Typical Conversation with Sweety:
Sweety: Vasudha is my name. means floor.
Me: your name means floor?
Sweety: no, floor dirt.
Me: your name means floor dirt? That sucks, Sweety!
Sweety: no! hmmm, how you say.. Planet. name means.
Me: your name means planet? weird.
::thinking::
Me: Oh! Earth?
Sweety: Yes! Earth my name means.
Me: how beautiful!
Sweety: yes...
Typical Remark from Goldy:
"Your slippers look so small, but your feet are actually quite large."
Thursday, March 12, 2009
Monday, March 9, 2009
The Chatwanis
Now that I've been fever free for a few days, I feel like I have enough sane experience in my new household to give a proper low down on my new family, the Chatwanis. We live in a beautiful two-story, four-bedroom, bright green house on a more quiet, greener side of town, which would still be considered unnecessarily busy and loud compared to my quiet suburban streets in my comfortable life back in Texas. Next door, amidst the houses and quadplexes, is a lone slum patchwork home made of cement, metal sheets, and straw. Outside our front door is a cow tied up with a feast of hay at his disposal, which is considered a luxury since most of the city cows have to resort to dumpster diving. In the living room of this comfy home there is a built-in hutch whose glass cabinets are decorated with four black and white pictures of random naked Caucasian babies as if taken from a Sears catalog. The television is tucked in a nook by the stairs, normally broadcasting either Hindi soap operas or the Indian version of Judge Judy. This oddly arranged living room is decorated with beautifully embroidered square pillows sprinkling the long sofa. The peculiar, eccentric style of decoration really reminds me of my home back in Irving.
The Fam:
Uncle- Uncle is a darling old Indian man with the sweetest personality and most glorious round rice belly in all of India. Uncle knows a few English words and phrases, and like a gem we cherish the small amount of conversation that we can muster. Uncle wears long sheer Indian shirts, with a tapestry tied around his protruding midriff like a skirt.
Auntie- Auntie is the mother of the household and a grandmother-to-be whose affection and intensity I truly cherish. The maternal vibes that radiate off of her make me wish that I was six years old and could curl up with my head in her sari covered lap while she reads me Hindi children's stories and combs her fingers through my tangled golden hair. I could sit around for years gazing into the depths of her love and never discover its limit. She has the look of a mother who has suffered unthinkable loss and heartache for the children of her heart. Her gentle love is balanced with a fierce protective instinct. This woman could defeat an army of wild, blood-crazed cannibals to get to her children, and back in the eighties I think she did.
Sweety- When I'm not mindlessly defiling temples with my uterine lining, Sweety is a loving, endearing woman that has the spirit of a child kept lovingly in the body of a middle aged woman. Sweety has had far too eventful a life for a woman who had to drop out of school at 15 to take care of her mother, who I call "Auntie". Often when Sweety is excited about something, she approaches me absolutely beaming, speaking rapidly in her broken English attempting to convey to me the source of her enthusiasm, just to let out a jumbled pile of English words that I can't understand, but with soft smiles we rummage through the pile piecing together its meaning. Sweety spends her days cooking for the family, taking care of her mother, and teaching calligraphy classes.
Goldy- Goldy is a retired model and actor gone business man, and is a total Indian babe. He has the dark sparkling eyes of his stardom aspiring days with the proud belly present in Indian men who can afford the food. At the peak of his career in Mumbai when he was offered a leading role in a hit television series, a break that most aspiring actors can only dream of, he willingly put his dream aside to come home and take care of his family when his father fell ill. Yesterday I was reading an interview with him that was in an old magazine, and when asked what mattered most to him he replied "simplicity" and "humanity".
Lately I've spent my days walking along the quaint streets passed the watermelon men pushing their carts along shouting their publicity, sweet kids dancing and waving from their front porches nearly hidden from the thick foliage blessing this neighborhood, and the dry cleaning men performing their bicycle deliveries. At our house I practice my flute during the power breaks to entertain the family. In the evening I learn Hindi with the help of Goldy and Sweety, while holding in my left hand a coconut with a straw stuck inside to drink the sour wholesome milk.
I type away at a small internet shop where I have to squeeze into a little cubicle and place the keyboard on my lap. Above the monitor is posted a sign that reads "Porn sites are strictly prohibited", but in true boyish form, someone crossed out "prohibited" and wrote "hot", and for a moment after first seeing this I felt like I was back in the states and then wondered "Was D.Z. in here?" .
The Fam:
Uncle- Uncle is a darling old Indian man with the sweetest personality and most glorious round rice belly in all of India. Uncle knows a few English words and phrases, and like a gem we cherish the small amount of conversation that we can muster. Uncle wears long sheer Indian shirts, with a tapestry tied around his protruding midriff like a skirt.
Auntie- Auntie is the mother of the household and a grandmother-to-be whose affection and intensity I truly cherish. The maternal vibes that radiate off of her make me wish that I was six years old and could curl up with my head in her sari covered lap while she reads me Hindi children's stories and combs her fingers through my tangled golden hair. I could sit around for years gazing into the depths of her love and never discover its limit. She has the look of a mother who has suffered unthinkable loss and heartache for the children of her heart. Her gentle love is balanced with a fierce protective instinct. This woman could defeat an army of wild, blood-crazed cannibals to get to her children, and back in the eighties I think she did.
Sweety- When I'm not mindlessly defiling temples with my uterine lining, Sweety is a loving, endearing woman that has the spirit of a child kept lovingly in the body of a middle aged woman. Sweety has had far too eventful a life for a woman who had to drop out of school at 15 to take care of her mother, who I call "Auntie". Often when Sweety is excited about something, she approaches me absolutely beaming, speaking rapidly in her broken English attempting to convey to me the source of her enthusiasm, just to let out a jumbled pile of English words that I can't understand, but with soft smiles we rummage through the pile piecing together its meaning. Sweety spends her days cooking for the family, taking care of her mother, and teaching calligraphy classes.
Goldy- Goldy is a retired model and actor gone business man, and is a total Indian babe. He has the dark sparkling eyes of his stardom aspiring days with the proud belly present in Indian men who can afford the food. At the peak of his career in Mumbai when he was offered a leading role in a hit television series, a break that most aspiring actors can only dream of, he willingly put his dream aside to come home and take care of his family when his father fell ill. Yesterday I was reading an interview with him that was in an old magazine, and when asked what mattered most to him he replied "simplicity" and "humanity".
Lately I've spent my days walking along the quaint streets passed the watermelon men pushing their carts along shouting their publicity, sweet kids dancing and waving from their front porches nearly hidden from the thick foliage blessing this neighborhood, and the dry cleaning men performing their bicycle deliveries. At our house I practice my flute during the power breaks to entertain the family. In the evening I learn Hindi with the help of Goldy and Sweety, while holding in my left hand a coconut with a straw stuck inside to drink the sour wholesome milk.
I type away at a small internet shop where I have to squeeze into a little cubicle and place the keyboard on my lap. Above the monitor is posted a sign that reads "Porn sites are strictly prohibited", but in true boyish form, someone crossed out "prohibited" and wrote "hot", and for a moment after first seeing this I felt like I was back in the states and then wondered "Was D.Z. in here?" .
Friday, March 6, 2009
Sunstroke is Srisailam
When I first arrived at my new families house with Goldy, Reena's younger brother, I had to wait out on the porch while Sweety, Reena's older sister, performed her house guest pooja that involved enveloping me in a sacred scent and putting a dot of red kumkum paste between my eye brows. Then I was greeted warmly with a hug and a kiss on the neck from Reena's mother before being escorted into their cozy home on a more quiet side of town. I'm absolutely ecstatic that Reena's mother is a hugger. The last time I had a hug was when she hugged me at the Rajasthani anniversary bash, before that i was on Texas soil at the airport with my mom. I miss hugs.
Within my first five minutes of my arrival was invited to accompany sweety, her oldest brother, and her aunt and uncle on a pilgrimage to Srisailam, which they said it was only a four hour bus ride from Hyderabad. Honestly, I was more in the mood to relax, but as a general rule I try not to decline too many pilgrimages.
"Sweety! Sweety!" The sound filled the room, echoing off the early morning walls. I groaned, waking up from an incomplete sleep to see Reena's father at the doorway of the bedroom. "Sweety! Sweety!", he called out again with his hoarse voice until Sweety rolled out of bed to do her morning pooja and make the family breakfast. I never knew the word "Sweety" could sound so harsh until being woken up at five a.m. by its sound racketing off the walls, signalling the start of our long day.
The eight hour bus ride to Srisailam was an eventful one. Unable to shut my window because of the intense heat, I had to endure being sprayed in the face with tobacco spit from the man in the row in front of me. In a small village I had to pay 2 rs. to use a "toilet" in the middle of this pasture passed cows, pigs, and goats that consisted of a cement floor with a little ditch, three walls, and a door. It was squatting on this sewage coated floor that I learn that I started my period totally unprepared. If there is one disadvantage to no toilet paper living it is the lack of warning one has in regards to their menstrual timing. I stuffed a bandanna in my undies and made my way back to the bus just in time to head further south and get tobacco spit in my eye. We passed through one of India's tiger reserves, a bare national forest, and a small village on the side of Andrah Pradesh's main water source where people were floating on their woven bamboo rafts. I was feeling weak and tired, and unaware of the illness that was slowly taking over me, I attributed my lethargy to my period.
I was unimpressed by the 600 year old temple. We waited in a crowded line to make our way through the famous temple that was violated with plastic bamboo trees, neon signs, vindictive staff, and tacky tash cans. I was so completely uninspired and my patience was growing thing. I was relieved with I was allowed to go back to the dinky hotel and have some alone time when the family wanted to go through the temple a second and third time. I tried writing, but i couldn't gather the mental concentration. I tried doing yoga but couldn't even move my feet. I couldn't move at all. I just laid there, succumbing to my exhaustion, unable to read, or move, or really even think. I drifted into a deep deep sleep.
The following morning it was difficult for me to take Sweety scolding me for going to Temple while menstruating. I tried explaining to her that I had no idea that women were not allowed in temples when menstruating, not even allowed to be touched for that matter, but there was a definite language barrier. "Think, Casey. Think about things" she told me, adding to my frustration. I know she can't choose her words because she knows such little English, but it felt condescending .I felt belittled and shamed, and with my rising temperature I was unable to remain unaffected The event pierced my already dwindling morale. I knew I was in trouble when an hour before our departure I had intense spells of diarrhea. I was in tears, incapable of communicating to anyone I was with, and Sweety was being hostile, still angry at my menstrual heedlessness.
The family seemed both confused and irritated at my outward display of emotions. Their irritation made me sadder and angrier. I boarded the bus and braved the eight hour bus ride ahead of me. I didn't have much choice. My fever rose with our mileage, and I became too weak to even shift my body. All my strength went to holding my bowels, the pressure of which did ease slightly during the trip back to Hyderabad. I vaguely remember coming to at a pit stop to an old beggar woman poking me trying to coax me into giving her money. Unable to move, I just laid in my seat on the bus, clutching my bag tight to my chest while the woman, her grey hair matted and disheveled like a mad scientist, kept poking my arm with the intensity of a beggar. By the end of our bus ride, I'd lost all color in my face, there were intense, dark marks circling my shrunken eyes, and my lips were cracked, parts of them bleeding from lack of moisture.
When in Hyderabad, we jumped off the bus at a busy intersection to signal an auto. We had to wait many minutes in the hot sun and polluted air before finding an auto and getting lost on our way home. The sun felt like a weight I had to carry around on my back. When we finally made it home, I made my way upstairs to relieve myself and pour some cold water on my skin. The water felt hot on my feverish skin. I could have melted a freezer. I crawled into bed and woke up an hour later to a doctor sitting next to me with his traveling case.
I couldn't stop crying. It was the fever. I couldn't communicate with the doctor at all, which made me cry even harder. Every time I spoke, he would laugh, and again with the tears. I longed for comfort. More than anything I wanted to feel my mother's cool soft hand on my forehead and hear her comforting words, and maybe even share a laugh over my fever caused hysteria. I was scared and lonely, and I could not stop crying. Every part of my body ached. My head was pounding, my arms felt like there were bugs crawling under the layers of my skin, my eyeballs felt like they were bursting. The heat was radiating off my skin and coming back to me at twice as much force. I was so intensely hot, but would often be controlled by short intense bouts of chills that took control of my body like an epileptic fit. I drifted into a terrified sleep, certain I would wake up blind, or paralyzed, or not at all. I was completely ridiculous.
I had the unfortunate combination of what the doctor called a "sun stroke", an upper respiratory infection, and traveller's diarrhea. Most people who travel to an Indian city from abroad develop an upper respiratory infection because of the polluted air here. I've been fighting one for two weeks, but it was manageable, and I was improving. From what I gathered from the physician via Sona and Goldy is that the "sun stroke", as if that alone isn't bad enough, shot my immune system, causing the respiratory infection to thrive. I got traveller's diarrhea from consuming contaminated food.
The beautiful thing about being so sick is the overwhelming excitement I have for life now that the fever is easing, loosening its grip on my rapidly redeeming spirit. My mind is growing restless; hyper active like a skinny ten year old boy with ADHD, its running laps around my sleepy limbs. I went on a walk in my new neighborhood to buy limes and attempt to zap my body out of its stupor. Wandering around this quaint Indian neighborhood, trying to find my way back to our bright green house near the ZamZam Dairy Dealer, I got tangled up in a huge gang of cows that were freely wandering around themselves, as if to find their own green dwelling place. With complete serenity, I stood tangled with the bulls, being passionately in love with the moment and looking up to see that they had led me safely home. Farewell, my brothers! Enjoy your wandering.
Within my first five minutes of my arrival was invited to accompany sweety, her oldest brother, and her aunt and uncle on a pilgrimage to Srisailam, which they said it was only a four hour bus ride from Hyderabad. Honestly, I was more in the mood to relax, but as a general rule I try not to decline too many pilgrimages.
"Sweety! Sweety!" The sound filled the room, echoing off the early morning walls. I groaned, waking up from an incomplete sleep to see Reena's father at the doorway of the bedroom. "Sweety! Sweety!", he called out again with his hoarse voice until Sweety rolled out of bed to do her morning pooja and make the family breakfast. I never knew the word "Sweety" could sound so harsh until being woken up at five a.m. by its sound racketing off the walls, signalling the start of our long day.
The eight hour bus ride to Srisailam was an eventful one. Unable to shut my window because of the intense heat, I had to endure being sprayed in the face with tobacco spit from the man in the row in front of me. In a small village I had to pay 2 rs. to use a "toilet" in the middle of this pasture passed cows, pigs, and goats that consisted of a cement floor with a little ditch, three walls, and a door. It was squatting on this sewage coated floor that I learn that I started my period totally unprepared. If there is one disadvantage to no toilet paper living it is the lack of warning one has in regards to their menstrual timing. I stuffed a bandanna in my undies and made my way back to the bus just in time to head further south and get tobacco spit in my eye. We passed through one of India's tiger reserves, a bare national forest, and a small village on the side of Andrah Pradesh's main water source where people were floating on their woven bamboo rafts. I was feeling weak and tired, and unaware of the illness that was slowly taking over me, I attributed my lethargy to my period.
I was unimpressed by the 600 year old temple. We waited in a crowded line to make our way through the famous temple that was violated with plastic bamboo trees, neon signs, vindictive staff, and tacky tash cans. I was so completely uninspired and my patience was growing thing. I was relieved with I was allowed to go back to the dinky hotel and have some alone time when the family wanted to go through the temple a second and third time. I tried writing, but i couldn't gather the mental concentration. I tried doing yoga but couldn't even move my feet. I couldn't move at all. I just laid there, succumbing to my exhaustion, unable to read, or move, or really even think. I drifted into a deep deep sleep.
The following morning it was difficult for me to take Sweety scolding me for going to Temple while menstruating. I tried explaining to her that I had no idea that women were not allowed in temples when menstruating, not even allowed to be touched for that matter, but there was a definite language barrier. "Think, Casey. Think about things" she told me, adding to my frustration. I know she can't choose her words because she knows such little English, but it felt condescending .I felt belittled and shamed, and with my rising temperature I was unable to remain unaffected The event pierced my already dwindling morale. I knew I was in trouble when an hour before our departure I had intense spells of diarrhea. I was in tears, incapable of communicating to anyone I was with, and Sweety was being hostile, still angry at my menstrual heedlessness.
The family seemed both confused and irritated at my outward display of emotions. Their irritation made me sadder and angrier. I boarded the bus and braved the eight hour bus ride ahead of me. I didn't have much choice. My fever rose with our mileage, and I became too weak to even shift my body. All my strength went to holding my bowels, the pressure of which did ease slightly during the trip back to Hyderabad. I vaguely remember coming to at a pit stop to an old beggar woman poking me trying to coax me into giving her money. Unable to move, I just laid in my seat on the bus, clutching my bag tight to my chest while the woman, her grey hair matted and disheveled like a mad scientist, kept poking my arm with the intensity of a beggar. By the end of our bus ride, I'd lost all color in my face, there were intense, dark marks circling my shrunken eyes, and my lips were cracked, parts of them bleeding from lack of moisture.
When in Hyderabad, we jumped off the bus at a busy intersection to signal an auto. We had to wait many minutes in the hot sun and polluted air before finding an auto and getting lost on our way home. The sun felt like a weight I had to carry around on my back. When we finally made it home, I made my way upstairs to relieve myself and pour some cold water on my skin. The water felt hot on my feverish skin. I could have melted a freezer. I crawled into bed and woke up an hour later to a doctor sitting next to me with his traveling case.
I couldn't stop crying. It was the fever. I couldn't communicate with the doctor at all, which made me cry even harder. Every time I spoke, he would laugh, and again with the tears. I longed for comfort. More than anything I wanted to feel my mother's cool soft hand on my forehead and hear her comforting words, and maybe even share a laugh over my fever caused hysteria. I was scared and lonely, and I could not stop crying. Every part of my body ached. My head was pounding, my arms felt like there were bugs crawling under the layers of my skin, my eyeballs felt like they were bursting. The heat was radiating off my skin and coming back to me at twice as much force. I was so intensely hot, but would often be controlled by short intense bouts of chills that took control of my body like an epileptic fit. I drifted into a terrified sleep, certain I would wake up blind, or paralyzed, or not at all. I was completely ridiculous.
I had the unfortunate combination of what the doctor called a "sun stroke", an upper respiratory infection, and traveller's diarrhea. Most people who travel to an Indian city from abroad develop an upper respiratory infection because of the polluted air here. I've been fighting one for two weeks, but it was manageable, and I was improving. From what I gathered from the physician via Sona and Goldy is that the "sun stroke", as if that alone isn't bad enough, shot my immune system, causing the respiratory infection to thrive. I got traveller's diarrhea from consuming contaminated food.
The beautiful thing about being so sick is the overwhelming excitement I have for life now that the fever is easing, loosening its grip on my rapidly redeeming spirit. My mind is growing restless; hyper active like a skinny ten year old boy with ADHD, its running laps around my sleepy limbs. I went on a walk in my new neighborhood to buy limes and attempt to zap my body out of its stupor. Wandering around this quaint Indian neighborhood, trying to find my way back to our bright green house near the ZamZam Dairy Dealer, I got tangled up in a huge gang of cows that were freely wandering around themselves, as if to find their own green dwelling place. With complete serenity, I stood tangled with the bulls, being passionately in love with the moment and looking up to see that they had led me safely home. Farewell, my brothers! Enjoy your wandering.
Joel, Grace, and Their Mother.
Joel, Grace, and their mother are friends of mine that live across the landing from me at the Ganatra's. They are a Christian family, which is something of a rarity for Hyderabad. Joel and his mother do not understand my searching or my more Unitarian minded spiritual perspective. That's okay. I should seek to understand, not to be understood. Despite their lack of broadmindedness in regard to religious matters, they are quite pleasant to be around. Realizing that their persistence is rooted in a genuine concern for my life's well-being makes it easier to accept Joel's continuous hassling and the mother's squeezing of my cheeks together while telling me how important it is for me to read the Bible, before commenting on how I need to eat my ice cream faster. Grace and I can talk more freely with each other.
Joel is an outspoken demanding fourteen year old socialite who is a blast to play cricket with. Joel's mother is a generous, loving, protective woman who seems to have every ones best interest at heart. Grace is a more timid and soft spoken sixteen year old who for me is such a treat to be around. Her gentle curiosity and he humbling spirit allows us to have more authentic encounters that are a familiar trace of some of my most profound attachments back home.
I've gone to church with the family once. They attend The Baptist Church of Hyderabad, which is similar to Baptist churches in the South and for me, just as desolating.
I just don't feel the possible supreme being of the universe in a church the way I do watching the sun set in the smoggy sky while sitting on the cement blocks on the terrace, or like I do when I look at Sophie crunching on her dinner, or like I do when I see little Noelle making up songs, or like I do when I cry hard into what seems an endless pit of despair, or like I do when the few times I've been fortunate enough the glimpse the depth of the human heart. For me, church is the dwelling grounds for stagnance. It just simply isn't my way. Today I honor God, by honoring Life, beautiful, heart wrenching, glorious, raw Life, and believing, as Emerson said, that "if we live truly, we shall see truly." Live and love and seek to understand.. That is my religion.
Joel is an outspoken demanding fourteen year old socialite who is a blast to play cricket with. Joel's mother is a generous, loving, protective woman who seems to have every ones best interest at heart. Grace is a more timid and soft spoken sixteen year old who for me is such a treat to be around. Her gentle curiosity and he humbling spirit allows us to have more authentic encounters that are a familiar trace of some of my most profound attachments back home.
I've gone to church with the family once. They attend The Baptist Church of Hyderabad, which is similar to Baptist churches in the South and for me, just as desolating.
I just don't feel the possible supreme being of the universe in a church the way I do watching the sun set in the smoggy sky while sitting on the cement blocks on the terrace, or like I do when I look at Sophie crunching on her dinner, or like I do when I see little Noelle making up songs, or like I do when I cry hard into what seems an endless pit of despair, or like I do when the few times I've been fortunate enough the glimpse the depth of the human heart. For me, church is the dwelling grounds for stagnance. It just simply isn't my way. Today I honor God, by honoring Life, beautiful, heart wrenching, glorious, raw Life, and believing, as Emerson said, that "if we live truly, we shall see truly." Live and love and seek to understand.. That is my religion.
Ami and My First Natural Hindi Word
Ami is a totally trendy 26 year old bachelor who is always wearing tight shirts outling his slendor torso with sleeves that are short enough to give a hint of the tattoos on each of his arms. When Ami was in the 7th grade he was kicked out of his house for two years and left to fend for himself because he failed a couple of classes. "You are no son of mine!" his father exclaimed in his hot rage. Ami lives at home now with his family and is a contributing member of the household. His relationship with his family will certainly be threatened if his mother finds out that he eats K.F.C. and other meat products behind their back.
"Whats is your favorite aspect of Indian culture, Ami?" I asked one evening as we were standing around on the terrace looking out at the city haze and bright temple lights.
"My favorite thing about India", Ami began in his relaxed, self-assured manner leaning his long body against the railing, "is Boozing, Fagging, and Hitting. You can booze where ever you please. You can fag where ever you please. and you can hit whoever you please".
We absorbed the silence for a moment.
"Ami?"
"hmm?"
"what's fagging?"
"smoking, casey. fagging means smoking."
"oh... acha."
"Whats is your favorite aspect of Indian culture, Ami?" I asked one evening as we were standing around on the terrace looking out at the city haze and bright temple lights.
"My favorite thing about India", Ami began in his relaxed, self-assured manner leaning his long body against the railing, "is Boozing, Fagging, and Hitting. You can booze where ever you please. You can fag where ever you please. and you can hit whoever you please".
We absorbed the silence for a moment.
"Ami?"
"hmm?"
"what's fagging?"
"smoking, casey. fagging means smoking."
"oh... acha."
India: The Ultimate Body Image Challenge
"Are you unwell? Should we call a doctor? Your eyes are so little today", Mona asked as she closed the metal gate so the lift could begin its ascent to the 5th floor. " No, No. I'm fine, just got some little eyes today", I replied. I've had to start wearing mascara here to outline the green in my eyes making them look more lively to ease her growing concern for my 'little eyes'.
India has sort of done its number on my appearance so far and is really becoming the ultimate body image challenge. It is hard to get a good look in a mirror since no one has any privacy. There is a smudgy small mirror attached to a cabinet in the bathroom, but all of the long body mirrors are in the rooms where people are usually present. Embarrassed by my vanity, I've just done without mirrors these past few weeks.
It was not until Mona and I venture out to the crowded Sultan Bazaar to get some Indian friendly clothing that I noticed just how bedraggled and scruffy I've already become. Standing in the harsh lighting of the small dressing room, I saw the nasty pimples and blemishes decorating my once spotless back. The insensitive lighting illuminated the new dark color of my elbows and even hinted at a dimple on my pasty left thigh. As I stood studying myself in this mirror in my undershorts and sweat stained sports bra, viewing my freckled nose, my newly acquired tummy pudge, and all these other odd impurities, I knew I had met my match. India is the ultimate body image challenge. Getting a bloody scratch across my seemingly expanding forehead from a sequins on my dress added to the difficulty. I must accept myself as I am, however unmanageable.
That night, with three new Indian outfits at the picking, I prepared for the wedding ceremony we were attending. Though I planned on wearing my new tops with jeans, Mona made me wear the more ridiculous traditional bottoms for the occasion. after I dressed myself in my golden turmeric colored garb, I noticed each member of the family finding an excuse to make their was passed my room, sneaking a peak, before scurrying away to the next room. Hearing all sorts of unnecessary brouhaha from the living room, I decided to go investigating. Standing in my ridiculous get up with my forehead enhancing scratch held high, I walked into the next room to find the whole family huddled together trying to stifle their laughter. Despite Mona's protestations that I was the object of their amusement, Mom was a dead give away. No one could look at each other the whole night with out giggling.
The wedding ceremony was a treat. I got to eat delicious food , grin at my same holy man, who was of course present, and I got to see all my friends from my building. Sandeep was intrigued to see my new ensemble, but not too shy to voice his opinion of my poor choice of color, and of course commented on the red scratch cutting diagonally across my forehead. The next day, however, he paid me a compliment as I was making my way up the stairs, ignoring the lift in attempts to rectify the whole dimple thigh situation. "Hello, Casey! You look good today, MUCH better than yesterday", he said as I hiked my way passed his floor. These, stinging compliments are the only type that Sandeep knows how to give. It's okay! I made my way to our apartment where there was some fried food and a cup of chai waiting.
India has sort of done its number on my appearance so far and is really becoming the ultimate body image challenge. It is hard to get a good look in a mirror since no one has any privacy. There is a smudgy small mirror attached to a cabinet in the bathroom, but all of the long body mirrors are in the rooms where people are usually present. Embarrassed by my vanity, I've just done without mirrors these past few weeks.
It was not until Mona and I venture out to the crowded Sultan Bazaar to get some Indian friendly clothing that I noticed just how bedraggled and scruffy I've already become. Standing in the harsh lighting of the small dressing room, I saw the nasty pimples and blemishes decorating my once spotless back. The insensitive lighting illuminated the new dark color of my elbows and even hinted at a dimple on my pasty left thigh. As I stood studying myself in this mirror in my undershorts and sweat stained sports bra, viewing my freckled nose, my newly acquired tummy pudge, and all these other odd impurities, I knew I had met my match. India is the ultimate body image challenge. Getting a bloody scratch across my seemingly expanding forehead from a sequins on my dress added to the difficulty. I must accept myself as I am, however unmanageable.
That night, with three new Indian outfits at the picking, I prepared for the wedding ceremony we were attending. Though I planned on wearing my new tops with jeans, Mona made me wear the more ridiculous traditional bottoms for the occasion. after I dressed myself in my golden turmeric colored garb, I noticed each member of the family finding an excuse to make their was passed my room, sneaking a peak, before scurrying away to the next room. Hearing all sorts of unnecessary brouhaha from the living room, I decided to go investigating. Standing in my ridiculous get up with my forehead enhancing scratch held high, I walked into the next room to find the whole family huddled together trying to stifle their laughter. Despite Mona's protestations that I was the object of their amusement, Mom was a dead give away. No one could look at each other the whole night with out giggling.
The wedding ceremony was a treat. I got to eat delicious food , grin at my same holy man, who was of course present, and I got to see all my friends from my building. Sandeep was intrigued to see my new ensemble, but not too shy to voice his opinion of my poor choice of color, and of course commented on the red scratch cutting diagonally across my forehead. The next day, however, he paid me a compliment as I was making my way up the stairs, ignoring the lift in attempts to rectify the whole dimple thigh situation. "Hello, Casey! You look good today, MUCH better than yesterday", he said as I hiked my way passed his floor. These, stinging compliments are the only type that Sandeep knows how to give. It's okay! I made my way to our apartment where there was some fried food and a cup of chai waiting.
Sunday, March 1, 2009
Montessori School
The montessori school is just a block away from where I am staying. When I head over there I take a main road so to avoid the isolated neighboring street that lies near the slums. I have to clutch my bag tight. It is not uncommon to have your possessions snatched away by people zooming past or a slick monkey smelling something promising, though I haven't had that sort of exciting misfortune just yet. When I arrive at the school I knock on the door and Amica, the eleven year old "servant" at the school, opens the wooden window door behind the bars protecting from intrusion. When I am greeted with her cheerful smile and she opens the door I enter into a thick aroma of either cleaning detergent or sewage.
The school is just a little bit big than my last duplex apartment was, but there are ninety kids and seven employees. There are five small rooms total that weave themselves around the apartment complex that they are attached to. The rooms serve as hallways also. The walls are pink with murals full of lotus flowers, dolphins, and cows rowing boats. There are English motivational posters on the walls and tacky posters of white babies on clouds or next to flowers. In the rooms the children either sit in small unstable plastic chairs or on the floor.
The teachers at the school are often very harsh to the small children, grabbing them abruptly by the arms and throwing them on a pallet or dragging them across the room, slapping their faces with their hands or hitting their heads with sticks of bamboo. Yet, you will also find the teachers hugging the kids and talking in Telugu baby talk. I've even seen a teacher lovingly cradle a child in one arm and while yelling, hit a child with the hand of another. This has taken me some getting used to. It is difficult for me not to judge the slapping, screaming, bamboo misusing teachers. It is just a different way. But just for the record, Mona is always only loving to the kids.
The cleanliness of the school is considered very high standards for India, but would be considered unacceptable in the United States. As far as I can tell, diapers do not exist in India. Puddles of pee lie scattered throughout the school deceiving me for the splotchy floor pattern. Frequently, I end up with a carefree, relaxed two year old and urine soaked jeans. When I sit to cradle a child to sleep or to simply rest my legs, I avoid the walls and cracks in the floor where roaches freely emerge, undisturbed by anyone except maybe a curious two year old. Last week I had to swat a scorpion type creature off a little boys neck.
For the potty-trained children at the school, there is a closet sized wet room with a drain and an Indian style toilet that no one uses. Before entering the child drops their breeches outside the room. The the child enters the room and simply squats on the floor. Every half hour Amica comes to dump water on the floor and spray away any droppings.
Amica is an amazing young girl whose positive energy is always radiating through the building. From her giant teethy grin to her constant admiration of the youngsters, Amica seems to be embracing each moment with great passion and confidence.Though most people might be frustrated with that lot in life, having to work twelve hour days six days a week at such a young age, missing out on school and friends, her spirit remains unshakable. Days when I do not go to the school I find myself missing her presence that ineluctably alleviates any frustration or sadness just by my witnessing such true spiritual beauty. If there is a god, I believe it may be shining through her in every instant, scattering its light upon on the little faces. I think she is one of the most admirable people I have ever met. Her life will be great because she is great.
The school is just a little bit big than my last duplex apartment was, but there are ninety kids and seven employees. There are five small rooms total that weave themselves around the apartment complex that they are attached to. The rooms serve as hallways also. The walls are pink with murals full of lotus flowers, dolphins, and cows rowing boats. There are English motivational posters on the walls and tacky posters of white babies on clouds or next to flowers. In the rooms the children either sit in small unstable plastic chairs or on the floor.
The teachers at the school are often very harsh to the small children, grabbing them abruptly by the arms and throwing them on a pallet or dragging them across the room, slapping their faces with their hands or hitting their heads with sticks of bamboo. Yet, you will also find the teachers hugging the kids and talking in Telugu baby talk. I've even seen a teacher lovingly cradle a child in one arm and while yelling, hit a child with the hand of another. This has taken me some getting used to. It is difficult for me not to judge the slapping, screaming, bamboo misusing teachers. It is just a different way. But just for the record, Mona is always only loving to the kids.
The cleanliness of the school is considered very high standards for India, but would be considered unacceptable in the United States. As far as I can tell, diapers do not exist in India. Puddles of pee lie scattered throughout the school deceiving me for the splotchy floor pattern. Frequently, I end up with a carefree, relaxed two year old and urine soaked jeans. When I sit to cradle a child to sleep or to simply rest my legs, I avoid the walls and cracks in the floor where roaches freely emerge, undisturbed by anyone except maybe a curious two year old. Last week I had to swat a scorpion type creature off a little boys neck.
For the potty-trained children at the school, there is a closet sized wet room with a drain and an Indian style toilet that no one uses. Before entering the child drops their breeches outside the room. The the child enters the room and simply squats on the floor. Every half hour Amica comes to dump water on the floor and spray away any droppings.
Amica is an amazing young girl whose positive energy is always radiating through the building. From her giant teethy grin to her constant admiration of the youngsters, Amica seems to be embracing each moment with great passion and confidence.Though most people might be frustrated with that lot in life, having to work twelve hour days six days a week at such a young age, missing out on school and friends, her spirit remains unshakable. Days when I do not go to the school I find myself missing her presence that ineluctably alleviates any frustration or sadness just by my witnessing such true spiritual beauty. If there is a god, I believe it may be shining through her in every instant, scattering its light upon on the little faces. I think she is one of the most admirable people I have ever met. Her life will be great because she is great.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
