You must not lose faith in humanity. Humanity is an ocean; if a few drops of the ocean are dirty, the ocean does not become dirty.

-- Mahatma Gandhi

Men are cruel; Man is kind.

-- Rabindranath Tagore

Let me say, at the risk of seeming ridiculous, that the true revolutionary is guided by great feelings of love.

-- Che Guevara

In the face of devastation, throw packets of joy. In the face of hatred, show compassion. In the face of deception, seek truth. In the face of exploitation, promote justice. In the face of sin, exude love. Fight greed with generosity, ignorance with education, indifference with empathy, despair with hope, corruption with honesty, exploitation with empowerment, selfishness with gratitude, disillusionment with faith. If my love is taken for granted, if I am manipulated, if I am abused, that is to be expected. But think of the alternative: to fight sin with sin. This will not build our human family. It will shred it into a thousand pieces. I can only hope that I continue to have the strength to love, since it is certainly more difficult than perpetuating the hate that is devastatingly human. Denial is far more comfortable than standing up for human rights, for social justice, for human dignity. We must join hands as comrades, as revolutionaries. Because the world must change. Our only weapon, the most powerful and most endless source of hope, the constant beating of the human heart.

How was India?

Like being on a thrill ride that you can't get off of.
Like a Shakespearean comedy and tragedy.
Like being a helpless kitten.
Heaven and Hell.
A disaster.

Or perhaps best to explain with a series of poems I wrote while delirious.

Idiotic
Nincompoops
Deserve
Itchy
Anus

I'm
Normally
Despairing
In
Agony

Improper
Nutrition
Destroys
Innocent
Antenatals

Inundated!
Nasty
Diarrhea
In
Abundance!

Idealistic
Novel
Dream
Isn't
Appreciated

Insects
Not
Discouraged
In
Abode

Ironically
No
Doctor
Is
Around

Improved
New
Drugs
Impossible
Access

If
Noone
Does
It,
Abandoned

Imbibing
Native
Drink
Invites
Amebas

Infection
Not
Dressed
In
Amputee

I
Need
Dosas
In
Abundance!

Ingrown
Nails
Doubly
Inconvenient
Ailments

Impossible
Now
Don't
Inquire
About

Infected
Newborn?
Doctor
Is
Absent

I'm
Not
Disillusioned
I'm
Angry

Inpatient
Nonetheless
Drug
Isn't
Adequate

I've
No
Distance
Between
Asses

Incredible
Novelists
Discussing
Insatiable
Arguments

Infinitely
Numerous
Diseased
In
Actuality

Inconvenient
Needless
Delays
Instigate
Attacks

I'm
Never
Doing
It
Again

It's
Not
Deadly
It's
Apocalyptic

Immune
Now--
Doesn't
Irritate
Anymore

Indecent
Nudes
Don't
Impress
Anyone

How to survive India

1. Don't talk to strangers. When someone asks you to be their friend, ALWAYS SAY NO.
2. You will pay twice as much as locals. It is not fair.
3. Look both ways three times before crossing the street. Especially on one way streets.
4. When someone says yes, they may mean no. Indians like to say yes, especially to questions that are not "yes" or "no" questions. 
5. Be prepared at all times to tell someone what you ate at your last meal. They will ask.
6. When you buy anything they will ask you what price you paid, and tell you they could have gotten it cheaper. This may or may not be true.
7. People are quite forthcoming with all of their living expenses and their salaries. They expect you to be also.
8. Men like to pretend to bump into you. They are just trying to feel you up.
9. Expect to get diabetes from drinking at least 5 cups of chai per day.
10. Be prepared to help bring everyone you meet to your country.
11. Do not give your mobile number to any shopkeepers or journalists or children.
12. Make sure there's wash water in there before you start pooping.
13. Get used to people staring at you unabashedly.
14. If you really want to get something done, there will be a holiday, or a monsoon, or a strike.
15. Clean hair daily to prevent lice.
16. Rinse dishes before use. Or you will end up with bugs in your food.
17. Don't wear contacts--the pollution will build up and scratch your cornea.
18. People will always tell you it looks like you lost or gained weight. Different people will tell the opposite observation. Do not take it personally.
19. Do not agree to paint numbers on furniture. Even if they tell you that you are a painter so you are the only one qualified to do it.
20. "Do not trust anyone. You are here to be used." - Dr. Jack

Behind Door Number 2

Ruma's toilet is a room you enter through a metal door that you must pick up and replace if you want privacy. In the center of the bathroom is the well, from which the family hoists all of their bathing, flushing, laundry, drinking, and washing water. Conveniently, a trough-like drain runs from other people's homes, along the back wall of the bathroom, and into the street, where all of the waste water collects along with floating scraps of trash to some location I never want to find.

I have been a guest at Ruma's home before, having gotten used to this unusual bathroom. All you have to do is squat at this trough to urinate. You complete the standard self-washing using the well water and flush simply by rinsing off the pee that you mis-aimed down the drain.

But what about number 2? I had been avoiding this problem, for it seemed awkward for my shit to enter into the liquid stream in the street, no matter how disgusting it already was out there. However, it wasn't quite the appropriate question to ask, I mean, how rude to query, you use the bathroom in here? I decided to suck it up, it was inevitable that the time would come for me to test my ability to poop in a trough.

I held my breath (not that it would keep it from smelling like urine everywhere) and did the deed. It was difficult, mind you, for the trough was merely inches away from the wall, making it nearly impossible to properly squat over the center. The fact that the floor was slippery did not assist in my acrobatics to accomplish my bowel movement. Nevertheless, I stood up, washed and attempted to flush. But as my poop floated in the stream towards the hole entering the street, and was trapped by a small cage that prevented solid matter from exiting, I knew I had made a horrible mistake.

I just stood glaring at the dilemma, shoveling buckets of water hoping to force the problem out. It was futile. I would have to ask...for help. I went into the room, clearly anxious, but not wanting to reveal this misdemeanor to the entire family. I tried explaining using the most polite words I could, but with her introductory level of English, the euphemisms were not working. I brought Ruma into the bathroom to show her what I had done. Her face was stricken with horror, as she awkwardly had no response. I apologized profusely while holding back my laughter at the absurdity of the situation. Ruma did not laugh. To my further embarrassment, she immediately told her husband and son, "She didn't know about the other toilet!" Her son said nothing and left the room.

She brought me to the kitchen and opened up a door that was obscured by hanging rags and utensils, and which revealed a delightful latrine--a squat Indian toilet that emptied into the ground. I found out at that critical moment that this was the correct toilet for number 2.

She insisted that I tell her if I needed to use this one I could always ask to use it. Obviously I would have had I known it existed and I would do so in the future. But it did not fix the fact that there was still poop stuck in the drain.

What to do? If it had been diarrhea perhaps the story would have been different. But no luck today. No amount of water would wash it away. The shit would have to be rescued. I assured Ruma that I would clean it up. To rectify my doings, I took a plastic bag and turned it inside out around my hand. I crouched around the back of the well to the drain, slipped on the slimy floor but thankfully did not fall, and made access. I scooped it all up, the warm lumps, and turned the bag around to close them in. Holding the bag as far away as possible I ran out of the house and placed the poop in the neighborhood trash pile. I only hope the ragpicker does not discover the evidence.

Asexuality

When men yell at you pick-up lines like "Japan!" "Hey sexybaby!" "Want fuck?"
When they accidentally on purpose brush the sides of your hips in a pathetic effort to get a high off a split moment of contact with the female body,
When they follow you around Buddhist temples attempting to talk to you when everyone else is silent and in fact meditating,
When they offer you directions to your destination but in return expect a date and sex and won't stop putting their arm around you and holding your hand until you literally HIT them,
When they send you text messages in the middle of the night telling you how sweet you are looking and have you eaten your dinner how are you baby?
And when they see you only as a vehicle for their visa approval to get to your country through a marriage of convenience,
And when you tell them for protection of your own safety that you are married they ask if you believe in extramarital affairs,
My first instinct when I see a man is to avoid eye contact, detract attention from myself, and hope desperately that they won't speak to me. I cannot help but be absolutely disgusted by the entire male gender, cynical about the motives of all men, and doubtful that I will ever find a respectful gentleman nevermind a partner. Not that I have the energy left for a relationship after a day of being barely able to survive mentally and physically in the most stressful, unromantic place that has successfully turned me into an asexual being.

City of Joy

As I step off the train into Howrah station, I arrive back to one of the filthiest, polluted, humid, overpopulated, impoverished cities in the world. So why, if you may help me to understand, why is it that I have this overwhelming feeling of comfort, a completely unexpected sensation that is happiness?

Perhaps it is because I am returning to a place where I can expect at least 4 street-side friends and several additional strangers to greet me good morning on my daily run.

A place where I can enjoy confusing and disappointing the local boys who yell Kanichiwa and I tell them I am an American.

A place where the vegetable vendors are overjoyed that I speak rudimentary Hindi and give me free hot green chilis.

A place where the thali with all you can eat rice, dal, and sabzi is only 10 Rupees a plate.

A place where the weather is so feircely unpredictable that it dictates life with entertainingly inconvenient power.

A place where I can glory in my absolutely minimal consumption of water and petrol.

A place famous for its syrup-drenched gulab jamun, condensed fried milk balls that melt seductively down your throat.

A place where I can get the thrill of examining child patients and administering injections to my friends.

A place where my host mom showers me with Indian food, sweets, and random acts of unprecedented generosity and maternal kindness.

A place with such an unbelievably convenient system of transportation where the first bus is over 90% of the time yours.

A place where ladies on the metro shuffle their behinds to make room for yours.

A place with an abundance of harmlessly curious locals to invite me for chai and interesting conversation, where the excessive friendliness  becomes almost an invasion of privacy.

A place where strangers share their mangoes and samosas with you on the train.

A place where shopkeepers take you out for lunch and buy you ice cream even if you are not their customer, and where they may even insist you take a free shawl when you shiver in winter.

A place with such hospitality that you can get records of 10 offers of sweet chai in one day.

A place with the most fantastic yogurt for the makings of the most fantastic lassis.

A place where all food is sold in recycled paper or clay containers for an environmentally friendly deposit system.

A place where you can glory in laziness, for throwing trash out the window will most assuredly result in a man cleaning it up after you since there are no trash bins.

A place where rickshaws beckon at your fingertips, literally dying to give you a ride.

A place where women's saris make a museum of the sidewalk.

A place vibrant with music, art, literature, philosophy, and an enviable accessibility and appreciation for culture.

A place where sulking is met only by smiles and impatience with gratitude.

A place where you can trust strangers to look after all of your belongings while you go look at an apartment.

A place of unmatched spirituality and the ever-present search for truth.

A place where human nature is brought out into the most raw and primitive light.

A place where violence is socially forbidden.

A place where monsoon rains have cleansed my palette,
As I taste my last crumbs of this feast called Kolkata,
A food that I am exhausted from eating but whose ever-complexifying flavor I will never tire of.

A place that is as captivating as it is debilitating,
as amusing as it is depressing,
as thrilling as it is paralyzing,
as intoxicating as it is sobering,
as charming as it is repulsive, 
as tender as it is abrasive.

A land of paradox, a land of juxtapositions.

A land that is all too full of life, all too real, all too human.

A land they rightfully call Anand Nagar--the City of Joy.

Apathy

Surely, I am not fully present.
This world is a dream land that I observe from outside.
I watch, numb to all feeling, having been necessarily desensitized; perhaps permanently. I am bored and lost, nothing satisfies me yet I do not know what will heal my restlessness. I ache for excitement, but a living paradox, I long for solitary retreat. I do not know what I want, what I need. I have everything and nothing. What more does this world have for me? Have I seen it all? I am apathetic to all people and all things, I have a hatred for human interaction yet a yearning for meaning and companionship. Simultaneously desperate and distant.

Mountains look like a manufactured diorama.
Beauty, a misty illusion.
Adventure, dull.
Delight is absent from deliciousness.
Compassion is absent from companionship.
I am suspicious of all generosity.
Love must be impossible, a hallucination in this hell--I do not believe that you are my friend, for so many have hurt me before. This must be one of those horror stories where I am tricked by temptation. Pleasure is a feeling that I have estranged, rejected, it is an undesirable, guilty indulgence. From it I hide. Will I ever feel again? I believe not. For life is too full of deception to leave oneself vulnerable to experience. To embrace joy is to face inevitable discouragement, it will become disappointment in time. To trust one's senses is to be blinded by sensation. To trust one's heart is to be naked to the hatred of the universe. I am paralyzed by disbelief and doubt. For I have been disillusioned too many times
My heart broken
My hopes dashed
My efforts thwarted
As I am left in utter melancholy,
Incompetent, unimportant, and in fact
Non-existent.
I do not suffer from depression, you see,
For I am impermeable even to such swarms of sadness
But rather I am plagued by the torturous lack of feeling altogether,
The dishonorable indifference that protects me
As the world passes by my glazed eyes
And I do not care.

Tso Pema

Rigid peaks lit linger at evening horizon
As sun flickers to rest
And golden glow on tall jagged mountains
Is only illumination
Lake Tso Pema rests
Amidst Hindu, Sikh, and Buddhist temples
Trout feed on holy bread
Turban-headed Sikhs pray at lakeside
As Buddhists spin their prayer wheels
Hindus chant across still water
A memory of Padmasambhava
That was born from the lotus flower
Friendly monks are dinner's company
Monastery is my accomodation here
I climb to the Buddhist meditation cave
Where blankets of prayer flags mask the landscape
And chanted Tibetan prayers
Are the music of the cave

The Tibetan monks

A kind red-robed friend offers home-cooked food to sleepy, belly-ill traveler.

I follow him to his modest one-room cement dwelling

Sipping Taiwanese tea

They have fled from Tibtet to study at monasteries in India

Because in what is now China, religious freedom does not exist

Their families remain there

Living under communism

The refugees have trekked 23 nights across the Himalayas

Escaping persecution

From a place where culture is demolished and protesters murdered

Land invaded, nature ruined

They illegally cross the treacherous mountains

Threatened by the weapons of military border guards

To find a new home

In a place where they do not know the language,

The food and climate make them ill,

And they do not earn a living

They seek only a life where human rights are respected

They are the nomads of simplicity, faith, and gentleness

Loving the Dalai Lama

Loving humanity

Loving me, for some reason

Serving me bakchoy-alu with rice and kimchee, home-cooked on their gas stove

No money, they insist

I am shocked, surely they expect money for generosity, like everyone else in India

I kindly find my next meals outside

But return for their company

Kalsang shows me the Tibetan herbs they grind and eat for medicine; all natural

They dedicate their days to yoga, meditation, cooking, reading, English language, and Buddhist study and prayer.

It is a life of luxury
And a life of loneliness.
They support themselves by the grace of foreign friends

Normally their families would support them

But they can never return there for they will be certainly imprisoned
Do you like India?
I do not like India people
Always about money money money
Just money thinking only
Selfishness
In Tibet, if I don't have, my neighbor give me,
If he don't have, I give him
No money
Here, we give because we want to give
It makes us happy to give

They offer me free accommodation and food

Which I accept with a gift in return

But what fills me with joy
Is the hug that is filled with compassion, understanding, and trust

The sheer gratitude

Of sincere companionship

Too jiche, thank you.
For I have finally found my first friend in India.

To you

I came to India with unrivaled idealism

The hope to change the world

The optimism of a child and the naivete of a girl

I have been faced with deception, theft, manipulation, and cruelty.

Revenge, jealousy, lies, exploitation

Man's true nature unveiled

In hideous horror

To virgin eyes

My heart has been broken

My world turned upside-down

I have become suspicious, cynical, exhausted by sin

And haunted by the selfishness that not only surrounds me,

But that lurks within myself

My disillusionment crippling

My faith in humanity crushed

I doubt even my own motivations,

My ambitions

And certainly my capability to bring good to this world

Are we beyond repair?

Can we hope for more than brokenness?

Some days, I think not

Some days, the depression convinces me that we are doomed,

Prisoners of our own making

Destined for failure

And impossibly trapped

By shackles of greed

But you!

You come and hold my hand

You warm my body with chai

You share your food and home

You lift me up the mountain

You point to the brilliant sunset

That I could not see

For I was buried in my elbows,

Ashamed of my tears

And I see

That perhaps

The world still has tender moments of beauty

That can live just as long as they are protected by the weapon

That is love.

A train ride with Arish Chandal

Why don't you wear arguments?

What?

In your ears and nose--no instruments!

What do you mean, instruments?

Ornaments!

Oh, we call them piercings.

 

Abraham Lincoln was the first prime minister of your America.

Actually he was the 16th President.

He was a good man--a good black man!

No, you know he was a white man.

Das Capital. A very fine book! He wrote all about the landlords and made the first capital of your America!

 

You know Graham Bell? Edison?

Yes.

So many solutions! More than 50 solutions they created! Amazing!

 

We Indians are intellectual and also emotional.

Foreigners all are self-centered. Only intellectual, not emotional.

 

Do you live with your parents until death?

 

In America, everyone is rich, no?

In your America, you may just have living relations with any person, no problems.

Like Bill Clinton!

In my India, boys and girls, we are not allowed to have living relations.

Even after marriage, it is not allowed for 2-3 months.

In America you can just kiss someone, no problem, that is your system.

Here, we go to jail for 6 months! 6 months!!!

 

In America, what is your caste system?

In India, we have four castes. If we marry outside of our caste, the father of the groom, the father of the bride--they will murder you! You will be murdered, most definitely!!!

 

We have 6 seasons in India: winter, spring, summer, fall, and rainy season. Hot, cold, wet, and the junctions of the seasons.

 

God is a super-artist. He made lovely animals, lovely plants, lovely rivers, lovely human beings!

 

Do you know Mendeleev's charges? What is the symbol for glass?

Gold is Au, Silver is Ag, Mercury is Hg.

But what is glass?

 

Indian girls like to wear these bangles. Mostly glass, some gold, some silver, some brass. You don't like to wear?

 

What is Newton's law?

 

So tell me what is your life's mission?

 

This what we are having its called intellectual discussion. I learn some things about your America, and you learn some things about my India. We make a good masala.

 

He picked up my book, trying to prove his knowledge of the English language. Very easy, he said.

No sooner did he read the first 2 sentences than he was interrupted by a telephone call, at which point he simultaneously realized that this was his train stop. He was going to see the Taj Mahal. He put my book on someone else's lap and was gone.

Khechepuri Lake

Dew gathers in a row, resting
In a beaded necklace
Along my hair that I glance
As I write poetry.
Like a spiderweb in the dawn
The threads woven into a net
Sit silently waiting
For words to wander into their clutches
A flute's song prances across the valley of fog
To dance with the cow's low and the children's musical calls
In the dry lakes of my ears
The whiteness of cloud blinds
As it sharpens the earsight
Its swollen moisture collecting
Into the droplets that begin to fall
In a rhythmic harmony that drowns the noises of Khechpuri valley
Demanding all sensory attention
Except
That I can still see the remains
Of spiderwork strung across the porch,
Which reminds me of those dew drops
Nestled in sheltered safety,
Clinging fast
To strands of black hair.

Backwards

Kolkata is a place where good deeds are misused, honesty is taken advantage of, loyalty meaningless, and generosity trampled upon.
For all is backwards here.
Not only do all the light switches turn down to turn on,
Not only do dirvers use the left side for travel,
Not only is the time zone half an hour increment off the rest of the world,
Not only do ladies scarves hang across the fronts of their bodies rather than resting on the backs of their necks,
And skin-whitening creams applied instead of tanning lotion.
But this society rewards misdeed, when one follows the rules one becomes victim of the vast majority who don't and who can't, for the sake of their own survival.
To slow for a red light only means you are left yielding right of way behind the aggressive rush of traffic.
You are delayed, the eager drivers push past you impatiently and honk their horns to remind you that rules are for fools.
The patient rickshaw driver is ignored as the loud, obnoxious one steals the commuter.
A friendly street stall with fair prices, clean food, and multi-lingual service is closed by the police; it is competing with the neighboring restaurants who rely on cheating foreigners to continue their businesses.
Shopkeepers with no-bargaining policies are passed by, businessmen without touts stand no chance, in an economy that relies upon commissioned men to prey on naive customers, and ridiculously steep prices reduced by 5% trick foreigners into thinking they are winning when they are in fact paying double the real price.
The 18-year long employee and loyalest staff who travels 2.5 hours and spends 1/3 of his salary on transport, works the longest hours, does the dirtiest tasks, while office administrators sit all day in AC behind desks joking about how the chai is not ready, earn at least twice if not 5 times as much as those doing all the clinical work beginning over one hour earlier.
Physicians are in dire shortage all over the country, but foreign doctors are not allowed to practice here; indeed, it is illegal and worthy of imprisonment.
Hospitals only pay for first line medications for HIV and prescribe 2nd line with referrals saying "medicines not available." They refuse to admit women who have given birth on the street because of the liability of taking such an unsanitary case; should anything go wrong the hospital would be responsible. Underweight babies of HIV-positive prostitutes do not get tested or even trated because, what if the baby died under our care?
The nation-wide food security subsidy program for the poor is found to be corrupt, the officials embezzling millions by lying about prices and stealing the food.
NGO's are run as businesses, disguised in the robes of charity, decieving all donors so cleverly that these orphan children are desperate for food, when really, it is the staff who are consuming that very food. There may be no orphans at all...better check on that.
Ambitious, hard-working, career-driven women with dreams of life abroad cannot possibly fulfill them for the barrier of visas. Even if she could find a sponsor or a job offer, she would not have the 1 lakh rupees that is arbitrarily required to have in one's bank account to even be eligible.
Friendship is only an exchange of needs; a relationship of mutual benefit; watch out for disguised generosity and grace.
If you do not manipulate you will be manipulated.
It is a system that rewards the liar.
That applauds the cheater.
That laughs at the honest man.
Where sin always wins
And evil conquers good.
It is survival of the fittest.
Where poverty, so devastatingly endemic
Escape is impossible
And hopelessness pervades
Why not wallow in selfishness?
To think of oneself is all the energy one has.

I am James

James has been working at Calcutta Rescue for the past 18 years. He commutes 2.5 hours per day by way of 3 buses, the combined transport cost of which is over 1/3 of his salary, an unimaginable 1200 Rs out of a salary of less than 3000. He recieves no transportation allowance, and has not gotten a substantial increase in salary throughout his years here. He lives in the humble home of a friend, while he slowly builds his own home on the property bestowed upon him by Mother Theresa. However, it has been four years, and he only has some of the foundation made. He cannot afford the roof or windows because the cement cost is 350 Rs/bag, he needs 60 bags, and 10 kg of rod costs 12000 Rs. He needs to do this before the monsoon rains arrive, or the current foundations will be ruined. With his salary, he sometimes manages to save about 60 Rs per month. He is getting older, but cannot marry, because he would not be able to support a family on this little money. He has requested a raise three times, with no response.

James lives in the village, of which he is proud. "Boys' town" it was once called; now it is known as Gangarampur. He was raised there at one of the homes of Mother Theresa, where he also attended school. He was proud that he chose to continue his studies rather than start working immediately. At a young age, he was forced to seek the charity of the Missionaries because of a tragedy in his family. His father was murdered when he was three by some men at work, and his mother was later killed by one of James' brothers. At this point, he resolved never to speak to his family again.

He sleeps on the floor, among ants and sometimes scorpions. Luckily he keeps the antidote for a scorpion sting in his bedroom.  James wakes up at 4:30 am, bathes, puts on the rice for his lunch, cooks the curry, makes chapati for breakfast, makes tea, eats, washes dishes, and leaves his home at 6:30 am to arrive at the clinic around 9. He works until around 3 pm, diligently doing his work even after the clinic is closed. He completes it thoroughly with striking care. When he gets home, he prepares dinner, does washing, gets the drinking water from the neighborhood tube well, and manages to read or visit the poor people there. He always makes time for the poor people, who he loves. He sleeps at 9:30 pm. He shares his food and tea with the friends who live next door. He cannot store food to make his daily tastks easier because he has no refrigerator. He cannot call friends for lack of a phone. He cannot use the bathroom in his home; it is broken; he must use the one next door.


He is proud of the many fruit trees that grow outside his house--papaya, mango, jakfruit, kot bel, banana, and guava. It is fantastically green and peaceful there. He teaches me how to make chapati the short-cut method, flipping the patties in such a way as to preserve the gas. He shows me the 2 tube wells he uses to pump water--the one he shares with his neighbor is only for washing because it gives iron-tasting water, and the one a ten minute walk away is shared by the whole neighborhood for drinking water. It is quite expensive to drill the deep wells for the drinking water.

The people here are happy for the cool breeze, the silence, lack of pollution, the community, the fruit trees, ...village life in Boys' town they call it. But beneath their smiles, you see how much work it takes for these people just to maintain a reasonable quality of life. Just simply to survive requires an enormous effort.

I think about how dedicated James is to continue working for an organization that pays him squat simply because he knows that he is working for the good of the poor. The patients love James. And he loves them. But I am not surprised that he is looking for another job. Only saddened.

Today all I want is to be deaf

To cease to sense all auditory stimuli.

To relinquish the ability to process spoken language, to understand sound, even to utter one word. 

Communication has become far too much for me. 

I'd prefer the silence of naivete. 

The peace of inactivity. 

QUIET

All I need to hear are my thoughts. 

Why can I blink, 

Shut my eyes to the world, 

Achieve an escape from visual assaults. 

But I cannot blink my ears. 

They sit on the sides of my head

Absorbing far more sound waves than I can process or appreciate, 

In fact, so many that they become irritating, 

Disturbing, 

And indeed maddening phenomena. 

Sound clings like a parasite, bothering me no matter where I go! 

Cat calls

Phone calls

Screams

Lies

Accusations

Voices!!!!

Terrors of the reality of Human Nature

Infiltrating my ear canals

But these are not schizophrenic episodes, 

Hallucinations. 

This is all too real life. 

True madness cannot be discounted as delusions. 

My uncanny and everpresent awareness of my mental instability exacerbates the torture. 

I do not want to speak for fear of contributing to this cacophony of chaos, to this symphony of disaster. 

For all communication is a weapon of destruction. 

All noise merely disrespects peace. 

All sound provokes insanity. 

All cries are testimonies of pain. 

All speech a means of manipulation or deception.

Mouths are only orifices to excrete what empty bellies vomit: despair and devastation.

Bombarded by multitudinous displacements of air, 

Which attack my ear drums ceaselessly

In ferocious persistence, 

Without my permission

I've had enough

Break them! 

Pierce them! 

Before I am so far depressed that I can no longer appreciate music. 

G. Das

We discuss the fate of a 17-year old boy. He has been diagnosed with Lymphoma that has metastasized throughout his entire body, including his bone marrow, making the prognosis of recovery with continuous chemotherapy only 50% likelihood of survival. His chances are probably less given the advanced stage of his cancer, and relapses even with therapy are common. It will cost 15,000 Rs/month for the therapy itself, plus medicines and other expenses. The total will come to around $500/month for full treatment, which would be continued for at least 6 cycles. This is about how much one might pay for a month's rent in the US. 

Perhaps the chemotherapy would lengthen his life. Perhaps in a miracle, it would save it. Perhaps it would be a waste of money. 

Indeed, the latter is what the doctors think. We could pay for the treatment of 10 patients with that money. There is budget enough for 6 more cancer patients this month. 

Today is the day when the life of a young man may be extended but when there is not enough money to do so. And it is up to us. The doctors decide not to fund his care. 

We protest. 

But we have not met G. Das. 

Do we sentence him to death? 

What is money well spent? 

Such a young man? 

Is it not our medical duty to do our best to treat? 

Could he not survive? 

Can we at least try? 

We decide to meet the patient before making a decision. If we raise money from abroad, perhaps we can fund the first cycle of chemo to see if the patient looks likely to respond. 

If not, we'll move on. 

What is the value of a human life? 

Playing Doctor When There is None

Little bodies
puppy dog eyes
baby hands
with swollen bellies
What worms are living there?
Let me see your feet
Your toes are tiny and perfect
Your arm is beyond the limit of severe malnourishment, an alarming circumference of 12 cm.
Your lungs crackle with a respiratory infection
At least your heart beats strong
Your conjunctiva is wrinkled with the first signs of Vitamin A deficiency
Your hair brittle and discolored
Open your mouth
We find dental caries in every molar.
The corners of your lips cracked with angular cheilosis
Your lymph nodes swell
I cradle you on my lap
Your ear hurts?
You have chronic diarrhea?
Malaria three times?
You are four years old

Grateful to find you here.
We can help you
Take this Mebendazole to deworm your tummy
And this Vitamin A to heal your eyes

But where are the doctors?

Future husband?

Sitting across from a former telemarketer
Law office clerk
Football player
Large,
Reeking of cologne
TV lover
Rides a motorcycle
And is looking for a foreigner to marry so he can get out of India.
Dola has set salty snacks in front of us and left us in awkwardness to munch in humiliating silence.
We have nothing in common.
He tried to go to Austrailia to visit his uncle, but they required he be married to obtain a visa.
Now he has found perhaps the one person least interested in marriage, and the most bombarded by requests to help people to America.
He literally asks me if I will help him with a
"Marriage of Convenience."
Many foreigners help out Indians this way!

Sorry. In my country we don't do that. We marry for love. 

Silence.

Why don't you find a job or go to school?

The only job I can get is cruises and it is too much work to get those jobs. I don't want to continue any studies, school doesn't interest me.

So basically you are the most unappealing person asking me to marry you for the purely selfish reason to leave your country out of your own laziness to get out by your own merit.

But since I could not say that to him I instead focused all attention on consuming the bowl of spicy fried rings and feeling entirely demeaned as a woman, until Donovan asked me to have a date with him.

I don't like dating boys and I will never get married.

He seemed to get the message.

My host mom tries to arrange my marriage

So, tell me. Why do you ask about arranged marriage? See I have this friend who works at the office. About your age. He's a young, beefy chap—a nice nice fellow. He wants to go abroad, but you know, he doesn't have the money or the means. But I hear many Indians marry foreigners over on Sudder Street. I told him I have an American girl staying with me here and I'd ask you if you're interested. It would just be a marriage of convenience you know, just to help him get out of the country. Since, you know there's no future here.

Picture His Grace Sitting Upon a Volcano

As I enter the majestic gates of the Archbishop's home, a gigantic blue and white palace with gardens and courtyards, my stomach turns as I prepare to bring the epitome of poverty and corruption into the world of exorbitance and power. It has come to this--after numerous failures at getting help for the starving children of the orphanage, I have resolved to contact the Archbishop of Kolkata in a desperate plea, or rather confrontation, in an attempt to bring justice to them. I wait in the Archbishop's Parlour for the His Grace to meet me. Not only does the luxurious architecture intimidate me, but the fact that I will meet the city's head of the Catholic Church terrifies me. I am relieved that he appears humbly dressed in a mismatching combo of plaid shirt and shorts and he shuffles in calmly with his grandfatherly beard. As I begin to address him, he closes his eyes, not in rudeness, it appears, but in deep concentration.

"Your Grace, I come to you on behalf of the medical staff of Calcutta Rescue to alert you do a crisis we have discovered at the Bess Crawford Seva Niketan School and orphanage, a place with which I believe you are familiar. We come to you after finding serious medical concerns among the children, as well as terribly incompetent management. Brother Christopher and Father Gregory, members of the Catholic Church, are responsible for running this organization. Thus, because we believe it is the moral responsibility of the church to rectify the disastrous situation we have discovered, we call this issue to your attention. I have documented details in this report. In particular, we have been disturbed to find 39 Vitamin-A-deficient and many other generally malnourished children, based on physical signs on the children's bodies. This disaster is a direct result of the home's incompetent management, insufficient funds, and unhygienic conditions. The management has been uncooperative and in fact, indifferent to these problems. Because the children's eyesight and lives are at risk under the care of these men, CR has been compelled to take further measures to protect these innocent children, particularly the orphans. We have called upon several other organizations for funding and assistance, with marginal success. This inhuman state cannot continue. For the sake of these children's eyes and lives, please take action."

He sat with his eyes closed for a few moments, as I wondered if he had heard any of my monologue.

"This makes me very angry. This is very abnormal. The lack of accomodation, they don't even own the property! There is no proper structure, there are so many children, boys and girls sleeping together. I have come to question their legitimacy!" Not only did the blatant abuse of the children anger him, but the implications for causing trouble as a representation of men of the church. He explained the history of the church's interactions wth these men.  Apparently, they have been operating this organization without the required permission of the Archdiocese; they have not abided by the church hierarchy.

"Are you a Catholic?" He asked me. I was tempted to lie, but stuttered, "Um, well, personally, no."

"Then I don't know if you will understand." He explained to me the levels of order that operate the church, wherein Brothers and Fathers live under the Archdiocese in their respective parishes. All Catholics are members of a parish, and must report to their local parish and the city Archdiocese. This ensures that all Catholics attend church, frequent the sacraments, go to confessions, and abide by a Catholic lifestyle. Anyone must obtain permission from the Archdiocese to conduct any "good works." Archbishop Lucas Sirkar did not support this operation in the first place, because their presence there was not condoned, they had no assignment to work there. Indeed, he agreed that this was not "good work" at all. He was worried most about the name of the church since there have been numerous scandals with child molestation, and this worried him even more worried than the health of the children. But he did agree:

"The tragedy is that these kids are suffering as a result. My advice to you is to run away from the whole situation. I'm sorry I can't help you. We have nothing to do with this. We are not responsible for anything going on. These men are disobeying the Canon Law! I want nothing to do with them. Who made Father Gregory president of this thing? We need order to our parishes!! Who knows if these children are living Catholic lives? Who knows if they are being taught catechism and how to go to confession? What an embarrassment to the Church!"

I certainly didn't care about the religious piety of the children as much as about how much food they were getting, but perhaps the bureaucratic hierarchy could finally work to my advantage in this case. Indeed he could  help me, by disciplining the men who are essentially abusing children through neglect, if not for this very sin, then simply for their refusal to abide by the structure of the Archdiocese of Kolkata. Whatever the reason, I don't care, as long as these men are somehow forced out of power.

He said he would send another letter of admonition to them to request making their work "proper" with the church, demanding the details of their funding, operations, staffing, and legitimate record-keeping, all of which they will be unable to produce. Hopefully, their inability to do so will threaten their positions as preists and brothers.

His Grace then requested my picture to show to Father Gregory and Brother Christopher. I took his to show to my grandchildren.

"This makes me very worried.  We have a legal problem on our shoulders. All people connected to this are a danger, morally, legally, and socially. It is like sitting on a volcano."

May it erupt.

Hospitality

It is difficult to document such an abstract concept as hospitality, except to describe the absolute fullness in my belly from the mounds of food and repeated portions I have been served even after refusing the subsequent and unnecessary helpings, the heartfelt gratefulness of being pampered as a guest where I am forced to relax and constantly asked if I need anything, and the frank surprise at the love given to me by complete strangers who have taken me into their humble homes, given me everything they have and even things they don't have, and treated me with such care and welcome that tears arise to my eyes. My astonishment is partly due to the the fact that you rarely find this exceptionally generous and in fact insistent hospitality in America, partly because of my guilt that some of the poorest people in the world are sharing with me what it has taken them an absurdly unfair amount of effort to earn, and partly for the simply touching nature of giving that is so essentially human but which is so frequently eclipsed by selfishness and thoughtlessness and is thus a rare jasmine blossom amidst the putrid and multidudinous waste of this place.

Road-shetting

As I lay my exhausted head to my pillow, my mind closes in desperate peace, in grateful relief at the absence of stimuli. Just then, the current shuts off. "Road-shetting," they call it, a term I have yet to decode but which means a temporary blackout caused by overuse of power and resulting delay in service, an incident that occurs all too frequently. One may not think electricity to be so necessary, especially at night, with no need for lights. But one realizes the single electrical apparatus upon which wone wholly if unconsciously relies--the fan. As the device ceases to turn, lacking power for the unforseeable future, the temperature immediately rises. The air becomes thick and heavy, the moisture creating an unwanted insulatory layer around my body, which has decidedly begun to sweat profusely in response to this undesirable climate. I lay in a puddle of my own sweat, which, at least serves its purpose of attempting to cool me, but which soon becomes its own burden as it merely contributes to the suffocating moisture that stagnates in the airless room. Meanwhile, mosquitoes joy in the dark, humid, motionless environment, where a body lies vulnerable and ripe for blood-sucking since this nighttime guest has stupidly left her mosquito net at home. The all-out mosquito device that emits a toxin no longer poisons them for lack of electricity. With no light, I cannot even spot the thirsty beasts, and I only can defend myself by feeling their first injection and attempting to swat them dead in time to avoid their venom and resulting itch. Usually it is too late. Paranoid, every minute dermal sensation I slap my skin in anticipation and fear of bites, moving and tossing myself ceaselessly as the predators continue to prety upon me. My motion makes me hotter, as my metabolism adds to the rising heat of the room. Though my body and mind are ready for sleep, I cannot, for the necessity of constant vigilance simply to protect myself and avoid deadly overheating. To ease my discomfort I resort to a hand-held fan as I wait in the most cruel torture chamber for the power to return, an event which may take anywhere from 1 to 10 hours, and which will most certainly repeat itself in the near future, at unpredictable intervals.

Robbery

The epitome of depression arrives when one discovers that in our midst lurk thieves who have been embezzling medicine from the pharmacy in a disgusting misuse of the resources of a charitable organization for the poor, and that when one attempts to track the records of these robberies, based on eyewitness accounts of years of stealing, one finds either no discernible record of their pilfery, or the reality that such poor upkeep of documentation makes it impossible to distinguish clerical errors from theft.

Caste

As we walk down the street, early morning, we pass the poor whose home
is merely a tarp and a square of concrete. It is nothing new of
course, I see these slum folks along practically every street. My host
mom, an Anglo-Indian, comments, "These people. Look how they live!
Look--those children!!" she says with disgust. "They sleep under those
tarps, they even make babies under there!" She doesn't seem to
understand when I explain these are the poor people we help, this is
why I came to India, this is what I want to do with my life. She is
silent. As if, you know, who cares about these people? They're the
urban barbarians. This Christian woman with so much seeming compassion
really has none for anyone but her own kind. "You won't find my people
among these. I am mortified at her lack of empathy. But then again,
can I blame her? In a society where literally millions dwell on the
streets like these ones. Can she realistically expand her biologically
estimated 100 member capacity of humans that she knows as her own kind
to accommodate all of them? With such visible destitution I imagine
you become desensitized after a lifetime, or less, or if you even had
been sensitive to it in the first place. But what I can't condone, is
the dehumanizing treatment given to this caste of people. By these
people I mean the water-fetchers, rickshaw-drivers, chai wallahs, shoe
shiners. I see it when the water man comes just 20 minutes too early
for Dola, she screams as if he has made the most horrific unforgivable
mistake. He forgets to come the second time in the day, she scolds him
for his absentmindedness. Today on our walk back, her feet are
hurting, she wants to take a rickshaw. I haven't been able to allow
myself to ride the human horse until now, since I have no other
choice, with no knowledge of the area. We board the contraption, a
seat high up above 2 gigantic wooden wheels. The axel is attached to
the handles pushed by the driver, who holds them firmly in his thin
arms. His thin back is barely clothed by the white shirt which is
still stained pink from dye from Holi, a festival from over a month
ago. I imagine a passenger throwing colors on him in entertainment
while he carried them helplessly with no opportunity for retribution.
The driver darts across traffic, being nearly clipped by a bus and
then a tram twice as he escorts us to our home. As I sit upon the
throne looking out over the street from what feels like a majestic
view, even I begin to feel entitled simply due to my height and not to
mention the strange situation of being towed by another human being. I
become irritated at every halt, impatient at his slow speed, annoyed
at his impoliteness. My ride above Kolkata's traffic also makes me
feel, (unjustifiably), "above" them as well. As I descend, I am
disgusted at my own pleasure at the luxury ride, and moreso at my
ungrateful and selfish thoughts. I ashamedly pay him the 10 Rs. I
would have given him 100 for this experience. I want to thank him for
his work, for saving my legs the walk, for directing us safely through
traffic. But hesitate, as I realize that such kindness is not
culturally appropriate. It is not proper to sympathize with the lower
people, best to leave them to their work and you to yours. Best not to
get too close to them. Best not to be too polite or they'll get lazy.
Best not to over pay them or you'll ruin the market and spoil them.
What sordid disgusting people, can't even do their job right. We
coldly depart with no words to the rickshaw driver; only a silent
exchange of cash reduces our entire interaction to the commerce that
dominates all life in India. I return to my comfy bed, in my home
where water, bread, and cooking gas are brought to me. Where someone
cleans up after me, and sometimes even cooks for me. And I wonder,
Why?
But perhaps she will ask, why not?

Momita

I walk by the family every morning. They fascinate me. They live on the sidewalk along the road to Tala Park. It is an uncountable family, with brothers, sisters, and children scattered across the block. I watch with embarrassment as they do their laundry, their children poop on the sidewalk, a mother nurses her baby, the older man naps, the aunty cooks breakfast. They do not have the luxury of privacy. Their every action on public display. Do I make eye contact? I avoid walking through their living room, bathroom, and bedroom as I step into the street. Their habitation has completely overtaken the footpath. Their saris and clothes strung along bamboo poles, hanging in the sun to dry as they create a superficial barrier between the inhabitants and
street traffic. They smile as I pass, calling out one day, "Photo?" I am overjoyed at the opportunity to document this scene, having felt any uninvited photography would be voyeuristic, invasive, and insulting. I snap the tarpaulin shading a pile of blankets. The mothers pose with their children, proudly. A lady sweeps and grins for the camera. So at peace they are with so little. I promise to return with their printed photos.

...
I greet the family, huddled by one of the women, who I quickly  understand to have recently had a baby. Yesterday, I find out with  minimal Bengali. I give them their portraits which they happily  accept, and they continue explaining that Momita is very sick and she  has not been eating. I don't know much Bengali to ask medical questions, but I can see with my eyes the absolute discomfort of this poor new mother. I have another moment where I wish sincerely that I am a doctor already. Luckily the clinic is only a rickshaw ride away
and we hail a bicycle, our ambulance escort to Tala Park, a Calcutta Rescue clinic made just for street people like Momita who cannot access health care. Momita cannot walk on her own. I have her wait with her family outside. I consult the clinic manager as it is an emergency. I explain her weakness, her recent delivery on the
streetside, the need to see one of the doctors. "You can't bring a patient like this here! We have no facilities for examining her, she must go to the hospital! What if she has some complications? What if she gave birth in unsterile conditions? We would be in such trouble! What if she hasn't birthed the placenta? You can't just take a patient off the street, these scavenger patients, its too dangerous!"

I wonder, what is the point of Calcutta Rescue then? They say they will see her only after she is seen at the hospital. Then they can give her free medications. I insist that we bring her to the hospital. They get her a jeep escort there, along with a staff member. I want to go but I am not allowed. And I have already caused too much commotion. Going against protocols, messing up their sterile and uncaring system. What should these patients do then, if not seek help at our clinics? Is there no such thing as emergency medicine? It is the same
bureaucracy, the same indifference, impatience, and lack of human compassion that alienate and as a result sacrifice the lives of these street people that even a street medicine organization designed to accommodate these very patients does not know how to deal with and fails to treat with the respect and obligation to care upon which the medical field prides itself.
...
I visit Momita. She is luckily alive. But she was turned away at the hospital because she hadn't brought some papers. They sent her back to the footpath. She did not attend the clinic. She did not receive any medical advice. She was never even examined by a physician. I urge her to visit the clinic again. But who would visit such a place after being treated like that?

Does no one in the world care? It is just the way it is here. Your country can't be compared with India.

Insurmountable problems,
Created only by the laziness and selfishness
Of human beings themselves.
There are standards of living.
There are universal human rights
That may be broken for many,
For everyone.
But that does not make it right.
That does not excuse
The sin.

Halfway home

Today marks the halfway point of my stay in India. 3 months. I've survived is all I can really say for myself. I feel like these 3 months could have been 10 years. Sometimes people say, "Time went by so fast!" No, time is not going by fast here, it's taking its torturous time. It is not that I am tired of being here, I'm not really homesick, and there's so much more to do here. But just that every minute here is so much fuller. Like it is ridiculously compressed so that more stimuli, more motions, more assaults, are packed into each second that ticks by. I feel like I have aged since I've been here, having been completely disillusioned by the brokenness of humanity, and finding myself more distrustful, suspicious, and certainly, more aware. I don't know right now if this is a good or bad thing, but I suppose as long as it doesn't propel me into a downward spiral of depression during my remaining 3 months, I will be happy for it. It is like every worst nightmare actually is the reality of this place. It is quite disturbing, awakening, yet only in the sense that you realize the nightmare is not a dream; it is, terrifyingly, real life. I have seen things I never would have expected, things I never want to see again, met people who have rocked my soul either with their kindness or their sins. Selfishly, I am glad I have seen these things, for my own education, for learning lessons about the reality of the world, but for the sake of the human race, I am utterly disgusted, horrified, and ultimately, left with an ache of helplessness. At the same time, I will admit my time has not been a passive absorption of my surroundings, though I have definitely wasted a lot of time finding my way around. To my emotional distress, the work often feels futile and is dishearteningly frustrating at times. I also can't say I have completed anything truly meaningful yet, and my halfway point is merely an anticlimactic reminder of the effort it takes to make real change.

Fighting against the human condition

How do you conduct a feeding program when the names of the malnourished chihldren you are trying to feed change every time you go and the staff cannot even identify the orphans themselves?
What do you do when the children who have Vitamin A deficiencies have multiple identities and you risk over-medicating the children?
What do you do when there is not even a curriculum or set of books at this so-called school?
What do you do when the children's lives are at risk for the incompetency of these so-called guardians, but their constant lying and evasive answers make it impossible to find out the truth?
The Bess Crawford orphanage is the epitome of poverty directly damaging health.
The picture.
69 orphans. Supposedly.
But these may vary week to week and minute to minute. Their names change each time.
Children have 2 different names they tell me.
170 children join to eat the food.
I meet the "orphans' " mothers.
Children rub their tummies in pain.
NO one there understands nutrition nor will even listen, while they still give inadequate meals to the children.
Meals of rice and potatoes, if anything.
No vegetables, no protein.
We try to bring meals.
Don't bring them food! They say. Their tummies are too full from lunch! They'll all vomit at night!
Vitamin A and B deficiencies, tiny arms, and diarrhea.
One girl died of a stomach problem.
Who are these kids even?
Abosolute chaos.
Flies everywhere.
No toilet, water, drainage, sleeping mats.
No perception of the dangers of malnutrition, the possibility of blindness, developmental damage, or death.
I bring social workers to investigate.
This is a waste of time, why bother? they say.
There are millions of starving children, they say.
Plenty of others worth helping.
Besides.
You are just a volunteer trying to make impossible change.
You have no authority.
You will fail.
Thank you for your concern.
We will find another way to bring justice to this place.
I thought you people might feel some moral obligation to help, as social workers, as Christians,
As human beings.
But what can I expect in the most inhumane place I have ever been?

Or is this the true human condition?

Friendship

What is friendship?
But a game of wants
An exchange of benefits
One manipulates another
Gain!
Me!!
I'll use you for this
Yes
Let's see how I can gain your trust
So that you unknowingly give me what I need?
How might I give the least
and get the most from this
Deal?
What do you have for me,
Money?
Visa?
Sex?
Business?
I want.
I want.
So I will caress you sweetly.
You can trust me.
You are the most important person in the world.

You have nothing for me?
Who are you?

Nobody.

Home?

Just when I think the world lacks humanity
as hopelessness drains the spirit from my heart,
and poverty seems so endless and the solutions futile,
the shopowner who sits "Indian-style"
upon the counter of his business
below my apartment building
greets me with his usual
"Good morning Mama!"
as he nicknames me with a lovably hilarious mispronunciation of "Emma,"
the security guard in uniform outside the rich hotel
smiles and waves,
never seeming to tire of seeing me pass him every single day,
the dogs on Chowringhee yield,
barking at everyone but me,
the soccer player again invites me to play
with their pick-up team on the Maidan,
and I return from my run along Grant Street,
only to pass my beloved water boy carrying out his duties.
We recognize each other in strange elation and I fold my hands toward him in respect
and I grin naturally, to my surprise,
as I realize that despite its crimes and horrors,
Kolkata is my home.

To Firos Khan

You say you are a social worker with Mother Theresa
bringing ill patients from the countryside to the Mother House
for medical care
We talk about serving the poor and needy.
You seem like my kind of person!
We are friends. Let's go visit Shiva Temple.
You show me around, giving me a history of Hinduism.
The lingham, Shiva, Kali, Durga, Ganesha...
We see all the great gods and goddesses amidst the largest Hindu temple in India.
You say the art museum is closed on Sundays, too bad for me.
And anyway it costs 100 Rs which is not worth it to see the textiles you see in the Mughol town.
Handmade silks and saris, famous to Varanasi.

You bring me there on your motorcycle, commenting on how expensive petrol is--autorickshaws are so costly these days, 90 Rs/liter.

We see silk being woven by hand, it is made with cardboard hole-patter guides to create the design

and then woven onto looms.

Only the Mughol town with the community of Muslims makes it from real silk, the other are fake and charge ridiculous prices, you explain.

"You are lucky because today is the Mughol festival--the warehouse gives 50% discount all day." You tell me this.

We sit with a salesman at the "government-run" export warehouse. "Not tourist prices" he says.

I browse through gorgeous bedsheets and silk stoles.

The cheapest item is 325 Rs, a ridiculous asking for a single scarf.

All other items are at least 700.

325 is nothing, you say. Those cheaper scarves are poor quality. These are the real silk, handmade you see. I bargain down to 150 Rs, though I feel I am being ripped off anyway. We leave and you ask me if I want a ride to the railway station in the morning. You don't ask money. You treat me with chai 3 times today. You say a stupid crook must have booked your train from Moghulsarai instead of Varanasi, the closer station. It is so far, maybe 500 Rs by auto! You will take us, you insist. I offer to pay some for petrol. You insist, then 100 Rs at least for petrol, for tomorrow. Give you now, because you have no money left. You must fill up for the morning. I see. Do I trust you? I do owe you some money for our trip tomorrow. But I think of my friend's story of the man who made off with her money after gaining her trust. I say I need the money for the hotel, whose name I won't give you. No, I can't give you 100 Rs. You are angry now. You demand it. You have no money. You need at least 50 you say. I offer you 20. What can I do with that? I give you 50. Indeed it costs 90 Rs/ liter. We will meet tomorrow at 8 am at Gaudalia Crossing. You will fill up your petrol and will take us both to Moghulsarai station on the motorcycle. You call me 5 times in the morning to confirm. We arrive and you say that Moghulsarai is much too far to ride both of us on your motorcycle. Best to take an autorickshaw. You have already ordered one for 300 Rs. This is quite expensive for us you know. You say just ask any others and you will jump off your seat at how much they charge! My friend makes me get in. But you promised to take us to the station! What about the 50 Rs for your petrol!? Best take an autorickshaw. The 50 Rs is another story you say. Why not trust me? You keep saying. I am furious. We go with no choice. Will you call me in Calcutta, yes? Why would I do that? You are a cheater sir. It is not the 50 Rs. I owed you at least that much for your knowledge. But you took back your promise with no warning. And I know you got commission for setting up our auto-rickshaw; that is just how it works. I know you got commission from that silk warehouse, which was certainly not a real warehouse at sale prices after I have seen the same products at much cheaper on the streets and consulted my handicraft friends. Also did you know that I was looking out the window into the art museum? It said "open." And you offer me a cheap place to stay with you in Kolkata, only 1500 a month. Meet me in Kolkata and we speak Bengali, I teach you cooking. I come from a wealthy family, I don't ever ask for money. No worry no hurry no thank you no sorry. You say you only help special tourists. You continuously call my phone, you want to know my address. When you command my trust that is when it ends. You want to meet me in Kolkata? Maybe if I was not stupid, and if the real price of petrol wasn't only 54 Rs/liter.

Oh India

Why do you pull my limbs from my torso?
Have you no conscience?
Have you no respect?
Your people assault me,
And affront my senses with terrors.
You are absolutely primitive and viscious.
You prey on me as a falcon upon an unknowing mouse.
Your tricks
Your lies
Your vanities
Your obnoxious friendliness is like an over-iced cake.
Your cheaters feed me such things.
Do you see your sins?
Or do you ignore your horrifying misdeeds, excusing them as survival?
Oh how I hate you India.
Hate is a strong work for a strong place.
You torture me.
Your cleverness is uncanny,
Your misguidance surreal.
Is this a dream?
Because it could not be true what you have told me.
If it is, this world is a broken place.
Perhaps irreparable.
Why do you teach deception?
Why do you breed selfishness?
Why do you exhale hatred?
It is a wonder you have not yet swallowed me
to rot within the bowels of your hell.
Instead you merely chew me slowly and cruelly,
piece by piece,
crushing my idealism, breaking my hope,
draining my soul
If I escape I will be merely alive
Left deformed as the beggars who plague your streets,
Merely the refuse of your factory,
Doomed to a life of despair and neglect
Spare me India!
Or at least leave me my eyes untouched.
For you have already removed my eyelids
Permanently
Forcing me to witness the crimes of humanity
I only wish to see
So that I may protect my body from the bites of flies
While you devour my insides and cripple my heart.
Oh India have mercy.

Oh thin orphan child,

Your arm circumference measures 13 cm.
Anything less than 13. 5 signifies malnourishment.
Your hair is thin and yellow with no shine.
Your mouth has ulcerations for lack of Vitamin B.
Your eyes are dry with Vitamin A deficiency.
Will you go blind next year?
But you do not understand perhaps, these emergent signals.
Indeed, you are only 5 years old.
Approximately.
Because you have no guardian to count your age.
Nor one to feed you.
Nor one to hold you.
To brush your teeth, clean your body or delouse your hair.
Oh babe, do you see the injustice of your reality?
You know nothing besides this prison.
Under a roof you are fed rice and potatoes.
Maybe.
And put to sleep with 68 others.
During the day, you "learn."
Among the chaos of this "school."
For lunch, you compete with 190 other children for food.
Are you still hungry?
Your caretakers will ingest pleasureably the remaining nutrients.
If their arms were thin as yours I would snap them now.

To the children of Varanasi

Oh Akash,
you work for your father in electronics
instead of going to school
Oh Pujina
you sell postcards to tourists
but you cannot read or write
Oh Rahini
you sell flowers
all night long
class is not important
Oh children of Varanasi
Your families rely on your labor
Do they see the value in literacy?
Or does the income from these tiny sales suffice?
You will only become as good as your parents
You can only follow in their footsteps
They know not how to stray from this path
Oh mother and father
Why not give them the tools to be better than you?
Maybe I am ignorant
I do not understand what it is like to support your family
Isn't it fair?
He is part of the family so he must work
Children are able
We need that income
But listen!
Postcards, flowers, tourists and commissions,
These may provide some change for food
But never the enlightenment
Of real knowledge
Never the power of education
Oh child,
Won't you please come to school?

Oh Buddha

contemplating within a stone chamber cave for 6 years you ponder meaning living in solitude nothing do you lack nothing do you need but time and silence in  here you rest escaping material possessions emotions and life itself oh how I desire your wisdom have you gained enlightenment? will you obtain nirvana or repeat the cycle of reincarnation chakra karma oh destiny oh nothingness oh peace please tell me what are you thinking

 

do you hear

 

om

Lice

As I furiously comb the seemingly benign colorless critters from my scalp I have finally paid the consequence of my admittedly poor hygiene. I even recall the moment at which I contracted the lice, as I posed for a picture with the small slum girl at the orphanage after drawing her portrait. I knew I was testing my luck since she had just received permethrin from the doctors for the treatment of this common annoyance. After having attempted to conserve resources by washing my hair only 2 times a week for the past few years, and having forgotten the last time I even owned a comb, I admit my unattention to cleanliness as I am sorely regretful of my shampoo stinginess. Instead now, I wash my hair and body twice per day with a vengeance hoping to rid my head of these parasites. Though thankfully not life-threatening, I cannot help but feel embarassingly filthy as I scratch blindly trying futilely to loosen the insects' grip upon my flesh.

Sharing the work

Today I finally sucked it up and left the paint palettes in the sink for the "helper" despite my unfading guilt for leaving menial labor to others to do. Though I still would have preferred to do the cleaning up myself, I decided to force myself to participate in a culture where absolutely every task is assigned to a designated person whose entire livelihood relies on others leaving that very task to them to complete. While servants, maids, washers, and sweepers may be viewed by the West as luxuries or simply as the lower class, here, they are a necessary functional unit of daily life. If you can afford to pay for your laundry to be done, why wouldn't you? Why bother cleaning your dishes and floors when you can hire a maid? Why clean up your garbage when it will be swept up and even sorted for recycling by a street sweeper and a rag picker? Why pump your own water when it can be brought to your bathroom by a water boy? It is not merely a matter of obvious convenience, but the fact that spending money for someone else to take over these duties is employing a huge population of society and indeed by not taking part we deny these people their work. However, I still must stifle my instinct to be independent and self-sufficient, with my American tendency toward avoiding help of any kind. I have yet to delegate dish-washing and laundry to someone, even when these chores are clearly time-wasting. At the same time, I have no choice that my host mom hires a water boy, a maid, helpers in the house, a bread boy, and children to buy even her chapatis from the shop downstairs. But rather than seem like superfluous spending or unnecessary luxury, it has become something I understand as the normal way society works. At the same time, when I leave my mess for these "helpers," I can't help but feel the presence of a socioeconomically stratified society, certainly remainders of the caste system, and I hate the fact that to rebel against it will only insult those whose lives literally depend on my participation. What is the difference between laziness and convenience?

Holi

Ambushed by friendly strangers smearing magenta, yellow, and blue powder over the skin of my face. They gently wipe my forehead with red, my chin with aquamarine.

"Happy Holi!"

The unrecognizably colorful villagers grace my cheeks with violet and green. I am a canvas continuously repainted by joyous celebrators. Everyone is art and an artist. Boys politely approach with bags of colors, their eyes asking if I will participate in the play, but having already decided they will follow through with their intention of adding to this human palette. In return I spread my sea blue on their noses, complimenting their mess of red and orange. They sprinkle powder on my head, which quickly becomes the release of an entire handful of Holi dye into my hair.

"May I snatch a photo?"

Everyone wants to color the Americans. I smile for their cameras as a relatively aggressive bloak wipes color across my mouth, the pink coating my teeth, the grit only slightly unpleasant to taste. I inhale the floury sand as we toss handfuls into the air in elation, the magic raining back down on our bodies as we dance. Spreading the joy of colors is entirely irresistable. Children, adults, and cows are gorgeous fauvist masterpieces, unique creations of public art, walking easels. Our faces grin as we collect the prints of hundreds of playful hands, our cheeks aching more from smiling than from the repeated assaults, the paint unable to mask our delight.

The Taj Bengal

I leave Hastings gratefully only to be assaulted by the literally opposite yet equally disturbing world of affluence at the Taj Bengal, the most fancy and expensive hotel in Kolkata. It is certainly not a relieving change of scenery, but one that serve to exaggerate the mindblowingly tragic juxtaposition of wealth and poverty that exists in this city. Sitting below crystal chandeliers, surrounded by balconies with gorgeous flower gardens, dining on the most exquisite and plentiful variety of Indian food, glorying in the luxury of flush toilets with toilet paper, sinks, mirrors, lotion, and body mist, not to mention paper towels, and walking on marble floors that are distinctly clean to an extent I had thought impossible here, I feel a deep guilt for both the existence of this level of excess and personally guilty for my opportunity to take part in it if only for a few hours. As the most well-renowned medical experts of Kolkata give lectures on the cutting-edge advancements in clinical treatment of various thyroid diseases like Grave's, hypothyroidism, and thyroiditis, to a full audience of fancily-dress physicians, I wonder how it is possible to have so many doctors and such advanced health care, but care which is entirely inaccessible to the vast majority of citizens who are too poor to afford it or too alien to the health care system altogether. Whether it is a hormone imbalance requiring RAI or ATD, or a nodule needing an FNAC or USG, toxicosis vs. thyroiditis, subclinical hyperthyroidism or Grave's orbitopathy, I can't help but feel that this information is nearly irrelevant to our street patients when the most pressing issue is likely as simple (or complex) as iodine deficiency and the treatment option merely nutritional supplementation. Nevertheless, as I try to absorb the medical jargon, decode the 3-letter acronyms, and understand the lines of thought of clinical diagnosis, I am reminded of the fascinating breadth of knowledge and intellectual stimulation that is medicine, a field I am totally excited to have the opportunity to learn in a few months when I enter medical school. Then, dining on decadent fish, fried snacks, chutneys, and curries, I wonder why this food will be digested by my body and not by those of the malnourished children who just swarmed me to take their photos, and realize with helpless disgust that the mountains of extra food will probably be discarded as waste rather than rightfully distributed to those who really need it. The contrast of the absolutes of my day are an eye-opening taste of the true injustice that sits innocently unresolved like the bowl of sickeningly sweet syrup that drenches those white spiced balls of sugar that we all devour so enjoyably. The soaked starch is so tempting and fulfilling that it succeeds in distracting us from the bitter and utterly disgusting reality of poverty, of places like Hastings where I have been only hours before. It breeds a feeling of happy indifference, a blissful complacency that becomes a nauseating intoxication, erasing the troubles of the poor with comforting excess and hedonous gluttony, rendering them entirely unimportant and horrifyingly invisible.

Hastings

A place where malnutrition turns a child's hair pale, brittle, and thin.

A place where the overpass is the roof for hundreds of dwellers who hold steadfast to their territory against police raids out of both stubbornness and the pure lack of alternative.

A place where children cut open your bags to steal your cameras and wallet while their sisters distract you by doing the 2-finger twisty handshake.

A place where drunkards complain of cracked skin demanding to be seen by the doctor as if it is an emergency meanwhile breathing stinky alcohol fumes in annoyingly pestering closeness into your face.

A place where no child has had a vaccine, and worms extend babies' bellies to a point that is no longer cute.

A place where school is a luxury, perhaps even such a foreign apparatus as not to be used at all.

A place where new babies are born every day due to lack of family planning, entering a world of injustice, destitution, starvation, and utter chaos.

Bess Crawford Orphanage

A small pot of curry potatoes, some chapati
Was breakfast and lunch for 69 + orphans
Brother Christopher says
Every day he goes door to door
Begging for vegetables and money
To feed the orphan children
The teachers and he eat the food first
While the children have Vitamin A deficiency
Give them papaya
One time he did
How much food do you give them?
Only as much as I can get, all I get, I give to them
I have no money
7 teachers
double as cooks
1 gatekeeper
A doctor volunteering
Shameful record of immunizations
Obvious evidence of malnutrition
Children sleep in a warehouse on the floor
A disaster
A black hole of need
So small amount of food you give?
At least we give them
He says

Raw

My new single word to describe Kolkata is "raw." First are the obvious sensory qualities like the smells seeping uninvited into my nostrils from all directions, those of human urine and shit, food of sweet or spicy deliciousness, sugary milky chai frothing, the stink of vomit on the metro, nauseating fumes of exhaust, pollution, and smoke from charcoal fires and trash burning, and the many unidentifiable odors that are inexplicably stronger here than anywhere I have ever lived. Then there are the sounds; my ears witness babies being spanked, children chasing one another, chickens being murdered, goats being herded, bicycles fighting for space with bells while cars fight back with incessan beeping, meals sizzling, beggars' cups clanking, blind men crying "Allah," the song of the call to prayer, vendors calling "Yes Madam?", "EEEEgggggsss!" or "Pallllaaaaakkk!", and the neighbors' private conversations from the uncomfortably close windows along with the noises of their dishwashing and bathing. The auditory stimuli are overwhelming not only in quantity and intensity, but in their often private and unexpected nature. More obvious is the rawness of the images that confront me daily. Whether it is the open wounds of the beggar on my sidewalk downstairs, the butchers bleeding their livestock on the street corner, a mother oiling her baby, the beauty of the women's saris and pashminas, a child pooping on the sidewalk, the men bathing at the water pump, the shantytowns that cover any available space to create real estate from wasteland, or the folks who resort to sleeping at my doorstep on blankets, every day is a disturbing myriad of visual interest.

 

Kolkata is raw in the dangerous variety of infectious diseases that rampantly prey upon these victims who cannot afford to treat them, or who seek medical assistance but receive such a poor quality of care, the doctors' competence is so lacking, and their bodies are so weak, that they expire anyway.  It is raw in the visibility of all trades working diligently and desperately on street sides as they creatively make a living by identifying demand and serving the public. It is raw in its waste that results from the millions who take part in this literally open-air market society, a place where refuse is discarded thoughtlessly to accumulate for the street-sweepers whose duty it is to rectify the littering problem singlehandedly and for the ragpickers who recycle every scrap possible not necessarily out of conscience for the environment but rather in an acheing need to survive. It is raw in the terrifying exploitiveness of beggarmasters who create a system of paradoxically dishonest and real need that plagues the peope with a disturbed guilt that borders on insanity from the pure helplessness of resolving the problem with their spare change. It is raw in its abject poverty that threatens to desensitize the soul of all compassion for its debilitatingly urgent and ubiquitous confrontations.

 

And Kolkata's people are raw. Encapsulating the extremes of human nature, they are unjustly deceitful and crooked, unprecedentedly generous and hospitable, in a passionate fight for social justice, or desperately struggling to escape this place; thus, composing what I see as a more complete expression of humanity. These people are REAL. Whether it is the amused boys who entertainedly run along side me or shamelessly charge me like bulls, the metro-riders who stare at me and take secretive photographs, the shopkeepers who cheat me, the woman who tried to pickpocket me, the businessmen who call out or invite me into their homes to try to get me to pay them for home-cooked meals, the many friends and strangers trying to find a way to come with me to America, the kids who trick foreigners into treating them to cricket bats, amusement parks and zoos, or the milk seller who lies about the price of milk to foreigners and locals alike, they have a sheerly human quality that is unadorned and strikingly naked. The sins of human greed and malice, and the reality of human suffering are so apparent here, the evil as rampant as the consequential pain.

 

On the opposite extreme is the pure generosity, kindness, and friendship that I experience just as frequently. I can recall the chai stall men who picked me up and washed my wounds after my fall, the stranger who paid for our taxi ride, the shop owners who gave me a free shawl when I said I was cold and insisted I don't pay them for it, the vegetable man who returned my change when I overpaid him accidentally, the art teacher who showed me his studio and work gratuitously and invited me to exhibit with him, and of course my host mom who gives me everything and more. It is these people who teach me what it means to live for one another, and force me to humbly accept my reliance on community and fellowship for my own survival.

 

There is a transparency, an honesty to this place that reveals the true colors of human sin just as it offers an inexplicably inexhaustible fountain of love. It is this absolute contrast between wealth and poverty, delight and hatred, greed and generosity, frustration and reward, good and evil, that I see even in the stark, moody ink-paintings of Rabindranath Tagore, where the juxtaposition of black paint with the white paper create the exaggerated emotional effect that makes the image great, that makes life real, that makes the rawness of Kolkata both devastating and beautiful.

The Sikh

Maybe it was my comment about hating geting ripped off all he time in India that the Sikh man spontaneously paid for all of our taxi cab on our way to Howrah train station. At such an early hour we didn't have the option of a bus, so were unpleasantly forced to splurge on a cab. But instead of having to pay the 50 Rs (as opposed to 6) this complete stranger who happened to be sharing the cab, also shared and in fact completely paid for our fare. It was an act of kindness that was no only unexpected but almost absurdly generous since he paid double what he would have had to pay for himself. Though we insisted against his offer, he insisted in return, feeling bad that we as foreigners had always been cheated here in India. He didn't want us to have that impression of his country. He proceeded to show us how to buy our tickets, get reserved seats, and find our plaform entirely out of good-heartedness, and in the end even handed us his card and requested we get in touch to go visit him in Jashedpur. Though I still canno tell he difference between rue Indian altruism and the type of niceness that expects eiher money, business, or sex in return, I had an instinct that this man was honestly of the former category. It is a bit insane how everyone I meet appears to be either entirely evil or absolutely good. I suppose it is appropriate as I come to understand India's identity as a country of extremes.

Street medicine in the Abode of Peace

"Risko?"
"Mela?"
"Rickshaw madam?"
These were three of the shoutouts that were inevitably heard in intervals of about 5 feet as we arrived in Shantiniketan, and ironically unfitting for the town that means "Abode of Peace". It became quickly annoying to be constantly confronted with bicycle rickshaw drivers who had a competitively aggressive technique for getting passengers; that is, by shouting at them repeatedly in an attempt to convince them that they needed to be transported. Telling them we could use our own two feet was futile, as they generally would remark how far away the town was and that we could not possibly walk the 2 km to get there. On the other hand, despite the hassle of these public transporters, I was attracted by the reality that all transportation was either by foot or by bicycle. It seemed that everyone owned a bicycle--the street was overcrowded with them. This environmentally friendly quality and the much appreciated reduction in noise and air pollution forgave the irritating rickshaw drivers who were only trying to make a living and provide a service. The people here were surprisingly open and friendly compared with the city, as a shopkeeper brought us to his friend's home when we inquired about using a toilet. And the "Abode of Peace," eventually lived up to its name once we left the train station. After a breakfast of puri and sabzi, we continued walking past goats, cows, and handicrafts. Even more than the relative silence of the countryside, I enjoyed that the town is a cultural and artistic epicenter, as it is the home of the Visva Bharati University, founded by the Renaissance man, the Leonardo Da Vinci of India, Rabindranath Tagore. He was a heroic painter, poet, singer, and playwright, his talent and passion leading him to open schools all over West Bengal, create masterpieces of writing and painting which I have been appreciating, win the Nobel Prize for literature, and basically become West Bengal's cultural hero as well as my own. His paintings are atmospheric and expressive, and he valued the traditional Bengali painting styles when the British empire threatened to eclipse it with its own European styles and techniques. His poetry speaks to the truths of daily life, spirituality, and human nature. It enthralls me to read more and inspires me also to write. His art school, the Khala Bhavana, was a museum in itself, which made up for the fact that the actual museum was closed. I was impressed by the very artistic nature of the architecture--buildings covered with drawings, mosaics, murals, and relief sculptures. Meanwhile, art students worked in teh quiet afternoon on their wood sculptures and oil paintings. The other schools included the Institute of Humanities, Science, Dance, Drama and Music, Rural Reconstruction, the Indira Gandhi Centre for National Integration, Centre for Rural Craft, and the Centre for Social Studies and Rural Development. I would enroll there if I had the chance. In the evening we enjoyed the local handicraft and music fair that occurs every Saturday night to exhibit local crafts, food, and Baul (gypsy style rhythmic traditional Indian) music and dance. The place brimmed with creativity and an appreciation for art. In the morning I enjoyed a fantastic run through the countryside where I passed peasants, those whose agricultural lifestyle had the beauty of simplicity, but which certainly require extremely hard labor to make their livings. The rice paddies and potato fields, the children playing, the cows being brought into town, the bicycles commuting from the countryside, all made me want to both find out more about these poor villagers' lives, and even live there myself.

And if the culture, the art, and the peacefulness of rural life in Shantiniketan weren't enough to win me over, I also got a delightful taste of the medical programs for the rural villages and tribespeople. We were greeted there by a Canadian man named Brian who runs an NGO called the Peace Clinic, one of the towns social development organizations working on education, health care, and health education for the poor people there. We did not even know this man prior to our arrival, but he took us into his home for the night, and showed us all around the town. More fascinating even than the art school of Tagore was our conversation about public health and medicine and its role in social justice movements. His organization runs a clinic for a nominal fee for small basic needs, since the nearest health center is over 6 km away. They have conducted a survey of teh state of health in teh tribal areas nearby to evaluate the population's health risks and problems (diabetes is big there) and access to health care. These people lack access to basic health care due to their geographical distance and destitution. They are working to teach villages about simple first aid and early child health and hygiene so that they can pass down knowledge to fellow villagers through the sustainable method of health education. But what excites me the most is their beginnings of a street medicine program with an outreach component, a mobile clinic proposal that they were working on when we called. It would improve access to care for those most marginalized rural folks who speak only indigenous languages. Though there don't seem to be "homeless" people here in the countryside, it is a different kind of "street-dwelling" where everyone lives at a level of poverty that compromises health in similar ways. Their mud and hay thatched huts provide adequate shelter, but often collapse to suffocate the inhabitants during the rainy season, and their dirt floors prevent the maintenance of good hygiene. I suppose it would be comparable to the city's slums, as they barely have enough to maintain such a roof over their heads and to provide food for themselves. Most people were farmers, it appeared, and the land was thankfully plentiful. Their problems were less about nutrition and more related to social and infrastructural needs like access to education and health care. Now that I write this I am filled with questions about the people I could only view briefly from the roadside, but people who smiled as I passed on my run. I desperately want to return to work with this group as they begin a street medicine project in this rural setting, a place I feel more suitable for me than the city. Even after such a brief visit, I feel sincerely that I have finally found my niche of future work--rural street medicine.