Happy Ganpati!

3 hours later, red dust still clings to my skin. I can see the slight shift of tint on my arms, the reddening of my ear-tips, the rosy hue creeping along my hairline, the crimson splash at the small of my back. Remnants of this morning’s festivities.

It started at around 9 am. A group of us left the apartment building to help bring the Ganesh statue back from the artisan’s shop. My neighbor insisted I go with them – “to take part” he said. So it was shoes off and hop in the truck – off we go! We get it – a huge, gorgeous, regal display of opulence – and it is back in the truck again – crying out chants of “Ganpati! Moria!” Two young girls are throwing rice over the sculpture as as drive back. “Didi!” one girl calls out to me, holding out a palmful of rice. I accept and join the girls.

Soon we stop – “Come! Dance!” my neighbor says with a grin. We pour out of the truck and the drums light with thunder. Tikatitikatitikatiktika toktoktoktoktikatikatitikatitikatitik – onwards the drums roll out their ecstatic beats as the boy release themselves to the rhythm — wild, untamed, limbs free to the energy. Only the boys. But the energy is contagious and soon the girls are dancing by the boys—me too, the girls bring me in, made me dance, wanted me to dance—ours a smaller circle than the boys, but still vibrant, feet catching the pulse, flows up to arms, let it carry us up, up. Even old women join us.

The red. It is swirling thick. Handfuls hurled through the throng. We dance in a haze, a flurry of crimson laughter. Friends slap fistfuls in each other’s hair. Some mercilessly pound the bystanders. A passing rickshaw driver is hit. Dancers, spectators, passers-by – no one can escaper the red. Not even the white Christian foreigner. All are called to this madness. All.

By the end I feel giddy, glorious, and exhausted. And utterly, completely, undeniably carpeted in red. After arti (prayer) we are allowed to shower. Stripping off my clothes, I see clothes are no barrier to the little red demons. Even my breasts are thoroughly seeped in the bloody hue. From head to toe, the red has ravaged my body. I take pictures. I want to remember this—the dancing, the energy, the rhythm: the red, red the passion, red the frenzy, red the one energy, the one color—no brown, no white – only red. For one brief moment, we’re all red.

The Country of the Unexpected

“Can I have a flat to live in?”
“No, you’re a bachelor, unmarried. No bachelors.”
“But I’m already living here. Will you kick me out?”
“Don’t know.”
“Can you tell me for certain?”
“No.”
“Can I get my gas connection on time?”
“No”
“Can I have an internet connection?”
“No”
“Can I have a bank account?”
“No, must have mobile number.”
“Already gave it to you – I’ve been waiting a month.”
-No Answer-
“Will anyone tell me what is going on?”
No.
“Do you speak any English?”
“No – Do you speak any Hindi?”
“No.”

“India is the Country of the No. That “no” is your test. You have to get past it. It is India’s Great Wall; it keeps out foreign invaders. Pushing it energetically and vanquishing it is your challenge…India is not a tourist-friendly country. It will reveal itself to you only if you stay on, against all odds. The ‘no’ might never become a ‘yes.’ But you will stop asking questions.”
(Excerpt from Suketu Mehta’s book Maximum City)

I read Mehta’s words and immediately identified with them – at every turn I have faced that pervasive “no” – from “No Bachelors” while finding a flat (and even now when currently living in my new flat) to the simple, apologetic no that comes when there can be no communication due to a lack of common language. The lack of common language might be the most frustrating part of it all. It makes me helpless, unable to control my own life. I must rely on my coteacher – and F – but mostly F, to communicate for me. I don’t even have a fridge yet because I have to wait until a Hindi speaker can go to the used fridge dealer with me. Even worse, even if I wanted to try to grasp the reins of my existence, everyone – brokers, landlords, internet salespersons, etc. – have already placed them in F’s hands. I go to the broker’s office to give my brokerage – he calls F – my landlady bangs at my door and doesn’t get a response – calls F to open the door, assuming he’s there with me – F texts me to say internet will take a while, doesn’t explain, won’t explain – Tikona called him, not me. I am helpless.

Except for my neighbors. Except for my kids. They ask the question – “Can you speak our language – Hindi, Marathi, Gudrathi” and when I answer ‘no’ they reply “That’s ok, we’ll both try anyway.”

My neighbors invite me for tea, invite me for festivals, want me to tutor their daughter, tell their little baby brother/nephew/grandson to call me didi, joke that I’ll become I’ll Indian soon and start wearing saris and bangles and bindis.

My kids tell me their stories while I smile and laugh with them – call them silly, paggal – and we all laugh together – no matter that I don’t understand a word they just said, it doesn’t matter. Didi’s silly, acts like animals, Didi gives high fives, Didi hugs us, snatches us up ‘til we giggle. Didi loves us. But Didi teaches too, is serious, calm face, fixed face, facing us stern, unbreakable – sit down. no voice. in your place. Did it take a while to get to this point of understanding? Of course. Silly they understood right away – serious was harder, both for me and them. But confidence is the key – don’t think you can’t communicate because you can, I can, I have control. You see, in this world I am not helpless, I have respect, control, and most importantly connection. I love my kids, all 49 of them – and they seem fond of me too, know I love them – squeal Nicole didi! when I enter the room, reach to hold my hand, flash their lovely smiles as they crowd around me, invite me to their homes. These are MY children. A locus of being barely fettered by the lack of common speech. My children.

So India is not entirely the Country of the No. Amidst all the ‘no’s, there are many who smile and welcome you and all your linguistic short-comings in, saying “yes, come in, welcome,” all cups of chai and little faces laughing.

And sometimes…sometimes it’s the Country of the Unexpected Yes.

June 28, 2010, late, around 11 pm – we had been talking, F and I, hands touch – still talking – curl around fingers – still talking – head in lap – talk – he’s stroking my hair – “I should go, I should go,” he says, bending down to kiss my head. “…so I can come back.” – the words barely breath in my ear – a pause and I turn my head up to face him – he looks at me – pause – he mutters a question I can’t understand, but I know what it is. “You know what I asked,” he says when I ask him to repeat. I do not pause. I know my answer. “Well then answer is yes.” – soft voice, but no hesitation. The sure, unexpected 'yes.'

In the post prior I wrote that I was surprised such a distant connection could transform into friendship. Imagine my surprise when it became something more. How to explain it? I couldn't. This is why I haven't updated my blog. How could I put this in words? I can't, I won't try to explain. I'll simply say that it was unexpected.

I'd like to amend Mehta's statement. India isn't "The Country of the No," it is "The Country of the Unexpected." The unexpected 'no' over something as trivial (in an American view) as marital status. The unexpected knock on the door inviting you for tea. The unexpected struggles of teaching. The unexpected joys of connection. The unexpected question. The unexpected answer. The unexpected 'yes.'

Mumbai: The First Week

Everything’s moving so fast. New city, new school, new kids, my city, my school, my kids, new friends, new home—no home—gotta find a place to live. Gotta settle in, settle down. Gotta learn—kids, school, classroom, co-teacher, rules, the local train. Gotta settle in, settle down, gotta learn, gotta live, gotta do it now Gotta do it now.

New City (My City)

Sunday evening, 11 June, 19 Fellows and 4 Staff Members pulled up to St. Pious College. Unload bags. Enter the hostel. They’re going to lock us in at 10:30 pm, they say, no in or out What sort of college is this?

I stayed in Gurageon. Crashed in Andheri. Visited Juhu Beach. Living now in Kandivali. I’ve seen so little, but this is home now, home. Gotta settle in, settle down. Gotta learn this city.

New School (My School)

Wednesday, 14 June, just the fourth day in Mumbai, I visited my school for the first time. Let’s call it Hilltop School. It is located in Kandivali, a little bit off a main road. From the main road, one heads down a street which leads to the slum. Climb up. Up and up. Up the narrow lane. Pass the open doorways, women washing sarees, dogs. Turn left at the mosque. Pass the children coming home from school. Climb up the slim stairs, climb up to the top. And there, one will find the school.

It is a nice school, a solid school. Two levels of classrooms. Outside walls painted a nice shade of light blue green. Working fans, working lights. Roof doesn’t leak. Nice school.

I walk into my classroom. Immediately struck by how wide the aisles are. Unlike summer school I can actually walk down the aisles! Small chalkboard. No teacher desk. Two feet between the chalkboard and the first row of desks. There’s a window too – opens right into the community. When class was going on I learn that people look into our room from this window and watch class - but they don’t seem to bother the class too much (only one parent actually spoke from the window).

2 hours and then I leave. That’s all I’ve seen, all I know. So much more to learn. So much more to know.

New Kids (My Kids)

They walk in. One by one. Two by two. Three by three. My adorable, lovely children. And I know not a one of their names. Not a one of their personalities. Not a one of their smiles. And yet they are my kids. Mine.

Many greet me by name and hand me pictures they drew for me printed with “Welcome Nicole didi.” My kids.

My co-teacher gave me the data.

Looking at the data, looking at the kids: Ages range from 5 to 10. For some this is the first classroom they have been in. Most can barely speak or comprehend a word of English. Some can’t even write their names. Some don’t even have the motor skills to use a pencil properly. Most can understand some math. And there is one girl - let’s call her B – who is far above the rest in English (can read, write, speak) and has a good grasp of math. 3 levels of kids. Remediation. Average. Enrichment. And how to differentiate? How to differentiate?

Yes I have data – but that’s not everything. There is so much I need to know, want to know.

A New Friend

Sunday night I arrive in Mumbai. I text him, a friend of a friend of my mother. Let’s call him F, for “friend” F’s gong to help me, my mother says. I’ve never met him. Never spoken to him

Instant reply – Meet tomorrow at 7? – Ok – Ok. Fast fast. Gotta be fast here. Tomorrow. I’m going to meet F tomorrow.

Tomorrow comes. We meet. Talk. I’m surprised. We talk “business,” yes, but also we get along on a human level. F’s nice. Friendly. A writer. Intellectual. I’m surprised.

Over the past week F has been utterly invaluable in helping me find a flat – but more importantly, he is actually becoming a friend to me. Yesterday I even cried in front of F. And he was ok with that. Helped me. I never thought I would find a friend in such a distant connection. A friend of a friend of a friend seems to be becoming purely a friend.

New Home (No Home)

1 person. 1 room. 1 BK / 1 BHK. Living alone.

F and I start looking on Wednesday. We have found options. Some good. Some not so good. One an absolute dream. And then the brokers tell me, no, actually I can’t have the room. “Society” doesn’t like that I’m an unmarried woman.

Bachelor. I’m a bachelor. Unwanted by “society.” Homeless.

But I’m staying at my coteacher’s apartment right now. It is a lovely space (just like her J ). My coteacher is being incredibly generous in letting me stay here, eat her, food, use her internet. A lovely person. But I’ll write more on her later.

For now I just have to keep up hope. There is one option I can take – not the best, not the dream, but it is something. We’ll work the system. Shake the tree. See if any apples fall.

A New Beginning

In an hour I start teaching my new kids. Maths and Phonics. I’m nervous, excited, nervous. Excited. I don’t want the butter in the butterflies. I’m on a diet. I just want to fly.

Day 0: Hello Home

Note: Due to limited internet access/time, I will be posting entries as I am able. The date they are posted may or may not correspond to the day(s) being reflected upon. This entry was written on Sunday June 13, 2010, late that night.

And as the plane descended upon Pune, I looked out the window, watched the pricks of light float by below, and said, “Hello home.”

Two years. I will be in India for two years. The vastness of time has not quite dawned upon me yet, I think, but as I uttered the words “Hello home” I began to realize the permanency of location. This is home now. Home. I just flew on a one way ticket. Soon I will start having new suits made, building up the wardrobe of my new home culture. In a few weeks I will start renting an apartment in Mumbai. I will put up posters, perhaps buy a piece of furniture or two. I will go out to work and come back to these posters, this furniture every day for two years. Every day. And when I come back I will say I am “going home.”

It is not a bad home, though. The people are very nice, friendly, and…”unique” as we have joking termed ourselves. Already I have discovered that Pune is rave central and we have begun to plot weekend outings to Pune to party and crash at another Fellow’s apartment. Of course, I have a feeling these will be incredibly rare due to the time-consuming nature of teaching. Still, I feel so blessed to be around such fun, and yet socially concerned, people – and I’ve only really known them a couple hours. These are people with whom I feel I can enjoy spending the long hours planning, strategizing, and even sobbing as the plans inevitably fall apart only to be built up again. Needless to say my roommate is also absolutely lovely (the third roommate has yet to come so I cannot speak for her). Tomorrow is the official start of the Institute, the beginning of the unknown...

... ... ...

The night before my flight, I read a gchat status that struck me. The status read something like: “Thus starts the beginning of the rest of our lives.” In context, the statement seemed to refer to the fact that the senior trip to Puerto Rico organized by my Christian fellowship had just ended; thus the last remnants of our college lives, of Princeton had finally slipped away, marking the end of the “era of Princeton” and the beginning of, as the status stated, “the rest of our lives.”

And yet this moment is no special than the rest. Each moment, each day, each hour, each minute has beginnings…and endings. The wind that blew one moment is gone the next, but the leaf is carried with it remains at my feet. And then I’ll walk away, leaving the leaf behind. And yet these beginnings, these ends—none of it is absolute. I may meet that leaf again, feel that air once more. Life is fluid. Just a river with eddies where bits get caught, exiting the flow, and rainfalls bringing new drops to the waters. I leave Princeton physically, but I still carry my Princeton experiences in my memory and my Princeton friends in my heart—and in my email. :) Reunions will occur and the Halloween tide will bear me back again to Princeton’s shores. None of it is absolute.

This is not so dramatic. This is not the “beginning of the rest of our lives.” This is but one moment of many, one beginning of many along the flow of life.