Erin's India Fulbright

Home in Vermont

2007-12-31T13:01:00.000-08:00

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

2007-12-21T08:31:00.000-08:00

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

2007-12-17T07:25:00.000-08:00

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!

2007-12-16T09:07:00.000-08:00

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

2007-12-14T06:59:00.000-08:00

(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

2007-12-12T05:02:00.000-08:00

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

2007-12-12T02:36:00.000-08:00

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

2007-12-06T05:00:00.000-08:00

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

2007-11-27T07:26:00.000-08:00

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

2007-11-15T02:01:00.000-08:00

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

2007-11-06T06:07:00.000-08:00

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

2007-11-04T08:28:00.002-08:00

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

2007-10-28T08:10:00.000-07:00

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

2007-10-27T09:30:00.000-07:00

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

2007-10-25T08:19:00.001-07:00

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

2007-10-25T01:38:00.000-07:00

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

2007-10-22T00:49:00.000-07:00

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

2007-10-11T07:53:00.000-07:00

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.

2007-10-09T07:17:00.000-07:00

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

2007-10-03T08:09:00.000-07:00

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

2007-09-30T09:02:00.000-07:00

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

2007-09-27T08:40:00.000-07:00

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.

Frozen Moment in Time

2007-09-21T04:36:00.000-07:00

Today was one of those days that just clicked. After a pretty normal school-day, I hunkered down in the women’s staff room to wait for my Indian dance class at 6. That’s right—this was one of the exciting events of the day, but we’ll soon come to that. I decided to wander over to the computer lab and do a little e-mailing before it closed down. I turned on a computer, but ended up having a long and interesting conversation with one of the male math teachers.

This wouldn’t have been so odd back in the US, but here males and females are quite segregated—you might have noticed that physically they are separated on the bus as well as in the school staff rooms. So the male teachers simply avoid me. They’ll greet me with a short, "hello," but I don’t even think they’re really meeting my eyes during the passing. This is very typical of educated males in India, as they respect the rules of the society; it is a token of respect that they do not treat me differently than an Indian woman. It would be uncouth to begin a personal conversation with a female teacher, and I imagine this is particularly true for young, foreign, female teachers.

But in the privacy of the computer lab, after hours, we managed to have a great back-and-forth. I was particularly delighted because he wanted to hear about the US educational system, my topic of expertise. I had been feeling a little frustrated with the seeming lack of interest by the female teachers, with whom I share most of my idle hours in the staff room. During breaks, the female staff room can get a little . . . well, shall I say, estrogenized? It seems that someone is always upset (and by this I mean angry, not sad) about something. Whether it’s about the principal, the students, or with each other, I really can’t say—although it’s certainly all three at some point during the week. These Hindi verbal battles are rarely directed at me, but let’s just say they don’t really make for a relaxed working environment. Emotions are certainly on the surface here, and they come out enforce sometimes. But, in any case, it’s always a little disappointing to me when I finish my lunch and realize that I’ve again sat through 20 minutes of conversation that I can’t understand.

So, getting back to the story, having an educated conversation with a male teacher was really a pleasure. Our talk even concluded with him giving me some advice about cultural presentations in Hyderabad. He didn’t offer to take me to anything (that would be crossing the line, I imagine) but he did write down two places that have performances every evening.

I was then called away to meet an English teacher from a neighboring KV school, who is also my exchange teacher’s close friend. She had come to the school explicitly to meet me and seemed to genuinely want to know how I was fairing in India. She promised to take me to some places in Hyderabad and perhaps even on a day trip outside of the city. She also expressed an interest in observing some of my classes, and then ultimately doing some team-teaching. It’s so nice to again be a respected professional; I had forgotten how hard my standing was won at RHS, and how much I appreciate their regard. I am really hoping that she’ll follow through with her intentions, as this could be a really valuable cultural exchange—exactly what my Fulbright is all about.

They started closing the school at 4, so I took off to find the row of stores located on the compound. (Have I mentioned that my school is on a military compound?) As I was walking by a nice park, I heard a car pull up and a man’s voice say, "hey hey hey!" I nonchalantly looked the other direction, into the park, as if remarking on the beautiful gardens. The owner of the voice didn’t leave, however, and then I suddenly heard my name. I turned to see Mani and Rani (my facilitator), smiling at me. I jumped into their car and they happily took me home with them (they live on the compound) for a snack of fried eggs and toast and even a little homemade wine.

Mani dropped me off at my dance class, which is taught by a young female teacher, Archana. She also teaches at my school, and this is how I was connected with her. I walked in to watch about 10 little elementary school girls do Indian dances for me. I was amazed at their display of fine motor skills at such a young age. The finger patterns involved in Indian dance are just beautiful but also challenging, as I was soon to discover. After a few dances, the teacher dismissed the students and turned her attention to me. Archana is a lovely young woman, the first woman who is approximately my age that I have met so far. She began by teaching me the beginning and ending stretch/prayer that is done to thank Brahma for allowing us to beat our feet upon the earth. The movements include a thanks to the gods (signified by joining fingertips above the head), to gurus (signified by joining palms and touching them to the forehead), and then to elders (signified by joining palms in front of the chest).

Then we did a few basic steps, and I think she was encouraged about my ability. (She admitted afterward that she had been nervous about teaching me.) The two older students then guided me through some of the more advanced steps of a dance. It got a little overwhelming at one point when one person was correcting my hand movements, another reminding me about my feet, and then the third critiquing my facial expression. "No, no! You are too happy, you must be serious, with little smile. You are showing Brahma!"

I must admit that I didn’t get all three pieces moving in tandem, but I think I’m getting there. The best part was that Archana would explain to me the history of the dance and the meaning of each movement. The dance I was learning was explaining how the guru (teacher) is lifted to the level of a god. (Pretty appropriate dance for me to learn, I think.) During the dance, all three of the primary gods are depicted: Brahma, the maker of the world; Vishnu, the operator of the world; and Shiva, the God in charge of death. Each hand motion signifies one of them. I felt like I was in an Indian painting.

They wanted to see some American dance towards the end of the class, and I must admit I was at a loss. How many years of dance have I taken, but I couldn’t really show them "American" dancing. . . I guess maybe I could have started grinding or something but, no. Instead I asked them what kind they’d like to see. "Salsa!" was their response. I chuckled, but didn’t point out that this was not a very American dance. Luckily, I had learned the basic salsa step during my TAing days in Chicago, so I did a little bit of that and then threw in a few spins and they loved it. They wanted to see another kind of dance, and I finally decided to show them a little bit of what they might see in the club. . . at a hip-hop show. If you’ve seen me dance, I’m sure you can imagine. Needless to say, they were quite amused (and impressed, of course, by my flashy moves!)

I took the bus home that night. It was around 7:20, and the city had come to life in a new way. Most stores here are open-air stores, and they close with a sliding, metal garage door. Everything was open on my way home, and I enjoyed peaking into each lighted box. Each store was a portrait, a frozen moment in time.

I have moments sometimes when I just feel too incredibly fortune to be here, and emotion fills my eyes. It is at these times that my center catches up with my environment and I am fully present and aware. This was one such moment. My experience came together last night.

Outward Affections

2007-09-19T09:32:00.001-07:00

I find it very ironic that I have never seen anyone kissing on Indian TV, but as a whole Indian culture is much more hands-on. Two men will regularly walk down the street with their arms around each other’s shoulders or holding hands. At first I was impressed; what an open-minded society! But then I realized that it is acceptable for men to touch each other because it is entirely unthinkable that the relationship could be other than platonic. Not so open-minded.

The other Fulbrighter in Hyderabad is having a tough time, because everyone wants to touch his not so touchable 3-year-old. Strangers see him on the street, and immediately run over to pinch his cheeks, rub his head, or even pick him up. I’ve watched as the poor boy runs away from these people screaming, making them want to pinch him even more—so they chase him! I can only imagine how people in the U.S. would react if total strangers started chasing and grabbing their children.

Here’s one physical caress that I discovered. The caresser cups the caressee’s face briefly before making a gentle swiping motion; then they bring their fingertips to their lips and kiss them, as an Italian would after appreciating a good meal. It is so sweet and unobtrusive—no pinching of cheeks like those pesky aunts or up close and personal kissing like those amative French. Just a simple little caress and then kiss to the air.

Woman on the Bus

2007-09-14T09:37:00.000-07:00

I enter a bus, returning from staying at a friend’s house. I scan the front seats, and determine that my best chance of a seat lies in front, next to the saree-clad woman with a few shopping bags. The buses are relative enclaves of safety for me, as hungry-eyed men are relegated to the back seats, and I can tuck myself into a safe nest of women in the front.

The woman sitting next to me looks at me, curiously. I smile, something I would not do if there was a man sitting next to me. She smiles back and says something that I don’t understand. "The USA," I reply, assuming she has asked me what everyone else asks when they first meet me. She nods and smiles and looks out the window shyly. I think the conversation has ended, but a few minutes later she reaches into one of her bags and plucks out two rose blooms, pink and yellow. She offers them to me, and I shake my head, "No, I couldn’t!" But she smiles and takes hold of my hand and presses them into my palm. She smiles and squeezes my hand and nods. I smile and squeeze back.

When she gets off the bus, she looks up and catches my eye. We both smile. We have connected, in some small way. The city streets suddenly seem friendly.

Teacher's Day

2007-09-11T05:40:00.000-07:00

After recovering from a bout of dengue fever (which I don't recommend to anyone), I happily returned to school on a holiday. . . a holiday that celebrated me, in fact! Although I was a little weak, I sat on the stage with the other teachers during the morning assembly. Speeches were made about the value and importance of teachers, and then each teacher (and administrator and staff person, I might add) was called up individually to receive a flower and a fancy pen from their "replacement" for the day. Yes, that's right. Students in classes 10-12 were going to be taking over the classes for the entire day, and the teachers were to sit in our cozy teachers lounge and bask in the glory of being gurus.

Although you might scoff at my use of the word guru, I was actually warned during the Delhi orientation that this is exactly how students view teachers. There is an often told story about a student that stands before God and a teacher, and the student asks, "Whose feet do I touch first?" And the teacher answers that the student should touch God's feet, teaching that one should always give respect to others.

So I went up in front of the school and received my flower, and my replacement teacher bent down to touch my feet before standing and shaking my hand. Then the whole school burst into applause! I was a little taken aback, but then I realized it was probably because I was wearing a salwar kameez for the first time to school. It was a little embarrassing, because no one had clapped before, but I managed to humbly wave, bow, and look sufficiently awkward as I went back to my seat.

The rest of the day was full of cards and flowers and general appreciation. I think it's safe to say that you don't feel unappreciated until you truly feel appreciated, if that makes any sense.

At this point in the blog I think it would be appropriate to report a bit about what I heard from the Academic Joint Commissioner of the KV (government) schools during our orientation in Delhi. He began by getting our attention with a few statistics about government schools. Seventy-five percent are multi-level schools, which means that many classes are taught in the same room (classes 1-5, for instance). All of the Fulbright teachers are placed in big cities, so this was an excellent reminder about how many children are living in rural communities. He also gave a staggering statistic: 53% of primary students drop-out or are forced out of school. By forced out, he meant that they were needed to work and therefore could not continue schooling. This number really shocked me. In fact, I hope I heard him wrong.

His tone was quite hopeful, however, and he convinced me that India is on a new path when it comes to education. He complained about the old system inherited from the British that puts too much emphasis on uniformity and rote learning. He asserted that too much importance is on the tests, and that he wanted education to be more connected with life and more inspired by the child.

It's very interesting. Here is India moving away from a standardized national curriculum and away from emphasizing testing. . . And on the other side of the world America is picking up a more national curriculum and encouraging testing. Our two countries could learn something from each other, I think.

Indian Families

2007-09-06T03:49:00.000-07:00

Indians are very proud of their close family ties, and I think they are right to be proud. I was told that, to get the respect of my students and coworkers, I should express my love for my family. As a single woman, I think I already battle a negative image, particularly because I am not traveling with my family. So during my first speech for the school, I stood up and explained that I enjoy reading, taking photographs, and spending time with my family.

Many Hindu holidays tie in beautifully with the intimacy Indians have with their families. For instance, a week ago we celebrated a holiday for brothers and sisters. The girls made beautiful, sometimes ornate, bracelets (rakhi) and tied them to their brother’s wrists. This is a symbolic action, asking for their brothers to protect them. Although I would have been left out of the fun since I didn’t have a brother until recently, I have to admit that it’s a nice tradition honoring the special bond between brothers and sisters.

I finally brought the camera to school and got a shot of the morning prayer. The entire school, classes 1-12 are lined up behind each other. If you zoom in, you can see that some students are a little more intent on their prayers than others. Indian children are not so different from American ones in some respects.

Article

2007-09-02T06:34:00.000-07:00

Before I left for India, I arranged with the editor of the Perspective to do a series of articles. The first of these articles came out today. The Perspective section comes out each Sunday in both The Rutland Herald and The Times Argus, so hopefully some of you can check it out in print. The online version is not quite so exciting, as it lacks photos. (That's why I had to ask my dad to send me a photo of it.) If you don't have access to the paper, you can find the text at:

http://www.rutlandherald.com/apps/pbcs.dll/article?AID=/20070902/FEATURES15/709020308/1030/FEATURES15

It feels good to be published once in a while. . . adds some authenticity to my teaching.

Hindu-Muslim Tensions

2007-09-01T05:47:00.000-07:00

I didn’t need the two bombings to know that Hyderabad is a bastion of religious intolerance. On the second day of my arrival, I experienced the most blatant religious discrimination that I had ever seen first-hand. I was in the market for a cell phone, and a Muslim friend had offered to give me his old one. When I told my Hindu friends, they practically exploded.

"Do not take the phone. We do not know this Muslim boy."
"He is a Muslim. You cannot trust him."
"They may turn violent any minute."
"Don’t give them any personal information."
"Don’t you remember the Twin Towers?"

They continued ranting and raving for about 10 minutes, and I was literally stunned into silence. I think my jaw even dropped as I stared at them. It was this expression that prompted them to say the line about September 11, I think. I wish I could say that I jumped right in and started gently pointing out that not all Muslims are extremists or killers, but it was my second day in the city, and I didn’t know this couple very well. I was silent.

Two days later, I was having tea with the same couple in addition to another couple from the school. They brought up the whole cell phone incident, and the other couple immediately agreed. This time I tried to stand up for my Muslim friends, explaining that they had been very kind to me. They told me not to be fooled. "That is how they act on the outside. You do not know what is inside. Don’t be fooled. Don’t trust them. They will cheat you."

A week later in the staff room, some of these same people expressed disbelief at the bombings. "Why would anyone want to do this? Why would they want to ruin their own city? They are killing their own countrymen."

Blasts in Hyderabad, I am Safe

2007-08-25T08:46:00.000-07:00

I just got word that there was a bombing in Hyderabad. I am fine. I am safe at home, and I do not plan to leave until I receive more information. Do not worry. I will post again when I have more information.

My 6-Day School Week

2007-08-25T07:39:00.000-07:00

Yes, that's right. Teaching in India is no holiday. I'll be earning my American salary over here. The first day of school went very well. A student in Class 9 who lives next to me guided me in the morning. I'll be taking a 7 (which in India really mean 12 adults, plus 2 babies, and 10 pounds of corn) person rickshaw in the morning, and then a bus back in the afternoon. They aren't pleasant rides, by any means--the roads are foggy with pollution, and at some points I think I'm being choked for air--but they are only 15 minutes each way, so I'll live.

I was greeted by hundreds of "good morning, ma'ams" when I arrived, and each day this week I've enjoyed the same. The day begins with a morning assembly when all the students line up in the courtyard of the school. It is entirely student-presented, with students leading each other in songs, students reading snippets of news reports and/or health updates, and students being recognized for outstanding achievements. My favorite part is the prayer that they do at the beginning. It is in Hindi, but someone translated it roughly for me. They are praying that their minds are open to the knowledge that they will receive today, thanking their teachers and family for their gifts, and hoping that they will be good and true people. I'm sorry, Americans, but I think India's got an edge on our pledge.

I then got my timetable for the day and started off to my first class. The greeting was enthusiastic, to say the least. On the first day I whipped out my world and USA maps and quizzed students on countries and cities before pointing out where I am from. Then I brought out some Vermont postcards, which totally amazed them. I'm teaching 6, 7, & 8th graders so they are still quite young and bright eyed. The 6th graders particularly stared at me dumbfounded when I explained that the Vermont mountains in the autumn were red, orange, and yellow. And everyone wanted to see the postcard of snow.

There are nine 35 minute periods in the day, and I usually teach six of them. I'm often assigned substitution periods, however, to cover teachers that are absent (no union here, by golly, just lay on the work!). I teach two sections of Class 8 and one section of 7 and 6. The textbook and accompanying activities are prescribed, and a syllabus tells me what stories and poems I need to cover each month. Each student has a little class notebook in which he/she writes the answers to the questions and then an activity book for projects. I actually think that I will have a certain degree of freedom once I prove to everyone that I know what I'm doing. On arriving, I got quite a few comments about how young I look, and on the second day the principal started demanding all of this paperwork from me. (Did he think I was a fraud?!) But classes went very well, and the other English teacher tells me that the students are already calling me their best English teacher.

It turns out that Indian students aren't as angelic as I was anticipating. I've certainly had to whip out my "firm teacher voice" a few times, particularly with the 6th graders. Most students are inherently motivated, but not all. By the end of the day I find myself pulling out old tricks to keep them entertained. One convenience is that I feel entirely justified in going off-topic to tell students about life in the US. And there's so much to tell! You know the excitement of making a new friend and getting to tell all of your funny stories all over again? It's like that except I've got an entranced audience of 45 eager to hear about basically anything I have to tell them.

On the first day I asked them to write a paragraph about what they know about the US. It was so interesting. The majority commented about how clean it was. Then they would explain how the laws were very strict there. They would then mention two laws--people are not allowed to throw garbage on the ground and people are not allowed to spit in the street.

American Girl

2007-08-25T05:09:00.000-07:00

One thing I always forget about living abroad is how American you feel. Zeba made me feel most welcome in the apartment. I think she thought it was strange that I would come here alone, however. Within the first 10 minutes of meeting me, she told me that her 15-year-old daughter would sleep with me, if I would like. This was a sticky moment because I didn’t want to sound rude by blankly refusing the offer, but I also didn’t really want the company. As I thanked her profusely and refused, I tried to explain that in America it’s normal to sleep alone. She seemed to understand, but made sure that I had company right up until I went to bed. Not wanting to offend, I kept the door to my apartment open and the daughter, mother and maid went in and out all evening.

In addition to desiring some space, I also could not help but find the apartment filthy. I longed for some bleach. It wasn’t disgusting, but it was just not clean. Later that week I went with the daughter and maid to the store and tried to buy cleaning fluids. I asked for some advice, and they looked at me like I was crazy. "We don’t clean the floors." So I looked at all the bottles and bought three that said disinfectant on them. The daughter came in a few times while I was at work and commented, "You are STILL cleaning?!" It is my American Heritage, I told her.

This week I’ve gotten into the habit of taking long "naps" after school. This gives me time to do some e-mailing and correct some notebooks before getting overcome with company. The landlady is starting a Beauty Parlor on the roof, so the two employees also like to come and see me. They don’t speak much English, so we look at each other and smile. And then laugh. And then drink tea.

Home Sweet Home

2007-08-21T07:56:00.000-07:00

I was very happy to finally arrive in my home city of Hyderabad, particularly when a smiling family of three greeted me at the airport. Rani is a chemistry teacher at the high school here, and she is my designated "facilitator." She has a list of responsibilities from the Fulbright, including taking me to local parks, train stations, and restaurants. Her husband Mani is an artist specializing in Ganesha, the deity that has an elephant head. They and their 7-year-old daughter came to the airport to pick me up.

Mani was too excited about the opportunity to be my guide. When they couldn’t decide what restaurant would suit my delicate stomach, he decided that they would take me home with them so they could cook for me. So on the way home he stopped at a shop and disappeared for a long period of time. He apologized for the delay and explained that they first show you the live chicken before butchering it. Although I wasn’t very hungry, it sounded a whole lot better than the dead chickens that hang around the outdoor market all day in the sun.

So I arrived in their cozy apartment and Mani continued to eagerly ask me questions and then just as eagerly answer them. After I had listed all of the countries I had visited, he asked me which was the most beautiful. Then he proceeded to tell me that Switzerland was the most beautiful. When lunch was ready, they sat at the table with me and watched me eat. I had been warned that this might occur, but it still felt very awkward, particularly because they served me a lot of food and I wasn’t particularly hungry. After a few bites of each dish, Mani would look at me and say, "I think it is too spicy for you" or "I do not think you like it." It was clear he was trying to predict what I was thinking, but he wasn’t very good at it. I told them I was not very hungry, but in India most things are not spoken verbally. Americans tend to be more blunt and open with their feelings and opinions, whereas Indian communication is much more beneath the surface.

This cultural difference became even more apparent after lunch at 3:30. Mani told me that they would bring me to my apartment now (finally, I was so anxious to see it!) and then they would pick me up later for dinner. Rani protested and said maybe I was tired and would want to unpack and relax. Her husband adamantly protested. "I have been with German and Irish people! They do not get tired!" The conversation went back and forth in front of me, and I looked on helplessly. I’m sure neither of them thought I would be forthcoming with an opinion of my own. To my chagrin, ultimately Mani won and I was to be picked up at 7:30.

But finally we arrived at my apartment and I lugged my bags out of their car for the last time (oh so many over-weight fees at the airport—it’s the curse of being an English teacher who wants all these books with her!). The landlady’s son greeted me with an English accent and helped me carry them in. Soon after, the landlady, Zeba, greeted me. I am living on the ground level of their house, and they live above me. The apartment was surprisingly large. After seeing Rani’s very modest apartment and hearing her apologize many times for it’s size, I was embarrassed to see the space that only I would be occupying--a large formal dining area, a good-sized living room with TV, a kitchen, two bedrooms with double beds, and two bathrooms with hot water and western toilets. All in all, it’s bigger than my house in Wallingford. I’ve decided to just close off the extra bathroom and bedroom. I don’t want to clean them anyway. My first move when I arrived? Put up the mosquitto net, of course.

Some Highlights from Northern India:

2007-08-21T07:53:00.000-07:00

Realizing that monkeys are just another type of squirrel here. Or maybe they are more like raccoons, because you’ve got to watch out what you leave outside. In Varanasi there were signs all over my guesthouse that read, "Beware of the crazy monkeys!"

Watching the men dressed in orange arrive at the Ganges to fill their water vessels. Some of them had walked 70-90 kilometers barefoot, I was told. Not all were walking, though—the train stations were packed with orange-clad young men with decorated staffs.

Realizing that, despite the fact that this society is conservative in many ways, it is acceptable for men to pee whenever and wherever they feel like it. I was looking out of a train window as we left a station, and a man facing me just whipped it out and started urinating on the tracks next to me. A Fulbright alum said that he had seen a man peeing while bargaining with a customer!

Deciding to question my new Indian friend about his shirt that read, "Sinner." This was at the Hill Top Restaurant in Fatehpur Sikri. I had been having a conversation with the soft-spoken man who seemed to own the establishment, and I just couldn’t get over the black, sequin shirt he was wearing. He had no idea was "sinner" meant, and I hope he continues wearing it now that he does. I thought he would be amused, but he took the illumination quite seriously.

Discovering that each city would bring a new kind of hustling and con-artist. New Delhi--at the monuments people would come over and start telling you about the tomb; after guiding you for 5-10 minutes, they would expect money. I learned quickly, but it still felt strange to bolt away from someone when he approached you saying, "This window is in the Moghul style. . ." Agra--the rickshaw drivers were crazy to get a customer here. Even after saying no, they would often follow you for a few blocks, just to be sure. Varanasi--there were tons of friendly people who would help you along the way and then try to bring you to a shop—silk, carpets, tailors, etc. In many cases young boys were sent out to gather customers. I found these people to be the least aggravating, because I would just take their card and promise to come back later. (Although there was one time that I came out after having an hour lunch to find that my young guide was waiting for me outside!)

Witnessing the strength of people who look so frail. I swear, the oldest and skinniest men are the ones pedaling the bike rickshaws. And they charge less! One man offered me a ride for 10 rupees (about 25 cents). Then there are the women with bushels of greens larger than themselves on their heads. I couldn’t believe it when I saw women stacking brick after brick on their toweled heads.

The Northlands: Haridwar, Musoorie, Rishikesh, and a Ride to Hell

2007-08-17T07:12:00.000-07:00

At this point in the trip, I was feeling the need to visit a smaller city and get out into the country. I decided to carry through with my original plans to take an overnight train to Haridwar. Although it ended up being about a 24 hour train-ride, it was well worth it. When I got off of the train I knew I would like Haridwar, because the wave of heat and humidity did not hit me. It had been raining in Haridwar, and the temperature was so bearable that I decided not to pay extra for AC in my room. I signed up for a nature safari for 3 pm, but when the time came around I was happy to meet up with the first American tourists that I had met so far. DeAnne and Geoff were two friends who were travelling around north India before going to a wedding in Mumbai. When our safari had to be rescheduled for the next day, the three of us decided to take a cable car to the local Hindu temple.

How nice it was to have a man around! He stood in the crowded ques and guarded us from stray hands and fingers. The temples were crowded, but we still made the rounds, splashing through muddy water in bare feet on the marble tiles. The next day our safari was again postponed until 3. Heavy rains had made the roads unpassable. After the 24 hours of anticipation, the safari was a little disappointing. We got to ride in a cool jeep and we saw some animals--deer, peacocks, a little owl, but no elephants and no leopards. It was nice to get out into the country, and we met a nice Swiss girl who had been living in an Ashram for 2 months. She's featured in the jeep photo.

The next day DeAnne and Geoff and I decided to go on a day trip to the hilltown of Musoorie and then to Rishikesh, the yoga center of India. We hired a car and driver from the tour agency, and started off at 7. I knew when I first saw the driver that we were in trouble. He was young--always a bad quality in drivers of young, female tourists. And he drove like he had a few frustrations.

I've driven with some crazy rickshaw drivers, but this guy was the worst--weaving in and out of cars and bikes, refusing to yield to school children on the side of the road, making death-defying risks while passing. It was bad. And I was in the front seat, so the responsibility lay with me to keep him in control. I told him a few times to slow down, and he smiled and nodded. Soon I realized that this man knew no English. I couldn't believe it. We paid good money to go through a travel agency, and he couldn't even tell us what time to meet him. But I somehow got my point across that he was going too fast, and he did slow down slightly.

Just in time to begin the climb up the foothills of the Himalayas! Poor DeAnne had her head burried in Geoff's shoulder at this point, and even I was a little nervous because the little roads were hairpin and the guard rail more decorative than functional. But we made it, and it was cool and foggy and there was no view. But we wandered around the town for a couple hours and noticed how the people here seemed to have a Nepali flare to them. We took a quiet bike-richshaw around the town, which is featured in one of the photos. On the ride down the mountain, the driver seemed to have a will to live, thank goodness. Unfortunately, I was suspicious that I was inspiring his will to live, but I figured that he could nurse his fantasies if they helped me and my two friends survive.

I was not counting on what lay ahead for us, however. The ride down went quite well, and the clouds lifted for a time and the mountains were lush and rugged. We then continued on to Rishikesh, but it was getting late and it was raining hard. We were hoping to catch the evening Hindu ceremony on the Ganges, but the river was high, it was pouring, and our driver told us the wrong time. So we really didn't see much of Rishikesh, but we had dinner and dipped our hands in the Ganges one last time.

We met the driver at 8 pm, ready for the 45 minute journey home to Haridwar. When we walked up to the car, we saw that the driver had taken off his shirt and was wearing only a strappy undershirt; I couldn't bear it, and Geoff graciously offered to sit in the front seat. We took off, into the forest between Rishikesh and Haridwar. It was pouring and the going was slow. At some points I would look out of the window, and it looked like we were driving up a river. DeAnne said that the water wasn't that deep--that it was just spashing up--but the engine of that little car was working it. I was afraid that we would break down and be stuck there with this insane man of a driver.

After about 30 minutes, the traffic stopped. A tree had fallen, and we were waiting for a road crew to come and cut it up. We tried to keep our spirits up. It was going to be fine. No matter that we were in the middle of nowhere, with a greasy driver, and it was hot and muggy, and we couldn't roll down the windows because it was pouring. I was just thankful I wasn't alone in this situation. But then, ooooh, no. I couldn't believe it. The driver leaned back in his seat and put his hands behind his head--oh, the stench. It was, quite simply, awful. I almost laughed, it was so bad, but I didn't want to open my mouth. Poor, poor Geoff--the saint! He saved me that night, I think.

An hour later, there was movement. Thank goodness! We drove a ways, passed some trees, and I thought we were in the clear. I was so relieved because I had a 6:20 train to catch the next morning. But no, the traffic stopped again. What was going on? How long would we be waiting? We had no idea, and the driver just sat back and put his hands behind his head again. I finally rolled down my window and entreated the people walking by, "Do you speak English?!" Finally, one person communicated that there was a tree down. But we did not know how long it would be. Two hours passed. We were getting desperate at this point. We begged our driver to call the woman from the travel agency. We had to speak to someone in English! Should we turn around? How close to Haridwar were we? Could we walk? At this point people behind us were starting to walk past us with their possessions. I rolled down the window again. "How long?" One person said that the road would not be cleared until morning--could it be true? Could the road crews be off for the night? After sitting for 3 hours, we finally got ahold of the tour agency woman, and she assured us that the road crew was coming, and that we should continue on to Haridwar.

An hour later, we started moving again. The fallen tree was about 100 meters away and within one kilometer we miraculously passed a stately 5 star hotel. Where did that come from? But we safely made it home that night, and I easily caught my 6:20 train, which was late and turned into a 10:30 train--but I didn't mind. A late train seemed like a blessing that day.

Varanasi: Where Life and Death Meet

2007-08-17T06:36:00.000-07:00

People say that Varanasi is the place to see the extremes of India. Varanasi is one of the holiest cities in India, and it is an auspicious place to die. Since I was only going to be in Varanasi two nights, I decided to stay in a guesthouse right on the Ganges. Ghats line the Ganges, and thousands of people use the river for a variety of purposes. That's what I found so amazing about it. From my balcony, I could see holy men performing religious ceremonies, young men soaping up and taking a bath, women washing laundry, and children canon-balling into the water in play. In the midst of all of this life, workers are gathering wood to cremate the dead. The ashes are then swept into the Ganges. It's incredible how efficiently the whole process is carried out. One man was telling me that they have calculated exactly how much wood it takes to burn a body, as well as how long it takes--3 hours normally and 1 hour in the electric burning ghat.

Babies, pregnant women, and people with leprosy are not cremated. Instead their bodies are weighted with stones and dumped into the Ganges. Later these bodies bloat and float to the surface where they are eaten by birds, dogs, and other animals. I actually saw one of these bodies when I was sitting on the ghat steps outside of my guesthouse.

Experiencing Varanasi in all of its colors was certainly a highlight of my trip. Whenever I stepped out of my guesthouse, the smoke from the next door burning ghat reminded me of the potency of this city. The streets lining the river are very narrow, and they are crowded with cows, goats, holy men, and people simply living. Even rickshaws can't fit down the narrow alleyways, so it's relatively free from horns and motors. Varanasi is the city sacred to Shiva, and the roads twist and turn like a cobra, one of Shiva's sacred animals. At first I was scared to venture far from my guesthouse, afraid I would be lost in the depths of the city. But then I realized that getting lost was part of the experience. And so I let go and walked the streets at random, allowing my curiosity to guide me and knowing that the card of my guesthouse in combination with a few friendly strangers would safely lead me back.

You can see in the photos above the sinking Scindia Ghat, near where I was staying. Then there is the view of the nearby ghats, one of which is the burning ghat. Photos of the funeral pyres are not allowed, but you can see the smoke from them. Finally, I've included a shot of some of the people coming to the river to bathe. Overall, I'm very glad that I visited Varanasi. I was slightly frustrated because I could not really sit on the steps to the Ganges and people watch. I tried at one point, equipped with a hat, dark glasses, and a book. Within five minutes I looked up and a crowd of 20 young men were surrounding me. I managed to escape by telling them that I would take their photo, so they needed to back up. After quickly taking a shot, I made use of the space and took off. Ah, the tricks you learn as a woman traveling alone through India!

Agra

2007-08-09T06:21:00.000-07:00

I was lucky enough to get a guesthouse with a roof-top restaurant with a close-up view of the Taj Mahal. After an enjoyable air-conditioned train ride, I got in around 3. I thought I'd have a leisurely walk around the Taj Ganj area before having dinner enjoying the sun set on the Taj Mahal. Well, I had a walk, but it certainly wasn't leisurely. The moment I stepped out of the guesthouse, people were calling to me. "Hello madame! Rickshaw! Postcards! Internet! Tour! Only 10 rubees!" I seriously hate the cold person I am becoming, but it is impossible to do anything without blowing off about fifty people. The cold and firm demeanor was getting to me after awhile. Since I'm by myself, I don't really break out of it. I really start feeling ugly and mean. Well, maybe I shouldn't say ugly. I am told at least 20 times a day that I am beautiful. That's not so bad, I guess.

The other reason why walking around Agra was not leisurely was that it took a great amount of effort and concentration to succeed in not dying. I don't mean to alarm you all, but I haven't seen a sidewalk yet and the rickshaws, motorcycles, bicyclers, cars, trucks, cows, dogs, camels, etc. make quite an obstacle course. There are no rules on these tight roadways. Vehicles stay vaguely on the left side of the road, but they will veer for really any reason. Remember the little trial driving games you played/watched in Drivers' Ed? This is that demonstration magnified 61 times. Seriously. I figured it out.

I did have a lovely evening meal on the roof-top, however. Unfortunately, the water cooling system in my room did not really work, because it stayed around 92 degrees in my room during the night and the humidity made it unbearable. Being a warm sleeper in India is not a good quality. After not much sleep, I was still motivated to get up at 5:45 to beat the heat and crowds at the Taj Mahal. It was also sunrise, which made the lighting quite lovely. I'm not sure exactly what else to say to describe it. I've always been more of an expository writer rather than a creative one, and trying to impart the magnificence of the Taj Mahal is very possibly past my abilities. I think in the face of such excellence I simply resort to empty adjectives. Just look at my report of it so far--lovely, magnificent, excellent. Very poor, Ms. English Teacher, C-, and I'm being kind.

After a bit of breakfast, I gave in to one rickshaw driver who offered to take me around to see some of the local sights. One of the big tourist draws in the area is actually a little town 40km west of Agra called Fatehpur Sikri. I went there first to see this fortified ghost city that was the short-lived capital of the Mughal empire between 1571 and 1585. The rickshaw driver warned me many times to beware of the "guides" who want to swindle you. I understood, and deftly swatted them away as I entered the deserted palace. I was just sort of wandering when a man about my age came up and started telling me about the chamber I was gazing in. I broke into my "not interested" tone, but he persevered. After making it clear that I wasn't going to pay him, I let him walk me around the ghost city. I had no idea where I was or what I was looking at, and it was quite nice to have a friend.

He was a good host, and when I said I was starving he brought me to a nice restaurant up on a hill overlooking the countryside. I bought him a drink and some naan, but that's all he would accept. He asked me if I knew any other languages, and I told him I knew some Spanish. He then proceeded to talk to me in Spanish, which really confused me and also tested my honesty (I think I did alright, Profa!). He told me that he had been to Barcelona and was trying to go back, but his visa was being held up. He said that if he got his visa, he would probably not return to India. I asked him what his profession was, and he dropped his head when he told me he worked in his brother's shop. I felt for this poor young man. I mean, I know that he was trying to come on to me, but I could certainly understand his limited position. I felt badly when he wrote his friend's number down in my notebook (because he doesn't have one), and I feel worse looking at it now and knowing I'll never call him.

After leaving Fatehpur Sikri, I told the rickshaw driver to take me to Akbar's Mausoleum at Sikandra. This sandstone and marble tomb was quite impressive, but the real reason I wanted to visit it was because of Lonely Planet's promise of a "peaceful garden, where deer graze, monkeys play in the trees and raucous peacocks and parakeets also make their presence felt." I didn't see any of these, but I took advantage of the lawns. Have I mentioned lately that it's hot here? Maybe I should just reiterate that I am sweating profusely at this time in the story and at this time in the present. I am a sticky mess--but, remarkably, I'm apparently still beautiful!

So I was tired at this point. And hot. And dirty from the dust that I picked up during the 80km rickshaw ride. (Very, very stupid idea on my part. I will never do that again.) And the driver told me that Agra Fort was not worth 300 rupees. He would show me a good view from the outside, and I could take a photo. So I relented. Then he said he would take me to see other places in the city. I was immediately suspicious (as everyone should be when travelling in southeast Asia, Ian and Adam!), and I told him firmly, "I do not want to buy ANYthing." He said, OK, and took me to a carpet-making factory. I can't believe I actually went on the tour of the facility, but it was actually kind of interesting and I got to tie a knot on a fancy Indian carpet. And, of course, the tour ended in the air conditioned showroom where numerous carpets were laid out for me to buy. Feel free to be disappointed in me, my worldly friends, but I gave in and bought a little piece of carpet (and I mean little!) that was made by the local school children. My only excuse is that I'm a teacher and . . . I like children. . .? Does that work?

So then I was mad at my rickshaw driver, and I told him to bring me back to the motel! I needed dinner! Despite my orders, he took me to another shop. This time I refused to go in, and he was forced to give in to my demands. And at the end of the day, when he dropped me off at the train station, he had the audacity to ask me to write in his little book. "Write what you feel!" he urged me. Ha!

But, I made it to the train station on-time, and I had few complaints. The whole night before I had been longing for this moment--an air-conditioned train-ride in a sleeper car. This would be the best night's rest I had experience since coming to India.

And where was I headed? Well, one of the holiest cities in India, of course--Varanasi.

Arrival in New Delhi

2007-08-09T05:18:00.000-07:00

I knew my air luck would improve; my flights were clockwork-like. And so I descended upon New Delhi at 10:30 pm to be greeted by a sign with my name on it. After thankfully relinquishing my baggage and getting some rubees from the ATM, I emerged into the extraordinary heat of New Delhi--OH MY GOSH, it was so HUMID. I seriously swam to the awaiting air-conditioned van.

The streets of New Delhi seemed oh so familiar--Thailand has just about the same lack of sanity. They took me to the USEFI (the Indian counterpart of the Fulbright) guesthouse. This place is practically in the center of New Delhi, and I felt like I was in a compound. . . well, maybe I should say a palace compound. There was a big, white, iron gate in the front with armed guards 24-7. Then inside there were nice gardens and 3-4 story buildings, all white-washed and new looking. I stayed in a nice room with air-conditioning and hot water.

So I thought I really had the whole jet-lag thing beat. I was going to basically lose one good night's rest on the journey (I was allowed to sleep during the first half of the flights only.) Then, since I'd get in after midnight, I'd sleep in until about 9:30 and be on the Indian schedule. No problem! Well, India had another idea. Because this relatively nice guesthouse comes with breakfast; and in India, you have breakfast when they tell you. So, I woke up at 6:30 to vigorous knocking on my door. After quickly throwing on a sweater, I opened the door to try to explain that I had just flown in, and I needed to sleep more. "Could I have breakfast later?" The neatly dressed man frowned, smiled, and then indicated that I should sit down while he made me eggs and toast. I knew better than to argue, so I obeyed.

The problem with being in a compound is that it makes you scared to leave. I went to the building next door to meet the head of the Fulbright program in India, and she greeted me with a big hug. Then she listened to my plans for touring the country quietly before proceeding to warn me about all of the hazards that I would encounter. Then she directed me to her travel agent to help me with my plans.

The travel agent helped me find a train to Agra the next morning, and scheduled a car to take me around the sights of New Delhi. Of course, it was Monday so many of the monuments and all of the museums were closed, but I went around and saw some of the lesser-known sights. These included Qutb Minar, the largest stone tower in India and begun in 1193; Humayun's Tomb, whose design was to be refined later to create the Taj Mahal; a Sikh temple; and a Hindu temple.

The Sikh temple was my favorite. At the first two places, people harassed me constantly--offering to be my guide, wanting to take photos for me, or just simply begging. Actually, the begging usually happened while driving. Little children (always children) would run up to the car when traffic was stopped. Sometimes they would perform a little dance or show off their flexibility, sometimes they'd just look at me with little, sad eyes and tap on the window. I've read that it's always better to donate to a credible charity, but it's hard when these kids are staring you in the face.

Anyway, back to the Sikh temple. After building up an icy shoulder and a firm face, it was a relief to escape into a serene house of spirituality. People were chanting and clothes were being laid over the holy book. Before entering I took off my shoes and covered my head; then I found a place on the exotic carpet to kneel. It was a circular space and people would kneel for a time on the carpet before continuing around the circle clockwise. In the middle of the circle was a sort of shrine with the holy book as well as two people chanting. It was lovely.

New Delhi is certainly nothing like Bangkok. Bangkok feels as modern as New York, but New Delhi is much lower and no skyscrapers dominate the horizon. It still feels like India, but I was anxious to get out of the compound and feel more independent. And so I took a train the next morning.

Orientation

2007-08-07T04:25:00.000-07:00

After a harrowing experience flying into and out of New York City to get my visa (the flights that should have been on time were cancelled or delayed and the one that should have been late was early), I made it to Washington DC. And then I was given a topnotch hotel room on the top floor with a view of the city, three fancy meals a day, and a free shuttle. I must say, it’s about time that teachers get pampered once in a while. The Fulbright even paid for an extra night’s stay at the hotel, because my flight was booked for Saturday. For once, I find myself praising the federal government.

The orientation went very well. I attended numerous workshops meant to prepare me for living and teaching in India, and, best of all, I finally met my exchange teacher. What a woman! Warm, sensitive, strong-willed, perceptive, and funny. I think she’ll do very well at RHS, and I have a feeling that the students will love and respect her. I’m sure there will be the student who will take advantage of the situation—“I wouldn’t have failed if I could only understand her!” But I found her accent very understandable, so I don’t think these students will have much of a leg to stand on.

Teachers were asked to prepare a presentation of their culture for the last night of the orientation. Our Indian teachers performed an intricate dance and then invited their American counterparts on-stage. Each Indian teacher then dusted a dot of red powder onto each of our foreheads in a form of blessing. Fatima was a little overeager with the powder and ended up dusting my nose as well, so I figure I was doubly blessed. I tried to attach a photo of Fatima and me shortly after the ceremony, but I'm having a little trouble. The computer here is set to German, and I'm not quite sure why it's not working. I'll have to work on that. So stay tuned

All-in-all the orientation made me anxious to arrive in India. Our Indian group was quite a clique during orientation, and we were easily recognizable by our friends’ gorgeous fabrics. I got quite a few comments from other Fulbrighters about what an amazing experience I’m going to have; after sitting with my clan during lunch, one woman actually expressed her disappointment that she was going to England. It was hard to say good-bye to the Indian teachers, because they were each such beautiful and unique people. But I kept reminding myself that they are just the tip of the iceberg. Onward to India!

Oh boy, I hope "vorschau" means "post"!

Preparations

2007-07-24T12:43:00.000-07:00

I got word on Friday that the Fulbright has been notified that my authorization has been granted, but there is still no paperwork. This means that I have been given permission to discuss flight arrangements with the program, but they will not book them until they have the paperwork. But just looking at the flight itinerary makes me feel better. I am actually going.

As the take-off date approaches, I am feeling my normal anxiousness. But I'm quite accustomed to the, "What the heck have I gotten myself into?!" voices. My real problem with these feelings is that the only way I've found to alleviate them is to buy more things. I am a sucker for anything at this point. A new headlamp, sure! A set of luggage for $63, you bet! A pair of scissors that fold up, perfect! A sale on Pepto-Bismol, faaabulous. Slowly, the spare bed is getting filled with all of these handy-dandy drugs and apparatus.

Books are another guilt-free purchase for me. So far, I've accumulated two travel guides (Lonely Planet and The Rough Guide), India: The Cultural Companion, the Lonely Planet Healthy Travel Guide for Asia and India (don't worry, mom!), and a novel that I intend to read on the journey, A Fine Balance. I'm also currently re-reading The Bhagavad-Gita. (Re-reading, is perhaps a poor choice of words here. Did I really read this before? It's in my collection, and I studied eastern religions, but I honestly don't remember reading it. . . Maybe I went to White Castle or something that day.)

I just finished a great book, which I would recommend called Snakes and Ladders by Gita Mehta. She describes the cultural and historical situation in India in a series of short essays. It is the perfect history book for me because it comes in short, interestingly written bursts. I'm hoping to look up her other books while in India--Karma Cola, Raj, and A River Sutra. She also referenced a book called All About H. Hatterr, by G. V. Desani, which I really should read while abroad. I also couldn't help but borrow India Unveiled from the library which has gorgeous photos from across India.

After examining this pile, perhaps it's a good thing that I bought a new luggage set. It's probably also good that my car died recently--quite possibly a sign.

The Joys of Indian Bureaucracy

2007-07-17T11:56:00.000-07:00

Having the luxurious summer life of a teacher has given me plenty of time to prepare for and agonize about the trip. In the back of my head the whole time is the knowledge that everything I do won't matter if I do not receive the authorization for my visa from the Indian government. That's right, two weeks before I'm scheduled to leave for the Washington DC orientation, I still don't know if I'm actually going. At most points in the day I'm able to keep this horrific possibility at bay, but at times it takes hold of me and I know what Anne of Green Gables meant when she experienced "the depths of despair."

But let's not get too dramatic here. This is Erin we're talking about, and as existentialist as I like to say I am, I've not inherited the sense of despair often attributed to them. Instead I just remember that a Zen Buddhist once told me that emotions are like clouds--they feel all-encompassing, but are really just passing experiences to be enjoyed in the moment and then released. But as much as I like this idea of temporality and unnattachment, I can't help but think that Anne would have bashed a slate over his head if he'd said that to her during one of her fits of passion.

So, in conclusion, a small request to the Indian government: Please, I promise I am not a terrorist. I do not want your land. I do not want to instigate brothels in your cities. Please, please, please let me in.