Home in Vermont

So here I am; I’m home and everything is the same. Sitting in my dad’s remodeled living room and watching the snow fall, I must admit I feel rather relieved. The first breath of chilly Vermont air was, put simply, invigorating. My body is slowly coming back to life. My hair is softer, my skin fresher; the Indian grime is slowly coming out from under my fingernails and the deep-down phlegm is dislodging from my lungs so my voice is rising to its normal pitch.

The morning after I arrived home, I took a shower at my mom’s house and suddenly realized that I could relax my jaw. And I opened my mouth and took a big gulp of beautiful, clean water. After a week at home, I still experience a moment of hesitation before brushing my teeth. "Where’s my water bottle?" Coming home means appreciating routine.

Throughout our preparations for going abroad, the Fulbright crew was warned about the "re-culturation" process. They told us that many times reverse culture shock is actually worse. So I came home anticipating something, and I’m afraid I’m just too comfortable to experience it.

Jessie and Patrick always called me "unflappable," but sometimes I think this was a disadvantage. What I saw in India was shocking, particularly on a humanitarian and environmental level. But the problem is that when you live in a place, and must make it your home, you begin to accept everything . . . at least I do.

My reaction to new situations is to come to equilibrium as quickly as possible, accepting every new person and new problem at face value. This helped me live in my Indian community, but now I wonder if it really helped me analyze and critique it fully. For example, on the way to my bus stop, there was a large heap of garbage. It was separated from the road by a stone wall, but it towered above it. I always tried to cross the road before coming to this mountain of refuse, but I would always look over to see the garbage man who was usually found picking through the pile.

I was relating this scene to my family during Christmas Eve dinner, and they looked at me horrified. As I stared at their faces, I realized, to my chagrin, that it didn’t even occur to me that I should be disgusted. My dad blurted out, "I hope you got a picture of that!" And I, embarrassed, replied that I thought I had. But, to be honest, I must admit that I didn’t. It didn’t even occur to me when I lived there that this might be noteworthy. It was just normal. It was life. It was India.

But how could I accept such a grossly inhumane situation as "just life." What happened to me in India that this could be normal?

These thoughts come to me as I again settle into my life in the larger Rutland area. I’m really looking forward to diving back into my school system and digging my fingers into curriculum and NEASC and even grammar. I’ve got friends who are getting engaged, adopting babies, and becoming pregnant. I don’t want to be half a world away.

Although I’m home and the year is turning over, I think I’ll continue this blog a little longer. I’ve got some saved drafts that I want to finish about Hyderabad, and I’ll also be doing some more reflective pieces. So stay tuned, and happy new year everyone!

Morning Assembly & Eating in India

Here are the other two pieces that were written by my students. Aparna is in class 8 and Anushree Roy is in class 7.

Our Morning Assembly
By Aparna Sarwade (the girl on the right)

Every morning each and every student of all the schools is very much eager to attend school. We students of Kendriya Vidyalaya Kanchanbagh are some among them. After entering the school, we leave our bags and lunch boxes in our classrooms and move in a straight line to the playground. Each and every student gathers at the playground and stands in a row. We have two rows for each class, one for the girls and another for the boys. We all stand according to our heights. Every class has a student monitor who is responsible for the discipline of our class. The class monitor looks whether we stand in a straight row.

Students who sing well stand on the dais and they are called our chorus group. Other students play instruments like tabla, congo, harmonium, and synthesizer. A few in-charge teachers along with the principal sir stand on the dais with the choir group.

We start our morning assembly sharp at 8:30 a.m. We start our morning assembly with a prayer in Sanskrit which means:

"Oh God! Lead me from the unreal to the real
from darkness to light
from death to immortality
Om Shanti, Shanti, Shanti, hi!"

Here Shanti means peace. After the end of our prayer we have a silence for about a minute. Then we have our pledge. A student will say the pledge in English, Hindi, or Sanskrit, and all the other students repeat after him. We hold our right arms straight out parallel with the ground during the pledge.

One student presents the thought for the day along with its meaning. Then we sing a song in Hindi called Vidyalaya Geet. This song on the whole means that students of Kendriya Vidyalaya will make India feel proud. Then two students say the daily news. After the news, we have our special item where students exhibit their talents. Different students are given opportunities to recite poems or stories. They ask us a quiz or sometimes say some interesting facts.

Then we have the community song which could be in one of many languages like Marathi, Hindi, Kanada, or Gujarathi. Then we celebrate the Birthdays of students. The students are given a Birthday card, chocolates and a blessing from the principal sir and their class teachers. Then our principal says a few words regarding discipline and other school activities. At last we sing our national anthem, which we feel proud to sing. We stand with our arms at our sides and our hands in fists.

Then we leave our playground by moving in the same lines to our classrooms. In this way we start our day with such a beautiful assembly which makes our day go smoothly.

Eating in India
By Anushree Roy (the girl in the middle)

India is a country in which every day the sun rises, every day flowers bloom, and every day people as usual get up and go to their work. But even though India is the same as some other countries, it is one in millions. I feel very proud and happy as I am also a part of this exciting country. Wanna know about my experience? OK! Come with me.

I live in Hyderabad city, which is located in Andhra Pradesh, a state of India. I come from a very simple family. My mother is very fond of cooking. She is a very good cook too. She learns many types of dishes from the people of different states and she also makes her own experimental dishes. I am also an expert in EATING food. I like the food that my mother makes, especially the ones that are her own experimental dishes. Here’s one for you. It’s very quick and easy but very tasty, and it is in the list of my favorites. The recipe goes like this:

Palak Poories (spinach poories)
2 cups chopped spinach
2 cups wheat flour
2 tsp. sesame seeds
oil as needed
2 tsp. curd (plain, whole-milk yogurt)
salt to taste
2-3 green chilies
3-4 garlic flakes

Method:
Place the chopped spinach in a bowl and steam it.
Chop the green chilies and then add both the green chilies and the garlic flakes to the steamed spinach and then grind them in a mixer and make a paste.
Pour the wheat flour in another bowl and add salt and sesame seeds one by one and mix them.
Add two teaspoons of oil and curd to the mixture and mix well.
Add the paste and make a tight dough by mixing all the things nicely.
Keep the dough aside for two hours so that it becomes a little harder.
Now make small balls out of the dough, roll them and deep fry them in a deep frying pan.
Serve hot with ketchup.

So how did you like the recipe? Isn’t it tasty? Please do try them.

I go to school by bus every day. The bus stand is located nearby our house. I reach the bus stand by 8 a.m. Then I wait for the bus there with my mother. I don’t think that anyone would like to wait for anything, but I do like to wait for the bus. This is because a tiffin center (small restaurant) is located by the side of the bus stand. The preparation of the food starts there in the early morning at 4 a.m. I have already told you that I am very fond of eating food. That’s why I like to stand in front of the bus stand and wait for the bus so that I can take in the beautiful smells coming out of the restaurant. The essence of the food made there really refreshes me as it contains the beautiful smells of the freshly made breakfast and the hot and sweet spices mixed in the food.

A North-Indian, Hindu Marriage

I gave my 7th and 8th class students a project to write a piece about their personal lives in India. Since everything in India is about competition (which really makes sense as there are so many people), I told the students that the best essays would be submitted for publication in an American newspaper. I chose three pieces to send to my city newspaper, and about a week ago they were published. My dad is sending copies to me in India, so I can present them to the students during the morning assembly.

Here is the first winning essay about an Indian marriage ceremony.

A North-Indian Marriage
By Arpit Awasthi (the boy in the photo)

In India, most of the marriages are arranged marriages. An Indian marriage is different in different parts of the country. I have written about a North-Indian marriage.

Conversation Between a Boy and a Girl Before the Marriage

Ayush: What are your hobbies?
Anu: Cooking and designing clothes.
Arush: Which college do you attend? What are your studies?
Anu: D. A.V College. My subjects are Hindi, math, and history
Ayush: (shyly) What are your expectations from a husband?
Anu: He should be loving, caring, and understanding.
Ayush: One last but very important question. Being the only son, I’ll always stay with my parents. Can you adjust to the family?
Anu: Yes, sure.

The Engagement
The engagement is the first ceremony in India done by the couple together. In this, the bride and bridegroom exchange rings. This ring is the symbol of love between them. And after that there is a reception where we can have a chestful of food. People give gifts to the couple and wish them a happy married life.

Wedding: Arrival of the Bridegroom
After selecting a good Muhurat (time) by the priest, the date for the wedding is fixed. The bridegroom, sitting on a horse, comes to the bride’s house. On the way to the bride’s house, all the friends and relatives are dancing. When they reach the bride’s house, there is a grand welcome from the bride’s side. The bridegroom and his family are provided with gifts and the others are given packets of sweets. The bridegroom is presented with a garland made up of Indian notes. All are happy and the music there is so cheerful that everyone would like to dance.

Beginning of the Marriage: "Saat-phere"
A cloth known as a "chunni" is tied to the bride and groom in such a way that they are joined. This cloth is tied to each of them by the bride’s sister-in-law. Then they take seven rounds around the burning flame and while taking the rounds they promise to each other that they will be together for 7 births. The Pandit (priest) is also performing all the rituals and reading all the important Sanskrit slokas so that both of them can lead happy and prosperous married lives.

Putting of "Sindur"
While performing the marriage rituals, putting "sindur" is very important. Sindur is red colored powder that a husband puts on his wife’s forehead, on her hairline. Now, according to the custom, the wife should daily put the sindur on her head. The husband also puts a chain called a "mangla sutra" on his wife’s neck. The wife is supposed to wear the mangla sutra every day as the mangla sutra is a symbol of love between a husband and a wife.

Putting of the Garland
There is one garland putting ceremony in which both of them put garlands on each other. This is one of the funny things. The bridegroom’s friends encourage him to raise his chest so that the bride finds it difficult to put on the garland. The bride’s relatives then will tell her to jump and put the garland on, but she will not. Then, in order to help his sister, the bride’s brother comes and picks up his sister and thus the garland is placed.

Stealing of Shoes
There is one more funny custom in an Indian marriage. The bride’s sister steals away the bridegroom’s shoes and asks him to pay for the return of the shoes. The sister will try to take a large amount for the shoes. This is known as the Juta Churai. Juta means shoes and Churai means to steal. And at last the bridegroom agrees to pay the demanded money and the money is distributed among the sisters. They get their payment for their hard work, because it is not easy to steal away the shoes, since their rival is always aware!

Leaving of the Bride: "Vidai"
Now comes a time full of grief when everyone in the bride’s house is unhappy, especially the father and mother. Even the bride does not like to leave her parents, but now she is married and she has to go with her husband. The bride will be continuously crying and will not agree to leave her father’s house, and then the bride’s brother with come and pick her up. Then he will take her near her husband and then she will settle down in the car and leave to her husband’s house.

Scene at the Bridegroom’s House: "Swagath"
The bride is welcomed at the bridegroom’s house as a new member in their family and the mother-in-law welcomes the bride at the door. Now her husband becomes her god and she has to live with him throughout her life. She has to make the husband happy and take care of her father-in-law and mother-in-law. And thus comes the end of the marriage ceremony.

Mehndi!

So I'm not usually one to show off my hands, but check out my Mehndi! My landlady is starting a beauty parlour, so her ladies took me over one afternoon to apply this henna-based paste on my hands. It took about an hour, and then I was left immobile in my apartment to wait for it to dry. . . a good excuse to catch up on my film viewing! Married women always have Mehndi (on hands, arms, and feet), and often women who attend weddings will also apply it. I think it's also done just for fun around India, however; I've heard that teenagers are having "Mehndi" parties, which sounds so much healthier than those "spin-the-bottle" parties that I remember.

Jingle Bells gets funnier

(Don't get excited; I stole this photo from the internet, but isn't it perfect!)

Oh my goodness, I've just got to share this teaching moment today.

So I was asked to teach a group of students two carols for the Christmas celebration on December 22 (which also happens to be my last day in India). So this afternoon I spent some time teaching my classes Jingle Bells. It was fun! I've never had the opportunity to sing, let alone teach, any Christmas songs in my school back home. In fact, I felt like someone was going to burst into the room and arrest me for singing "round yon virgin" and "Christ the Saviour is born." But no one did, and the kids just loved it.

After writing the words to Jingle Bells on the board, I drew a picture of a sleigh and an(unfortunate looking) horse. We discussed the meanings of the words, and of course the "bells on bob tail ring" came up. I gave the students a minute to dissect the suspect "bob tail" word to see if they recognized any parts of it.

And my dear, eager, little boy in the front row lit up. The conversation went like this:

"The horse's tail has bells on it!"

"You've got it; nice job!"
"And!" (he smiled with pride) "And the horse's name is Bob!"

I wish I could say that I respected the kid's effort enough to stifle my laughter. But I didn't.

Ellora and Ajanta Caves

So I’ve been really bad about updating the blog on my travels. We had a four-day weekend over the Diwali holiday, and my adopted family and I met up with another Fulbright teacher, Rod, in Aurangabad. We took an overnight train there, and dozed in our five-star hotel (yeah, I can barely afford it here) for a few hours before beginning our first adventure.

We rented a car and driver for the weekend, and on the first day drove to the World Heritage-listed Ellora cave temples. Over a 2 kilometer stretch, 34 Buddhist, Hindu, and Jain caves were cut out of the rock, each with detailed sculptures. It was a brilliantly sunny day, and we did our best to stay hydrated and sun-screened.

The pinnacle of the trip for me was seeing the Kailasa Temple, the world’s largest monolithic sculpture. This temple is a giant representation of Mt. Kailasa, Shiva’s home in the Himalaya. It covers twice the area of the Parthenon and is 1 ½ times as high. 200,000 tons of rock were removed by 7000 laborers over a 150-year period to create this ridiculous structure. I realize I am simply quoting statistics at you, but it really is just too impressive, isn’t it? The facts speak for themselves.The next day we visited the even older Ajanta caves. These date from 200 BC to AD 650, which is a period of time that is hard for me to fathom. (I kept staring at them and being like, "These are really old. No, really, Erin, REALLY old.) The caves were cut into the steep face of a semi-circle gorge with a river at the bottom. Dramatic, to say the least! These caves contained sculptures as well as paintings, and Evan had a great time running from cave to cave exclaiming, "Another Buddha!"Dare I mention here that I became a bit of a beast during this afternoon? It was a long ride into the caves, involving numerous entry fees and a bus ride, and there wasn’t an opportunity for food during our caving expedition. . . .and those who know me well know what happens when Erin is hungry. For some reason, my travelling companions didn’t seem to notice the fact that it was becoming later and later in the afternoon, and we still hadn’t eaten lunch!

I must admit, I wondered if they were human when we were coming up to my long-awaited restaurant on the ride home, and they questioned whether we should WAIT UNTIL DINNER to eat. The normally placid and easy-going Erin was not having any of THAT. Life became more pleasant that night when I slipped out to the pool for a few laps and a few more fireworks. Diwali was in full swing in Aurangabad, and it is rightly called the festival of lights. Constant explosions were going off all around me, and occasionally a firework would stretch over the tree-line. It wasn’t exactly peaceful, but it was rather boggling to think of how many crackers were going off all over the country. I guess the air-pollution on this day is staggering, although I don’t have a mind to remember the numbers.

Two Incidents from School

Incident 1: My normally quiet and well-mannered 8A class was uncharacteristically naughty in a not-so-nice way the Monday after I got back from the Fulbright conference. They had been a week without any English classes, and there was certainly no call to be bored today, so I began whipping out the threats, acting very angry, and singling out students.

But even after some of my best Indian-style maneuvers, I began to read aloud and the murmur started up again. I glanced up quickly and caught a small student in the back row talking to his neighbor. That was it. He was going down. So I called to him, "You, come here." (As you may recall, I don’t know all of their names.) His eyes widened, but he didn’t move. "Get up here, now!" He stood up but didn’t move, frozen. After a few more pleas, and a few more shuffled steps forward, I walked back, took his arm, and led him from the room. I told him to go down to the principal, tell him what happened, and bring me a note from him. (This had been my earlier threat, so I was going to follow through and be sure my 8A class would come back to its angelic state.)

I closed the doors to the classroom and continued the lesson, but I knew he wasn’t moving. After reaching a stopping point, I gave the students an assignment and went out to talk to the boy. I told him again to see the principal, but he clearly wasn’t taking me seriously. So I again took his arm and started leading him down. When we reached the top of the stairs he started moaning and crying. "Please, madam. I’m sorry, madam!" I didn’t relent. "All you must do is explain to the principal your behavior, and then you can return to class." "No, madam, please!" Then he fell on his knees and started begging me, tears coming down his face. I told him to get up, and he did, but he wouldn’t move. Then I looked down and realized his legs were actually shaking! And I thought, "Shit, this kid’s going to pee his pants right here!"

And I relented. I don’t like to do this as a teacher, but I suddenly realized that this incident just wasn’t worth it. I’ve never seen the principal actually carrying out a punishment, but the students are clearly terrified of him.

Incident 2: This one happened today, also in class 8A. I gave back the half-yearly exams to my class yesterday, and unfortunately there were a few failures as well as a couple incidents of cheating. (By the way, failing is getting less than 26 out of an 80 point exam . . .pretty pitiful? Yes, in my opinion.) Today I was on my way to the class after lunch, when a group of girls and a parent stopped me outside of the classroom.

One of my girls had gotten a 24, and was upset, particularly because she had lost 4 points because someone had cheated off of her. I explained to the parent (with the help of the girl’s friends, as her mom didn’t speak English well) that I could not give any credit to either student for that question, because the two answers were exactly the same and clearly copied. She had only lost 4 points this time, but it is important to learn that giving or receiving answers is not OK. The mother was not aggressive, but she smiled at me and requested that I give her daughter 2 more points. I told her that I do not give points, I only correct what the student has earned. I pulled out all the stops, calmly explaining that her daughter needs to stay after school for more help and ask questions in class. I was sure that if she did this she’d do better on the next exam.

Now up until this point, you might be wondering why I’m telling this story. . . It’s a pretty typical parent-teacher exchange. But then her mother threw a new one at me, "My daughter hasn’t eaten anything since yesterday. She won’t eat."

And what do you say to that? I tried to play it cool. Calmly explaining that this particular test was not going to change her life. In a year, she wouldn’t even remember it. After a few more appeals by the mom, I decided it was time to end the conversation, and told her I must begin class now. Time to make a quick get-away.

The really scary part is that if this girl is this upset over a test in 8th grade, how’s she going to hold up in two years when she’s taking board exams that will put her onto a path for life? I hate to think about it.

Benefit Concert

So I’ve been disappearing for a week at a time these days, but I promise I had good reasons. Now that I’m reaching the last few weeks of my stay, it’s time that I caught up on my thoughts and experiences. So check regularly for the next few weeks, as I intend to make blogging one of my official wrap-up activities.

Last weekend I concluded one of my projects here, which was learning a classical Indian dance and then performing it. This goal was not mine, actually, but my policy of saying "yes" turned this into a focus for me over the last month.

I’ve mentioned that I’ve been taking dance lessons with a student from school, and her mother is enthusiastic about me, to say the least. She is the principal of a school for preschoolers, and every year she holds a dance concert. Her daughter is often show-cased, but this year the big attraction would be . . . an AMERICAN.

So after school each day I got into a routine. I would ride with Sweeya on her mother’s bus to her house. There they would feed me a delicious home-cooked meal with ghee and pickle and curd (this was the best part, really). Then I’d lazily nap for awhile on their couch or bed until the dance master finally showed up around 5:30 or 6. I’d wait for him to have his tea and snacks before we finally rehearsed a couple times.

It all culminated in the final benefit concert for the blind last Sunday night. I got all dressed up in my rented outfit and jewelry. They did my hair all up, and I got some fancy make-up. My hands and feet were painted with red dye, and I even got a nice nose ring. (Don’t worry, any administrators reading this; it’s not actually real.)

The performance went off, if not perfectly. The stage was a little bigger and the music a little slower than usual, but we concluded without too many glitches. Many of the key people in my life here were able to attend—my mentor and facilitator and their husbands and even my dearest Secunderabad friends, Patrick, Jessie, Evan, and Eli. My mentor’s husband decided that I should become a famous Indian classical dancer in the US, begin a dance school, get rich, and then fly them over to visit.

Patrick and Jessie teamed up to take video and still shots during the show. I’m sure their shots are a lot better than mine, but I thought I’d post the one that I have now so that you get the idea. Next to me is my dance partner, Sweeya, of course.

Bargain, Baby, Bargain

So I’m totally going to steal a good idea from my pal Patrick and attempt to capture the bargaining process. I first met with this system in Thailand, and although I was initially quite uncomfortable with it, I’ve now grown to enjoy it. It’s really a great method to make you more of a self-advocate (or maybe just pushy). For better or worse, that’s one aspect of myself that’s really developed—my ability to take a hard line and make demands.

So let’s say I’m strolling through a bazaar, and a man comes up offering me a coral necklace. Our interaction would go something like this:

Seller: Coral necklace! Very beautiful.
Erin: Uh, I don’t know. . . (as I take a sideways glance at it)
Seller: For you, good price.
Erin: (if I’m interested) I don’t really like it.
Seller: Very beautiful on you. (he holds it up, tries to put it into my hands)
Erin: I don’t know. It is ugly. (I scowl)
Seller: Good for you! Very cheap.
Erin: How much do you want? (skeptical)
Seller: 450 rupees only!
Erin: Too much, too much! (I put my hand up, and walk away)
Seller: (he runs after) Make a price!
Erin: (if I want it) I do not like it. 50 rupees!
Seller: Not possible! 300 rupees.
Erin: No way, dude. I am poor teacher.
Seller: OK, no business today, so 300 rupees, very cheap.
Erin: I live here. Give me Indian price. (blank-faced)
Seller: Coral for you. 250 rupees, last price.
Erin: Too expensive. Good-bye. (I walk)
Seller: One more price. Name price.
Erin: 80 rupees only.
Seller: Impossible! (I continue walking)

At this point the seller either gets fed up with me because I’m seriously low-balling him, or he follows after.

Seller: OK. Your price, your price!

And I win!

A Day of School at KV Kanchanbagh

Today was a pretty classic day, so I thought I’d try to capture it for you. After the usual routine of getting ready in the morning, I walk out my door and to the main street. Today my 9th class friend, Mudassar is waiting for me. He’s just barely reached the age when he thinks it just might be possible to win me over. Poor boy. I don’t think he realizes just how old I am, as many Indians look older than they are, and I’m just the opposite. We do our usual greeting and stand in silence, watching for a 7-person auto-rickshaw.

After a few minutes, one arrives and I squeeze in beside three other women. One man sits on the seat across from us, but it is the unspoken rule here that women are separated from men, even when it’s uncomfortable. Although I’d personally rather just sit next to the man, I decide it’s better to follow the custom. I’d hate to get a reputation as a "loose American" who sits next to MEN.

On the way to school, the auto-rickshaw does its usual swerving to avoid goats, motorcycles, pot-holes, and trucks full of bricks (those are the ones that still get my blood rushing). Everyone is out doing their morning routines: the female street sweepers are working at a 45 degree angle with their straw brooms, the farmers are rolling in on carts pulled by water buffalo, and the pan sellers are rolling up their tobacco sweetness. It’s loud with horns and people, but it’s even more smelly. I wear sunglasses to keep the dust out of my eyes. It doesn’t work.

I reach my intersection (Phiselbunda) in about 20 minutes and pay the driver 5 rupees. After walking a short distance past the fruit carts, I walk through the school gate and past the guard. Now the greetings begin. "Good morning, Madam!" The students are going out of their way to "wish me," as they say here. After signing my name and time of arrival in the great big, master book, I continue to the ladies staff room.

Here a few teachers are in the midst of a heated discussion over, well, something. I can’t understand a word, but I know I don’t want to get involved. I open my locker, take out my books, store my purse, and the bell rings to signal the beginning of the morning assembly. I walk amid a sea of greetings and take my position in the back of the long rows of lines. I won’t describe the details of the morning assembly now, as I’m planning to post on this later.

After the assembly, the students file out of the playground and to their classrooms in line. I have the first two periods free and return to the staff room to read the newspaper. There are a few people who basically run errands all day for the teachers. I call them "helpers," but the teachers look on them as servants. Teachers give them grocery lists, mail, lunch orders, etc. So one of the "helpers" has me sign for an arrangement (subbing period). This is their technique for covering absent teachers. I usually only get one arrangement a day, but one of the other Fulbright teachers has had to teach all nine periods a few times!

My arrangement is with my VIB class, who is adorable and lovely. When I peak in the window of their silent classroom, four student monitors are leading the group in some way exercise. They keep the children in line better than I do! I walk into the room and the class stands up, "Good morning, Madam!" And they won’t sit down until I tell them to, little darlings. I don’t know many of their names, so I really do call them "darling" or "honey" or "sweetie."

In the middle of class, one class VI student comes in asking me for the class’s unit 2 exam grades. I need to write the grades onto a master sheet for the class teacher. Now, at this very moment. In the middle of my 35 minute class. In front of all of the students. And then I’m to give this list to the student, so he can bring it back to the class teacher. Growl. I do not like this. But I sigh away my frustration at this lack of respect for my class time, as well as lack of confidentiality for my students; this is the system, and I work with it.

During third period I meet with class VIIIB. This is my largest (48 students), liveliest and brightest class, and I notice that a number of my stars are absent today. I find out they are at home, studying for exams, probably with tutors. As counterintuitive as this sounds, it’ll probably work out for them as the school day is full of interruptions and distractions. I do some revision (review) with the class and answer many of their "doubts." They use the word doubt here like we use the word question. On my first day, however, I was shocked at the impertinence of the girls in this class who kept insisting that they doubted me!

Fourth period I go back to my class VIB class, and I find it in chaos. One of my sweetest girls is crying, I’m told another boy is vomiting, a parent stands outside talking to a few kids, and when I walk in, eight kids leap up to greet me in person. After only 10 minutes of settling them down, however, I’ve got them copying the blackboard, ready to work. One good thing about teaching young children is that they’re resilient.

Fifth period I have free, and I write a letter asking for Principal Sir’s permission to take leave. This letter feels legitimate because I’m having to take days off for a conference next week, but I’ve written previous letters asking permission to go out of town during the weekend. I can’t imagine how teachers would react to reporting their whereabouts to the principal every time they left town. Are we children or professionals?

Lunchtime and I listen to a lot of conversation that I don’t understand. Two teachers share their food with me, which is much appreciated as it’s always better than mine. I catch a few key words that make me inquire as to the subject of discussion, and it’s told to me that there is a parent-teacher meeting today during 8th and 9th periods. Yes, I’m required to go. It’s two days before exams, and we’re taking class time to meet with parents. Fabulous.

So during my free 6th period I jump onto a computer and whip up a review sheet for my class VIIIA students, whose class I should be having during 8th and 9th periods. Then I run up to my VIIB class for seventh period. They are characteristically slow to get going, but I’ve trained them to become quiet at the count of 5, which actually works. This is my most valuable tool in all of my classes, as I was having a lot of trouble getting their attention without yelling at the top of voice and acting very mean. After counting slowly up to 5, I rate each class’s progress, telling them whether they are winning or losing in comparison to my other classes. This integration of competition when it comes to quieting down has been key.

After class VIIB I rush off to sit on the right side of the room with the other six female teachers. Across from us, the two male math (or maths, as they say here, which drives me crazy) teachers sit. (I think I’ve mentioned the division between male and female teachers. . . I’ve even noticed a bit of antagonism between them. Some women feel that the men gang up on them, taking sides during competitions, etc. It is amazingly petty.) I really try to stay awake listening to the principal lecture on school policies. Then some of the teachers speak about their classes, and the parents are free to ask questions. Every few minutes a cell phone goes off over the din of children running in the hallways outside. I just can’t imagine why they’re in the hallways. Only nine teachers plus the principal are in a meeting in the middle of the school day.

After the meeting, parents are invited to come up and ask individual teachers about their children. This is the best, awkward moment for me—perhaps you can guess why. I don’t know most of the children’s names! In fact, I’m so bad that I’m not even 100% sure from the name whether their child is a boy or a girl! So I fudge as best I can, making broad statements and avoiding pronouns. "Doing OK. Could volunteer to speak more. Studying for the exam, I hope?"

The day ends at 2:40, and the staff room is locked within the hour. I don’t know how the officials can expect teachers to correct all of the little books thoroughly with less than an hour of work-time after school. And taking home 50 books at night is rather impossible. There are certainly some admirable qualities about this school, and many among my students, but I still do not fully understand this system. I think few of the Indian teachers do either. Part of me just wants to take the school over, become the principal and implement some necessary changes. And then part of me just wants to go home to a system that makes at least a little more sense.

Mysore, Colorful Mysore

Mysore speaks the best through photos. So we'll start out by climbing the 1000 steps to the Sri Chamundeswari Temple. There's a road to the top, but we chose to make the climb with the other good pilgrims. There's nothing like working for your spiritual awakening.

That evening we taxied over to Maharaja's Palace, which was all lighted up for the Dusserra Festival. A couple days later we took a tour of the inside.

The next day was the annual Mysore Parade, which I've heard is the best in India. After a long wait in the sun, we were gratified with painted elephants, dancing girls, firebreathers, and more.

No parade is complete without a tribute to the nation's missile defense system.

The next day we found one of the most colorful and photogenic bazaars that I've seen so far in India.

It was a beautiful holiday, but I found it hard to capture with any meaningful detail partially because I wasn’t very good about writing every day, but even more because I think I was just too happy during those 13 days. There is something to the idea that good writing (which is so much about good observation) is really born out of suffering. With a packed schedule, good food, and excellent company, I really had little time to contemplate the minute details of my experience. I was too busy enjoying it all!

School Inspection

This week all the teachers were in a tizzy because the annual inspection was to take place on Thursday. Suddenly the staff room was filled with stacks of little orange-covered notebooks for correction. The normal intensity of the room was magnified, emotions flared, snapping ensued, and it generally became an even less healthy working environment. I was relatively cool, as I’m only a guest here, but when the day came even I shuddered as the stern AC Officer walked through the ranks of uniformed children and onto the stage for morning assembly.

She began ripping into the school during her morning address. The prayer was off-key. The music madam must correct this. I began to realize why people were getting so nervous. This was a PUBLIC evaluation of each and every member of the school. At the end of the day the AC Officer and the inspection team of different KV principals would hold a meeting with all of the teachers and staff and personally report their findings.

We had been informed that on the inspection day we should use a teaching aid (what a façade!), so I armed myself with my true/false cards and went to my classes as usual. And sure enough, at the beginning of my second period she settled herself down in the back of my class. Luckily, I’m rather accustomed to being observed, and class progressed normally and even better because the students were terrified and thus little angels.

Half-way through the class she stood up and addressed my students. "You love your English Madam, yes? You will cry when she leaves? You must learn as much as you can from her before she leaves." Well, that wasn’t so bad. I had expected her to start critiquing me there, because this is what the principal had done during his inspection at the beginning of my teaching term. (He decided to observe my class the day after I had come back from having dengue fever—oh, so kind of him. . . He scolded me for not walking around the room to be sure everyone was involved. Little did he know that I was supporting myself on the front table so that I wouldn’t fall over!)

Every time a teacher entered the staff room there was a flurry of excitement as everyone would ask, "Over? Over?" which is the word they use for "finished." They all demanded to know what the AC Officer had said. No privacy here!

At the end of the day we all gathered in the hall and awaited the Judgement. The inspection team filed in 15 minutes late and sat at the front. The principals reported their observations first, and they were quite kind and didn’t mention teachers’ names. Criticisms were made, however, and everyone was a little on edge when the AC Officer finally stood up to speak.
After critiquing the school grounds, she began by speaking about, oh joy, me. I braced myself for the assault, but it was almost worse than I had expected; I sat there red faced as she complimented me through the roof. Her barrage of flattery ended with applause, to my mortification.

Then her tone changed and she progressed to more scathing remarks about an upper level English teacher. I don’t know how that woman wasn’t reduced to tears, her rebukes were so personal. After berating a few other teachers, she whipped out the test scores for this year and started interrogating individual teachers about why the scores were so low. I sat cringing in my seat.

Teachers in the US complain about not being treated as professionals, but in comparison to India, I don’t know if any US teacher can say that. The inspection was particularly unfair because it’s not clear to the teachers what they are being judged on. Is there a rubric, criteria, or checklist? No. A couple teachers were so reduced to children, that they began arguing back with the AC Officer. . . making things even worse. This is what happens when the practice of public shaming is extended to teachers.

After the meeting, I hoped to slip out quietly as I was seriously mortified at being the only teacher praised. But immediately after we left the hall, my fellow teachers started smiling and shaking my hand, one of the first being that English teacher who was ripped apart. I meekly smiled back, and they told me I must bring them sweets tomorrow.

This is a lovely custom in India that I would wouldn't mind bringing back home. When someone experiences great joy—an honor, a Birthday, a marriage of a loved one—they bring sweets for their colleagues to share their joy. Isn’t that nice? (Although my teeth are probably going rotten with the daily sweets I get from the Birthday children.)

I happily took part in this tradition by bringing back some special Kerela sweets after my south India trip, but this time I wasn’t so excited about bringing sweets. Wouldn’t it be kind of rubbing my honor in my colleagues’ faces? But my mentor insisted it was appropriate so I brought them, but it was ridiculously awkward for me.

I think I’m glad that I got to experience the inspection process; it was certainly Indian in many ways. But I am just as glad that it is over.

Ooty of the Mountains

Ooty is a hill station up in the mountains. It was where the English went to escape the heat, and it's where the well-to-do Indians now vacation during the hot, summer months. We went during the off-season, which meant that everyone wanted to sell us something and it was rather CHILLY. We went from wanting air-conditioning to building a fire to keep warm! It was actually quite cozy to have a couple of evening conversations around the fire. If we hadn't concluded the evenings by returning to our cold and slightly musty beds, it would have been better.

The town of Ooty was a bit of a disappointment. It had fallen to the clutches of over- development, and its old charm was overrun pretty completely. Luckily, the surrounding tea plantations were still lovely, and we hired a guide to take us around the countryside for a day.

We all felt quite at home as we tromped through the tea fields, up gullies, and through sheep pastures. At times I felt as if I was back in Switzerland, and Jessie commented that she felt she was in Ireland. The scenery was quite different from what we were used to in India. We stopped in a little village for lunch, and watched the man make tea. I was full of anticipation, since we were in tea country, but was disappointed by how sweetened the tea was--you couldn't even really taste the tea! But at least Patrick snuck a great shot of the man cooling the tea. Perhaps I should take this moment to comment that I am totally stealing all of Patrick and Jessie's photos from the trip for the blog. We saved my photos on Patrick's computer, and the back-up disk is not working for me. So I hope you're enjoying their quality shots!

As we passed through the village, children began trailing behind us. It still amazes me how fascinating we are just because we're lighter in color. They all wanted to kiss Eli and pinch poor Evan's cheeks, and Patrick was forced to carry him as a protective measure. Even some of the water buffalo were afraid of us because we were strange looking. In this shot you can see the buffalo staring Jessie and children down.

After a few days in the brisk, clean air, we were ready to move on to Mysore, a city that was working itself up into a festive frenzy for Dusserra.

Houseboat in the Backwaters

After negotiating about prices and bopping between a couple boating companies, Patrick finally got us a good deal on a 3-bedroom houseboat that would serve us meals and take us deep into the Kerala backwaters overnight. Jessie and I really got the best deal because we avoided most of the sweaty bargaining process by dipping into a local restaurant for some tea under the fans. Then, when we heard that the houseboat had been prepared, we followed the men carrying our luggage across the bridge, by the slightly-too-aggressive cow, and onto our luxury houseboat.

And we were off. Slowly puttering our way into the backwaters, which really don't feel too unpopulated, it turns out. Kerala is actually the most densely populated state in India, and thus it was not surprising to see houses precariously balanced on slivers of land between two large bodies of water. You can see one such sliver in the photo of Patrick and Evan, actually. A house was located right next to our docked houseboat here, and in the morning the inhabitants slowly walked by the houseboat, staring at us silently. It was quite uncomfortable. I guess I should be used to this feeling of privilege, but it just seemed too extreme when we had hired an entire boat with a crew of three for a "glimpse into the Kerala backwaters." Did these people feel like a cultural exhibit that I was paying to view? I actually hid in my room for a little while in the morning, because I was too embarrassed to face them.

But, in any case, we did get a glimpse into the lives of those who live on the waters of Kerala. And all I could think about was how jealous I was. Why couldn't I have been placed here?! Why did the Fulbright people put a Vermonter in one of the largest cities in India? I guess I came to India to get out of my comfort zone, so I shouldn't be complaining but . . . it was really nice in Kerala.

There were so many fabulous photos to be had, but the slow pace of the boat was just fast enough to make them hard to catch. Just to set things straight, Patrick did try to hire a punting boat, but it seems that these are being "phased out." Disappointing because it would have been more peaceful and environmentally friendly if we could have avoided a motor. Then perhaps I wouldn't have felt so guilty about all the raw sewage that we were contributing to the river.

The scary mass in front of the boat is actually a flock of ducks. Amazing? Yes, it was pretty cool.

The food on the boat was great, and our boat hands enjoyed taking turns bouncing the happy Eli. Patrick heroically leaped out of the boat at one point to venture into a local village and score Jessie and I a bottle of Indian red wine. It was sweet, which isn't surprising since Indians are quite famous for their love of syrupy items. Have I mentioned the sweets in India? We'll save that for a future post.

The houseboat stint ended too early for my tastes, and we were again on the road. A long travel day lay ahead of us, and it ended in a train station in the rain-soaked Coimbatore. The monsoon rains were coming down so hard that we had to hire a van to take us across the river of a road to our hotel which was right across from the train station. Then Patrick and I had a serious conversation with the manager of the hotel when he tried to charge us for a triple room, when what we really had was a double with a cot. I must admit that I was pretty proud when the conversation had reached a deadlock, and I said off-handedly that I would need to write Lonely Planet a little letter about the hotel they had recommended. A few minutes later we were walking away with what we wanted, and the manager was just oh-too-friendly for the rest of our stay. . . which happily wasn't long because we were off to hill station Ooty.

Varkala

When you live inland, any town that’s on the ocean is exotic; and we chose Varkala as our beach destination of relaxation. We deserved it. Yes, and we knew we deserved it. So we got two cute, little chalets on the top of the cliffs overlooking the sea and basked in Kingfishers (served in mugs because few of the restaurants here have liquor licenses) on the beach. That first night was golden—Jessie, you are so right—and we settled into our friendship and discussed things that were actually important. Evan made railroad tracks in the sand for three hours while we listened to the ocean and the stimulating conversation. It really is just too nice to sit down with people of common thought. I miss this in India. I’m just now feeling this in Rutland.

That three-hour dinner began a series of pleasant evenings that really made me settle into the trip; but that also make my empty apartment even more quiet now.

The next day we walked the beach and decided it was, although scenic, not so friendly to Western beacher styles, so we climbed the hill to a 5 star hotel pool where we could show some skin and not get carried away by the fierce rip tides. The hotel had a kiddie pool for Evan and Eli and an in-pool bar for the rest of us. Another tasty lunch later we were heading for a nap in the chalets before walking the tourist strip up north. Shopping paradise is what we found, particularly because it is the off-season so Patrick was able to negotiate his merry way down to some good deals. He enjoys it perhaps too much, but it’s pretty amusing to watch as he bargains over 25 cents.

We didn’t even reach the end of the strip before we decided to turn back and settle into one of the myriad restaurants that sport warm, red lighting and fresh fish displayed by the sidewalk. This place apparently had a liquor license, because my fancy drink came in a glass rather than a tea cup. Another lazy dinner later we rickshawed to our chalets and slept comfortably in the sea breeze.

But an early morning awaited us as we were to drive up to Alleppey to catch a houseboat into the backwaters of Kerela!

Fort Cochin

Normally I’d be a little embarrassed to visit a town like this while traveling in India. But this time I didn’t. I was tickled pink when we walked out of our cozy homestay and passed five groups of white folks on our way to a quaint English tea house. Sitting at our gorgeous wooden tree of a table, we sipped our tea while listening to three languages, none of which were Indian.

After lunch we threw ourselves into the tourist activities with gusto. First on the list was the series of Chinese fishing nets strewn along the Lakshadweep Sea. Using a system of counterweights, these large nets require 4 men to work them. I was mostly impressed by the large rocks that seemed to be precariously hanging high above our heads. I didn’t see any fish caught, strengthening my suspicion that perhaps these nets were more for the tourists than for the fishermen. But I could be wrong.

After touring Santa Cruz Basilica and relishing the change of scenery including Portuguese architecture and *gasp* sidewalks, we made our way to Jew Town. This street felt more Indian in that the roadway was packed with small shops containing merchants who received top marks in Harassment of Tourists School. Now, although we don’t feel like tourists after living in India for 2 ½ months, we still certainly look like them. After we had turned away, one feisty seller called after us that he would give us his, "Temptation Price!" which we thought was a great line.

Before going to a traditional Kathakali performance, we had to stop by the entirely comforting Kashi Art Café. Jessie and Patrick are fellow coffee snobs, and I think I can speak for them and say that this was the best coffee we had had since coming to India. And the chocolate and carrot cake was just icing on the larger cake of comfort.

At this point we were ready to sit for a couple of hours during the intricate story play that is Kathakali. The actors use facial expressions and hand gestures (mudras) to convey the chanted story, and drums provide the basis for the performance. Kathakali came into its form during Shakespeare’s time, and the costumes and make-up really augment the production. I must admit, however, that those people back in the day must have had longer attention spans. Sometimes an argument or battle would continue and continue. . . The ending was worth the wait, however, when one leader killed the other and proceeded to cut his enemy’s heart and entrails out with his fingernail and then wash his wife’s hair with the blood. Luckily Evan was already engrossed in his new auto-rickshaw so he missed this gruesome conclusion.

The next day we wasted no time. After eating at our favorite Art Café and stocking our body’s coffee supply, we took off to a Jain Temple, spice market, and St. Francis Church. Patrick may scoff when he reads that I visited the church as Jessie and I never actually entered. I’ll admit that we got slightly distracted in the process of bargaining for some skirts/pants outside, which seemed a lot more important at the time.

And then that afternoon, it was time to jump the train to Varkala.

October South India Trip

Sorry for the lack of updates, faithful readers. I should have mentioned that my school has an October break for 10 days, and I'm spending it blissfully traveling around southern India. But this time I'll not be bemoaning my lonely, female traveler state. The other Fulbright teacher in Hyderabad invited me along on his family vacation. So I've been having various adventures with Patrick; his wife, Jessie; their dear three-year-old, Evan; and the bubbly baby of 8 months, Eli. I thought I'd have numerous opportunities to blog during naps and tantrums, but this young family certainly doesn't slow down for much, if anything. We'll be returning to Hyderabad on Thursday, October 25, so I'll have an opportunity then to post many stories and photos of our adventures . . . including:

Fort Cochin: a Portuguese town on the coast
Varkala: the beachy, red-cliff tourist town
Allepeny: sporting houseboats in the backwaters of Kerala
Ooty: an overdeveloped hill-station in the gorgeous tea plantation covered hills
Mysore: a culturally rich, small city sporting elephant parades during Deshara
Bangalore: a short trip into the cyber capital of India

Teaching Techniques & Sarees

I'm really having an enjoyable time discovering the differences about teaching here in India. First of all, the students won't listen to me unless I act angry. In the US, I often use the "silent technique" of staring down my students until they quiet themselves. Here, that would never work. So I tried to tell the students firmly to be quiet. . . This didn't work very well either, and it slowly wore down my vocal chords. Finally, an edge of frustration began entering my voice. And suddenly, I got a reaction. So I used this technique a little more. Suddenly, every child was responding to my directives. In the US, I purposely don't let the children see my emotions. It encourages too many of them to act out even more if they see they're affecting the teacher. Here I have to act angry even if I'm not so that I get their attention.

It's also astounding to me how public shaming is used here. Naughty children are called up onto the stage during morning assembly, and teachers regularly viciously rip into the children. The other day I heard a teacher tell a parent that her daughter needs to lose weight, and the girl was standing right there! Instead of having a low self-esteem, however, I am continually impressed by how tough these kids are. They stand up and take the tongue lashings without even flinching.

I must admit, I'm using a bit of the shaming technique in my classes. . . Hey, while in Rome! And, confidentially speaking, it's sort of satisfying. For instance, if a student is day-dreaming or off-task, I'll ask him/her to answer the question that the class has been discussing. In most cases, the student can't answer, so I have him/her stay standing while I ask other students the same question. It's become sort of a game. I'll call on a few students that I know will say the correct answer, and then I'll go back to the weak student. Sometimes, he/she still can't answer so I'll call on a few more people. I don't allow the student to sit, however, until she/he says the right answer. It certainly puts the pressure on the student, particularly when he looks like an idiot when he still can't answer the question after it has been repeated 10 times.

Below is a photo from the morning assembly. KV Kanchanbaugh has approximately 850 students classes 1-12. They are in lines according to their class, sex, and height.

Today I wore a saree to school for the first time. Although I had learned how to wrap it the night before, I got insecure in the morning and asked my landlady to help me. I knew I would get a reaction at school, but the magnitude really staggered me. Everyone who saw me burst into a huge smile and congratulated me. I oozed with compliments. And I must admit, I did feel like a queen. Below is a photo of me with two of my favorite teachers. The one on the left is a physics teacher who doesn't take any nonsense from her students, and the one on the right is a Hindi teacher who giggles and squeezes my arm with delight every time she sees me in the morning. And please notice how I am NOT short in India!

Indian Classical Dance, etc.

I'm having a tough time writing this next post. Sometimes it just feels like everything is happening too quickly, and I can't step back and get a perspective. These days I don't get home until around 7:30 or 8, which is great for my social life but poor for posting potential. I'll try to briefly get my head around the last week for you all, however.

Dance. Indian classical dance! This is my life right now. When Indians want to be helpful, they are helpful to the extreme, and when a student and her mother found out that I was interested in learning traditional Indian dancing, they pretty much adopted me. I've been at their house basically every day for the last week. In case you didn't know, it's really very hard to say no to an Indian or to an invitation. And really my time here is all about saying, "yes" and I sort of have a rule that I don't say no unless absolutely necessary. I didn't really want to take on a second dance class, but I am now so thankful that I followed my yes rule.

So I've been learning a semi-classical dance from Sweea's dance master, who is the most effeminate not gay man I've perhaps ever met. (I'm serious here; he was fake crying with tears the other day for some reason, I don't know why, because he speaks very little English.) It's costing me some money, but I think the overall experience is worth it. Last Tuesday Sweea's mother took me shopping, and I bought my first two sarees as well as fabric for three salwar kameezes. (I'm sporting one of them in the dance photo below.)

Last Sunday Sweea's mother invited me to go on a day-trip to a dam outside of town. Of course, I couldn't say no, and I was actually excited because I had read about the dam in my Lonely Planet book. It turned out that we were actually going to a different dam 2 times the distance with seven early twenty-year-olds who were all family. At first this was a welcome surprise--Indian college students who are approximately my age, cool! In the end, however, they made me feel quite old. Don't get me wrong, these were lovely, nice, energetic people and they were totally friendly with me. But they were also incredibly, even regrettably, boisterous. Boisterous is a kind word here for loud. And loud is an understatement.

For those of you who know me, I think you'll agree that I can sometimes get out-of-control loud. It was not a rare day during my childhood that I was scolded for talking too loudly, and goodness knows I learned early on not to raise my voice in a car. These volume faux pas don't really seem to exist in India. We left at 5:30 in the morning and by 7 they were warmed up and ready to sing, yell, and scream at the top of their lungs. The festive atmosphere was augmented by various tussles and playful pulling of hair. The driver was by no means left out of the fun, and I must admit that I became a little nervous when a cousin grabbed his hair or punched him on the shoulder as a bus veered into our lane. The best part was, of course, that I couldn't understand most of their conversation; so when they would burst out into a chorus of "ohhhhhh!" I had no idea what we were ohhhhhing about. At one point the volume level was so unbelievable that I rolled down the window and tried to subtly stick my head out of it. . . but then there were those big buses that came just a little too close, so I opted for a double dose of IBprofen instead.

These are two women that I met on the road, when we stopped for tea. Aren't they just the image that pops to your mind when you think of India?

Since I survived, I can now look back on the trip and conclude that it was a worthwhile experience. I saw some beautiful parts of the Andhra Pradesh countryside, and we even drove through a tiger reserve on the way to a huge dam. Near the dam we visited a large Hindu Temple in Srisailam, which I always enjoy. Hindus have the best rituals, I must say.

So we went from flat, low-tree, boulder-strewn countryside. . .

to this lush, mountainous, forest with cliffs. I know that I have some relatives/friends that would love to provide a geological explanation for this. Please comment!

Tuesdays and Thursdays I continue to stay after school to meet my young, female dance teacher, Archana. She is simply lovely and is just enamored with me. I think we're finally over the phase of our relationship where she spends the first 15 minutes of our class taking photos of us together . . . talking on the couch, lounging in front of a tree, taking a walk down the lane. She likes to call me Barbie Doll, which I think is just hilarious. She wants me to come to her house so that she can dress me up in one of her sarees and take more photos. And although it doesn't really sound so fun to me, it'll probably happen as I'm not one to say no.

A Walk Around My Block

The following is the article that appeared in the Sunday Perspective in The Times Argus and Rutland Herald. I thought I'd republish it here for those who are out of town.

Every day I try to take a walk around my neighborhood. After each outing, I return having discovered a new food, tradition, or personality. Let me take you around the block with me; I hope you will discover something new yourself.

I begin by turning right and walking down a relatively quiet residential street. I know a few people on my block, but I am sure they all know me. I pause briefly to avoid a cricket ball. An impromptu game has begun, and four teenage boys are practicing for the national team. In case you had not heard, India won the championship for cricket this year. It was an exciting game, and I watched the last 2 hours as the match turned for India. I even picked up a few of the rules.

The road shortly dead-ends onto a more bustling street. In front of me is one of the myriad bangle stores that characterizes Hyderabad. I passed dozens of bangle shops during my first month here, but I did not make a purchase as I felt a certain loyalty to the local man who never demanded that I enter. Instead, whenever I passed his shop, his face somehow said, "Why don’t you want to buy my bangles? Where else could you be going?" Two days ago I had no good answer to this question, so I went in and made a few purchases. "A few," meaning quite a few. Let’s just say his patience paid off.

So today my bangle man looks up from the counter, and I wave, shaking my bangles and greeting him, "Assalam alai kum!" This is the Urdu greeting used by Muslims. He nods and laughs, as everyone does when I speak in Urdu or Hindi. Across from his shop a temporary hut shelters a clay oven called a bhatti. Since the beginning of Ramadan, a man has been pounding a dough-like mixture made of meat and wheat in a large kettle. This typical Muslim food will be eaten after sunset, when they break their fast. During Ramadan Muslims are encouraged to fast, thus redirecting the mind from world affairs and cleansing the inner soul. It is celebrated during the ninth month, when the Qur’an was first revealed.

I turn right and pass a dumpster. At first I was impressed at the sight of dumpsters in Hyderabad. Trash cans are hard to find in India, and I’m accustomed to looking for the local "pile." The presence of dumpsters, however, does not inhibit the practice of throwing refuse on the ground. The garbage is strewn in front of the half-full dumpster, and the smell would shock even the man on the Dirty Jobs TV show. A sad-looking stray cat, one of thousands, picks through the trash. I move to the other side of the road.

Now I pass a little girl, dressed in one of the frilly dresses that I see in the bazaars. She hides behind the curtain at the entrance to her house, but her eyes betray curiosity. Noticing the bindi on her forehead, I greet her in Hindi, "Namaste." She puts her hand to her mouth in surprise, her eyes opening wide. Perhaps she is thinking similar thoughts to one of the fifth grade students at my school who pointed at my arm and asked, "Are you sick?" My pale skin does indeed look sick to an Indian child, and I hope the media does not teach them otherwise. Too many students and teachers touch my skin with envy; too many products in the stores read, "whitening!" Ironically, it is only in India, where my skin is so contrasting, that I don’t feel self-conscious about my paleness. People here would think I was out of my mind if I tried to get a tan.

When I turn right again, I am greeted with a lane that is strewn with lights. Music blares from a podium on which sits a large statue of Ganesha, the Hindu god with an elephant’s head. The most common story of his birth tells that Parvati, one of Shiva’s consorts, created Ganesha one day to guard the door while she bathed. Shiva returned to be denied entry, and he cut off the figure’s head. When he discovered that he had killed Parvati’s son, Shiva ordered his attendants to bring the head of the first animal they encountered, which turned out to be an elephant.

Ganesha is the Lord of Beginnings and currently Hindus are celebrating his Birthday, Ganesh Chaturthi. The festival lasts ten days during which elaborate Ganesha sculptures made of plaster of Paris are displayed throughout the streets. On the tenth day, the Ganesha idols are paraded through the streets. Drums and dancing often accompany the procession, and colorful powder is thrown onto everyone—even the local foreigner holding two cameras, I discovered.

In Hyderabad, the parade ends at the great Hussain Sagar Lake, where the idols are immersed. I am sure I am not the only Vermonter to wonder about the environmental impact of this tradition. Apparently the idols were originally made out of natural, local materials, and the immersion represented the return to the earth of all things. The rise in the popularity of this festival, however, also stimulated commercial interests that preferred the lighter, cheaper, and more malleable plaster of Paris.

After walking down the decorated lane, I make a final right turn and narrowly miss a motorcycle that is veering around a rickshaw. My heart hardly skips a beat, however; in India these close calls are so common that they cease to be alarming. Ironically, I think I am more laid-back here, despite the fact that the traffic is literally controlled chaos. The lack of sidewalks makes any walk life threatening, and I have gradually improved my ability to be a tourist while keeping one eye always on the road.

I pass a stand of vegetables, a cage of live chickens, and a man pushing a cart of tin objects yelling something that sounds like, "Kureeaa!" People in burqas pass me, their unreadable eyes staring. Last week I met a young, Muslim woman who had been visiting my landlady. She was on her way out when we met, and she was already obscured by her black robes. I felt very awkward because I could not tell how she felt about me—was she scowling under her head covering? My landlady sensed my insecurity and told her to unveil, revealing a beautiful and big smile. I like to imagine that all of the burqa-clad women I pass on the street and ride with in the rickshaws have similar expressions.

Now I am nearing my apartment, and I see that I am just in time to get an ear of roasted corn. I pick out a piece with soft kernels and husk it before handing it over to the weathered man. He places the piece of corn on a bed of coals and entices the fire with a cardboard fan. After a few minutes, he takes the piece from the fire and rubs it with lemon, salt, and chili powder. Four rupees (ten cents) later, I’m enjoying my Indian snack that reminds me just a little bit of home.

Cheater's Paradise

I recently administered exams here in Hyderabad, and it became clear that cheating is a way of life in my school and, from what I hear, in many Indian schools. I’m quite accustomed to being the hawking watch-dog during 10th grade exams or while proctoring SATs, and I feel like I’ve got a pretty good handle on the techniques often employed by desperate teens. I see the warning signs—the shifty eyes, the restless hands, the slightly irregular tilt of the head.

On the first day of exams, I walked into the room and my cheat odometer practically blew a fuse. The students weren’t cheating at that point, of course, but the potential for cheating was remarkable. One student from class 6 and one from class 7 sat at one desk. Superficially, this seems like a good idea as both students are taking different tests. However, the reality is that the older student just last year completed a similar test and can thus easily help the other student. And vice versa, even the younger student might help the older student if he/she was better at Hindi or Sanskrit. With 45 students in each classroom, it is almost impossible to catch a student who slyly points to an answer on his neighbor’s page.

Then, of course, there are those lovely desks that have the shelf built-in underneath. Although I suppose I could have looked into every student’s desk for a cheat-sheet before the exam, I ultimately concluded it would give students more ideas. Alarm bells started ringing even louder when I saw all of the students whipping out clipboards. First of all, attaching a cheat-sheet to a clipboard is pretty easy, and secondly, clipboards are tiltable—perfect for classmates sitting behind you. Then, oh joy, there are the pencil boxes that every student owns. These pencil boxes are opened, closed, and shared during the test. Perfect places for a little card of answers? You betcha.

I also found it interesting that the students kept their exam questions. I asked a teacher about this, and she said that each teacher writes slightly different questions each year, so it isn’t a problem. My response? It’s a national curriculum used year after year. How different could the questions be??

Needless to say, I caught quite a few students attempting to cheat. The first two I nabbed writing Sanskrit answers on their hands, and I brought them down to their teacher for remonstration. What did the teacher do after I had explained the situation? Chuckled and shook her head. She wasn’t going to do anything. Happily, another teacher was on the scene and gave the students a royal tongue-lashing. But that was the extent of the consequences.

One of the most difficult aspects of my exam week was that I was not allowed to proctor my own tests. Thus, when I began correcting my classes’ exams, I soon discovered that not all of the teachers were as vigilant as I. But it was hard to prove it until I found two tests that were identical; even the letters to their brothers were exactly the same. So I righteously stomped off to the teacher who was in charge of exams, to ask her about the school’s policy regarding the matter. She looked at the papers, smiled, and then told me to give them both a warning. "Tell them that if it happens again, it will be 10 points off." My stomach churned. "You mean give them the exact same, high grade?" It was reaffirmed. Perhaps I took it too personally, but I seriously felt ill. "Should I report the matter to the principal?" "No." I didn’t even bother mentioning to her that this "first case" of cheating would occur year after year if there was no uniform documentation. And a warning is worth the risk if failing is the other option.

I ended up writing to my exchange partner in Vermont and asking her advice. She gave a much more reasonable response, to my relief, and I penalized both students in the end.
Now I am known by the teachers for my ability to catch students cheating. Even the stone-faced principal poked fun at me during a presentation I made this week

My impression is that many of the teachers are accomplices to cheaters in order to avoid confrontations with disgruntled parents. I’m now calling it the "Don’t show, and I won’t look" policy. Teachers quietly look the other way while students "do what they need to do." And I am left asking, what is the point of this educational system???

Beggars

Beggars are coming up to my apartment now. It’s definitely uncomfortable. I had the window open the other day, and suddenly I realized there was a woman outside of it. She was standing there, not looking in at me, but more at the window pane itself. She was speaking, probably in the local Telegu dialect. At one point, I think she caught a glimpse of me and realized that I did not understand. Another woman came up to her; they laughed briefly, and then moved on.

Today someone rang my doorbell. It was after dark, and I was a little nervous because my principal had warned me just today about letting unknown people into my apartment. I opened the door, and an old man started saying something urgent to me. It wasn’t English and I pointed upwards questioningly, "Do you want the people living above me?" I was a little skeptical when he shook his head yes. My suspicions were confirmed when my landlady’s son came down to talk with the man. "The beggars are getting creative," he told me. "He said that ‘aunty’ had sent him. I asked him to describe her, and he couldn’t."

I have a suspicion that people are going door to door right now because it’s Ramadan. During Ramadan, Muslims are encouraged to be extra hospitable and generous to those less fortunate. I live in a very Muslim neighborhood, so I think they are actually targeting my landlady’s family more than me. This makes me feel better.

The whole beggar situation is quite tricky. I’ve heard various stances on it. Some advise that you give every so often, others say they only give to those who are physically handicapped and thus can’t work, and then there are those that advise that you never give to beggars. It is very true that it is always a risk to give—I once took out a coin to give a little girl, and suddenly a mob of children materialized. I’ve also heard that people are purposely deformed in childhood so that they will be lucrative beggars. (It happens in A Fine Balance.) At this point, I’ve made a not-so-firm decision to withhold my money. I ease my guilt by reassuring myself that I’ll give a chunk of money to a good organization before I leave.