Just as I have condemned Kolkata for its cheaters, I have been floored by its unbridled generosity. Today on my run, no sooner did I stumble on the treacherously uneven sidewalk and plunge faceward into the rocks did 2 men pull me up off the ground by my shoulders, a herd of men surround me, gathering and discussing, immediately trying to examine my body for injury and recount the accident to locate the cause, offer me a place to sit at their chai stall, brush me off and wash my cuts with their hands and water, rub antibiotic ointment on my cuts, and give me chai, all the while muttering dramatically in Bengali. Meanwhile, I was so astounded by this gratuitous emergency response by street standers that I only sat speechless as I tried to recover; nevermind that I couldn't respond in Bengali. I have never been given so much care so suddenly by such complete strangers. It is this extreme sense of kindness, this unquestioned concern for others, this fellowship of humanity, that brought me to tears this morning, far more disarmingly than the pain of the wounds themselves.
January 28, 2010
Exhibits
This weekend I took the opportunity to enjoy the local culture that Kolkata offers. First I went to the Indian Museum, an absolutely ancient and fascinating place, a museum of a museum, where exhibits appear not to have been touched for years. The writing archaic, the information obsolete, and the tone often offensive, it was the absurd combination of a science, art, natural history, anthropological, geological, archaeological and historical museum all in one package. They apparently tried to cram all of essential human knowledge into one building. Though I had to pay 150 Rs ($3) to enter whereas locals pay only 10 Rs, it was worth it as its own spectacle of what Indians have decided necessary to preserve for the promotion of knowledge and culture. Who would think to have an entire hall full of all the different types of rocks from every state in India? Or a hall dedicated to the evolution of man using life-siezed dioramas of Neanderthals and Cro-magnon man? Or post the geologic history of Earth on hilariously simple drawings of volcanoes, magma and the layers of Earth's core? I was quite impressed with the quantity of bronze scuptures that they housed in the collection, all depicting one of the many gods or goddesses like Ganesha, Shiva, or Buddha. The coin hall was a rare treat, showing tiny pieces of art which have been used as currency over the past 3000 years. What was perhaps most intriguing was the anthropology section which housed more life-sized dioramas of many tribes from around India along with very judgemental descriptions of the tribespeople. The blurbs treated them as uncivilized and not yet having reached the level of modernity that is socially acceptable. "They hunt game and gather berries, refusing to accept the more efficient agricultural practices of the modern world." I was struck by the busts they had cast in bronze of an example of each tribe, which were quite detailed, showing the difference in facial structure between the various strains of races. I sketched one Chenchu head, which attracted a rudely interested audience that insisted on looing over my shoulder, shamelessly, giving me no privacy, not to mention the people who would blatantly stare at me as a foreigner, as if I were one of the exhibits. I stared back passive-aggressively, trying to contain my bitterness at their indiscretion. Being an obvious foreigner has become the most irritating for me as of late, as people take photos of me at my face (3 already) and others yell "kanichiwa" assuming I am Japanese. I still have to figure out a dignified response. Smiling back is too fake, due to my sincere disdain at my constant identity as a spectacle. Anyway, the last exhibit I would have liked to see more of was the painting. Though the pieces were terribly kept behind glass and in a dilapidated state of disintegration, not to mention the horrible lighting where glares prevented the viewer from properly seeing the pieces at all, I still was quite impressed by the variety of watercolors and drawings their collection had. I really liked the work of Nandalal Bose, Gabinadrath Tagore, and Rabindranath Tagore. The colorful yet simple paper works had an intimacy and simplicity, a style and culture that inspires me to seek out more examples of Bengali art. Luckily, there are many more museums to admire.
January 25, 2010
1:43 am
I savor the hour at which silence blankets Kolkata, the absense of sound entirely refreshing as I awaken during the night to witness this rare indulgence of quiet. The darkness is colored only by the familiar cadence of crickets that chirp lullingly. While the rest of the city, surprisingly, sleeps, I glory in its unconsciousness. My mind renews itself from another day of being bombarded by people, smells, sounds, and images, the ceaselessness of which is utterly exhausting. The taste of noiselessness is the soothing complement to my day like yogurt is to my spicy tikka masala. If only night could last all day. But my body also falls victim to the brief hibernation that takes place now, the intoxicating silence hypnotizing my mind into the same desperate inactivity so necessary to recharge in preparation for the anxious and copious stimuli that forebodingly await us all.
Personal hygiene #2
I solved my toilet paper problem by becoming constipated. Actually, I did end up buying some toilet paper but I felt a small pang of defeat. I also only feel comfortable using it to blow my nose since I don't want to block up the sewage system. In fact, I figured out how to blow my nose into my hand and wash to conserve paper, and hopefully I have conqured my dependence on it altogether. I am slowly perfecting the "wipe" using a cup of running water and my hand to rinse myself, and I have added a "drying" stage after I have washed, simply using a shaken off hand. I finally understand the necessary custom of wiping with the left and eating with the right, especially since I continue to mistakenly use the inappropriate one and find myself feeling dirty and improper for it. There is a well-established system for cleaning oneself that I have yet to master, and that is a subject too personal to inquire locals about. I have enjoyed washing dishes in buckets, since I certainly conserve a great deal of water. I boil my drinking water nightly, so that by morning it is cool enough to drink. As for showers, it is easy to make water "run" yourself, by the simple method of gravity. I am lucky to have the luxury even of being able to heat the water, and especially to have a water man come to our house and refill the barrels from the street pumps every day. Many must bathe and wash dishes in the water pumps themselves, and scrubbing oneself in the company of others outside is just a normal fact of life here. I am a bit envious of these public gatherings, actually, since it appears to be an exceedingly enjoyable social ritual, reminding me of my locker room days. I have a new appreciation for the washing machine when cleaning clothes by hand takes not only an hour of washing and rinsing, but an entire day of drying on the clothes line. I am continually impressed by the multi-purpose uses of the buckets of water in which I not only wash dishes, clothes, and floors, but that I have also found perfect for weightlifting as I do bicep curls with the buckets full of water and my soaking clothes.
Running
Running has become comfortably monotonous. My alarm clock is the water boy who arrives with our daily supply of water at 6:30 am. I gratefully enjoy this hour, since I avoid the crowds, traffic, and hasslers--the vendors and their friends who swarm foreigners persistently, trying to make a sale, or simply searching for entertainment. Nevertheless, I often get the comment from boys at sport, "What happened?" the local greeting that jibes, "What are you running from?"
Setting off early brings me the gift of the sunrise, a gorgeous orange sphere that looms just above the horizon brings a glowing light to everything it touches. It breaks the morning mist and brings shine to the dew. I take the same route every day, to the Maidan, where boys play cricket, runners exercise, people play volleyball, and old people meditate. There is a satisfaction in completing the same loop through the fields, around the Victoria, and back through the fields, and I relish in the only part of my day that has some aspect of consistency. The same dog sits in the same place each morning, as if expecting me to pass as he patrols his territory of the sidewalk. It is always impressive, however, that despite the stink of urine, trash heaps, litter, and air pollution, there is always still room for new beauty. A horse grazes in silhouette beneath the trees, which frame the memorial perfectly. Goats wander in giant herds, freely rubbing themselves against trees and chewing on shrubs, inhabiting the public space as their own. An old man rests contemplating in the relative peace, staring at the sky. Puppies feed from their mother, huddling at her nipples as they take their breakfast. Mothers are busy lighting the fires that both warm their bodies and heat their meals, while their children prance in the dawn, cradling their siblings, as they rise to the admirable role of parent in a world where love and humanity is hidden only behind the thin layer of grime that covers the bodies of all but does not dirty their spirits.
Setting off early brings me the gift of the sunrise, a gorgeous orange sphere that looms just above the horizon brings a glowing light to everything it touches. It breaks the morning mist and brings shine to the dew. I take the same route every day, to the Maidan, where boys play cricket, runners exercise, people play volleyball, and old people meditate. There is a satisfaction in completing the same loop through the fields, around the Victoria, and back through the fields, and I relish in the only part of my day that has some aspect of consistency. The same dog sits in the same place each morning, as if expecting me to pass as he patrols his territory of the sidewalk. It is always impressive, however, that despite the stink of urine, trash heaps, litter, and air pollution, there is always still room for new beauty. A horse grazes in silhouette beneath the trees, which frame the memorial perfectly. Goats wander in giant herds, freely rubbing themselves against trees and chewing on shrubs, inhabiting the public space as their own. An old man rests contemplating in the relative peace, staring at the sky. Puppies feed from their mother, huddling at her nipples as they take their breakfast. Mothers are busy lighting the fires that both warm their bodies and heat their meals, while their children prance in the dawn, cradling their siblings, as they rise to the admirable role of parent in a world where love and humanity is hidden only behind the thin layer of grime that covers the bodies of all but does not dirty their spirits.
January 22, 2010
Calcutta Rescue
I will admit that my volunteer work has gotten off to a slow start, and I have stalled about writing to tell about it for not knowing really what I was doing, but I suppose it is about time that I post an update about the actual work I am doing here. Abundant holidays and my own sickness, not to mention huge cultural adjustments set me back the first week or so. But after an absolutely incredible clinic tour of CR's programs, and slowly getting my head around all of the possibilities of work here, I am so excited and honored that I am dedicating my time here. I won't go into depth about the extensiveness of the organization since their website details this: www.calcuttarescue.org
I am still trying to figure out where I will be most useful, since I have no "medical training." However, it seems there is still plenty to do, whether it is using my artistic and health education skills or simply observing medical care. Here's a sort of delineation of what I see myself doing:
1. Health education posters--redesigning and creating posters teaching about diseases and their transmission, preventive medicine, and cultural implications of disease for both staff and patients to use as educational materials. I've already started this, and it has been a good first project, since I can do it without necessarily going anywhere. It seems it is quite useful for them to have these materials, and today I dropped off the first set (HIV/AIDS and heart health, with copies for three clinics plus the street medicine teams) to a carpenter to have them mounted on plywood and laminated for permanence as they wanted.
2. Street medicine--this is going to be my favorite part I think, though I don't know what to expect. I haven't been able to go yet due to being told I couldn't (mistakenly), sickness and holidays, and now the next opportunity is not until next Saturday. But when I finally start I'll be able to go along with the street teams on the mobile clinic and observe care as they provide it. I'm sure I'll learn a lot, and hopefully I'll be able to be of some use to them as well with my street outreach and social work experience. It will certainly be interesting to compare what I've learned through my time in Pittsburgh with a totally new environment.
3. Art/handicrafts/kids--doing art projects with street kids in the schools. I met with the Tala Park school teachers today, who were really welcoming and excited to have me doing some projects with the kids. They hope to do a collage project or competition soon, which is just what I was thinking of starting. CR has an entire handicrafts program that provides revenue as well, and perhaps the kids' artwork could even be used to bring profit back to them. This has been done before, where they had a painting contest and the winners were put on postcards with each child's story on the back. I bought a set last night. Tala Park school is a school for "non-formal" students, kids who aren't quite ready for "formal" school. They still have to master basic language (they learn Bengali, Hindi, and English), as well as social skills, hygiene, math, and art. As soon as they are prepared, they are sent to the government ("formal") schools.
Today I finally got to catch up with Dr. Jack Preger, the founder of Calcutta Rescue. He is one impressive character for sure, his age of 80 years a deceptive misrepresentation of his energy level. Having lived his life as a farmer in Britain, he decided at age 37 that he was called to become a doctor to serve the poor. He began practicing medicine on the streets of Calcutta, to the strange disliking of the government, and has served prison time fighting for what is right. He exudes leadership, passion, and the guts to overcome any obstacle, seeming to have ripened rather than weakened in his old age. You can read more about him at: http://basilicum122.googlepages.com/fromtheauthor
January 21, 2010
Sitting at Tala Park clinic, watching waiting patients
Trying not to catch their eyes
As I sketch them from afar
Behind the pillar
That separates me as foreign
I hide
No one greets me but one man
Named James Franklin.
I have nothing to do but wait
For the only woman I know,
Ruma,
And to keep sane,
I draw
The bustle of the busy clinic.
Children are bored
Families come from the countryside for treatment.
A pharmacy, a translator, doctors, health education, physio health, and a school all under one roof
No one speaks English
Everyone is stressfully busy
I don't want to bother them
My fear competes with my curiosity to learn more
To balance the two,
I just watch
And draw
They watch me
What are you doing here?
What am I doing here?
Trying not to catch their eyes
As I sketch them from afar
Behind the pillar
That separates me as foreign
I hide
No one greets me but one man
Named James Franklin.
I have nothing to do but wait
For the only woman I know,
Ruma,
And to keep sane,
I draw
The bustle of the busy clinic.
Children are bored
Families come from the countryside for treatment.
A pharmacy, a translator, doctors, health education, physio health, and a school all under one roof
No one speaks English
Everyone is stressfully busy
I don't want to bother them
My fear competes with my curiosity to learn more
To balance the two,
I just watch
And draw
They watch me
What are you doing here?
What am I doing here?
Escaping
I have to admit being overwhelmed by the entrapment that devours this society. It seems that everyone I meet is either trying desperately to get out of India, or has successfully done so already. Dola is one of the only people I have met who seem happy, and she has all of her relatives abroad supporting her. I already mentioned about Padma and Vicki, who literally both asked me personally for help to get to America (on the same day), and specifically to stay at my home there. Now, the person I am paired up with at CR, Ruma, also seems to hate this country. She explained she feels underpaid and overworked. She receives the same salary (4000Rs/month, about $80), as the skilled laborers who have only completed some years of grade school. Then, she showed me her extensive CV that shows her massive educational training and experience with public health, community development, elderly care, maternal/child health, and health education. She is extremely qualified for the job, but is not paid nearly enough, or even as much as she would at other NGO's. She has been at CR for 15 years, gaining immense experience, but is treated and paid like any counter worker, getting minimal wages, minimal respect and often blamed for things she should not be responsible for. Though she likes the patients, she is searching for a position elsewhere. And not just any other job, she is looked abroad (in Iceland!) and says she would definitely take a different job.
There is this sense of dissatisfaction and impossibility that pervades all life here. The only option for "making it" is to, in fact, leave.
There is this sense of dissatisfaction and impossibility that pervades all life here. The only option for "making it" is to, in fact, leave.
The guilt of friendship
As I was writing in my journal the previous entry, a German friend, Katya, came up to me and said, "I have to talk with you about something." She told me about how Padma is always trying to get people's sympathy so that they give her things--she receives so much money from this family, and she had lied to me about the low earnings she gets. It was startling, after having just had my heart wrenched a few seconds before by her story. Clearly, her ploy worked. She had done the same to Katya, who had given her money and gifts to help her. But when Katya refused to give her all of what she asked for, Padma stopped speaking to her anymore, turning cold. She lies about how much money she has, her poverty. This family supports her, since Troy has so much money. It is all an act, she told me, just watch out, and hold onto your valuables. Now, I don't know what to do, who to trust. This woman comes to the house every week! What did I get myself into!
I have to say I have been disillusioned by the idea of friendship here. Only earlier today, I met some children at Simpark to go to the zoo. I had been asked by this 17 year old boy named Vicki if I wanted to go. When I met him a few days ago, I thought it to be a friendly gesture, since he wasn't interested in a girlfriend, and he seemed just to be good company. Little did I know, I was ambushed today by him and 8 other friends (notably, 3 of whom were named Vicki) who held my hand and smiled away cutely. They asked me to buy them a new cricket bat. As much as I wanted to, it was too much--I just don't have that money. I thought it a little suspicious that they would be so forward at first, but of course they were so young and innocent looking. Then I realized, his invitation to the zoo to me had actually meant, Do you want to take me and 2 other friends (also named Vicki) to the zoo and pay for us? They told me that the metro was closed on Sundays, and we had to take a cab. They asked if I had the money for one, and I had no choice but to give in, considering we had no other option. Only later did I learn that they had lied--the metro runs on Sunday. In this way, they got me to pay for the transportation there. I wasn't too suspicious, but when we got to the zoo, they pushed me ahead and said, "4 tickets," forcing me again to pay. It was another small but again unexpected assumption on their part, a gift I would have been happy to offer if it hadn't been an obligation and a presumption. At that point, I was still thrilled to be so loved by these 14 and 17 year olds, so I tried to enjoy the zoo, with the Indian lion, tiger, and elephants. It wasn't anything special, and I hated seeing the animals caged up. As we left, they explained it was Vicki #1's birthday next Sunday, we should go to Nico Park, an amusement park in Salt Lake. I thought, sure, that would be fun to celebrate his birthday! But then I realized how it probably meant that I would be the one treating them on this excursion, the taxi and the tickets, and who knows how many friends, and I just couldn't pay. I told them so, and tried to explain why in as simple English as possible. Because I am only here through the help of a fellowship, volunteering, I have no job, no real place to live, I am about to enter a ridiculously expensive school. I was honest with them to sort of test them, and I found that instead of understanding, they tried harder to convince me to take them to Nico Park, saying how much fun I would have there (not much I am certain). "Only buy me tickets for 3 boys and we pay you lunch." Like that wsa equivalent? Then they searched for alternative ways to get me to buy them things. QUite clever, I'll admit, as they took advantage of my guilt. After giving up on the park, they asked if I could buy them cake to celebrate instead. I conceded, but immediately they specified that I should buy for all of them and their friends, and they must pick out the cake. Thankless brats. Then they asked if they could come over to my house. Luckily I refused. They dove boldly into asking if I could help find Vicki a job in America and if he could stay at my house. I repeated that I don't have a house. Can he stay at your parent's house? What is your parent's salary? They asked with no hesitation. I could tell they had some mischief in their minds. I declined giving them anymore information, and would not pay for their take out dinner they requested, and finally gave them a fake phone number. They kept on asking for dinner, and I muttered frustratedly, "You can't just ask for things like that!! It's not fair!" And I left my comment unexplained as I escaped.
After talking with some real friends, I learned that these are just shit kids who do this all the time. I feel so dirty and taken advantage of. Even by children for crying out oud!!! It is like a conspiracy where everyone wants pity, money, and then to get to America!! I feel so hateful at the reality that I literally cannot trust anyone anymore. I feel selfish and stingy, and paradoxically tricked and stolen from at the same time. People can appear so honest, but yet be so deceptive. Where is their conscience? How can I justify helping the poor when these people are so totally immoral? So two-faced? I simply can't do anything anymore. I just want to lock myself in a room. But at the same time, how can I blame them? It is a society where everyone is trapped, victimized by inevitable and inescapable poverty. Can I really judge them when they have no where else to turn but fraud for their own survival? Is this the real India? Deception, mockery, and betrayal?
I have to say I have been disillusioned by the idea of friendship here. Only earlier today, I met some children at Simpark to go to the zoo. I had been asked by this 17 year old boy named Vicki if I wanted to go. When I met him a few days ago, I thought it to be a friendly gesture, since he wasn't interested in a girlfriend, and he seemed just to be good company. Little did I know, I was ambushed today by him and 8 other friends (notably, 3 of whom were named Vicki) who held my hand and smiled away cutely. They asked me to buy them a new cricket bat. As much as I wanted to, it was too much--I just don't have that money. I thought it a little suspicious that they would be so forward at first, but of course they were so young and innocent looking. Then I realized, his invitation to the zoo to me had actually meant, Do you want to take me and 2 other friends (also named Vicki) to the zoo and pay for us? They told me that the metro was closed on Sundays, and we had to take a cab. They asked if I had the money for one, and I had no choice but to give in, considering we had no other option. Only later did I learn that they had lied--the metro runs on Sunday. In this way, they got me to pay for the transportation there. I wasn't too suspicious, but when we got to the zoo, they pushed me ahead and said, "4 tickets," forcing me again to pay. It was another small but again unexpected assumption on their part, a gift I would have been happy to offer if it hadn't been an obligation and a presumption. At that point, I was still thrilled to be so loved by these 14 and 17 year olds, so I tried to enjoy the zoo, with the Indian lion, tiger, and elephants. It wasn't anything special, and I hated seeing the animals caged up. As we left, they explained it was Vicki #1's birthday next Sunday, we should go to Nico Park, an amusement park in Salt Lake. I thought, sure, that would be fun to celebrate his birthday! But then I realized how it probably meant that I would be the one treating them on this excursion, the taxi and the tickets, and who knows how many friends, and I just couldn't pay. I told them so, and tried to explain why in as simple English as possible. Because I am only here through the help of a fellowship, volunteering, I have no job, no real place to live, I am about to enter a ridiculously expensive school. I was honest with them to sort of test them, and I found that instead of understanding, they tried harder to convince me to take them to Nico Park, saying how much fun I would have there (not much I am certain). "Only buy me tickets for 3 boys and we pay you lunch." Like that wsa equivalent? Then they searched for alternative ways to get me to buy them things. QUite clever, I'll admit, as they took advantage of my guilt. After giving up on the park, they asked if I could buy them cake to celebrate instead. I conceded, but immediately they specified that I should buy for all of them and their friends, and they must pick out the cake. Thankless brats. Then they asked if they could come over to my house. Luckily I refused. They dove boldly into asking if I could help find Vicki a job in America and if he could stay at my house. I repeated that I don't have a house. Can he stay at your parent's house? What is your parent's salary? They asked with no hesitation. I could tell they had some mischief in their minds. I declined giving them anymore information, and would not pay for their take out dinner they requested, and finally gave them a fake phone number. They kept on asking for dinner, and I muttered frustratedly, "You can't just ask for things like that!! It's not fair!" And I left my comment unexplained as I escaped.
After talking with some real friends, I learned that these are just shit kids who do this all the time. I feel so dirty and taken advantage of. Even by children for crying out oud!!! It is like a conspiracy where everyone wants pity, money, and then to get to America!! I feel so hateful at the reality that I literally cannot trust anyone anymore. I feel selfish and stingy, and paradoxically tricked and stolen from at the same time. People can appear so honest, but yet be so deceptive. Where is their conscience? How can I justify helping the poor when these people are so totally immoral? So two-faced? I simply can't do anything anymore. I just want to lock myself in a room. But at the same time, how can I blame them? It is a society where everyone is trapped, victimized by inevitable and inescapable poverty. Can I really judge them when they have no where else to turn but fraud for their own survival? Is this the real India? Deception, mockery, and betrayal?
"Friendship"
I just befriended the house maid/cook named Padma, the coolest woman ever. She has no great job--she cooks for two hours for another woman every day, and on weekends helps out Dola as her friend, receiving some money, and that is all. She earns a salary of only 1000 Rs/month, the equivalent of $20. Her rent is 500 Rs/month, for a single room that is without a kitchen or bathroom. She pays an extra 100 Rs/month to use a toilet and access water. To cook, she uses the small stove in her bedroom, the only room. Once, she had about 55,000 Rs, but in caring for her sick mother, she spent it all on her mom's hosptal care, medicine, and food, as she wasted away for the course of 4 years. The old woman lay in ed, needing Padma to bathe her and feed her, take her even to the bathroom. Padma couldn't find a husband as a result of having no free time of her own, which would have been her opportunity to move into the security of a household. "Who would take care of mom?" Her brother and sister apparently wouldn't. The mother and daughter lived in the same tiny room together as the mother wasted away. When she died, she left her daughter in poverty and solitude. Now, Padma barely makes it, but manages somehow to always save 200 Rs/month. How does she live on the remaining 200 Rs? I have no idea.
"So little," I commented.
"That thing," she replied.
But God watches out for her, she claims. "I can pray. I can give others. I help my mom, I help my friend, I know God is always help me."
THen she wasted no time, asking me to help her come to America. First I thought she was jokng, since she was smiling. But I think it was not in jest but in happiness at the hopeful possibility. If she could only get a visa to visit the US, she could get a job and make herself a better life. She has no one here to leave, no family...
"See me, will you?" She meant will I see for her.
I am a bit shocked at the gravity of such a promise, but I made it anyway. I can at least write her a letter that says she is visiting me in America, right? But, what else can I offer? I can't help thinking of my own situation--no place of my own to live, just got off food stamps, and about to go $80,000 into debt. How can I even suggest helping someone to move to my country where so many are already homeless and unemployed, including, essentially, me? What do these people think America is?
And then I thought of the relative realities, and I realize then how ridiculous, how astonishingly vast the poverty level of difference is between the two places. What I once thought poor, is not poor. Even my own poverty is such a luxury, infinitely so. I'm sorry. It is really unfair to compare the two, they are such radically different contexts. But then I had to say I'd help. If I can possibly do anything to improve the life of this woman who has given everything of her own for others and continues to, but receives nothing but foul wages, poor employment, and loneliness in return, I absolutely must. I told her I don't have any place to stay in America, but I would at least write her a letter, if it would help. But I didn't have the heart to tell her about the terrifying unemployment crisis and the millions of poor left out on the streets. Not to mention the expense of the plane ticket, her not having a job...she thinks her future employer would float the cost of a ticket. She offered to teach me to cook and serve me lunch at her house, and we'll go to the Mother Teresa House together.
"So little," I commented.
"That thing," she replied.
But God watches out for her, she claims. "I can pray. I can give others. I help my mom, I help my friend, I know God is always help me."
THen she wasted no time, asking me to help her come to America. First I thought she was jokng, since she was smiling. But I think it was not in jest but in happiness at the hopeful possibility. If she could only get a visa to visit the US, she could get a job and make herself a better life. She has no one here to leave, no family...
"See me, will you?" She meant will I see for her.
I am a bit shocked at the gravity of such a promise, but I made it anyway. I can at least write her a letter that says she is visiting me in America, right? But, what else can I offer? I can't help thinking of my own situation--no place of my own to live, just got off food stamps, and about to go $80,000 into debt. How can I even suggest helping someone to move to my country where so many are already homeless and unemployed, including, essentially, me? What do these people think America is?
And then I thought of the relative realities, and I realize then how ridiculous, how astonishingly vast the poverty level of difference is between the two places. What I once thought poor, is not poor. Even my own poverty is such a luxury, infinitely so. I'm sorry. It is really unfair to compare the two, they are such radically different contexts. But then I had to say I'd help. If I can possibly do anything to improve the life of this woman who has given everything of her own for others and continues to, but receives nothing but foul wages, poor employment, and loneliness in return, I absolutely must. I told her I don't have any place to stay in America, but I would at least write her a letter, if it would help. But I didn't have the heart to tell her about the terrifying unemployment crisis and the millions of poor left out on the streets. Not to mention the expense of the plane ticket, her not having a job...she thinks her future employer would float the cost of a ticket. She offered to teach me to cook and serve me lunch at her house, and we'll go to the Mother Teresa House together.
I am slowly beginning to get accustomed to this world now that I have learned to coexist with the rats and cats that inhabit our open-air apartment, I have come to embrace the efficiency of a bathroom whose floor serves as a 3-in-1 toilet, sink, and shower, and car horns have become common courtesy.
Breathing
As omnipresent as the sounds of Kolkata is the pollution that lurks, indiscreetly, among these already filthy streets. Walking through the sidewalks I cannot evade the smoke billows from trash heaps being burned on the side of the road. Fires leap up to cook people's breakfasts, ancient vehicles expel toxic emssions, and cigarettes or other mystery things are smoked minutely by nearly every occupant of this city, including the other volunteers and CR staff. In fact, tobacco is so heavily relied upon that there are what I can only guess are public cigarettes hanging from storefronts that passersby are free to inhale upon any urge. The smell of burning rubber, plastic, and unidentifiable waste causes my stomach to churn and my lungs to heave; while I run, I have the overwhelming and terrifying sensation that I am being slowly poisoned by the inescapable fumes. I can only hold my breath for so long, my cilia can only work so hard. The cough that has already begun reminds me daily of the grime that now inhabits my lungs.
January 19, 2010
January 15, 2010
It must have been that sweet curd
As I lay confined to my bed, not by quarantine, but due to the impossibility of mobility, I am left alone to ponder what food has taken my gut as its victim. After a day of vomiting fiercely and expelling over half a gallon of partially digested food and liquid that my body decided to reject as contaminated, and a second day of laying in my bed only rising to use the bathroom and taking in a tame diet of crackers and water, I lie paralyzed by weakness on this third day, miserable at my body's incapacity and ashamed from its exhaustion from the wretched bouts of puking. The smell and thought of food nauseate me, while my hunger tortures me as I crave the energy and nutrients that food would provide. A bite of bread is barely satisfying, since its mere smell taunts my gastric relexes to react against it, my stomach threatening to throw another tantrum. Whatever morsels intend to satiate me only aggravate the turmoil of my belly upon swallowing. Once I devour several pieces, I fear the wrath of my body as it seizes the food, questioning it, suspicious that it too is infected with foreign microbes, as the reminder of digestion evokes sickening nausea. As I rise to drink, dizziness forces me to return to my horizontal state, preventing me from even quenching the thirst I suffer from the copious loss of liquid. As I drift in and out of sleep, I have not even enough consciousness to feel the boredom of my inactivity. Staring into space is as much of an expenditure as my body can afford. Thus, I lie helpless, with only enough energy to hope for tomorrow.
January 14, 2010
The hard life
Dola has so much to teach. She compares India to Germany, her son's current home. He moved there to become a car salesman, where he has gotten quite successful. "He always had brains," she keeps saying. But when I hear the whole story, to make it in (or should I say out of) India takes much more than intelligence. The lack of education is tragic. Poverty propels poverty, as people live day by day, with such tiny incomes that their children are sent to work instead of class. "This is what you call child labor," Dola told me, as she paid a 6-year old kid to get us chai from down the street. It provoked a strange paradoxical feeling of hypocrisy and love: does giving this child money support a system of child labor and exploitation? Or is rebellion for the sake of justice useless in a place where such a practice is sure to still exist whether or not I utilize it? Does not paying him only deny him work for no reason? It is the same for rickshaws. At first, this human-driven form of transport appears unjust and cruel; indeed, the bodily-powered carts meant to seat and carry 2-3 passengers as the driver pulls the weight behind him is dangerous, and by Western standards, demeaning. But really, the truth is that these people have both the knowledge and the bodies that equip them to be excellent at rickshaw-driving, taking people from place to place by their own free energy. It is environmentally friendly and exceptionally convenient. And it is the way they make their living. Is it then so unjust? By what standards am I justified to judge? It almost seems insulting to call these positions in society wrongdoing despite my instinct to condemn them. Today, I took my first rickshaw ride out of necessity--I had no idea where the clinic was, and I could either wander, take a cab, or ask a rickshaw driver. This was a bicycle-rickshaw, and I was quite impressed by the apparatus itself, a bicycle with a chain attached to a cart and its axle, besides being still in shock at the mere concept. I don't think I'll do it again, but I have a deep respect for this form of transport that relies on manpower rather than fuel.
When I step back, I still see the lack of education here preventing a child from becoming anything more than a manual laborer. It is not that I don't have respect for these difficult and highly skilled professions; what bothers me is the lack of choice, of being born into a situation entirely out of one's control, where finances dominate one's life through necessity, and the nonexistence of opportunity.
Today, traffic was blocked up because an industrial gas leak caused a fire that killed over 300 people in the nearby slums. The ambulances were on strike, so the people all burnt to death. "This is Kolkata," Dola said.
"It's not like this abroad, no." She referenced the ease with which people can access health care, the cleanliness of the streets, the availability of education and employment, the quality of goods, the infrastructure, nevermind the running water, all things we so often take for granted. But, she commented, they work so hard for it. I see it as a different type of "hard." As I watch people carrying loads over 100 lbs. on their heads, running pushing carts with several people on board, and scrubbing and sweeping sidewalks for hours, it seems right now to me that these people have to be working harder. And for what reward?
"Life here is so hard," Dola says over again. It feels like the hard work we do in America has a completely unfair exchange rate for success. In India, it is like all jobs are static, there is no such thing as success besides survival. Even that is difficult to achieve due to the complete inconvenience and unfairness of daily life. Our luxuries in America allow us to be so efficient. Our supermarkets, our cars and well-made roads, our reliable elecricity, our running water, the pleasant climate, low incidence of disease, our laws that require school and protect children, and even government welfare, make life in the US almost uncomparably easier. Indeed, everyone I have met so far has become "successful" only by leaving.
Thus, what strikes me today is the gut-deep feeling of guilt. Though I simply have a roof over my head, water, clothes, and food, that is infinitely more than the people I pass on a daily basis. Life was so easy for me, I had a house, food, parents, and school, things I finally understand are so far out of reach for so many people in our broken world. Nevermind that I have had two wonderful parents, the advantages of an elite education, and the opportunities granted by a country where possibilities are endless and that, comparatively drips with luxury. As I trot by street dwellers on my morning run, I must ask,
Why do I have the right to trample through these people's bedrooms? Does running flaunt my privilege in a thoughtless insult of my have- on their have-not? Shouldn't they condemn me for my arrogance and insensitivity? How can I justify affording the energy to go running when obtaining even one nutritious meal for these people demands an entire day's work?
When I step back, I still see the lack of education here preventing a child from becoming anything more than a manual laborer. It is not that I don't have respect for these difficult and highly skilled professions; what bothers me is the lack of choice, of being born into a situation entirely out of one's control, where finances dominate one's life through necessity, and the nonexistence of opportunity.
Today, traffic was blocked up because an industrial gas leak caused a fire that killed over 300 people in the nearby slums. The ambulances were on strike, so the people all burnt to death. "This is Kolkata," Dola said.
"It's not like this abroad, no." She referenced the ease with which people can access health care, the cleanliness of the streets, the availability of education and employment, the quality of goods, the infrastructure, nevermind the running water, all things we so often take for granted. But, she commented, they work so hard for it. I see it as a different type of "hard." As I watch people carrying loads over 100 lbs. on their heads, running pushing carts with several people on board, and scrubbing and sweeping sidewalks for hours, it seems right now to me that these people have to be working harder. And for what reward?
"Life here is so hard," Dola says over again. It feels like the hard work we do in America has a completely unfair exchange rate for success. In India, it is like all jobs are static, there is no such thing as success besides survival. Even that is difficult to achieve due to the complete inconvenience and unfairness of daily life. Our luxuries in America allow us to be so efficient. Our supermarkets, our cars and well-made roads, our reliable elecricity, our running water, the pleasant climate, low incidence of disease, our laws that require school and protect children, and even government welfare, make life in the US almost uncomparably easier. Indeed, everyone I have met so far has become "successful" only by leaving.
Thus, what strikes me today is the gut-deep feeling of guilt. Though I simply have a roof over my head, water, clothes, and food, that is infinitely more than the people I pass on a daily basis. Life was so easy for me, I had a house, food, parents, and school, things I finally understand are so far out of reach for so many people in our broken world. Nevermind that I have had two wonderful parents, the advantages of an elite education, and the opportunities granted by a country where possibilities are endless and that, comparatively drips with luxury. As I trot by street dwellers on my morning run, I must ask,
Why do I have the right to trample through these people's bedrooms? Does running flaunt my privilege in a thoughtless insult of my have- on their have-not? Shouldn't they condemn me for my arrogance and insensitivity? How can I justify affording the energy to go running when obtaining even one nutritious meal for these people demands an entire day's work?
January 12, 2010
Culture shock
I feel like I have stubbed my toe but only now do I experience the pain of the blow. The first few days here I had the benefit of being still numb; they were such an utter shock of new things that I could not even see the nature of what is the reality here. Not that I can understand it now, but I am certainly feeling the culture shock as things things slowly but startlingly sink in. One is the constant struggle of my own personal hygiene. I am trying to get accustomed to the idea of no toilet paper, and using my own hands and water to wipe, but I feel like I am more dirty than I started, never mind the fact that I walk around constantly damp. I also am trying to get used to not having running water, mostly for flushing the toilet. I actually quite enjoy bucket showers because I save a lot of water and feel in control when I can scrub longer since no water is being wasted. It just takes much more time, since I must first heat the water and use a small cup to wash and rinse repeatedly. As for flushing, I am trying to perfect the smallest amount of water that will successfully flush my waste. I am having the most difficulty blowing my nose. I suppose I should invest in some tissues, but it is more just the disturbing amount of black snot that continuously streams from my nose after I run. I have started to keep my mouth closed in caution from the pollution, trying to let my nostril cilia protect me. Finally, the utter abundance of waste is absolutely astonishing. Trash, feces, urine, paper, food, plastic, is constantly accumulating on the streets, fields, and even people's rooves. Though street-sweepers and trash-collectors are ever at work, it is a desperate fight for cleanliness and order. The critical mass of trash has created an apathy about litter, the copious waste so visible and daunting, it seems even the tireless cleaners and street fires will never catch up with it. There is simply so much that no one has motivation to even try to pick up after themselves. The infrastructure cannot handle the loads of waste produced daily by the massive human population here. It is a different kind of waste than I see in America. Not a waste of excess, like expensive things and people dripping with wealth, but rather a waste of necessity. Indeed, India is the recycling capital of the world, and scavengers certainly raid all piles of scrap for anything that they might be able to eat, sell or reuse. The contents of the trash are the mere remnants of daily life, whether plates, feces, dust, spit, newspapers, cups, wrappers of food, or other by products of a person's day. However, it is the endless accumulation of this refuse and filth that is so deeply unsettling, as it feels to be futile to hinder its growth, and its building quantities create terrifyingly chaotic and unstoppable entropy.
Survival
This society is both self-perpetuating and self-sustaining. Each person fulfills some pivotal role, whether it is house-cleaning, knife-sharpening, bringing chai, hair-cutting, shoe-shining, sugar cane juice-making, hotel-running, bag-weaving, trash-collecting, or rickshaw-driving. The range of services here feels fundamentally different than the span of jobs we have in America, since they all address basic needs and services. Jobs that I might have thought to be menial and demeaning, or at least a sign of poverty, now seem essential and dignified. They are literally the cogs that allow life to run here. Not only that; the people seem happy, though I certainly have no real place judging that except for the fact that many seem grateful to provide the services they offer. There is this compelling sense of duty to do one's job for the greater good, even selflessly so.
Unlike where we live, people don't seem to necessarily seek a "passion," having explored all of the disciplines of philosophy, the arts, and the sciences to find their talent; rather, they find their niche in whatever trade they must use to make themselves a living to survive. Certainly they may find things they enjoy relatively, but the whole concept of fulfilling a dream or pursuing happiness appears to be unrealistic, unnecessary, and perhaps even undesirable, at least for the vast majority. Instead, labor is focused on providing for basic daily needs like food, roadwork, hygiene, clothing, and other goods. It also strikes me how very hard people work, their bodies thin and lean, perhaps from their genetics, fitness, as well as malnutrition.
But I am fascinated by one profession: beggars. Though it may sound cruel, they appear to be putting on a show of sorrow and a hope for pity that I did not expect to experience. In fact, beggars are nearly always members of a higher institution that gives them only a tiny percentage of their earnings, the superpowers forcing them to give up most of their money. Tragically, many of these exploited people are mere children, whose innocent appearances make them perfect for gaining sympathetic pocket change. I have even heard of people inflicting wounds upon themselves, or worse, their own children, in order to appear more destitute and miserable so as to be worthy of more charity. It is an absolutely disgusting practice, and a horrifying reality, especially as a medical organization serving the poor, since sealing a wound actually reduces a person's chance of making their living. Many NGO's have tried to reach out to these women to empower them to take a different mode of earning, but the women usually give up the micro-financing business opportunities saying it was too much work. Even locals do not tolerate the laziness of these beggars. I was already followed and seduced by one woman's pleas of feeling cold, and bought her some dal to cook for her children. However, I felt oddly taken advantage of, partly due to her dramatic and unbelievable overacting, and also knowing that the woman, though certainly poor, was probably working for some terrible exploitative mafia man. Though I felt deep sympathy for her, I was torn between giving in to the request for charity and rejecting the disgraceful practice that she represents. I walked and talked with her for some time, only to feel guilty at not giving her as much as she had asked from me--to buy her an expensive new pashmina. I am glad to have helped her with her groceries at least, and I can tame my conscience by justifying it as a transaction, as I participate in the commerce of this country where people find absolutely every way to survive and begging is in fact a profession.
On the other hand, my heart truly feels for the old, the disabled, the street children who are strewn about on the margins of society. They are not lucky enough to play a role in the specialization of labor. There are those poor that do not even resort to begging and is these people who fascinate me most: the street people. Today I saw an old man sitting in the grass of the Maidan just staring at the sky. He was wearing rags and had only a bag of belongings. His stare said he had no purpose in life or ability to fulfill a duty. It is images like this where I can feel the caste system still in place, even in the first few days of living here. I am looking forward to learning more about these people, since it is they who I feel so compelled to help.
I am drawn to this place. As a woman I feel respected, and I have yet to hear a catcall or witness a butt-squeeze. There is a genuineness that people exude, whether it is the local businesspeople, hotel owners, cooks, taxi-drivers, or the staff I have met at CR. They have a pride in their country and a dignity regardless of the job they have, and a very welcoming, selfless attitude toward foreigners, always wanting to help others. People here are also very honest. There is little theft here because such an act would be condemned by the entire community, the criminal viewed as a threat and perpetrator of the silent, unwritten law of respect, pride, and integrity.
Unlike where we live, people don't seem to necessarily seek a "passion," having explored all of the disciplines of philosophy, the arts, and the sciences to find their talent; rather, they find their niche in whatever trade they must use to make themselves a living to survive. Certainly they may find things they enjoy relatively, but the whole concept of fulfilling a dream or pursuing happiness appears to be unrealistic, unnecessary, and perhaps even undesirable, at least for the vast majority. Instead, labor is focused on providing for basic daily needs like food, roadwork, hygiene, clothing, and other goods. It also strikes me how very hard people work, their bodies thin and lean, perhaps from their genetics, fitness, as well as malnutrition.
But I am fascinated by one profession: beggars. Though it may sound cruel, they appear to be putting on a show of sorrow and a hope for pity that I did not expect to experience. In fact, beggars are nearly always members of a higher institution that gives them only a tiny percentage of their earnings, the superpowers forcing them to give up most of their money. Tragically, many of these exploited people are mere children, whose innocent appearances make them perfect for gaining sympathetic pocket change. I have even heard of people inflicting wounds upon themselves, or worse, their own children, in order to appear more destitute and miserable so as to be worthy of more charity. It is an absolutely disgusting practice, and a horrifying reality, especially as a medical organization serving the poor, since sealing a wound actually reduces a person's chance of making their living. Many NGO's have tried to reach out to these women to empower them to take a different mode of earning, but the women usually give up the micro-financing business opportunities saying it was too much work. Even locals do not tolerate the laziness of these beggars. I was already followed and seduced by one woman's pleas of feeling cold, and bought her some dal to cook for her children. However, I felt oddly taken advantage of, partly due to her dramatic and unbelievable overacting, and also knowing that the woman, though certainly poor, was probably working for some terrible exploitative mafia man. Though I felt deep sympathy for her, I was torn between giving in to the request for charity and rejecting the disgraceful practice that she represents. I walked and talked with her for some time, only to feel guilty at not giving her as much as she had asked from me--to buy her an expensive new pashmina. I am glad to have helped her with her groceries at least, and I can tame my conscience by justifying it as a transaction, as I participate in the commerce of this country where people find absolutely every way to survive and begging is in fact a profession.
On the other hand, my heart truly feels for the old, the disabled, the street children who are strewn about on the margins of society. They are not lucky enough to play a role in the specialization of labor. There are those poor that do not even resort to begging and is these people who fascinate me most: the street people. Today I saw an old man sitting in the grass of the Maidan just staring at the sky. He was wearing rags and had only a bag of belongings. His stare said he had no purpose in life or ability to fulfill a duty. It is images like this where I can feel the caste system still in place, even in the first few days of living here. I am looking forward to learning more about these people, since it is they who I feel so compelled to help.
I am drawn to this place. As a woman I feel respected, and I have yet to hear a catcall or witness a butt-squeeze. There is a genuineness that people exude, whether it is the local businesspeople, hotel owners, cooks, taxi-drivers, or the staff I have met at CR. They have a pride in their country and a dignity regardless of the job they have, and a very welcoming, selfless attitude toward foreigners, always wanting to help others. People here are also very honest. There is little theft here because such an act would be condemned by the entire community, the criminal viewed as a threat and perpetrator of the silent, unwritten law of respect, pride, and integrity.
January 11, 2010
A real raga
Yesterday I heard a real raga--I went to see professor Samir Chatterjee play the tabla at the Rabindra Sadan, a theatre that has a constant stream of musical, dramatic, and artistic performances and events to see every day for free. I got to hear some tanpura, a drone instrument that is held upright and strummed in the background, the sitar, a classically Kolkata-originating instrument whose strings produce a sharp twangy and gorgeously multi-toned melody, the sarod, a goat-skinned instrument that is nothing like anything I have ever heard, and the Bansuri, an Indian flute, which was simply a breathtaking expression of emotion through sound. I did not know the human lungs and mouth could manipulate a tube of wood to create such beauty. I learned more about the raga from Ben, who is a student of Samir from Pittsburgh. He explained that it is in fact impossible to hear the same piece of music twice. A raga is partly a traditional set of notes, intonations, sequences, and rhythms, but also a template that can be improvised upon by the musician. There is always both composition and improv in a piece, and one song may last a delightful 45 minutes or more as it goes through waves and sets of variations on the raga. All is memorized and often based upon one of the already existing 6000 ragas, though ragas are also created anew. The musicians would first play the more traditional raga, then add and vary its composition for different effects that move the listeners to awes and gasps. I am ecstatic that Kolkata is actually the cultural capital of India. It is already apparent the love and appreciation of the arts here, and the talent for it that pumps so naturally through these Indian veins.
January 10, 2010
No such thing as privacy
Today what strikes me is the very public nature of daily life. Whether it is a boy bathing in the fountains at the botanical gardens or simply in the water pumps at the side of the road, or people brushing their teeth as they walk, women caring for their babies, people cooking and washing clothes, people sleeping under blankets, girls playing hopscotch, and of course the men ubiquitously urinating indiscreetly, I feel like I am observing private life on a disturbingly regular basis. Even more strange is the fact that they seem utterly carfree about the matter, unaware of the spectators who inevitably witness their private acts.
Living situation
After staying at a friend’s, then at a sketchy hostel, then a less sketchy hostel, I am finally in what seems like the ideal living situation. Where I was planning to live—the Afridi guest house where all the volunteers live—did not honor the reservation we had made for a room in December. When I arrived they had no vacancies, but I could luckily stay with the volunteer-coordinator at his flat for my first night. For the second night, I moved into a hotel for 320 Rs/night and on the third, a hotel at 200/night (~4 dollars). I refused to stay at the Afridi in their expensive AC room since they had treated me so poorly already, and not giving them business took me off the waiting list for the other cheaper guest house, so I began to look for somewhere else to stay.
Cosmically, Ben got a text from his friend Pinku, who had a friend whose mom wanted to rent out a room at her flat to Calcutta Rescue volunteers. Absolutely ideal timing. I met the son, Troy, and his mom, Dola, and saw the place the next day. It was such a perfect setup for me and these people are just so wonderful and friendly and honest that I am truly happy to be able to call this home after only 1 night.
I feel a genuine sense of warmth from these people. They keep on insisting on offering me more than I could ever want--a new mattress, a locked steel cabinet, coffee and tea every morning, some dinners, boiling my water for me, doing my laundry, and providing a single private bed room with locks. I tried to refuse some of Dola's kindness, but I also realize that it gives them great pleasure to help me, and it is not a sacrifice for them since the son is very well off. I desperately don't want to be a hassle for them, but I also humbly understand that I really needed help with accommodation. I had nowhere else to turn, in this totally new country, especially because staying at a hotel the whole time would have been both torture and financially stupid. This apartment will be affordable with my very limited budget, in a safe and convenient location, and clean. I will have privacy and also the company of an amazing Indian woman. I can only say thank you about a million times.
Cosmically, Ben got a text from his friend Pinku, who had a friend whose mom wanted to rent out a room at her flat to Calcutta Rescue volunteers. Absolutely ideal timing. I met the son, Troy, and his mom, Dola, and saw the place the next day. It was such a perfect setup for me and these people are just so wonderful and friendly and honest that I am truly happy to be able to call this home after only 1 night.
I feel a genuine sense of warmth from these people. They keep on insisting on offering me more than I could ever want--a new mattress, a locked steel cabinet, coffee and tea every morning, some dinners, boiling my water for me, doing my laundry, and providing a single private bed room with locks. I tried to refuse some of Dola's kindness, but I also realize that it gives them great pleasure to help me, and it is not a sacrifice for them since the son is very well off. I desperately don't want to be a hassle for them, but I also humbly understand that I really needed help with accommodation. I had nowhere else to turn, in this totally new country, especially because staying at a hotel the whole time would have been both torture and financially stupid. This apartment will be affordable with my very limited budget, in a safe and convenient location, and clean. I will have privacy and also the company of an amazing Indian woman. I can only say thank you about a million times.
“No enjoy, no life. Good enjoy, good life.”
Although I want the company of the other volunteers, I can't stand the area of that hotel on Sudder Street, where all Kolkata’s tourism happens. Every day I walk outside and get bombarded by beggars and hassled by street vendors, hotel owners, and rickshaw drivers for money and attention, and I spent most of my afternoon yesterday getting knocked around among various handicraft salesmen that pulled my leg into seeing their shops.
“I show you shop. No buy no problem. You see beautiful pashmina.”
Most of them were completely fine and nice, asking if I needed help with anything at all and wanting to give me chai. They ended up being friends of friends, as I learn how small of a world this city actually is.
But the creepies follow me to Kolkata. One of them talked to me all about sex and showed me these provocative Bengali movies on his cell phone while I finished the enormous cup of chai he got me to drink.
“Sex beautiful thing. No sex? No me, no you!!”
And my favorite:
“No enjoy, no life. Good enjoy, good life.”
His name was Ansari, which amusingly means, "no sari."
He also tried to take me all the way to the park and the Botanical Gardens, but I luckily had to meet Troy and his mom soon. I need to learn how to say no to people, but its just that I have nothing better to do than listen and learn from them. I enjoy just throwing myself into this wild culture. I've noticed how the shopkeepers and everyone do it. They offer you chai and insist that you are a friend, no t a customer. They chat with you and are actually fine if you don't want to buy anything. They're quite polite and non-pressuring. I enjoy the company and they always have things to teach me. However, it's getting a bit tiresome; I have succumbed to going with at least 5 of them already so far, which means an hour or two of socializing and drinking chai. If I keep doing this I'll never get anything done. On the other hand, for the most part, it speaks to the genuineness I continue to feel from people--they really do want to help foreigners and befriend everyone. But it is a little different than the pure altruism I would ideally be able to call it. Not only do they obviously have motives of getting your business (and perhaps more than that), they also have this karmic sensibility ingrained in their culture. This beggar lady told me, "You help me, God helps you." It seemed almost Christian in a way, in the sense that it is living for the love of other people that matters, and that we can trust that God will provide. However, here, this feels corrupted by the selfish idea of expecting to gain from helping others. Like there has to be a reward for good deeds, and that is of course why one would do good. Especially in the context of a beggar lady trying to get me to buy her the pashmina or a shop owner saying that if he helps me, good will come to him or worse, suggesting my return of payment in some other way, it is suspicious to say the least.
“I show you shop. No buy no problem. You see beautiful pashmina.”
Most of them were completely fine and nice, asking if I needed help with anything at all and wanting to give me chai. They ended up being friends of friends, as I learn how small of a world this city actually is.
But the creepies follow me to Kolkata. One of them talked to me all about sex and showed me these provocative Bengali movies on his cell phone while I finished the enormous cup of chai he got me to drink.
“Sex beautiful thing. No sex? No me, no you!!”
And my favorite:
“No enjoy, no life. Good enjoy, good life.”
His name was Ansari, which amusingly means, "no sari."
He also tried to take me all the way to the park and the Botanical Gardens, but I luckily had to meet Troy and his mom soon. I need to learn how to say no to people, but its just that I have nothing better to do than listen and learn from them. I enjoy just throwing myself into this wild culture. I've noticed how the shopkeepers and everyone do it. They offer you chai and insist that you are a friend, no t a customer. They chat with you and are actually fine if you don't want to buy anything. They're quite polite and non-pressuring. I enjoy the company and they always have things to teach me. However, it's getting a bit tiresome; I have succumbed to going with at least 5 of them already so far, which means an hour or two of socializing and drinking chai. If I keep doing this I'll never get anything done. On the other hand, for the most part, it speaks to the genuineness I continue to feel from people--they really do want to help foreigners and befriend everyone. But it is a little different than the pure altruism I would ideally be able to call it. Not only do they obviously have motives of getting your business (and perhaps more than that), they also have this karmic sensibility ingrained in their culture. This beggar lady told me, "You help me, God helps you." It seemed almost Christian in a way, in the sense that it is living for the love of other people that matters, and that we can trust that God will provide. However, here, this feels corrupted by the selfish idea of expecting to gain from helping others. Like there has to be a reward for good deeds, and that is of course why one would do good. Especially in the context of a beggar lady trying to get me to buy her the pashmina or a shop owner saying that if he helps me, good will come to him or worse, suggesting my return of payment in some other way, it is suspicious to say the least.
January 9, 2010
Interesting things
Hygiene and random daily things
- the spraying of air freshener on the plane
- Christmas music in Delhi airport
- light switches on is down
- no toilet paper, but rather rinsing oneself with water from buckets
- staying on the left side of the road and sidewalk
- 11.5 hour time difference
- bucket showers and hot water only at certain times of day
- the sweeping of beds by house-cleaners
- everyone wears scarves, jackets and hats, as if it were January in New England, despite the quite pleasant warm weather of around 65 degrees
Food
- the "momo", the Indian version of the dumpling, filled with vegetables and absolutely delicious
- the dosa, a huge piece of very thin fried dough and vegetables inside, with three types of delicious sauce
Chai
- Chai Wallas literally bring chai around every hour to every person in every workplace, for free. It is pretty much the best thing ever. This sweet, milky, spiced drink (that I already loved) is what keeps people going all day. It comes in these little clay cups that are perfectly disposable since they are biodegradable. It is so practical and wasteless. The concept of chai I think is my favorite thing about India so far.
- the spraying of air freshener on the plane
- Christmas music in Delhi airport
- light switches on is down
- no toilet paper, but rather rinsing oneself with water from buckets
- staying on the left side of the road and sidewalk
- 11.5 hour time difference
- bucket showers and hot water only at certain times of day
- the sweeping of beds by house-cleaners
- everyone wears scarves, jackets and hats, as if it were January in New England, despite the quite pleasant warm weather of around 65 degrees
Food
- the "momo", the Indian version of the dumpling, filled with vegetables and absolutely delicious
- the dosa, a huge piece of very thin fried dough and vegetables inside, with three types of delicious sauce
Chai
- Chai Wallas literally bring chai around every hour to every person in every workplace, for free. It is pretty much the best thing ever. This sweet, milky, spiced drink (that I already loved) is what keeps people going all day. It comes in these little clay cups that are perfectly disposable since they are biodegradable. It is so practical and wasteless. The concept of chai I think is my favorite thing about India so far.
January 8, 2010
Sensory overload
I am still so struck by the visibility of poverty and the chaotic abundance of waste everywhere. The myriad of new images and people does not cease to amaze me. I turn corners to find photographic moments of extreme destitution, and around the next one are such incredible marvels of wealth. This morning I passed a baby lying alone on the sidewalk with its hand down its crotch, scratching as it rolled over, its eyes meeting mine in curiosity and innocence. Within half a mile appeared a glistening white memorial palace through the mist of sunrise, surrounded by exquisite gardens and enormous bronze statues.
Today on my run I was lucky enough not to have to leap over people's breakfasts and dodge all the life that takes place on Kolkata's sidewalks. I found the Maidan, a park that is full of grass fields and paths weaving through them. Somehow I felt so at home as I ran by kids throwing baseballs, playing soccer, and I even came across several runners. This run, I had only to dodge the horse dung that litters the paths, and the horses that were strangely grazing everywhere. You can add both dung and shaving cream to my list of daily smells, and there were many more today that I could not identify. You can also add the sound of bicycle bells, loogie-hawking, gurgling pigeons, screaming puppies, disturbing chest coughs, violins, flutes, the "money! money!" of beggars, and the friendly "good morning" in English, or the amused Bengali comments I get when I pass locals.
Today on my run I was lucky enough not to have to leap over people's breakfasts and dodge all the life that takes place on Kolkata's sidewalks. I found the Maidan, a park that is full of grass fields and paths weaving through them. Somehow I felt so at home as I ran by kids throwing baseballs, playing soccer, and I even came across several runners. This run, I had only to dodge the horse dung that litters the paths, and the horses that were strangely grazing everywhere. You can add both dung and shaving cream to my list of daily smells, and there were many more today that I could not identify. You can also add the sound of bicycle bells, loogie-hawking, gurgling pigeons, screaming puppies, disturbing chest coughs, violins, flutes, the "money! money!" of beggars, and the friendly "good morning" in English, or the amused Bengali comments I get when I pass locals.
January 7, 2010
Reckless Raga
After 12 hours and 1 attempt at running in Kolkata, the best descriptive word I can find for the city is "reckless." Uncomfortable amounts of body-pushing due to massive foot-traffic (though never malicious), getting in a car with no seatbelts and weaving through the streets that are far too narrow and brimming with vehicles, bicycles, stray dogs, foodstands, people walking carelessly in the center of them, not to mention those sleeping in them, the absolute disrepair of sidewalks, roads, buildings, and human beings themselves, have created in me the shock that I think only this place could possibly achieve. I came for the chaos and excitement that I did indeed expect, but until it appeared so vividly before me, I could not believe it would be true. The smells of burning trash, oil, incense, fresh flowers, hot spiced food, not to mention urine and feces, are only a handful of the flavors bombarding my olfactory senses within one block of city sidewalks. Babies being bathed by their mothers, beggars shining shoes, people pushing wheelbarrows of trash down the street, four people urinating on the road, chilidren drawing with stone chalk on the sidewalk as they dance, dogs scrounging for scraps of food, fresh vegetbles and fruits for sale, and men giving shaves to bearded men were only a few of the spectacles I had the entertainment of witnessing on my run this morning, which, though only aout 4.5 miles long, felt like 2 hours worth of experience due to the intensity of sensory overload. I felt fantastic, which was annoying considering I simply could not psychologiclly get through any longer of a run. I was unable to locate the so-called "park" that waas nearby somewhere, and a little glad, even proud that I didn't resort to it just this time. I am happy that I dared to venture out into the streets today, but I now retreat thankfully into my bedroom, in the top floor of a friend's apartment building, since the hostel was overbooked despite me having a reservation a month ago. I do not think I can handle another run leaping over people going to the bathroom and dodging the millions that populate this place. But even in the privacy (if only somewhat private--I came back to find the maid cleaning up all my stuff and I panicked), of my bedroom, I cannot escape the sounds. It is the noise of this place that strikes me most, more than the smells, climate, or people as I had expected. Sounds literally fill all remaining space, not that there is any. The jackhammers work endlessly on the temple being constructed next door, a hammer steadily pounds downstairs creating an almost comforting rhythm in the room below. Better to see it that way at least, since I won't find a silent place for a good while. Shouts from women and men on the streets echo up to the top floor of the building and in through the windows. Just this morning I lay in bed sleeplessly as the call to worship lulled me into a spiritual contemplation at an early dawn. Later, a musical ensemble played at the still unfinished temple, praising and worshipping in it despite the building's incompleteness. Sheep and birds add their own voices to the harmonies. Car horns beep constantly, but the frequent warnings are necessary and appreciated to prevent accidents and injuries on these over-populated streets. I am thankful for their kind reminders since it has already saved my life numerous times.
I am struck by the Hindi word, "raga," from the Sanskrit word for colors. It is a classical Indian musical term equivalent to a key or scale used in a piece, where only certain notes are appropriate, and the melody is built entirely upon these 5 or more notes. The raga of a song stimulates a particular emotion and provokes a certain mood, and each pattern befits certain times of day, seasons, and weather. Classical Indian music utilizes the many known ragas to create effects, while it also promotes improvisaton and creatvity as long as the identity of the raga is preserved. Like colors in a painting, the notes work in relation to one another to create the identity and beauty of the piece. The noises that dominate Kolkata constitute its ragas, combining and creating the complex melodies that one hears, the cacophonies weaving threads of sound into music.
I am struck by the Hindi word, "raga," from the Sanskrit word for colors. It is a classical Indian musical term equivalent to a key or scale used in a piece, where only certain notes are appropriate, and the melody is built entirely upon these 5 or more notes. The raga of a song stimulates a particular emotion and provokes a certain mood, and each pattern befits certain times of day, seasons, and weather. Classical Indian music utilizes the many known ragas to create effects, while it also promotes improvisaton and creatvity as long as the identity of the raga is preserved. Like colors in a painting, the notes work in relation to one another to create the identity and beauty of the piece. The noises that dominate Kolkata constitute its ragas, combining and creating the complex melodies that one hears, the cacophonies weaving threads of sound into music.
January 4, 2010
Flight AI 102
I'm sitting on the plane heading to Kolkata. It feels like I am in this gap of time and space, between somewhere I know and somewhere I don't know. Between people I know and those I have not yet met. What if I am not here at all? Living in an airplane is s good as living nowhere. I am not at my place of departure, nor have I reached my destination. I have no world of my own, only the space and vehicle around me that defines the path of my travel. It is a strange existential crisis. I have left Pittsburgh and Connecticut as my homes, hoping to call India home for the next 6 months.
As I embark on this journey of adventure, service, or, perhaps most accurately, discovery, I am terrified. But it is not a fear of the sea of microbes into which I am throwing my unprepared body, or teaching children having no formal training, or even the uncertainty of a completely new place. Indeed, I am so excited by the challenge of being confronted with problems, meeting new people, and offering what I can to help them. I am not afraid of the culture, the men, the food, the weather, or the language; on the contrary, I embrace them. I am not afraaid of leaving behind the comforts of my daily life for a while, even the people will be there when I return. I am not even afraid of failing, because I know that I enter this experience as a learner. I will make the best of it by tackling the tasks before me with my entire soul.
What truly terrifies me is my own naivete. In other words, I know too well that, well, that I don't know. The future is entirely uncertain, and has a lot to do with my own initiative, perseverence, and strength of heart. In thinking back on my trip to Ecuador, where I volunteered for a summer teaching hygiene and nutrition to young kids, I believed I was going to improve health, save lives, empower the weak, and confront poverty. I believed I could change the world in one summer. Granted, I think I made a meaningful difference in many individual lives during those ten weeks. But while I tried to teach, I learned harder lessons about health care, happiness, structural violence, behavior change, human nature, and pride, lessons which, though they were extremely frustrating at the time, have sat with me to make me stronger. The thing is, this time, rather than entering the experience with unabated idealism and impossible standards for myself, I enter it "prepared" in that I expect to confront more of those same hard lessons, except, I am tortured in not knowing yet what they will be.
I can only anxiously antcipate some of these invisible challenges. I will be facing the many diseases that plague the city (for both myself and the patients); whether it is malaria, malnutrition, dengue fever, leprosy, cholera, or giardia, as well as the lack of access to health care to treat these illnesses. I will face a vastly different country with a culture and people that I cannot pretend to understand, and that I can only hope will understand my motivations for being there at all. I am afraid of disillusionment and my own inadequacy. I will be facing the reality of poverty, the horror of disfigurement, the tragedy of abandonment, injustice of inequality, the pain of hatred. I am afraid that confronting these challenges will become an addiction that drives my being. I am afraid that here on this airplane, without borders or definitions, without even an identity or location as I soar over green and blue shapes, without any sense of certainty, is exactly where I should be.
As I embark on this journey of adventure, service, or, perhaps most accurately, discovery, I am terrified. But it is not a fear of the sea of microbes into which I am throwing my unprepared body, or teaching children having no formal training, or even the uncertainty of a completely new place. Indeed, I am so excited by the challenge of being confronted with problems, meeting new people, and offering what I can to help them. I am not afraid of the culture, the men, the food, the weather, or the language; on the contrary, I embrace them. I am not afraaid of leaving behind the comforts of my daily life for a while, even the people will be there when I return. I am not even afraid of failing, because I know that I enter this experience as a learner. I will make the best of it by tackling the tasks before me with my entire soul.
What truly terrifies me is my own naivete. In other words, I know too well that, well, that I don't know. The future is entirely uncertain, and has a lot to do with my own initiative, perseverence, and strength of heart. In thinking back on my trip to Ecuador, where I volunteered for a summer teaching hygiene and nutrition to young kids, I believed I was going to improve health, save lives, empower the weak, and confront poverty. I believed I could change the world in one summer. Granted, I think I made a meaningful difference in many individual lives during those ten weeks. But while I tried to teach, I learned harder lessons about health care, happiness, structural violence, behavior change, human nature, and pride, lessons which, though they were extremely frustrating at the time, have sat with me to make me stronger. The thing is, this time, rather than entering the experience with unabated idealism and impossible standards for myself, I enter it "prepared" in that I expect to confront more of those same hard lessons, except, I am tortured in not knowing yet what they will be.
I can only anxiously antcipate some of these invisible challenges. I will be facing the many diseases that plague the city (for both myself and the patients); whether it is malaria, malnutrition, dengue fever, leprosy, cholera, or giardia, as well as the lack of access to health care to treat these illnesses. I will face a vastly different country with a culture and people that I cannot pretend to understand, and that I can only hope will understand my motivations for being there at all. I am afraid of disillusionment and my own inadequacy. I will be facing the reality of poverty, the horror of disfigurement, the tragedy of abandonment, injustice of inequality, the pain of hatred. I am afraid that confronting these challenges will become an addiction that drives my being. I am afraid that here on this airplane, without borders or definitions, without even an identity or location as I soar over green and blue shapes, without any sense of certainty, is exactly where I should be.
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