have a relatively high English ability. I taught for the full 90 minutes until the next break at 11:15. The staff then came in (it is the staff room, remember) and had tea. Everyone is always curious to see what's on the board.
From just before noon until 1, I had my first class with the police traning course students. That course is made up of 8 boys and 1 girl, all of whom are about 20 years old, give or take a few years. The instructor is a great guy who speaks English pretty well, had a graduate degree in something or other, and generally impresses me. The students are friendly, and remind me a bit of the sports course students I taught at one of my high schools in Japan, though of course they're older and more mature. But they are similar in that they are not shy at all, and have good senses of humor. One of them makes me call him Rocky, another goes by John Cena (who apparantly is a WWF star), and another goes out of his way to talk to me around campus.
Anyway, I did my self-introduction lesson (well-honed from two years in Japan), and had the students write introductions for themselves. The lunch bell rang just as we were finishing going over "classroom English" (with sentences like "Could you say that again please?" and "Please wait just a minute").
I grabbed my plate, and went over to the dining hall, again waiting until the lines had shortened before getting up. Lunch today was some kind of vegetable sauce thing and rotli, which is the Gujarati word for chapati, which is the Hindi word for what is basically a tortilla. It was a little spicy, and not the best meal I've had here. At the table, a few teachers asked me about the staff English class I was to teach in the afternoon, and I reminded them that today was for advanced English, Tuesday for medium, and Wednesday for basic. They seemed excited to come, and practiced by saying things like, "You want onion? Take onion! Food tasty, na? I am English!"
After lunch I taught the lower level students--about 12 of them--from the computer course. It actually went really poorly, despite the fact that previous classes had gone well. I think I was pushing them a bit too hard. It's hard to make classes when all the resources you have are a blackboard, some chalk, and a dictionary, but I should have made a greater effort to keep the lessons fun instead of overly focused on grammar. After the class finished (I ended it after only 45 minutes, because everyone looked out of it), I scribbled some ideas for English games to keep things interesting for them.
I used the next period to study Gujarati and make some additional notes for the staff class. At 5 (the end of classes for the students) I joined the students and staff in a snack of tea and little fried dough nuggets, and then went back to the staff room. Some of the teachers with the highest level of English didn't show up, so I ended up doing a class at a slightly lower level than I had planned, but it still went fine. I introduced myself for a while, and then had the teachers and staff write their own introductions. It went pretty well, and I felt good about it. Class ended at 6:30 (only an hour).
7 pm is "prayer" time. They use the word loosely, and what happens from 7 to 7:30 is not what I think of when somebody says the word prayer, but in any case it's pretty cool. Usually, it is lead by the guy who runs the organization, a really charismatic, intelligent man of about fifty who is basically awesome personified. But today he had to leave early for some other engagement (his presence is in high demand for all kinds of events, both within India and abroad...a few weeks ago he was in Switzerland for some human rights conference), so prayer was lead by a much younger staff member. Regardless, it followed the same structure of all the sessions. Everyone sat down on the floor of the prayer hall--the girls on the left, the boys in the right, lined up in neat rows. It began with a 5 minute silent meditation, following which one boy and one girl read something illustrating the theme of the day, and then the staff member leading the prayer lectured about the topic for about 15 minutes. At the end, as per usual, there was a song, this time lead beautifully by a female student and sung in the traditional Gujarati folk style. How can I describe it? I can't. Sorry.
After prayer was dinner at 7:30 (a rice-thing with spicy sauce), and now here I am in my room, typing away. The students have diary/reflection time in the prayer hall from 9 to 9:30, and I'm supposed to be there too, but I thought it was more important to finally write something in this blog.
I will definitely post more stuff and fill in some of the many holes I've left here. I'll try to write in this thing at least once a week, at least for the next few weeks. There's been so much that's been worth writing that I sometimes feel at a loss of where to even start, because if I want to get it all down I'd have to just summarize, which wouldn't do it justice. Feel free to email me any time you want. Take care!
Sunday, September 9, 2007
My first blog post...ever
This is just a test. I'm sitting in an internet cafe/convenience store about a fifteen minute walk from our hostel in Mussoorie (sp?), India. I have to head back up soon to study a bit before Hindi class begins at 11:20. More posts to come!
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