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.