So, I know I have been a horrible blogger for the past two months. The good thing is I haven't stopped writing about my life here in India, and I have recently come up with the idea of having a podcast. It's to the left of these posts and will be updated quite regularly. I'll probably put up the writing as well. I've been doing a lot of interviewing lately so hopefully I'll be able to incorporate that as well. This past week was very difficult to be in India-all I wanted to do was celebrate Obama's win in the States! There's no doubt that his win has made it easier to be a foreigner abroad.
Life has been settling down here. The apartment gets more furnished with each week and is starting to feel like an actual home. I've also started cooking more which is something I never thought would happen. In the next two weeks I'll be taking two trips through southern India: one to Hampi and another to the BR Hills. The semester ends in early December, but I'll definitely be staying here throughout break. It will be nice to have some time off.
That's it for now, look for the podcast updates!
Friday, November 7, 2008
Diwali
This time last week firecrackers burst through the streets like raging rapids rushing downstream. I listened to the commotion for 72 hours straight, which was mainly led by small boys competing to see who was least afraid of fire but also by families who shot off fireworks from their rooftops late into the evening. The Indians around me were quite entertained by my loose nerves and the frantic yelps I would release immediately following the unexpected pop! of a firecracker. The boys would cover their mouths with their right hand and laugh at my responses, grabbing each other with mixed excitement and amusement. I would continue to walk on through the day which had given way to the battleground of Diwali. To Western ears, the noise placed me in a war zone, where the crackers were bombs and the fireworks missiles sailing past my window. I was used to an hour of fireworks on the fourth of July but nothing could have prepared me for this.
It began in the early hours of Monday, when I was awakened not by the light of the rising sun but by the harsh racket resonating from my neighborhood. I opened the door to the balcony and watched below as eager young children lit off dozens of tiny explosives. It had to be before seven in the morning. One went off after another and at first I nonchalantly shrugged off the action but after several hours of no break, irritation began to settle in and I shook my head side to side, baffled by the need to constantly make noise. But at nighttime the fireworks appeared and it seemed now, that they were truly celebrating the festival of lights. I calmed down a bit, hypnotized by the colors bursting across the night sky.
To Americans, Diwali is like a mix of fourth of July, Thanksgiving, and Christmas, all rolled up into one nice package. Sweets are devoured, presents are often given, and of course, pyrotechnics are ubiquitously embraced. Indians describe Diwali as a time to celebrate the victory of good over evil and of light over darkness. Colorful candles sit outside the main door, greeting the visitor and welcoming them into the house. Rangoli, a form of art which uses sand and often has intricate designs, decorates the floor beside the candles. School children neglect their classes for a couple of days to bask in the excitement and even the adults seem to lose themselves in the holiday’s fun. Diwali is a time for family, to embark together in the New Year and for all Indians, regardless of religion, to rejoice and unite.
I think back to the second week I was in India, when the festival of Ganesh Chaturthi was taking place. I was quickly struck by the passionate regard for festivity in India and couldn’t believe that the same level of enthusiasm was exhibited quite regularly. Truly, only a few weeks later, Indians were celebrating Navaratri, a festival of dance that occurs for nine nights. Less than a month later, Diwali season was here in full force.
In the United States, not one of our holidays (besides perhaps Christmas) shares the same intensity of India’s festivals. On the last day of Diwali, after I was certain I was going deaf in both ears and had suffered from numerous sparkler burns, I regarded the Indian festival with astonishment. Here, in a country which has substantially lower standards of living than in the U.S., its’ people still manage to celebrate life on a more regular basis. We Americans race through our days searching for success and happiness and often forget how blessed we truly are. At what genuine times do we sit to reflect on what we do have? By our criteria, Indians have “much less” and yet they reflect constantly, they appreciate life continuously. Indian festivals have inspired me to think that we Americans are the ones who have “much less. “
It began in the early hours of Monday, when I was awakened not by the light of the rising sun but by the harsh racket resonating from my neighborhood. I opened the door to the balcony and watched below as eager young children lit off dozens of tiny explosives. It had to be before seven in the morning. One went off after another and at first I nonchalantly shrugged off the action but after several hours of no break, irritation began to settle in and I shook my head side to side, baffled by the need to constantly make noise. But at nighttime the fireworks appeared and it seemed now, that they were truly celebrating the festival of lights. I calmed down a bit, hypnotized by the colors bursting across the night sky.
To Americans, Diwali is like a mix of fourth of July, Thanksgiving, and Christmas, all rolled up into one nice package. Sweets are devoured, presents are often given, and of course, pyrotechnics are ubiquitously embraced. Indians describe Diwali as a time to celebrate the victory of good over evil and of light over darkness. Colorful candles sit outside the main door, greeting the visitor and welcoming them into the house. Rangoli, a form of art which uses sand and often has intricate designs, decorates the floor beside the candles. School children neglect their classes for a couple of days to bask in the excitement and even the adults seem to lose themselves in the holiday’s fun. Diwali is a time for family, to embark together in the New Year and for all Indians, regardless of religion, to rejoice and unite.
I think back to the second week I was in India, when the festival of Ganesh Chaturthi was taking place. I was quickly struck by the passionate regard for festivity in India and couldn’t believe that the same level of enthusiasm was exhibited quite regularly. Truly, only a few weeks later, Indians were celebrating Navaratri, a festival of dance that occurs for nine nights. Less than a month later, Diwali season was here in full force.
In the United States, not one of our holidays (besides perhaps Christmas) shares the same intensity of India’s festivals. On the last day of Diwali, after I was certain I was going deaf in both ears and had suffered from numerous sparkler burns, I regarded the Indian festival with astonishment. Here, in a country which has substantially lower standards of living than in the U.S., its’ people still manage to celebrate life on a more regular basis. We Americans race through our days searching for success and happiness and often forget how blessed we truly are. At what genuine times do we sit to reflect on what we do have? By our criteria, Indians have “much less” and yet they reflect constantly, they appreciate life continuously. Indian festivals have inspired me to think that we Americans are the ones who have “much less. “
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
Back in Bangalore
This past month was nothing short of amazing! I was extremely busy, and so incapable of updating. I mainly traveled in northern India, first visiting the northwestern state of Rajasthan. We spent about four days each in Jaipur and then Jaisalmer, excluding travel days. Then, I headed to Agra to see the majestic Taj Mahal. Afterwards, a couple friends and I went to Rishikesh, in the state of Uttaranchal, at the foothills of the Himalayas. After so much traveling, I feel like I've experienced a totally different India from what I know in Bangalore. I fell in love with Rishikesh and plan on returning as soon as possible. Unfortunately, I was so busy I didn't have much time to write about what I was seeing, but in the next couple of weeks, I plan to produce numerous essays about my experiences. The only negative about the trip was I no longer have a camera, and so I won't be able to share the thousand of photos I took (I'll try to get some from friends who were with me).
Before I left, I wrote this about Dandiya, a dance that takes place at the festival of Navratri:
Red and green covered her tiny body. She stood motionless as we took pictures of her, no doubt uncomfortable at all the attention she was receiving. Bangles gently jingled up and down her tender arms like waves and a headdress fell down the course of her back which gracefully moved with the nightly wind. Her two piece garment was completely adorned with jewels and ornaments. Near her petite feet the skirt was green as a forest, with topaz, turquoise and magenta gems keeping the fabric company. Moving upwards, the hue changed to a deep cranberry red mingling with silver designs and tiny mirrors besides the precious stones. The belt returned to a green color, this time lighter in its shade. Over her upper body hung an equally extravagant and colorful garment, the same majestic red as before. At her elbows were what appeared to be bracelets made out of the same cranberry and silver fabric. Her neck showcased a cowrie shell necklace which her earrings matched. If one looked closely, they could notice the existence a tiny silver nose piercing. And of course, a bindi completed her attire, resting between her eyebrows.
We were so hypnotized by the sight of such excessive color and jewels that I found myself envious of the night this little girl would have. At 10pm, it was already far past her bedtime but this was no matter. She had come to dance. In a city where dancing is officially banned, the Hindu festival of Navaratri not only brings to life the spellbinding colors of the Rajastani North but also allows for traditional dancing styles to be exhibited and embraced by the public. For nine nights and for only 150 rupees (less than $5), residents of Bangalore can meet at the Palace Grounds for an enchanting evening of music, dance, and festivity. As we walked past the main gate, a statue of the elephant god Ganesha greeted us. Seconds later, we approached the pavilion where the celebrations were to take place and quickly took notice of the stately building we were entering. The exterior displayed a pink flower design against a white and gold backdrop, subtly illuminated by the tinkling lights hanging close by. But below, it was the sight inside that enraptured us. We walked into a large, spacious room with a colorful green floor and bleachers filled with spectators lined up against the walls. It looked as if sporting events took place here on regular occasion, but right now, everyone could be a participant in the game of dance if they so wished. Like many Indian experiences, in the first few moments of entering the pavilion, our senses were overwhelmed. Hindi music sprang forth, attaching hold to our ears for the rest of the night. My eyes were immediately directed towards a group of Indians dancing in a circle. Some were dressed as beautifully as the little girl I saw earlier, and still, some Indians looked as if they had just came from work. But together they leaned and swayed with equal amounts of intensity. Western forms of dance are nowhere near comparable to the languid movements these dancers demonstrated, where the bodies were slaves to the melody. They looked like they were all in a trance, themselves mesmerized by the music. And there we were, mesmerized by them. Smiles fleeted across their faces and as they danced clockwise in the circle, their bodies bending and bowing and twisting and turning. It was a movement far beyond what I could hope to accomplish but watching them was thrilling enough. I decided to walk to the side and take a seat in the bleachers amongst other Indians to have a better look.
Most everyone had come for dandiya, a type of interactive stick dance which is specifically designated for this festival. But before that would commence, there would be a puja and various dance contests. As the night went on, more and more Indians arrived and we seemed to be the only foreigners in the room. My group and I had especially come to take part in dandiya, whose steps we had learned earlier in the month. So when a enormous circle gathered around 11:30pm all across the floor, my peers excitedly raced with their sticks to take part. Ailed with a stomach ache, I chose instead to be an observer. For the next couple hours, I watched as hundreds of Indians moved in a circle, dancing with friends and strangers alike, each individual exuding the same amount of exhilaration. The dance is fairly simple: each person holds a stick in both hands and faces opposite a partner. Every individual hits their own personal sticks together as well as the sticks of the other person in about a five step count. Two circles are therefore formed, and after the sequence is completed with the person facing them, they move on in opposite directions to meet the next dancer. In the course of an hour, a person would have interacted with a hundred different people, sharing mirth and sharing missteps. Dance was bringing together the sexes, connecting the young and the old, and bonding the native to the visitor in a way language fails to accomplish. In this environment, identities were stripped. The only label which existed was that of the dancer.
As we departed, the little girl who so enraptured our eyes earlier in the evening stood beside us, our lifestyles connecting like two hands shaking. She wasn’t a child and I wasn’t a foreigner. We were just human beings with legs and arms meant for movement’s sake.
Before I left, I wrote this about Dandiya, a dance that takes place at the festival of Navratri:
Red and green covered her tiny body. She stood motionless as we took pictures of her, no doubt uncomfortable at all the attention she was receiving. Bangles gently jingled up and down her tender arms like waves and a headdress fell down the course of her back which gracefully moved with the nightly wind. Her two piece garment was completely adorned with jewels and ornaments. Near her petite feet the skirt was green as a forest, with topaz, turquoise and magenta gems keeping the fabric company. Moving upwards, the hue changed to a deep cranberry red mingling with silver designs and tiny mirrors besides the precious stones. The belt returned to a green color, this time lighter in its shade. Over her upper body hung an equally extravagant and colorful garment, the same majestic red as before. At her elbows were what appeared to be bracelets made out of the same cranberry and silver fabric. Her neck showcased a cowrie shell necklace which her earrings matched. If one looked closely, they could notice the existence a tiny silver nose piercing. And of course, a bindi completed her attire, resting between her eyebrows.
We were so hypnotized by the sight of such excessive color and jewels that I found myself envious of the night this little girl would have. At 10pm, it was already far past her bedtime but this was no matter. She had come to dance. In a city where dancing is officially banned, the Hindu festival of Navaratri not only brings to life the spellbinding colors of the Rajastani North but also allows for traditional dancing styles to be exhibited and embraced by the public. For nine nights and for only 150 rupees (less than $5), residents of Bangalore can meet at the Palace Grounds for an enchanting evening of music, dance, and festivity. As we walked past the main gate, a statue of the elephant god Ganesha greeted us. Seconds later, we approached the pavilion where the celebrations were to take place and quickly took notice of the stately building we were entering. The exterior displayed a pink flower design against a white and gold backdrop, subtly illuminated by the tinkling lights hanging close by. But below, it was the sight inside that enraptured us. We walked into a large, spacious room with a colorful green floor and bleachers filled with spectators lined up against the walls. It looked as if sporting events took place here on regular occasion, but right now, everyone could be a participant in the game of dance if they so wished. Like many Indian experiences, in the first few moments of entering the pavilion, our senses were overwhelmed. Hindi music sprang forth, attaching hold to our ears for the rest of the night. My eyes were immediately directed towards a group of Indians dancing in a circle. Some were dressed as beautifully as the little girl I saw earlier, and still, some Indians looked as if they had just came from work. But together they leaned and swayed with equal amounts of intensity. Western forms of dance are nowhere near comparable to the languid movements these dancers demonstrated, where the bodies were slaves to the melody. They looked like they were all in a trance, themselves mesmerized by the music. And there we were, mesmerized by them. Smiles fleeted across their faces and as they danced clockwise in the circle, their bodies bending and bowing and twisting and turning. It was a movement far beyond what I could hope to accomplish but watching them was thrilling enough. I decided to walk to the side and take a seat in the bleachers amongst other Indians to have a better look.
Most everyone had come for dandiya, a type of interactive stick dance which is specifically designated for this festival. But before that would commence, there would be a puja and various dance contests. As the night went on, more and more Indians arrived and we seemed to be the only foreigners in the room. My group and I had especially come to take part in dandiya, whose steps we had learned earlier in the month. So when a enormous circle gathered around 11:30pm all across the floor, my peers excitedly raced with their sticks to take part. Ailed with a stomach ache, I chose instead to be an observer. For the next couple hours, I watched as hundreds of Indians moved in a circle, dancing with friends and strangers alike, each individual exuding the same amount of exhilaration. The dance is fairly simple: each person holds a stick in both hands and faces opposite a partner. Every individual hits their own personal sticks together as well as the sticks of the other person in about a five step count. Two circles are therefore formed, and after the sequence is completed with the person facing them, they move on in opposite directions to meet the next dancer. In the course of an hour, a person would have interacted with a hundred different people, sharing mirth and sharing missteps. Dance was bringing together the sexes, connecting the young and the old, and bonding the native to the visitor in a way language fails to accomplish. In this environment, identities were stripped. The only label which existed was that of the dancer.
As we departed, the little girl who so enraptured our eyes earlier in the evening stood beside us, our lifestyles connecting like two hands shaking. She wasn’t a child and I wasn’t a foreigner. We were just human beings with legs and arms meant for movement’s sake.
Friday, October 3, 2008
An Update
My life began at the age of eighteen. Two months shy of my nineteenth birthday, I left American soil and crossed the Atlantic ocean to see the world. A world I had prepared to embrace and longed to see through my own eyes, eyes which had seen life through tinted glasses, providing only a narrow and colorless view of human existence. For nineteen years I was pregnant with anticipation, awaiting the moment the glasses could be taken off, awaiting a new definition of perception to be realized. In my home I am almost an adult but here I have become a child once more, encountering senses that had only been previously imagined. I find myself tripping as I learn to walk on foreign land but am constantly inspired by the view standing offers. A view that did not exist in America but could only be visible in the territory of the unfamiliar. And I was immediately prompted to write of the sights to share what many of my fellow Americans can never see. They are stuck with the glasses glued to their faces, unable to take off what has been on for years. Through writing, I can offer a glimpse of the little I have seen. And slowly, through the discourse of culture, the glasses all humans wear can disappear. And then we shall see the world without the shadow of bias and the silhouette of stereotype.
**
I have lived in India for about a month now. I’ve met countless of people, Indians and other foreigners alike, I have withstood daily power outages, countless mosquito bites, constant attention
(including random young Indian men whom I never gave my number to sending me borderline stalkerish text messages), overpowering noise and pollution, and innumerable misunderstandings. My apartment is home to not only myself and my roommate but also a lovely population of ants. The bottom of my feet have become so utterly disgusting from all the dirt that I can’t help but laugh as I shudder. And yet, I’ve come to love it all. Perhaps not the details, but the fact that they are occurring. That I am experiencing all of this. Here, every hour is reserved for education. School is twenty four hours a day, seven days a week. I’ve gradually become quite accustomed to the annoyances I initially had and they fail to bother me any longer. I’ve created a happy balance between living with what the familiar and the unknown. I still listen to NPR’s All Songs Considered Podcast, I download my favorite TV show from Itunes after it comes out each week, and I have grilled cheese for dinner every night. I go to bookstores and buy western classics but also novels by Indian authors. I wear my western skirts and Indian dress alike. Many of my peers are struggling with living in India but I’m happy to say that nothing could be further from the truth for me. I truly couldn’t choose to be in another place at this time in my life. I loved College Park with all my heart but what could I write of there? What information would I truly retain? So much of what I learned last year I have already forgotten. There was no choice between the 300 person lecture hall and the classroom of India. And to think, next year I have Japan and South Africa-how utterly unreal.
This Saturday I will be leaving for the northern state of Rajasthan. We will be spending ten days in both Jaipur and Jaisalmer (Jodhpur, where the recent stampede occurred is in Rajasthan but I won’t be going there). Rajasthan is located in the northwestern part of India, and borders Pakistan. It is primarily known for its desert landscape. On our trip, we will be taking a camel safari and sleeping on the sand dunes! In Egypt, I was only on the camel for ten minutes so this will be much better. If anyone reading enjoys Anthony Bourdain’s No Reservations, I would highly recommend seeing the Rajasthan show. And recently, I saw a piece Tom Friedman did on Bangalore called “The Other Side of Outsourcing.” I imagine anyone who is reading this is already aware that whenever there is a problem with your computer or phone or whatever, you’re usually on the phone with some one from Bangalore. Most of the people working at the call centers have to work during nights to match the time difference.
Anyway, after Jaipur and Jaisalmer, I have a four day break which will be spent doing independent traveling with friends. The main priority is going to Agra to see the Taj. But there are a couple of other locations we’re going to try to see…ah, I don’t feel like a 9 months in India is enough to see everything! It’s so large!!! There’s so much in southern India that I wish to see….I want to go to Goa, to Kerala, to Chennai (Madras) and Kolkata (Calcutta) and Mumbai (Bombay). And then there’s the rest! I’m highly considering going to do my independent study next semester in Dharamsala…I always wanted to volunteer there. And how different it would be to live at the foot of the Himalayas!
**
I have lived in India for about a month now. I’ve met countless of people, Indians and other foreigners alike, I have withstood daily power outages, countless mosquito bites, constant attention
(including random young Indian men whom I never gave my number to sending me borderline stalkerish text messages), overpowering noise and pollution, and innumerable misunderstandings. My apartment is home to not only myself and my roommate but also a lovely population of ants. The bottom of my feet have become so utterly disgusting from all the dirt that I can’t help but laugh as I shudder. And yet, I’ve come to love it all. Perhaps not the details, but the fact that they are occurring. That I am experiencing all of this. Here, every hour is reserved for education. School is twenty four hours a day, seven days a week. I’ve gradually become quite accustomed to the annoyances I initially had and they fail to bother me any longer. I’ve created a happy balance between living with what the familiar and the unknown. I still listen to NPR’s All Songs Considered Podcast, I download my favorite TV show from Itunes after it comes out each week, and I have grilled cheese for dinner every night. I go to bookstores and buy western classics but also novels by Indian authors. I wear my western skirts and Indian dress alike. Many of my peers are struggling with living in India but I’m happy to say that nothing could be further from the truth for me. I truly couldn’t choose to be in another place at this time in my life. I loved College Park with all my heart but what could I write of there? What information would I truly retain? So much of what I learned last year I have already forgotten. There was no choice between the 300 person lecture hall and the classroom of India. And to think, next year I have Japan and South Africa-how utterly unreal.
This Saturday I will be leaving for the northern state of Rajasthan. We will be spending ten days in both Jaipur and Jaisalmer (Jodhpur, where the recent stampede occurred is in Rajasthan but I won’t be going there). Rajasthan is located in the northwestern part of India, and borders Pakistan. It is primarily known for its desert landscape. On our trip, we will be taking a camel safari and sleeping on the sand dunes! In Egypt, I was only on the camel for ten minutes so this will be much better. If anyone reading enjoys Anthony Bourdain’s No Reservations, I would highly recommend seeing the Rajasthan show. And recently, I saw a piece Tom Friedman did on Bangalore called “The Other Side of Outsourcing.” I imagine anyone who is reading this is already aware that whenever there is a problem with your computer or phone or whatever, you’re usually on the phone with some one from Bangalore. Most of the people working at the call centers have to work during nights to match the time difference.
Anyway, after Jaipur and Jaisalmer, I have a four day break which will be spent doing independent traveling with friends. The main priority is going to Agra to see the Taj. But there are a couple of other locations we’re going to try to see…ah, I don’t feel like a 9 months in India is enough to see everything! It’s so large!!! There’s so much in southern India that I wish to see….I want to go to Goa, to Kerala, to Chennai (Madras) and Kolkata (Calcutta) and Mumbai (Bombay). And then there’s the rest! I’m highly considering going to do my independent study next semester in Dharamsala…I always wanted to volunteer there. And how different it would be to live at the foot of the Himalayas!
Monday, September 22, 2008
A Child's Happiness
The light in my candle flickers, startled by the sound of children cheering. I smile at the occurrence, grateful to hear a child’s excitement. Without checking, I imagine they are playing a game before dinner on the streets below my apartment building. A minute or so passes and another wave of enthusiasm reaches my ears. And another, and another. It becomes so regular that my interest is piqued and I take a moment to see the cause of commotion. I open the door to my balcony and my eyes immediately follow the echo of excitement which leads to a dozen or so children standing on the stairs of a nearby building. They are waving at what appears to be my direction, and I realize there must be a couple friends of mine on our outside terrace, waving back. Within a minute, I am joining these friends and upon my entering, the children applaud at the arrival of another. We raise our hands up and eagerly signal back to them. I notice that the children on the stairs are not alone in their willingness to make contact with us. There are a few children on the streets beneath us, and on the rooftops across, also waving. Together, they jump up and down, they laugh and yelp in innocent joy only a child possesses. It is only through a few hand gestures and giggles that our worlds are bridged. We are too far away to make out anyone’s individual features but it is enough that we just exist. That we stand, and that we are.
That night, they raced across the bridge with a present of delight. They sent me a surge of energy through the space between us, one that is safe within the memory and can be called upon at any moment. A memory that lasted but a couple minutes, but one that reminded me of the simplicity and purity of a child’s view. That a connection with others could be a reason alone for thrill and for indeed, fun. And when I think of the memory and feel the surge once again, I think children often have more logic than the rest of us. The human bond can be enough to obtain happiness.
That night, they raced across the bridge with a present of delight. They sent me a surge of energy through the space between us, one that is safe within the memory and can be called upon at any moment. A memory that lasted but a couple minutes, but one that reminded me of the simplicity and purity of a child’s view. That a connection with others could be a reason alone for thrill and for indeed, fun. And when I think of the memory and feel the surge once again, I think children often have more logic than the rest of us. The human bond can be enough to obtain happiness.
An Authentic Taste
It is 9:47pm as we walk down MG Road, searching for a bar we were supposed to find an hour ago. After a tiring week of school, my three peers and I are anxious to have a fun night out. But here, “fun” takes on a series of restrictions, including a dancing ban and the city shutting down before midnight. Our minds struggle to understand how the country of Bollywood, the culture of dance and music could restrict movement of the body. Regardless, as it is our first taste of Bangalore’s nightlife scene, we are curious to discover what awaits us. We have planned to meet up with some European friends at a hip bar, presumably located in a nearby hotel. “Nearby” turns into a considerable distance on foot but it gives us time to ponder. What is nightlife like in a third world country? What shall we expect? Just as we are asking ourselves these very questions, a beggar approaches. In the dark, I have trouble making out her features but she shares the same look of desperation that afflicts all the hungry. She is an older women, with tired skin and eyes of a person already dead. In her lonely state, she is a roaming skeleton of despair. Did she know we would walk right past her, ashamed at our inability to help? What would she be thinking just five minutes later, when we reached our luxurious destination?
At first, we are so overtaken with the lavish atmosphere of the bar that guilt is a nonexistent emotion. In a moment we are sipping cocktails in Miami, we are on the Mediterranean with a glass of wine, we are in Belgium drinking beer . The moment the door opened, India became a location on a far away map, not a reality of where we truly were. And yet, as I scan the crowd comprised of wealthy foreigners, my mind is haunted by the woman we passed earlier. Had she ever had the cranberry and vodka that I was drinking? Did she even know of it? Could she even imagine such a place that I was in? A place of expensive taste and comfort? As the night goes on, it gets harder to brush her image aside. I watch as friends and strangers alike bathe in the alcohol they are served, alcohol which erases their knowledge of a life lived otherwise. In the morning, they will be too hungover to see the poverty outside their windows, and at nighttime, they will drink again, continuing the cycle of indifference.
I am not even tipsy and yet I feel dizzy as we make our way home. I’m not used to commuting back and forth between privilege and poverty, where my environments are flipped over like a cooking pancake. And yet if I stay in one place too long, I will burn. I need exposure to both for the perfect outcome, for the authentic taste of India.
At first, we are so overtaken with the lavish atmosphere of the bar that guilt is a nonexistent emotion. In a moment we are sipping cocktails in Miami, we are on the Mediterranean with a glass of wine, we are in Belgium drinking beer . The moment the door opened, India became a location on a far away map, not a reality of where we truly were. And yet, as I scan the crowd comprised of wealthy foreigners, my mind is haunted by the woman we passed earlier. Had she ever had the cranberry and vodka that I was drinking? Did she even know of it? Could she even imagine such a place that I was in? A place of expensive taste and comfort? As the night goes on, it gets harder to brush her image aside. I watch as friends and strangers alike bathe in the alcohol they are served, alcohol which erases their knowledge of a life lived otherwise. In the morning, they will be too hungover to see the poverty outside their windows, and at nighttime, they will drink again, continuing the cycle of indifference.
I am not even tipsy and yet I feel dizzy as we make our way home. I’m not used to commuting back and forth between privilege and poverty, where my environments are flipped over like a cooking pancake. And yet if I stay in one place too long, I will burn. I need exposure to both for the perfect outcome, for the authentic taste of India.
Deafening Silence
A couple of days ago, I watched with keen interest as a group of blind men attempted to cross a busy street. Together, they held each other’s hands and cautiously tested the flow of traffic. The lead man, whose bravery widened my eyes in admiration, placed his own front hand in the midst of passing rickshaws and motorcycles, endangering other parts of his body that he could not do without. But it is his ears which are now his most precious commodity. His ears are his compass, guiding him towards a destination less than fifty feet away. He must listen to the bustle of the road and appreciate the sounds as if they make up a symphony, for his existence relies on their own. Together, they intersect in his mind and as a skilled listener, he must separate them. There is the engine of a rickshaw, the dialogue of its passengers, the construction men working across the street, and a sole policeman directing traffic. Is he coming to help? Or will we be alone? He wonders.
I ask myself the same questions. Who will be the first driver to stop, creating a pathway for these men? How long will their journey take them? Even for someone blessed with 20/20 vision, crossing the street seems like a death wish and often takes five times the amount of time it would normally take to walk across the road. If I had to rely on my ears to maneuver my way around, I would be terrified to even leave the house. But apart from the hazards associated with blindness, how do these men deal with the ubiquitous noise?
Here in India, tourists may very well wish for deafness. Upon arrival, the noise seems as dangerous to the body as the water. Foreigners search for a quiet enclave and are often disappointed to find few exist. Privacy, like silence, is almost entirely absent from Indian society. As an overwhelming and unforgiving force, the racket resembles the intensity of a cricket bat hitting an oncoming ball. We, the foreigners, are flung to the far edge of the field, unable to recover from such a tumultuous smack. Secretly, we were hoping the batter would miss. But now, as we sail through the air, we can see India from a completely different view. During our flight, we come to realize that an escape from the sound would be an exit from the culture. For the volume of the landscape carries as much significance as the sights themselves. After all, India is home to Bollywood, the ever sacred “om,” and the mesmerizing sitar. And let us not forget that India is the true model of linguistic diversity, where there are almost twenty official languages and more than 1,600 dialects. If anything, the blind will never be alone in India. Sound is their faithful partner, loyal and consistently present.
In the safety of my apartment, far from the hectic streets below, I take a moment to be the blind person. I close my eyes without the bravery the lead man had no choice but to embrace, and listen to the tune my neighborhood in Bangalore emanates. I easily acknowledge that there are no empty spaces in time and every instant is filled. The constant honking becomes as steady as the tampura. Close by, the arrival of a train is accompanied with the shrill of its whistle. Work is being done in my building, and I focus on the sweeping of a broom, the faint conversations in Kannada, the thrashing of a nail being hammered, and the shock of doors being slammed without warning. Water leaks from a faucet in my bathroom, a travel clock continues its cycle of time, and a dog, like my own living in the States, barks his own lonely melody for anyone willing to listen. Bells ring as worshippers call out to their gods, boys play in the streets, and my own breath rises and falls. Without the noise, India’s landscape is a blank book, which no one can read. Sound adds a story. It adds life and purpose.
Without the noise, the blind man’s world ceases to exist. The street becomes a deathly plank, hovering over hungry sharks below. The sound that the traveler at first curses and ultimately accepts is the same sound that allows a man’s life to be lived. I never saw the blind men cross the street. My rickshaw passed them in a fleeting moment, only offering me a quick glimpse of their intention. But I think of them often in my new life that is painted, not plagued by the constant clamor. I close my eyes and I see India through sound. I feel India through her vibrations. It is not the noise that would cause deafness here, but rather the silence.
I ask myself the same questions. Who will be the first driver to stop, creating a pathway for these men? How long will their journey take them? Even for someone blessed with 20/20 vision, crossing the street seems like a death wish and often takes five times the amount of time it would normally take to walk across the road. If I had to rely on my ears to maneuver my way around, I would be terrified to even leave the house. But apart from the hazards associated with blindness, how do these men deal with the ubiquitous noise?
Here in India, tourists may very well wish for deafness. Upon arrival, the noise seems as dangerous to the body as the water. Foreigners search for a quiet enclave and are often disappointed to find few exist. Privacy, like silence, is almost entirely absent from Indian society. As an overwhelming and unforgiving force, the racket resembles the intensity of a cricket bat hitting an oncoming ball. We, the foreigners, are flung to the far edge of the field, unable to recover from such a tumultuous smack. Secretly, we were hoping the batter would miss. But now, as we sail through the air, we can see India from a completely different view. During our flight, we come to realize that an escape from the sound would be an exit from the culture. For the volume of the landscape carries as much significance as the sights themselves. After all, India is home to Bollywood, the ever sacred “om,” and the mesmerizing sitar. And let us not forget that India is the true model of linguistic diversity, where there are almost twenty official languages and more than 1,600 dialects. If anything, the blind will never be alone in India. Sound is their faithful partner, loyal and consistently present.
In the safety of my apartment, far from the hectic streets below, I take a moment to be the blind person. I close my eyes without the bravery the lead man had no choice but to embrace, and listen to the tune my neighborhood in Bangalore emanates. I easily acknowledge that there are no empty spaces in time and every instant is filled. The constant honking becomes as steady as the tampura. Close by, the arrival of a train is accompanied with the shrill of its whistle. Work is being done in my building, and I focus on the sweeping of a broom, the faint conversations in Kannada, the thrashing of a nail being hammered, and the shock of doors being slammed without warning. Water leaks from a faucet in my bathroom, a travel clock continues its cycle of time, and a dog, like my own living in the States, barks his own lonely melody for anyone willing to listen. Bells ring as worshippers call out to their gods, boys play in the streets, and my own breath rises and falls. Without the noise, India’s landscape is a blank book, which no one can read. Sound adds a story. It adds life and purpose.
Without the noise, the blind man’s world ceases to exist. The street becomes a deathly plank, hovering over hungry sharks below. The sound that the traveler at first curses and ultimately accepts is the same sound that allows a man’s life to be lived. I never saw the blind men cross the street. My rickshaw passed them in a fleeting moment, only offering me a quick glimpse of their intention. But I think of them often in my new life that is painted, not plagued by the constant clamor. I close my eyes and I see India through sound. I feel India through her vibrations. It is not the noise that would cause deafness here, but rather the silence.
Friday, September 19, 2008
The Old Marketplace
The scenery blurs as I race past it. In my feverish state, I fall asleep. It is my chills and shakes that take me to this place, where color blinds my eyes, where smells lay siege on my nose, and where my throat has forgotten its ability to swallow. I am lost in a labyrinth of bedlam where entrances and exits do not even exist. I race through the throng of people, anxious for air and relief. A caretaker sees my distress as I dream, and places a wet towel over my head. At the moment my head feels coolness, I see stairs leading to outside. I follow them, only to be greeted by cows and the possibility that one will step on my feet. My delusions bring me to flowers in every shape and shade, to Hindi music foreign to my ears, and to cluttered streets and the scrawny bodies that fill them. There is a naked child walking alone, a blind couple in the tunnel begging for money, a boy who wants to go to America, and a woman nearby who used to dream herself.
I am exhausted simply by standing. I want to collapse on a magic carpet to take me above the pandemonium. I want to be rescued from the hallucinations this fever has caused and find a cure in my awakening. But I will never rouse from this state because I will never recover from the sickness. The disease of wanderlust will not abandon my body. It brings me here, to a marketplace in the city of Bangalore, igniting a fire that lashes across the plains of my mind and through the bloodstreams underneath my skin. India grips the traveler with such a force that even the smallest touch leaves a scar. My fever leaves my body changed forever.
***
Despite the confusion, things become clearer here in India. The pen has always been my closest companion. I have found such comfort in its consistency and its loyalty. Writing can never disappear. As long as I am alive, I can write. But here, in a place that constantly pulls and stretches my perception of the world, writing will not stop at being a comfort. It can be a purpose. India is an artist, painting my mind with a whole new palette of colors I never knew existed. It’s my duty to display those colors to others who will appreciate their glow.
I am exhausted simply by standing. I want to collapse on a magic carpet to take me above the pandemonium. I want to be rescued from the hallucinations this fever has caused and find a cure in my awakening. But I will never rouse from this state because I will never recover from the sickness. The disease of wanderlust will not abandon my body. It brings me here, to a marketplace in the city of Bangalore, igniting a fire that lashes across the plains of my mind and through the bloodstreams underneath my skin. India grips the traveler with such a force that even the smallest touch leaves a scar. My fever leaves my body changed forever.
***
Despite the confusion, things become clearer here in India. The pen has always been my closest companion. I have found such comfort in its consistency and its loyalty. Writing can never disappear. As long as I am alive, I can write. But here, in a place that constantly pulls and stretches my perception of the world, writing will not stop at being a comfort. It can be a purpose. India is an artist, painting my mind with a whole new palette of colors I never knew existed. It’s my duty to display those colors to others who will appreciate their glow.
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
September 16
Registering with the police to obtain a residential permit became a lesson in bureaucracy and patience. The mayhem in the police station seemed to mirror the disorder of Bangalore’s traffic. In total, we spent about three to four hours at the station over two days. A week ago, we had to fill out several sheets of information, making sure everything was perfect. One tiny error meant starting over. The process was confusing and made very little sense to me. When I returned today to pick up the permit, we waited at the station for a good half an hour. Then, once I got to the counter, I gave my receipt from the day before to the Indian man and instead of handing over the permit, which is what he did for the other students, he spoke what sounded like gibberish to me. “Gadarah,” he said, or something like it. “What?” I asked. He repeated the word. “What?” I said again. This awkward and useless exchange continued a few more times, until an Afghani man I had been talking to told me this was the name of a man in the other room who I was supposed to see. So I shrugged, ventured off and asked two other men where this guy was. “Gadarah? He’s already left.” “Gone?” “Already left.” Hmm, what to do? One of the men took my receipt and together they fuddled with it. Another man approached me and eventually told me to go back into the room I originally came from and wait. As I was going back, the Afghani came in and was also told to find the mysterious G man. I went back and waited like I was told. A couple minutes later, the Afghani followed suit. All the other kids were done and asked me what was happening. “I don’t know,” I replied-partly amused at the bewildering situation and partly worried at its potential outcome. About five minutes passed and the Afghani went back up to the first counter. I followed him. I didn’t understand why he was trying again-there had been no communication between the Indians in the separate rooms. But he got his permit easily this time, and ironically I received mine moments later. None of it made sense.
But a wonderful thing happened as we waited in the station. Here, strangers quickly embraced one another under the common tag of outsider. The kind Afghani, a third year student at Bangalore University, guided me through the confusion. I met two Austrian girls who have come to India alone to volunteer with a NGO and work with children. They just recently arrived and will be here until December. We giggled and sighed over shared experiences. It didn’t matter that they were Austrian and I American; for nationalities, ethnicities, and foreign policies were forgotten in this environment, where foreigners share the same titles, obstacles, and thrill. Francisca and Kati even invited me to visit their small town outside of Vienna. We plan to get together soon. They even lent me something to help heal my poor nose (it still has not accepted the fact that it has been pierced).
There are moments in the day where I feel like the seatbelts in the rollercoaster have disappeared. And just as luck would have it, a drop is approaching and I am terrified I will fall over the edge. What is there to hold onto? Panic and fear surround me. My mind projects images of slamming face first into the ground, my insides splattering across the soil. But then I look to my side, and someone sees the stricken look of alarm spread across my face and holds me tight as we battle the descent-together. There are always seatbelts available in India: seatbelts in the form of human beings. And even though the worst seems inevitable, I will never fall off the edge. I must remember this ride will end one day and I might as well not be frightened by the danger. After all, I love amusement parks. And I have only just started the ride.
***
September 17
Grilled cheeses. “Breathless,” a film by Jean-Luc Goddard from 1960. Hand sanitizers, candles, girls with ponytails on their way to school, the sound of trains passing by, dirty feet and swollen noses, open books, closed mouths, wide eyes, fabric in every which color, memories, uncertainty, gratefulness, hope, dreams.
Thoughts here are as diverse as the stares I receive and the people who give them. As diverse as India herself. I look at the postcards I bring with me every place I go. Postcards of Matisse, Diebenkorn, of six year old drawings that are better than my own, pictures of landscapes that most Indians will never see. My world here is not just an Indian one. I think of my travels in Europe, I think of roads in Virginia that led me to harvest fairs last fall, I think of playing softball and I dream of old schools. But I think of what one expat said in the book I’m reading: “the truth is that people get used to your not being around. In a way, you have died a little bit.” My future is one of travel, of tiny deaths in the lives of the people I love back home. But I’m willing to sacrifice. Nothing can replace this type of learning. Instead of seeing exhibits at galleries in DC, I see works of art every day here. Every sight is a painting. I will not deny I miss those pieces in the States, but here, my street is a museum. The view from my balcony, the seat in a rickshaw, men in blue buses with looks of astonishment at seeing white skin, the bug bites on my body, the cows, the upper class restaurants and the trash. The pollution. The color and the smiles of children, the kindness of Indian friends.
Life beyond the back door. I could never be fenced in.
Registering with the police to obtain a residential permit became a lesson in bureaucracy and patience. The mayhem in the police station seemed to mirror the disorder of Bangalore’s traffic. In total, we spent about three to four hours at the station over two days. A week ago, we had to fill out several sheets of information, making sure everything was perfect. One tiny error meant starting over. The process was confusing and made very little sense to me. When I returned today to pick up the permit, we waited at the station for a good half an hour. Then, once I got to the counter, I gave my receipt from the day before to the Indian man and instead of handing over the permit, which is what he did for the other students, he spoke what sounded like gibberish to me. “Gadarah,” he said, or something like it. “What?” I asked. He repeated the word. “What?” I said again. This awkward and useless exchange continued a few more times, until an Afghani man I had been talking to told me this was the name of a man in the other room who I was supposed to see. So I shrugged, ventured off and asked two other men where this guy was. “Gadarah? He’s already left.” “Gone?” “Already left.” Hmm, what to do? One of the men took my receipt and together they fuddled with it. Another man approached me and eventually told me to go back into the room I originally came from and wait. As I was going back, the Afghani came in and was also told to find the mysterious G man. I went back and waited like I was told. A couple minutes later, the Afghani followed suit. All the other kids were done and asked me what was happening. “I don’t know,” I replied-partly amused at the bewildering situation and partly worried at its potential outcome. About five minutes passed and the Afghani went back up to the first counter. I followed him. I didn’t understand why he was trying again-there had been no communication between the Indians in the separate rooms. But he got his permit easily this time, and ironically I received mine moments later. None of it made sense.
But a wonderful thing happened as we waited in the station. Here, strangers quickly embraced one another under the common tag of outsider. The kind Afghani, a third year student at Bangalore University, guided me through the confusion. I met two Austrian girls who have come to India alone to volunteer with a NGO and work with children. They just recently arrived and will be here until December. We giggled and sighed over shared experiences. It didn’t matter that they were Austrian and I American; for nationalities, ethnicities, and foreign policies were forgotten in this environment, where foreigners share the same titles, obstacles, and thrill. Francisca and Kati even invited me to visit their small town outside of Vienna. We plan to get together soon. They even lent me something to help heal my poor nose (it still has not accepted the fact that it has been pierced).
There are moments in the day where I feel like the seatbelts in the rollercoaster have disappeared. And just as luck would have it, a drop is approaching and I am terrified I will fall over the edge. What is there to hold onto? Panic and fear surround me. My mind projects images of slamming face first into the ground, my insides splattering across the soil. But then I look to my side, and someone sees the stricken look of alarm spread across my face and holds me tight as we battle the descent-together. There are always seatbelts available in India: seatbelts in the form of human beings. And even though the worst seems inevitable, I will never fall off the edge. I must remember this ride will end one day and I might as well not be frightened by the danger. After all, I love amusement parks. And I have only just started the ride.
***
September 17
Grilled cheeses. “Breathless,” a film by Jean-Luc Goddard from 1960. Hand sanitizers, candles, girls with ponytails on their way to school, the sound of trains passing by, dirty feet and swollen noses, open books, closed mouths, wide eyes, fabric in every which color, memories, uncertainty, gratefulness, hope, dreams.
Thoughts here are as diverse as the stares I receive and the people who give them. As diverse as India herself. I look at the postcards I bring with me every place I go. Postcards of Matisse, Diebenkorn, of six year old drawings that are better than my own, pictures of landscapes that most Indians will never see. My world here is not just an Indian one. I think of my travels in Europe, I think of roads in Virginia that led me to harvest fairs last fall, I think of playing softball and I dream of old schools. But I think of what one expat said in the book I’m reading: “the truth is that people get used to your not being around. In a way, you have died a little bit.” My future is one of travel, of tiny deaths in the lives of the people I love back home. But I’m willing to sacrifice. Nothing can replace this type of learning. Instead of seeing exhibits at galleries in DC, I see works of art every day here. Every sight is a painting. I will not deny I miss those pieces in the States, but here, my street is a museum. The view from my balcony, the seat in a rickshaw, men in blue buses with looks of astonishment at seeing white skin, the bug bites on my body, the cows, the upper class restaurants and the trash. The pollution. The color and the smiles of children, the kindness of Indian friends.
Life beyond the back door. I could never be fenced in.
Monday, September 15, 2008
Scenes from my new life
Neighborhood scenes:
Getting my nose pierced:
View from the apartment:
If anyone is interested in seeing additional photos, check out these links:
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2003295&l=c84a7&id=1084770089
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2003307&l=cde6c&id=1084770089
Getting my nose pierced:
View from the apartment:
If anyone is interested in seeing additional photos, check out these links:
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2003295&l=c84a7&id=1084770089
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2003307&l=cde6c&id=1084770089
September 14
I had just finished lighting candles in my apartment when the power went out. We were waiting for our Indian friends to arrive this past Saturday night and all of a sudden, our rooms turned dark, relying only on the subtle light the candle provided.
At the moment, I have six candles lit in my room. It is my attempt to create a romantic, intimate atmosphere in this new and alien setting. The florescent lighting will not do. It is around 9:30pm and tomorrow is Monday. This weekend was filled with intense, exciting, and frustrating experiences. It feels like we’ve been here for a month. But it’s only because every moment is like a day to us-everything is powerfully different, our emotions are on overdrive.
I would like to get to bed, but this is not possible. Dozens of drums are being banged upon outside in the streets, Hindi music is booming from nearby buildings, people are whistling, cars are honking - it resembles the sound that comes from a bowl game halftime show. Or maybe even the super bowl halftime. Or perhaps Times Square on New Year’s Eve. The Hindus are celebrating Ganesha, the elephant god. Festivals are perhaps my favorite aspect of the Hindu religion. There is always something to celebrate. Us Christians have one or two such occasions throughout the year but even Christmas and Easter don’t unleash this kind of excitement, merriment, and festivity. At the moment, my tired body is not as appreciative (a cracker goes off) of the tradition because the noise is preventing much needed rest BUT I really do admire the Hindus for their willingness to frequently come together and rejoice (another fire cracker goes off). Another opportunity to be grateful. It’s beautiful. I really believe us Westerners are missing out.
Another thing I admire about the Hindu religion is their acceptance of other beliefs. As I rode in a rickshaw with my Hindu friend Priya this morning, she told us we were going to visit a church. “I am Hindu but I love Jesus.” My friend Sonja and I chuckled. “Why do you love Jesus?” we asked. “He’s very good. Oh, I’ve seen him in movies and he’s just great. Yes, I love Jesus. ” Moments later, when we approached the Infant Jesus Church, Priya entered the church and prayed for a few minutes. The church was very large and filled with colorful saris (about 40 fire crackers go off). The service was in either Kannada or Hindi, (lots of cheering, whistling-the music dies down, perhaps an end is near?) I haven’t been able to tell the difference. How funny it was to be in a church and feel like an outsider.
We are outsiders everywhere here. We don’t forget for a second. Here in my apartment, away from the peering eyes, I am still an outsider. I am not used to the intensity of noise that is being generated on my street and in the neighborhood. At times I feel like I can completely ignore the stares and snickers but at other moments, I feel I am at my wits end. When a rickshaw driver refuses to use meter for me, when men selling the strangest, unnecessary items follow us down the street in hopes we will purchase their silly goods, when Indian girls my age look me up and down and laugh, when-the list can go on and on. And yet, despite all this animosity, skin whitening cream is sold in the stores. There is such an admiration of white skin here and it’s an aspect of their culture that I find hard accepting. Part of me thinks it’s strange and sickening but then I stop myself from being so lazy and instead yearn to find the answers to my questions: why, when, how?
So much traffic. I can’t use the word “chaos” to describe the scenes here. But that is the only word I can come up with. Everything is chaotic. I picked up a book the other day called Bangalored. It’s written by an Indian author who interviewed expatriots living in here in Bangalore. I’m only into the second story but the first pages brought me so much comfort I wanted to share some lines here. A Dutchman, who married an Indian girl and had been living in India for quite some time, commented “Each day, I live through heavenly visual delights and hellish pollution and traffic and bureaucracy. By night, I get drained confronting the world and myself” (Sundaresan 12-13). Reading these words brought me such relief-his thoughts are exactly my own. I have about three other books I’m currently reading about India. But this one I will treasure the most. It reminds me I’m not crazy, that other people have done this before, and that everything will be alright.
Ever since I came to India, and even before, I’ve considered piercing my nose. Here in India, a majority of the women have their noses pierced. Undoubtedly, it is the norm, not the exception. And the rings are so beautiful here, I just couldn’t resist the temptation. So today, Sameena and Priya took me and two other girls to get it done. In about twenty minutes, three Americans came out looking a little more Indian. It only took three pairs of watery eyes, two hands to squeeze, and 50 rupees (about $1.14). Hours later, my nose is still upset at me-if it could talk it would be cursing my judgment right now…but oh well. I’m happy.
God, there are too many things to comment on here. So many subtleties and details that I forget to mention but which are critical to shaping the world in which I live in now. Here’s something small I’ll end upon: whenever I talk with Bangaloreans I know, they will open the conversation with a phrase that is totally unfamiliar to us English speakers. “Had your lunch?” they will say. Or “had your breakfast?” if its morning and “Had your dinner?” at night. It almost immediately follows a hello and brings a smile to my face each time I hear it. When Priya gave me her cell phone to meet her boyfriend via telephone, the first thing he really said was, “had your breakfast?” If anything, it’s the Indian English equivalent to “what’s up?” It’s really funny to hear unfamiliar phrases in your native tongue. But I think I’ll adopt this custom. So don’t be surprised if the next time we talk, I ask “had your dinner?”
I had just finished lighting candles in my apartment when the power went out. We were waiting for our Indian friends to arrive this past Saturday night and all of a sudden, our rooms turned dark, relying only on the subtle light the candle provided.
At the moment, I have six candles lit in my room. It is my attempt to create a romantic, intimate atmosphere in this new and alien setting. The florescent lighting will not do. It is around 9:30pm and tomorrow is Monday. This weekend was filled with intense, exciting, and frustrating experiences. It feels like we’ve been here for a month. But it’s only because every moment is like a day to us-everything is powerfully different, our emotions are on overdrive.
I would like to get to bed, but this is not possible. Dozens of drums are being banged upon outside in the streets, Hindi music is booming from nearby buildings, people are whistling, cars are honking - it resembles the sound that comes from a bowl game halftime show. Or maybe even the super bowl halftime. Or perhaps Times Square on New Year’s Eve. The Hindus are celebrating Ganesha, the elephant god. Festivals are perhaps my favorite aspect of the Hindu religion. There is always something to celebrate. Us Christians have one or two such occasions throughout the year but even Christmas and Easter don’t unleash this kind of excitement, merriment, and festivity. At the moment, my tired body is not as appreciative (a cracker goes off) of the tradition because the noise is preventing much needed rest BUT I really do admire the Hindus for their willingness to frequently come together and rejoice (another fire cracker goes off). Another opportunity to be grateful. It’s beautiful. I really believe us Westerners are missing out.
Another thing I admire about the Hindu religion is their acceptance of other beliefs. As I rode in a rickshaw with my Hindu friend Priya this morning, she told us we were going to visit a church. “I am Hindu but I love Jesus.” My friend Sonja and I chuckled. “Why do you love Jesus?” we asked. “He’s very good. Oh, I’ve seen him in movies and he’s just great. Yes, I love Jesus. ” Moments later, when we approached the Infant Jesus Church, Priya entered the church and prayed for a few minutes. The church was very large and filled with colorful saris (about 40 fire crackers go off). The service was in either Kannada or Hindi, (lots of cheering, whistling-the music dies down, perhaps an end is near?) I haven’t been able to tell the difference. How funny it was to be in a church and feel like an outsider.
We are outsiders everywhere here. We don’t forget for a second. Here in my apartment, away from the peering eyes, I am still an outsider. I am not used to the intensity of noise that is being generated on my street and in the neighborhood. At times I feel like I can completely ignore the stares and snickers but at other moments, I feel I am at my wits end. When a rickshaw driver refuses to use meter for me, when men selling the strangest, unnecessary items follow us down the street in hopes we will purchase their silly goods, when Indian girls my age look me up and down and laugh, when-the list can go on and on. And yet, despite all this animosity, skin whitening cream is sold in the stores. There is such an admiration of white skin here and it’s an aspect of their culture that I find hard accepting. Part of me thinks it’s strange and sickening but then I stop myself from being so lazy and instead yearn to find the answers to my questions: why, when, how?
So much traffic. I can’t use the word “chaos” to describe the scenes here. But that is the only word I can come up with. Everything is chaotic. I picked up a book the other day called Bangalored. It’s written by an Indian author who interviewed expatriots living in here in Bangalore. I’m only into the second story but the first pages brought me so much comfort I wanted to share some lines here. A Dutchman, who married an Indian girl and had been living in India for quite some time, commented “Each day, I live through heavenly visual delights and hellish pollution and traffic and bureaucracy. By night, I get drained confronting the world and myself” (Sundaresan 12-13). Reading these words brought me such relief-his thoughts are exactly my own. I have about three other books I’m currently reading about India. But this one I will treasure the most. It reminds me I’m not crazy, that other people have done this before, and that everything will be alright.
Ever since I came to India, and even before, I’ve considered piercing my nose. Here in India, a majority of the women have their noses pierced. Undoubtedly, it is the norm, not the exception. And the rings are so beautiful here, I just couldn’t resist the temptation. So today, Sameena and Priya took me and two other girls to get it done. In about twenty minutes, three Americans came out looking a little more Indian. It only took three pairs of watery eyes, two hands to squeeze, and 50 rupees (about $1.14). Hours later, my nose is still upset at me-if it could talk it would be cursing my judgment right now…but oh well. I’m happy.
God, there are too many things to comment on here. So many subtleties and details that I forget to mention but which are critical to shaping the world in which I live in now. Here’s something small I’ll end upon: whenever I talk with Bangaloreans I know, they will open the conversation with a phrase that is totally unfamiliar to us English speakers. “Had your lunch?” they will say. Or “had your breakfast?” if its morning and “Had your dinner?” at night. It almost immediately follows a hello and brings a smile to my face each time I hear it. When Priya gave me her cell phone to meet her boyfriend via telephone, the first thing he really said was, “had your breakfast?” If anything, it’s the Indian English equivalent to “what’s up?” It’s really funny to hear unfamiliar phrases in your native tongue. But I think I’ll adopt this custom. So don’t be surprised if the next time we talk, I ask “had your dinner?”
Saturday, September 13, 2008
With every passing day, I fall in love with Bangalore all the more. I had read of its popularity with the Indians and even though I have not visited other parts of India, I cannot imagine a better place to be. Bangalore is an exciting mix of the new and old, offering me the comfort of certain western conveniences but also giving me the opportunity to learn of things I would never encounter in the west. Regardless of whether I have "bad" or "good" experiences, they are all ultimately worth while because I am seeing places and people my American friends will never know.
People always use the words "extreme" or "contrasts" when defining India. I confess, I would have to agree with the terms. When I walk out of the apartment in Sheshadripuram, I see children playing in a street of hay, people bathing themselves on the road, chickens and stray dogs roaming the pavement, colorful clothes that
hang to dry, and it's a picture perfect shot of the "third world" India scene and I live right in the midst of it. Now, I am not naive. What I see here is probably nothing compared to what I will see in other parts of India. But even the contrast between my apartment building and what stands next to it is shocking.
And then there is MG Road. There is Brigade Road, Guruda Mall, the upper class restaurant I ate at today on Commercial Street, the huge movie theater I saw "The Last Lear" at last night. And I am in a completely different world, one dominated by western clothes, ideas, and lifestyles. That is not to say it's a complete 180 but let's just say there are about 15 Pizza Huts in this city. There is a Ruby Tuesday's, Staples, a Lush, you get the idea. But it's a very strange feeling to travel between these two extremes, to be straddling the two. There is never a dull moment here.
Just this morning, when I was leaving a shopping area to go back to the apartment (which at the moment feels like a jail cell-there is absolutely nothing in it) a couple rickshaw drivers saw us and shouted "MILLER ROAD! UTC!" I didn't recognize the men but my friend Sonja remembered these drivers had given us a ride before. There have been quite a few people (mainly shopkeepers) who instantly remember our faces and it's sort of nice. So we went with this same man who had given us a ride about a week ago, and he wanted to take us to more emporiums (like last time) so that he could get free things (I'm not totally sure, there's a weird system...if these drivers take us to specific stores, they get gifts or something). But we were like, "no no, we need to get to our destination, we're running late...no time." And for about five minutes, they keep trying to persuade us to go to the shops. We never actually say yes. They just go. So this man, named Mohammad, takes us to the same EXACT store we had been at earlier in the day, when another rickshaw driver dropped us off there. Bangalore is a large city. The chance of that happening is pretty slim and we couldn't believe it. So then he had to take us to another place, I believe on Infantry Road, and after awkwardly going in for two minutes and coming back out, we asked to go to our apartment. He wanted to go to another store. The whole thing became really frustrating, to be honest. And the only reason we finally got to the apartment was because I took down his number and told him we would call if we ever needed a ride.
I'm starting to get used to the stares. Right now I'm trying to focus on getting my apartment furnished so I have a little escape. Last night was our first night in the apartments and I barely got any sleep. This was including wearing ear plugs and a sleep mask. Noise never ceases. Lights always shine. The early morning prayer wakes me every day. In many ways I'm quite fine but my mind feels like I am in an amusement park-there is so much to see and it's all kind of strange in a sense...distractions exist everywhere. It's a constant rollercoaster...no stops...if I get sick, I have to keep going.....
People always use the words "extreme" or "contrasts" when defining India. I confess, I would have to agree with the terms. When I walk out of the apartment in Sheshadripuram, I see children playing in a street of hay, people bathing themselves on the road, chickens and stray dogs roaming the pavement, colorful clothes that
hang to dry, and it's a picture perfect shot of the "third world" India scene and I live right in the midst of it. Now, I am not naive. What I see here is probably nothing compared to what I will see in other parts of India. But even the contrast between my apartment building and what stands next to it is shocking. 
And then there is MG Road. There is Brigade Road, Guruda Mall, the upper class restaurant I ate at today on Commercial Street, the huge movie theater I saw "The Last Lear" at last night. And I am in a completely different world, one dominated by western clothes, ideas, and lifestyles. That is not to say it's a complete 180 but let's just say there are about 15 Pizza Huts in this city. There is a Ruby Tuesday's, Staples, a Lush, you get the idea. But it's a very strange feeling to travel between these two extremes, to be straddling the two. There is never a dull moment here. Just this morning, when I was leaving a shopping area to go back to the apartment (which at the moment feels like a jail cell-there is absolutely nothing in it) a couple rickshaw drivers saw us and shouted "MILLER ROAD! UTC!" I didn't recognize the men but my friend Sonja remembered these drivers had given us a ride before. There have been quite a few people (mainly shopkeepers) who instantly remember our faces and it's sort of nice. So we went with this same man who had given us a ride about a week ago, and he wanted to take us to more emporiums (like last time) so that he could get free things (I'm not totally sure, there's a weird system...if these drivers take us to specific stores, they get gifts or something). But we were like, "no no, we need to get to our destination, we're running late...no time." And for about five minutes, they keep trying to persuade us to go to the shops. We never actually say yes. They just go. So this man, named Mohammad, takes us to the same EXACT store we had been at earlier in the day, when another rickshaw driver dropped us off there. Bangalore is a large city. The chance of that happening is pretty slim and we couldn't believe it. So then he had to take us to another place, I believe on Infantry Road, and after awkwardly going in for two minutes and coming back out, we asked to go to our apartment. He wanted to go to another store. The whole thing became really frustrating, to be honest. And the only reason we finally got to the apartment was because I took down his number and told him we would call if we ever needed a ride.
I'm starting to get used to the stares. Right now I'm trying to focus on getting my apartment furnished so I have a little escape. Last night was our first night in the apartments and I barely got any sleep. This was including wearing ear plugs and a sleep mask. Noise never ceases. Lights always shine. The early morning prayer wakes me every day. In many ways I'm quite fine but my mind feels like I am in an amusement park-there is so much to see and it's all kind of strange in a sense...distractions exist everywhere. It's a constant rollercoaster...no stops...if I get sick, I have to keep going.....
Thursday, September 11, 2008
I am silent. I talk. I stand still. I walk. Whatever I do, wherever I am, I draw attention. In the States, I am comfortable in my cocoon-I am content being unseen, living inside of a bubble, isolated from public eyes. But here there is no escape. Bubbles do not even exist. I am an animal in a zoo, I am a painting in a museum, a song to be heard, even skin to feel. It is the first time in my life (for an extended period of time)that I am labeled as "the other." Sometimes it's exhilirating-arousing sensations I have never truly felt, to be the origin of commotion, the cause of attention...and it can be fun. But then there are other times when I feel like I am being picked a part like a flower, petal by petal...the incessant gazes feel like slaps on the face...as disgust crosses their own...
It's just an unfamiliar experience-it's not unusual to be in a rickshaw and have a driver or passenger next to us stare us down while we are stopped in traffic. I have yet to use the word "jolu," which means in Kannada something like stop drooling....
I know the staring is a result of immense curiosity and my friends and I occasionally find humor in the situation. Because it's as if they are thinking, "Oh my god there is a white person! Everyone look!! Oh my god! Hey guys, look! AHHH!!" But sometimes I feel as if the thoughts are a bit more sinister. Last night, as I was recharging my phone at this vendor/outside convenience store type spot, I asked one of the employees and the young men around him about dancing in Bangalore. Ever since I arrived here, I've been hearing rumors about a dancing ban and I wanted to hear it from the Indians themselves. Most of the guys who were right next to me just bobbled their head and didn't give me any real answer...and then an older man to my right said "Yes, no dancing in Bangalore." He also said that it had been in place for three months. When I addressed the young men, I had asked if it was true about the ban and why it was in place. When the older man spoke, I turned to face him. "It's offensive," he continued. I think I broke a taboo and stared him down. No bobbles came from me. He saw my western eyes questioning his remark and said "women should show respect." I think I smiled to my friend Abby and started to walk away, baffled by the fact that Bollywood films are completely filled with music and dance and yet there's a rule against it. As we walked through the pack of men he said to us "go to Goa." I turned back, "or private party," he said. I think there was a bobble from my part. For those who aren't familiar with the geography of India, Goa is a state in the south western part of the country, a big hit with tourists because of its sandy beaches and heavily Portuguese influence. The British were never there and it developed in a very different way from the rest of India. There are even nude beaches! We're all planning to go.
Tommorrow we move into our apartments and I could not be more excited. We saw the accomodations yesterday and they are fantastic. Absolutely incredible. Brand new with plenty of space and already partially furnished. They were not completely ready when I saw them yesterday-our landlord's wife just passed away and they are a little behind, but we should have most of everything done for tommorrow. The location is insane. I don't know how to even begin to describe it. All I'll say right now is when we were there, there was music blasting from houses across from us-such a nice, perfect welcome! So many people live around us...the houses are very colorful, I can't wait to be there...a little worried about the noise, but it will all work out.
I haven't even been here for a week. It's the strangest thing. A week ago I was still in the states. Unbelievable, I feel like I've been here for so long already. I'm really looking forward to this weekend-I have so much to see in this city! I've already found a fabulous hang out spot called Infinitea, right on Cunningham road and about five minute walk from our center. I had dinner there yesterday and some tea and dessert today...it's a really great place...wonderful food...the largest and most interesting selection of teas I've ever seen. I have a feeling they'll be seeing a lot of me.
It's just an unfamiliar experience-it's not unusual to be in a rickshaw and have a driver or passenger next to us stare us down while we are stopped in traffic. I have yet to use the word "jolu," which means in Kannada something like stop drooling....
I know the staring is a result of immense curiosity and my friends and I occasionally find humor in the situation. Because it's as if they are thinking, "Oh my god there is a white person! Everyone look!! Oh my god! Hey guys, look! AHHH!!" But sometimes I feel as if the thoughts are a bit more sinister. Last night, as I was recharging my phone at this vendor/outside convenience store type spot, I asked one of the employees and the young men around him about dancing in Bangalore. Ever since I arrived here, I've been hearing rumors about a dancing ban and I wanted to hear it from the Indians themselves. Most of the guys who were right next to me just bobbled their head and didn't give me any real answer...and then an older man to my right said "Yes, no dancing in Bangalore." He also said that it had been in place for three months. When I addressed the young men, I had asked if it was true about the ban and why it was in place. When the older man spoke, I turned to face him. "It's offensive," he continued. I think I broke a taboo and stared him down. No bobbles came from me. He saw my western eyes questioning his remark and said "women should show respect." I think I smiled to my friend Abby and started to walk away, baffled by the fact that Bollywood films are completely filled with music and dance and yet there's a rule against it. As we walked through the pack of men he said to us "go to Goa." I turned back, "or private party," he said. I think there was a bobble from my part. For those who aren't familiar with the geography of India, Goa is a state in the south western part of the country, a big hit with tourists because of its sandy beaches and heavily Portuguese influence. The British were never there and it developed in a very different way from the rest of India. There are even nude beaches! We're all planning to go.
Tommorrow we move into our apartments and I could not be more excited. We saw the accomodations yesterday and they are fantastic. Absolutely incredible. Brand new with plenty of space and already partially furnished. They were not completely ready when I saw them yesterday-our landlord's wife just passed away and they are a little behind, but we should have most of everything done for tommorrow. The location is insane. I don't know how to even begin to describe it. All I'll say right now is when we were there, there was music blasting from houses across from us-such a nice, perfect welcome! So many people live around us...the houses are very colorful, I can't wait to be there...a little worried about the noise, but it will all work out.
I haven't even been here for a week. It's the strangest thing. A week ago I was still in the states. Unbelievable, I feel like I've been here for so long already. I'm really looking forward to this weekend-I have so much to see in this city! I've already found a fabulous hang out spot called Infinitea, right on Cunningham road and about five minute walk from our center. I had dinner there yesterday and some tea and dessert today...it's a really great place...wonderful food...the largest and most interesting selection of teas I've ever seen. I have a feeling they'll be seeing a lot of me.
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
September 9
The bus left around 9 in the morning from Ali Asker Road. For the next hour, we traveled to the outskirts of Bangalore, driving through the sea of rickshaws, cows, and chaos that makes up traffic in an Indian city. The sheer number of people reminds me of the awe that comes from seeing a night sky of a thousand stars. But there we are looking up towards something untouchable. Here, the stars completely surround us. They are beggars, they are Brahmins, they are Hindus and Muslims, they are Christians, they are Jains. Unlike the stars we see from afar, which all look alike, the amount of diversity on the ground amongst us is extraordinary. Everything is different. And yet, the sight of the sacred cow walking up and down the streets does not surprise me…I think it almost admirable to revere such an animal that is otherwise disregarded in the States. For the most part, I have only eaten vegetarian here and I plan to continue that diet. I have always been disgusted by the thought of eating animals-it’s so reassuring to be in a place where vegetarians are the norm.
As we continued on through the streets of Bangalore, I was seeing much of my new city for the first time and I felt a little saddened as we pulled away. Poverty became all the more familiar as we traveled towards the outskirts. In a way, I’ve been desensitized through pop culture and even though I was seeing “real” poverty for the first time, I wasn’t AS affected by it and I felt terribly guilty. Nothing here has surprised or shocked me. I came very well prepared. This doesn’t mean that what I am seeing is not moving me in one way or another-it is just the initial shock factor is not there. How to describe the scenes I saw? They resemble your crudest images of destitution. I’m sure my blog will be filled with endless descriptions in the months to come and I will struggle with the writing. For I like to think any situation has beauty, sometimes poetry only has to unveil it…but no language can find beauty in describing this kind of desperation, this dirt, this shit. Our destination, only a few kilometers away from that desperation, only further highlighted the contrast of extremes found here in India. Pulling into Angana retreat felt like getting off an elevator at the top floor of heaven, just after 
arriving from the ground of hell. No stops in between. Just one clear shot. We entered into a lush paradise-a forest shading us from the unsympathetic Indian sun, flowers resting in basins of water, freshly cut lawns, a pool that looked like it could be on the cover of a healing magazine, a building that felt more like a temple-all of this after arriving from the ground floor. The views were the complete opposite. Here is the website, check it out:) http://www.anganacountryinn.com/home.html
But after a few days here, the westerner in me is grumbling. Sleeping on mattresses next to floors that are also home to ant piles, adapting to the no toilet paper lifestyle and constantly filling my stomach with unfamiliar spices is leaving me a little off center. My body is beginning to have its first crisis, after almost a week of only Indian food, I need relief. Luckily, Bangalore is waiting with remedies. Pizza Hut it is tonight!
But in this foreign world, my life has become simpler. My feet are not bound by the harshness of shoes, I sleep on a mattress on the floor in a room which has only white walls, a fan, and some spare windows. I don’t need anything else. I wash my hair with a bucket of water, I sip chai throughout the day, I fall asleep to the sound of shrieking monkeys and watch as the monsoon rain invades our realm. At the moment, it looks like rain. I never thought I would be cold in India but last night, after hours of pooring rain, I wished for a sweatshirt and instead wrapped myself up in a blanket and went to sleep. Prior to that we had a classical music performance, complete with a dancer, vocalist, tabla and flue player, as well as a tampura. The Indian voice is as smooth as the silk of the sari and I ached to replicate the sound. I plan on looking into flute or sitar lessons while I am here.
Today is our final day here at Angana. We will be continuing our study of Kannada, the language of our state, Karnataka (Bangalore is the capital). Kannada is the mother tongue of Karnataka’s citizens but would probably be unrecognizable in other regions of India. Most people in Bangalore will be completely fluent in at least Kannada, Hindi (the national language), and English. Many will know more than that. The linguistic diversity of this country is astounding and I am incredibly grateful for the opportunity to learn and speak a language that most Americans have never even heard of. Here are some examples of useful phrases, all of which I have already mastered:
Hello: Namaskara
Thank you very much: thumba dhanyavadagalu
How are you: neevu hegidheera?
Fine: chennagidhene
Pretty intense, no? I’m confident I’ll be able to pick it up quickly, especially since we live in our own apartments and maneuver our way around the city on our own. I’ll actually be checking out the accommodations tomorrow and we move in Friday. I cant wait! I’ll be staying in a two bedroom apartment with a study abroad student from UMASS Amherst named Abigail. She’s lived in Spain and Mexico and traveled through Europe. Everyone here in this program is so well traveled and it’s really inspiring. Humbling, as well.
India was always a distant a dream of mine, lingering as far away as the geography, but existing nonetheless. Now, I have made that journey to the fancies I always environed in my head. But I am a baby here, without the capabilities of speech and the capacity to understand the new. I am in a cradle, with my eyes peering at the unfamiliar, not quite sure which direction I should be looking in. America was a womb and here in India, I have been born. Everything is loud in this outside world. And I miss the quiet of my mother and the gentle rocking. the peacefulness of my existence has diminished and now I am screaming as I am born, I am freezing in India with my delicate skin naked and exposed for all to comment on. I will never again return to that womb of comfort and serenity. But instead I must seek it on my own. In a way it is terrifying, I have no parents to guide me now that I am born. India is my mother now, I must let her teach me how to live. But at times I feel unwelcome in this foreign place-that even though I am a curious newborn anxious to get it right, I feel like an unwanted child. Unplanned and an unpleasant surprise, I’m an orphan.
I'll continue the first impressions list, here's just one thing:
TRAFFIC: Without a doubt, the most intense traffic I’ve ever been in. Egypt is pretty close…but here there are just too many other factors-the rickshaws in addition to the other forms of public transportation, the animals including the cows, the thousands of stray dogs that roam, and the people-there are just so many! The whole place feels like a circus. Every time I get into rickshaw, which is several times a day, I feel like I’m on a rollercoaster ride and actually made some jokes about pitching an idea to Disneyworld. “The rickshaw.” Isn’t it catchy? There would be no seatbelts of course, four people crammed into a three person backseat, a situation where the driver stops to fix something, constant noise of honking, random animals in the mix-and most importantly, moments where one thinks they will get into an accident. I would say that in a five minute ride, maybe twenty times. Don’t you think it could be popular?
September 10
Going to sleep is quite an experience here. Noise constantly kidnaps me from my dreams. The morning call to prayer, sounding from the largest mosque in South India, only a kilometer away from where I sleep now, always strolls right through my nightly fancies and I end up following the strange sound, curious and bemused. Sleeping is not an option when it’s such a beautiful and haunting melody. The moment it finds my ears I know I live in a completely different world. It shakes my senses, usually interrupting scenes of familiarity and home. I hear the whining of a dog and I sigh. There are so many strays here…I am preparing myself to see a dog get hit by a car-it’s bound to happen….which is a traumatizing thought. It makes me so sad to see all of te strays and I know I need to volunteer at a shelter of some sort. A couple of hours ago, when the acll awoke me and I listened to the crying of a lone dog, my heart ached. I thought of my two dogs, living in doggy wonderland and I questioned why they were so lucky. The only explanation I could arrive at was quintessential Indian: my dogs have awesome karma. I’m serious. I think it’s an easy and convenient explanation that is almost dismissing the problems at hand, but in a small way, I’ve succumbed to the idea. I think it eases the pain my eyes feel as I see suffering-I’m sure the Indians feel similar.
***
I feel a little sick this morning. If I were to be truly Indian my response would be to tap into Ayur Veda, a form of traditional medicine that diagnosis and treats problems based on the elements that make up our bodies. There are five elements including ether (space), wind, fire, water, and earth. Then out of these elements there are three subgroups. Ether and wind make up vata, fire and water pitta, and water and earth are kapha. Everyone in India will know their body type…it’s usually an indication of how well we sleep, our diets and appetities, physical appearance, moods, as well as what diseases or problems we are most likely to encounter. I am, without a doubt, a pitta. And doing things in moderation is apparently what I need to work on. Nothing could be truer. Anyone who knows me well might laugh at such a statement…it hits it right on the nail. Especially my parents know I easily become obsessed with certain ideas or things, change my mind, and become passionate about something completely different. My overused phrase, “it’s so chill,” is an attempt to calm me down. I was told sixty percent of Indians use Ayur Veda as their main form of medicince and even conventional doctors will use it in addition to implementing western techniques. Somehow I’ve known about Ayur Veda but I cant remember where on earth I read about it. Maybe I’m recalling the information from a past life..hehe…...
The bus left around 9 in the morning from Ali Asker Road. For the next hour, we traveled to the outskirts of Bangalore, driving through the sea of rickshaws, cows, and chaos that makes up traffic in an Indian city. The sheer number of people reminds me of the awe that comes from seeing a night sky of a thousand stars. But there we are looking up towards something untouchable. Here, the stars completely surround us. They are beggars, they are Brahmins, they are Hindus and Muslims, they are Christians, they are Jains. Unlike the stars we see from afar, which all look alike, the amount of diversity on the ground amongst us is extraordinary. Everything is different. And yet, the sight of the sacred cow walking up and down the streets does not surprise me…I think it almost admirable to revere such an animal that is otherwise disregarded in the States. For the most part, I have only eaten vegetarian here and I plan to continue that diet. I have always been disgusted by the thought of eating animals-it’s so reassuring to be in a place where vegetarians are the norm.
As we continued on through the streets of Bangalore, I was seeing much of my new city for the first time and I felt a little saddened as we pulled away. Poverty became all the more familiar as we traveled towards the outskirts. In a way, I’ve been desensitized through pop culture and even though I was seeing “real” poverty for the first time, I wasn’t AS affected by it and I felt terribly guilty. Nothing here has surprised or shocked me. I came very well prepared. This doesn’t mean that what I am seeing is not moving me in one way or another-it is just the initial shock factor is not there. How to describe the scenes I saw? They resemble your crudest images of destitution. I’m sure my blog will be filled with endless descriptions in the months to come and I will struggle with the writing. For I like to think any situation has beauty, sometimes poetry only has to unveil it…but no language can find beauty in describing this kind of desperation, this dirt, this shit. Our destination, only a few kilometers away from that desperation, only further highlighted the contrast of extremes found here in India. Pulling into Angana retreat felt like getting off an elevator at the top floor of heaven, just after 
arriving from the ground of hell. No stops in between. Just one clear shot. We entered into a lush paradise-a forest shading us from the unsympathetic Indian sun, flowers resting in basins of water, freshly cut lawns, a pool that looked like it could be on the cover of a healing magazine, a building that felt more like a temple-all of this after arriving from the ground floor. The views were the complete opposite. Here is the website, check it out:) http://www.anganacountryinn.com/home.html But after a few days here, the westerner in me is grumbling. Sleeping on mattresses next to floors that are also home to ant piles, adapting to the no toilet paper lifestyle and constantly filling my stomach with unfamiliar spices is leaving me a little off center. My body is beginning to have its first crisis, after almost a week of only Indian food, I need relief. Luckily, Bangalore is waiting with remedies. Pizza Hut it is tonight!
But in this foreign world, my life has become simpler. My feet are not bound by the harshness of shoes, I sleep on a mattress on the floor in a room which has only white walls, a fan, and some spare windows. I don’t need anything else. I wash my hair with a bucket of water, I sip chai throughout the day, I fall asleep to the sound of shrieking monkeys and watch as the monsoon rain invades our realm. At the moment, it looks like rain. I never thought I would be cold in India but last night, after hours of pooring rain, I wished for a sweatshirt and instead wrapped myself up in a blanket and went to sleep. Prior to that we had a classical music performance, complete with a dancer, vocalist, tabla and flue player, as well as a tampura. The Indian voice is as smooth as the silk of the sari and I ached to replicate the sound. I plan on looking into flute or sitar lessons while I am here.
Today is our final day here at Angana. We will be continuing our study of Kannada, the language of our state, Karnataka (Bangalore is the capital). Kannada is the mother tongue of Karnataka’s citizens but would probably be unrecognizable in other regions of India. Most people in Bangalore will be completely fluent in at least Kannada, Hindi (the national language), and English. Many will know more than that. The linguistic diversity of this country is astounding and I am incredibly grateful for the opportunity to learn and speak a language that most Americans have never even heard of. Here are some examples of useful phrases, all of which I have already mastered:
Hello: Namaskara
Thank you very much: thumba dhanyavadagalu
How are you: neevu hegidheera?
Fine: chennagidhene
Pretty intense, no? I’m confident I’ll be able to pick it up quickly, especially since we live in our own apartments and maneuver our way around the city on our own. I’ll actually be checking out the accommodations tomorrow and we move in Friday. I cant wait! I’ll be staying in a two bedroom apartment with a study abroad student from UMASS Amherst named Abigail. She’s lived in Spain and Mexico and traveled through Europe. Everyone here in this program is so well traveled and it’s really inspiring. Humbling, as well.
India was always a distant a dream of mine, lingering as far away as the geography, but existing nonetheless. Now, I have made that journey to the fancies I always environed in my head. But I am a baby here, without the capabilities of speech and the capacity to understand the new. I am in a cradle, with my eyes peering at the unfamiliar, not quite sure which direction I should be looking in. America was a womb and here in India, I have been born. Everything is loud in this outside world. And I miss the quiet of my mother and the gentle rocking. the peacefulness of my existence has diminished and now I am screaming as I am born, I am freezing in India with my delicate skin naked and exposed for all to comment on. I will never again return to that womb of comfort and serenity. But instead I must seek it on my own. In a way it is terrifying, I have no parents to guide me now that I am born. India is my mother now, I must let her teach me how to live. But at times I feel unwelcome in this foreign place-that even though I am a curious newborn anxious to get it right, I feel like an unwanted child. Unplanned and an unpleasant surprise, I’m an orphan.
I'll continue the first impressions list, here's just one thing:
TRAFFIC: Without a doubt, the most intense traffic I’ve ever been in. Egypt is pretty close…but here there are just too many other factors-the rickshaws in addition to the other forms of public transportation, the animals including the cows, the thousands of stray dogs that roam, and the people-there are just so many! The whole place feels like a circus. Every time I get into rickshaw, which is several times a day, I feel like I’m on a rollercoaster ride and actually made some jokes about pitching an idea to Disneyworld. “The rickshaw.” Isn’t it catchy? There would be no seatbelts of course, four people crammed into a three person backseat, a situation where the driver stops to fix something, constant noise of honking, random animals in the mix-and most importantly, moments where one thinks they will get into an accident. I would say that in a five minute ride, maybe twenty times. Don’t you think it could be popular?
September 10
Going to sleep is quite an experience here. Noise constantly kidnaps me from my dreams. The morning call to prayer, sounding from the largest mosque in South India, only a kilometer away from where I sleep now, always strolls right through my nightly fancies and I end up following the strange sound, curious and bemused. Sleeping is not an option when it’s such a beautiful and haunting melody. The moment it finds my ears I know I live in a completely different world. It shakes my senses, usually interrupting scenes of familiarity and home. I hear the whining of a dog and I sigh. There are so many strays here…I am preparing myself to see a dog get hit by a car-it’s bound to happen….which is a traumatizing thought. It makes me so sad to see all of te strays and I know I need to volunteer at a shelter of some sort. A couple of hours ago, when the acll awoke me and I listened to the crying of a lone dog, my heart ached. I thought of my two dogs, living in doggy wonderland and I questioned why they were so lucky. The only explanation I could arrive at was quintessential Indian: my dogs have awesome karma. I’m serious. I think it’s an easy and convenient explanation that is almost dismissing the problems at hand, but in a small way, I’ve succumbed to the idea. I think it eases the pain my eyes feel as I see suffering-I’m sure the Indians feel similar.
***
I feel a little sick this morning. If I were to be truly Indian my response would be to tap into Ayur Veda, a form of traditional medicine that diagnosis and treats problems based on the elements that make up our bodies. There are five elements including ether (space), wind, fire, water, and earth. Then out of these elements there are three subgroups. Ether and wind make up vata, fire and water pitta, and water and earth are kapha. Everyone in India will know their body type…it’s usually an indication of how well we sleep, our diets and appetities, physical appearance, moods, as well as what diseases or problems we are most likely to encounter. I am, without a doubt, a pitta. And doing things in moderation is apparently what I need to work on. Nothing could be truer. Anyone who knows me well might laugh at such a statement…it hits it right on the nail. Especially my parents know I easily become obsessed with certain ideas or things, change my mind, and become passionate about something completely different. My overused phrase, “it’s so chill,” is an attempt to calm me down. I was told sixty percent of Indians use Ayur Veda as their main form of medicince and even conventional doctors will use it in addition to implementing western techniques. Somehow I’ve known about Ayur Veda but I cant remember where on earth I read about it. Maybe I’m recalling the information from a past life..hehe…...
The Beginning
September 6
I feel amazing. Three dozen bangles jingle on my arm, a bindi lies in between my eyes, tailored pants fall gracefully on my legs and my head moves side to side in an attempt to practice the bobble I have recently come to love. I have spent about a
day and a half here in Bangalore thus far and it has been incredible. Today
especially was very special, since I have just recovered from my jet lag and was able to observe my new home without exhausted, somewhat critical eyes. Everything today I embraced.
This journey started several days ago now, when I woke in the early morning of September 3rd to drive with my father to Newark for a day of orientations and preparing for the flight ahead. Around 5pm, we left the Hilton we had spent the day at, and continued onto the airport. There were six of us students traveling on the group flight from Newark to Delhi, which as I’ve already mentioned, was supposed to take about 14 hours. As we passed through security, with my boarding pass in hand, it finally started to sink in. I am going to India. It became even more real as we approached the terminal gate…almost everyone waiting was Indian. We boarded the flight around 7:40 and it was easily the largest plane I’ve ever been on. Thankfully, there were two unoccupied seats next to mine which were gifts from God. It might have been the nicest flight I’ve taken. Except for the fact that we waited on the runway for more than two hours…there had been bad weather and all flights were delayed…but once we lifted off, I lied out with two blankets and using the travel goods I had just bought (travel pillow, eye mask, etc) fell into a deep sleep until 6am the next morning (eastern time). Due to our delay, we weren’t supposed to get into Delhi until around 12ish which was about 9pm in India. So I spent the rest of the time watching the random movies in front of my seat, eating a delicious Indian meal (we had forks and knives…so different than domestic flights in the US) and watching us fly over areas I’ll probably never visit. AKA Kabul, Afghanistan and etc. The most interesting part was flying next to a lightning storm-automatically
images of us getting struck by lightning came to my mind…as I slept earlier, I dreamt of the plane enduring a horrible landing…how worrisome I can be sometimes. The plane landed quite nicely, and I left the plane a little bemused now that it was nighttime once again. Hadn’t we just left the darkness? As I stepped off the plane, the first bit of India to greet me was the steaming temperature and about twenty young Indian men peering at me. The six of us proceeded to go through customs, which took about twenty or so minutes. Then we headed to pick up are luggage, then get on a bus to take us to the domestic airport. Everything was dark but mysterious as we drove through the night…I was hypnotized by the scene around me…my first glimpses of India. When we got to the other side, we learned we would not be able to get into the actual airport terminals until two hours before our flight-which meant 4:35am. At that time, it was about 11:30pm. So, we all found a place to sit in the waiting area with the rest of the Indians, most of whom were lying out on seats. We packed our bags and before long, I got up to buy some chai (tea) and find an ATM so I could have some rupees on hand, which is the Indian currency (about $1=44 rupees). When I got back to my seat I wrote, read, listened to music, and observed the space around me. The biggest thing I noticed was that everyone had their shoes off. I have always embraced the barefoot notion and so this Indian custom greatly pleases me and I was happy to see it in action for the first time. My mom teases me for whenever I am driving with her in any car, I always take my shoes off. I’m beginning to feel like I truly was Indian in a past life. I wrote while I waited, “I know everything is telling me I should feel in a completely different world and yet I don’t. Now this maybe because I am stuck here inside the Delhi airport and can’t really go anywhere for several hours…but I feel completely at home, even here.”
After several hours of waiting, we were able to go through security and recheck our bags. We had a laugh when our friend Sam’s skateboard was taken away so it could go through security once more and when it was returned, he was asked to do some tricks by the Indians, right there in the airport. In Newark, a young Indian had thought it rather comical he was bringing a skateboard with him to Bangalore… “you’ll attract a lot of attention with that, yes, a white person on a skateboard…good luck.” After we checked our luggage, we had to wait about one more hour before we could proceed to the terminal. At that time, we went through more security and came to an area that only had four gates. This was the section for domestic flights for about 4 airlines for India. It looked like the size of the airport in Bangor, Maine. How strange…a city with one of the largest populations in the world…
Anyway, we finally got on the Bangalore flight and it took about 2.5-3 hrs. I took Jet Airways and it was fantastic. We were served a wonderful meal and the staff was very friendly. By the time we got into Bangalore, which was around 9amish, I had been up since 330pm the day before. I didn’t end up getting to sleep until about 5pm. So do the math. When I did get to sleep later in the day, I slept right through until 6am this morning.
When we arrived in the airport, we picked up our luggage and were greeted by two people from the India Center. It took about 45 minutes to get to where we are currently staying, which is the United Theological Center, our temporary accommodations until we move into our apartments later in the week. Tomorrow through Tuesday night we will actually be on a retreat and I feel kind of sad leaving the city to go to the outskirts after my wonderful experiences today. My first impressions were not as wonderful. They weren’t bad, I was just seeing Bangalore with sleepy, jet lagged eyes. Excited, but tired nonetheless. First of all, the airport (although nice) seemed to be in the complete middle of nowhere. I couldn’t believe that this was supposed to be near a city. As we drove in, the traffic felt like déjà vu (can anyone say, Egypt?) what with the incessant honking and chaos. I no longer am worried about my safety…I have truly accepted that it will appear like an accident is going to occur at any moment. I saw hints of India’s infamous poverty along the streets, stalls and vendors everywhere, as well as the beautiful saris coloring the atmosphere. As we were coming in, the idea of the “cosmopolitan” city we had heard of seemed a bit far fetched. This was nowhere near the definition that we were familiar of. The complete lack of orderliness and the ever presence of disarray was the confusing part. I think the idea of “cosmopolitan” meant clean, organized, tall buildings in our mind…but now we have new definitions of the word and a new understanding of the concept…a more Indian perspective…
When we arrived at UTC, its gardens and encompassing trees gave us a bit of relief from the world outside the gates…and we settled in to our new rooms, which have a 1940s old movie feel to them. Afterwards, we went back outside and proceeded to the India Center, where I’ll be spending a huge chunk of my time. The India Center is located on Ali Asker road, off of Cunningham, a street with many shops, stores, and entertainment. Compared to the surrounding streets, Ali Asker seems like a quiet and peaceful retreat. At the India Center, we had lunch and met many of the faculty members and staff. Towards the end, we set up a puja and made offerings to the elephant god Ganesh (for new beginnings), Lasksmi (prosperity and wealth), and one another goddess whose name has escaped me. It was an auspicious moment, where we presented flowers and basil to the pictures before us, rung bells to say to the gods “hey, listen to us!” and lighted candles. Hinduism has always fascinated me and I could not be happier surrounded by it. I have so much learning to do.
As I mentioned earlier, I fell asleep back at UTC around 5 and woke up this morning quite early. After having a complimentary breakfast, we headed to a nearby hospital/clinic/nursing home to check to if my friend Sonja had kidney stones. After finding out she was okay, the six of us exploring together caught two auto rickshaws (which I LOVE) and went to the Commercial Street area for shopping. Today I went a little crazy. I bought a salwar kameez, (what most women wear…a long tunic shirt, baggy pants, and a draped scarf) bangles (3 dozen for less than two dollars), a small statue of Ganesh (for new beginnings!), my cell phone (my number here is 9742104852), two tailored pants (for less than 14 dollars…they are amazing…baggy…I will be getting more…I only want to wear these) …I believe that’s it…but everything is so, so cheap here! I passed a store of tunics selling for 50 rupees, a little more than a dollar!! And haggling is very easy to do… “I’ll give you discount,” became a popular statement. Perhaps the best part of my day was getting to know the three girls in the cell phone store who have now become good friends: Priya,
Sameena, and Kavitha (the h is silent). They couldn’t have been sweeter and we already exchanged phone numbers and emails!!! I’m so excited to hang out with them, they were wonderful! When I left and was already heading back to UTC on a rickshaw, my phone was vibrating and it was Sameena calling! We’ve invited them to our apartments next weekend…and Kavitha’s birthday is in October, so we’ll go celebrate with her. We spent at least an hour just talking with them…it was wonderful! Once again, I felt like an ignorant, uneducated American when they said they spoke five languages. “How many do you speak?” they asked. “Uh….” seemed to be my only response. I did teach them some Spanish, and when Sameena called, she enthusiastically asked, “Como estas??”
Two things I have come to love in India (not the only two things, but the two things I have loved the most thus far): the auto rickshaw and the head bobble. For those of you who don’t know, the auto rickshaw is an open vehicle, with a driver in the front carrying about three people in a
backseat. There are no seatbelts (sorry family members) and no windows. There’s an overhead covering but not much else. They are EVERYWHERE and EXTREMELY cheap. On the way back from Commercial Street, we were able to get our ride for free just by shopping at a store. Or looking, rather. It feels like an amusement park ride on the rickshaw…it’s incredible. I think if I hadn’t been to Egypt or Naples, the traffic would be terrifying me. And the rickshaw especially, would seem like a death wish. But instead, I find it thrilling. I completely love it, all the risks included. My friend Annie joked yesterday “so who do you think will get in the first accident?” We thought it might be better to ask “who will be the first person to get the d word?” A little less severe, I think.
And then there is the head bobble. It has just about completed my life and colored every conversation I’ve had with a local. Us Westerners always nod our heads but I think that we should adopt the Indian custom instead. It has a lot more personality and for some reason, just feels very warm and welcoming. My goal is to perfect it for when I return to the states in December for vacation.
Today was a wonderful day. It’s a little after 7 pm, we are all kind of tired but may go out for some dinner. Tomorrow we’ll head to our retreat which will be something new and fun but I think I’ll be very happy to return to Bangalore. It’s crazy and intense and I love it. I have easily forgotten how much trash there is, the smells, how I have seen little boys defecating on the side of the road as I walked past, how a beggar came up to my friend in a rickshaw and tried to take one of her things, how I cannot drink the water and how I sanitize my hands constantly. Honestly, I’ve experienced very little cultural shock. But I was prepared. I came with knowledge and an understanding. And more than that, with the mentality that different does not mean “wrong.” I used to think that peacefulness could only be found in a quiet setting but I think I’ve found it here, amidst the chaos. Today, I love India. What an incredible beginning.
I feel amazing. Three dozen bangles jingle on my arm, a bindi lies in between my eyes, tailored pants fall gracefully on my legs and my head moves side to side in an attempt to practice the bobble I have recently come to love. I have spent about a
day and a half here in Bangalore thus far and it has been incredible. Today
especially was very special, since I have just recovered from my jet lag and was able to observe my new home without exhausted, somewhat critical eyes. Everything today I embraced.
This journey started several days ago now, when I woke in the early morning of September 3rd to drive with my father to Newark for a day of orientations and preparing for the flight ahead. Around 5pm, we left the Hilton we had spent the day at, and continued onto the airport. There were six of us students traveling on the group flight from Newark to Delhi, which as I’ve already mentioned, was supposed to take about 14 hours. As we passed through security, with my boarding pass in hand, it finally started to sink in. I am going to India. It became even more real as we approached the terminal gate…almost everyone waiting was Indian. We boarded the flight around 7:40 and it was easily the largest plane I’ve ever been on. Thankfully, there were two unoccupied seats next to mine which were gifts from God. It might have been the nicest flight I’ve taken. Except for the fact that we waited on the runway for more than two hours…there had been bad weather and all flights were delayed…but once we lifted off, I lied out with two blankets and using the travel goods I had just bought (travel pillow, eye mask, etc) fell into a deep sleep until 6am the next morning (eastern time). Due to our delay, we weren’t supposed to get into Delhi until around 12ish which was about 9pm in India. So I spent the rest of the time watching the random movies in front of my seat, eating a delicious Indian meal (we had forks and knives…so different than domestic flights in the US) and watching us fly over areas I’ll probably never visit. AKA Kabul, Afghanistan and etc. The most interesting part was flying next to a lightning storm-automatically
images of us getting struck by lightning came to my mind…as I slept earlier, I dreamt of the plane enduring a horrible landing…how worrisome I can be sometimes. The plane landed quite nicely, and I left the plane a little bemused now that it was nighttime once again. Hadn’t we just left the darkness? As I stepped off the plane, the first bit of India to greet me was the steaming temperature and about twenty young Indian men peering at me. The six of us proceeded to go through customs, which took about twenty or so minutes. Then we headed to pick up are luggage, then get on a bus to take us to the domestic airport. Everything was dark but mysterious as we drove through the night…I was hypnotized by the scene around me…my first glimpses of India. When we got to the other side, we learned we would not be able to get into the actual airport terminals until two hours before our flight-which meant 4:35am. At that time, it was about 11:30pm. So, we all found a place to sit in the waiting area with the rest of the Indians, most of whom were lying out on seats. We packed our bags and before long, I got up to buy some chai (tea) and find an ATM so I could have some rupees on hand, which is the Indian currency (about $1=44 rupees). When I got back to my seat I wrote, read, listened to music, and observed the space around me. The biggest thing I noticed was that everyone had their shoes off. I have always embraced the barefoot notion and so this Indian custom greatly pleases me and I was happy to see it in action for the first time. My mom teases me for whenever I am driving with her in any car, I always take my shoes off. I’m beginning to feel like I truly was Indian in a past life. I wrote while I waited, “I know everything is telling me I should feel in a completely different world and yet I don’t. Now this maybe because I am stuck here inside the Delhi airport and can’t really go anywhere for several hours…but I feel completely at home, even here.” After several hours of waiting, we were able to go through security and recheck our bags. We had a laugh when our friend Sam’s skateboard was taken away so it could go through security once more and when it was returned, he was asked to do some tricks by the Indians, right there in the airport. In Newark, a young Indian had thought it rather comical he was bringing a skateboard with him to Bangalore… “you’ll attract a lot of attention with that, yes, a white person on a skateboard…good luck.” After we checked our luggage, we had to wait about one more hour before we could proceed to the terminal. At that time, we went through more security and came to an area that only had four gates. This was the section for domestic flights for about 4 airlines for India. It looked like the size of the airport in Bangor, Maine. How strange…a city with one of the largest populations in the world…
Anyway, we finally got on the Bangalore flight and it took about 2.5-3 hrs. I took Jet Airways and it was fantastic. We were served a wonderful meal and the staff was very friendly. By the time we got into Bangalore, which was around 9amish, I had been up since 330pm the day before. I didn’t end up getting to sleep until about 5pm. So do the math. When I did get to sleep later in the day, I slept right through until 6am this morning.
When we arrived in the airport, we picked up our luggage and were greeted by two people from the India Center. It took about 45 minutes to get to where we are currently staying, which is the United Theological Center, our temporary accommodations until we move into our apartments later in the week. Tomorrow through Tuesday night we will actually be on a retreat and I feel kind of sad leaving the city to go to the outskirts after my wonderful experiences today. My first impressions were not as wonderful. They weren’t bad, I was just seeing Bangalore with sleepy, jet lagged eyes. Excited, but tired nonetheless. First of all, the airport (although nice) seemed to be in the complete middle of nowhere. I couldn’t believe that this was supposed to be near a city. As we drove in, the traffic felt like déjà vu (can anyone say, Egypt?) what with the incessant honking and chaos. I no longer am worried about my safety…I have truly accepted that it will appear like an accident is going to occur at any moment. I saw hints of India’s infamous poverty along the streets, stalls and vendors everywhere, as well as the beautiful saris coloring the atmosphere. As we were coming in, the idea of the “cosmopolitan” city we had heard of seemed a bit far fetched. This was nowhere near the definition that we were familiar of. The complete lack of orderliness and the ever presence of disarray was the confusing part. I think the idea of “cosmopolitan” meant clean, organized, tall buildings in our mind…but now we have new definitions of the word and a new understanding of the concept…a more Indian perspective…
When we arrived at UTC, its gardens and encompassing trees gave us a bit of relief from the world outside the gates…and we settled in to our new rooms, which have a 1940s old movie feel to them. Afterwards, we went back outside and proceeded to the India Center, where I’ll be spending a huge chunk of my time. The India Center is located on Ali Asker road, off of Cunningham, a street with many shops, stores, and entertainment. Compared to the surrounding streets, Ali Asker seems like a quiet and peaceful retreat. At the India Center, we had lunch and met many of the faculty members and staff. Towards the end, we set up a puja and made offerings to the elephant god Ganesh (for new beginnings), Lasksmi (prosperity and wealth), and one another goddess whose name has escaped me. It was an auspicious moment, where we presented flowers and basil to the pictures before us, rung bells to say to the gods “hey, listen to us!” and lighted candles. Hinduism has always fascinated me and I could not be happier surrounded by it. I have so much learning to do.As I mentioned earlier, I fell asleep back at UTC around 5 and woke up this morning quite early. After having a complimentary breakfast, we headed to a nearby hospital/clinic/nursing home to check to if my friend Sonja had kidney stones. After finding out she was okay, the six of us exploring together caught two auto rickshaws (which I LOVE) and went to the Commercial Street area for shopping. Today I went a little crazy. I bought a salwar kameez, (what most women wear…a long tunic shirt, baggy pants, and a draped scarf) bangles (3 dozen for less than two dollars), a small statue of Ganesh (for new beginnings!), my cell phone (my number here is 9742104852), two tailored pants (for less than 14 dollars…they are amazing…baggy…I will be getting more…I only want to wear these) …I believe that’s it…but everything is so, so cheap here! I passed a store of tunics selling for 50 rupees, a little more than a dollar!! And haggling is very easy to do… “I’ll give you discount,” became a popular statement. Perhaps the best part of my day was getting to know the three girls in the cell phone store who have now become good friends: Priya,
Sameena, and Kavitha (the h is silent). They couldn’t have been sweeter and we already exchanged phone numbers and emails!!! I’m so excited to hang out with them, they were wonderful! When I left and was already heading back to UTC on a rickshaw, my phone was vibrating and it was Sameena calling! We’ve invited them to our apartments next weekend…and Kavitha’s birthday is in October, so we’ll go celebrate with her. We spent at least an hour just talking with them…it was wonderful! Once again, I felt like an ignorant, uneducated American when they said they spoke five languages. “How many do you speak?” they asked. “Uh….” seemed to be my only response. I did teach them some Spanish, and when Sameena called, she enthusiastically asked, “Como estas??” Two things I have come to love in India (not the only two things, but the two things I have loved the most thus far): the auto rickshaw and the head bobble. For those of you who don’t know, the auto rickshaw is an open vehicle, with a driver in the front carrying about three people in a
backseat. There are no seatbelts (sorry family members) and no windows. There’s an overhead covering but not much else. They are EVERYWHERE and EXTREMELY cheap. On the way back from Commercial Street, we were able to get our ride for free just by shopping at a store. Or looking, rather. It feels like an amusement park ride on the rickshaw…it’s incredible. I think if I hadn’t been to Egypt or Naples, the traffic would be terrifying me. And the rickshaw especially, would seem like a death wish. But instead, I find it thrilling. I completely love it, all the risks included. My friend Annie joked yesterday “so who do you think will get in the first accident?” We thought it might be better to ask “who will be the first person to get the d word?” A little less severe, I think. And then there is the head bobble. It has just about completed my life and colored every conversation I’ve had with a local. Us Westerners always nod our heads but I think that we should adopt the Indian custom instead. It has a lot more personality and for some reason, just feels very warm and welcoming. My goal is to perfect it for when I return to the states in December for vacation.
Today was a wonderful day. It’s a little after 7 pm, we are all kind of tired but may go out for some dinner. Tomorrow we’ll head to our retreat which will be something new and fun but I think I’ll be very happy to return to Bangalore. It’s crazy and intense and I love it. I have easily forgotten how much trash there is, the smells, how I have seen little boys defecating on the side of the road as I walked past, how a beggar came up to my friend in a rickshaw and tried to take one of her things, how I cannot drink the water and how I sanitize my hands constantly. Honestly, I’ve experienced very little cultural shock. But I was prepared. I came with knowledge and an understanding. And more than that, with the mentality that different does not mean “wrong.” I used to think that peacefulness could only be found in a quiet setting but I think I’ve found it here, amidst the chaos. Today, I love India. What an incredible beginning.
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
Last night in the States
I'm starting to get a little anxious...today was a very busy and at times stressful day...tomorrow the plan is to wake up at 5 and be out of the house driving to Brooklyn around 530ish. The majority of the day will be orientations at LIU. I'm thanking God for the group flight...I don't think I could have flown to India on my own. We'll depart for Newark around 5ish but my flight doesn't leave until 8:30. Now here's the fun part. We get into Delhi around 8pm the next day. So have fun on September fourth...I'll time travel right past it. The next flight is from Delhi to Bengaluru (Bangalore) at 6am the next morning (friday, sept 5). We get to my new home about three hours later. Overall, I'll be traveling about 8,000 miles. It seems so strange...I can't believe it's actually going to happen.
Well...I'm off to finish packing. Next time I write will be from India! Namaste!
Well...I'm off to finish packing. Next time I write will be from India! Namaste!
Monday, September 1, 2008
It was only until I left the world of materialistic pleasure that I truly found happiness. It was not until my belongings were packed away in a single suitcase that I was no longer labeled by what I possessed, but rather defined by what I knew. For the nineteen years I was raised in the States, my existence had been characterized by things: objects I owned, objects I wanted and objects I lacked. Gratefulness never came with an arrival of the additional but rather with the realization that what I had was enough. We are not just obese in the physical sense. Our minds and spirits can not stop eating the fat that is our materialistic culture. We are obsessed with the taste of the extra, the unnecessary and we continue to eat even after we are full. We bury ourselves underneath the excess and the longer we reside there, the deeper into the earth we fall. Who was the first person to emphasize more? Who was the first to champion quantity over quality? The first to discard, disregard, discount what they already had? Why can’t we listen to the movements of our stomachs pleading with us to stop the intake? Our environment is one of continuous feasts and parties, of celebrations without purpose. We toast only for the taste of champagne.
But my diet is beginning to change through travel. And my body is thankful for the lighter load I carry. I’m not weighted down by all the needless burdens. I no longer linger at the dinner table.
But my diet is beginning to change through travel. And my body is thankful for the lighter load I carry. I’m not weighted down by all the needless burdens. I no longer linger at the dinner table.
Sunday, August 31, 2008
Friday, August 29, 2008
From my bedroom window I can look out to the ocean. It's a comforting view, one that brings peaceful images to mind...images of sunrises and foreign soil, of familiar faces, of waves crashing alongside the ship beneath us...can it be true that a week has passed since I've been back in the states? My body is uneasy on the land...I miss the gentle rocking of the sea. My mind is in a state of confusion...I belong back there, with my companions; surely you know their names-excitement, enthusiasm, exhuastion...we've left each other's side for awhile but I know I will see them shortly...when I return abroad...in five days. Oh India...you don't seem real. I can't believe the life I'm living...it's everything I desired so deeply and for so long...and yet I'm sacrificing a lot for this...I know India will be an earthquake within my mind, my body, my spirit...I'm anticipating all the pollution, the poverty, the chaos. I'm anticipating getting extremely sick, cursing my naivety and feeling guilty for my privileged existence. Constantly. But I don't want to stay in the box that is America! I want to see and grow and cry and laugh...I'm as ready as I can be for the extremes that await me in India. For despite the frustration and discomfort that I will surely feel, these experiences will shape me in becoming the person I aspire to be. I aspire to be stronger and wiser and India will be the greatest teacher of all. My dream has always been to be her pupil.
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
Yesterday was a day of complete laziness. I'm a pretty pathetic picture right now, listening to Bon Iver's cd "For Emma, Forever Ago," on constant repeat, staring at the hundreds of pictures I took, believing if I look at them long enough the scenary will replace where I am now. I'm trying to digest everything and yet I'm attempting to prepare for India all the same...I miss the people who spent the summer with me tremendously...they are the only ones I can truly talk with about my travels...for they were there with me experiencing the same sensations, emotions, ....
My flight for India leaves on the night of September 3rd. I think it will be about 11 or twelve hours. I know in India, it will be September 5th when we arrive. I'll be heading for some orientations in NY on the 2nd...so I have now just about a week. I took my first malaria pill last night...I feel like the moment should have been photographed or something. Surely having contact with malaria meds is something special. Okay...I'm going to go do some Hindi, watch the Namesake, read Holy Cow...call the credit card companies, find a place in CT to find a salwar kameez....hmm, that might be hard.
My flight for India leaves on the night of September 3rd. I think it will be about 11 or twelve hours. I know in India, it will be September 5th when we arrive. I'll be heading for some orientations in NY on the 2nd...so I have now just about a week. I took my first malaria pill last night...I feel like the moment should have been photographed or something. Surely having contact with malaria meds is something special. Okay...I'm going to go do some Hindi, watch the Namesake, read Holy Cow...call the credit card companies, find a place in CT to find a salwar kameez....hmm, that might be hard.
Sunday, August 24, 2008
Back in the States
How quickly things have disappeared. The touch of the wind, the sound of the waves, th excitement, the anticipation. The connections, the laughter and the awe...it has all been replaced with this emptiness...in all the ten countries I visited this summer, I have never felt this out of place. I was one of the first to walk off the gangway (all a's-yes!) and there waiting for me with flowers stood my mother, and together we rode off towards the life I had previously known...seeing art exhibits (Hirschorn) and art films (man on wire)...seeing events (Lion King at the Kennedy Center)...reading the paper and stopping at starbucks....and yet, it all felt so odd...after living on a ship for near 70 days, the land seemed alien. Not any land, but American soil. It didn't help that the boyfriend figure decided to break it off indefinitely because of my now past and future travels abroad. After a summer of waiting to see him, eh-whatever, it's not worth it to discuss. I mention it only to support the fact that my short time back has not been marked by feelings of relief but rather anxiety. Now, more than ever, I am ready to go to India. I spent $70 yesterday at the bookstore ...big surprise there. I've decided to cut my visit here in DC short and so I've bought a flight back to CT where I'll stay until I head to India. INDIA! Ah...it will save me.
I'm going to try to upload some videos from this summer. So stay tuned!
I'm going to try to upload some videos from this summer. So stay tuned!
Saturday, August 16, 2008
In less than a week, I will be returning to the States. In less than two weeks after that, I will be traveling to India to spend a year living in Bangalore. People gasp when I say I have about 10 days until I leave again but the closer I’ve come to “home,” the more 10 days seems like too much. I can’t imagine going back to America to live the life that most of these students onboard will return to. Before this summer, my body ached to explore new sensations and my mind yearned for fresh stimulation. There was not a day that passed on this journey that those yearnings were not fulfilled. But they are more powerful than ever, taking control over my body, like a disease of urge…propelling me forth to experience what I have not felt or seen before. This summer was a collection of contrasts…of immaculate beauty in the landscape of Norway, the dilapidated apartments on the outskirts of St. Petersburg-remnants of a Communist past, the enveloping veil next to my own bare skin…and even in the city of Dubrovnik, a scenery of mixed realities…of enchanting streets that hide evidence of the Yugoslav wars.
Growing up within the bubble that is America, there is a certain detachment that has been bred within our identities…so that while I diligently read the international sections of the Times and Post each morning, I would often forget about the sufferings of others as I basked in the comfort and ease that steers our American lives. We become so preoccupied with our own trivial problems which in return, prevents us from appreciating everything we are blessed with. To be honest, this truth always floated around my conscious and there were times when I felt overpoweringly guilty…about what I have, about what other people lack…but now, I can’t return to the States…to the isolation…the seclusion. Not yet, at least.
Growing up within the bubble that is America, there is a certain detachment that has been bred within our identities…so that while I diligently read the international sections of the Times and Post each morning, I would often forget about the sufferings of others as I basked in the comfort and ease that steers our American lives. We become so preoccupied with our own trivial problems which in return, prevents us from appreciating everything we are blessed with. To be honest, this truth always floated around my conscious and there were times when I felt overpoweringly guilty…about what I have, about what other people lack…but now, I can’t return to the States…to the isolation…the seclusion. Not yet, at least.
Concepts of Clothing in Russia and Egypt
Here is a paper I wrote for my women's studies course:
After observing gender relations in ten different countries across Europe and North Africa, two images remain powerfully inscribed in my mind: first, the sensual, promiscuous and exposed Russian woman walking down the street and secondly, the eyes of the Egyptian Muslim female peering out from behind her hijab. Despite the two distinct pictures, the females are bonded by the patriarchal, male dominated societies in which they live and also through the expectations and priorities of their sex in general. That is, to be a mother and uphold the family ideal. And yet, regardless of the fact that these women share similar destinies, the role clothing plays in guaranteeing that destiny is quite different. Clothing is a very powerful tool for it “inscribes bodies with gender, class, status, ethnicity, race, religion, and age” (Cinar 55). Thus, the differences in clothing style between the Russian and Egyptian woman is reflective of the differences between the two cultures.
First, let us begin with painting a picture of the Russian female. She is young, beautiful, and dressed in the latest fashion. As her high heels click down the street of Nevsky Prospekt in St. Petersburg, she passes by woman after woman who look exactly like her. During my observances, the majority of women were slaves to their stilettos, all remarkably well dressed, and looked right out of Vogue’s latest issue. No matter where I went in Russia, I felt underdressed and frumpy. For here there was no lack of skin tight jeans, makeup, and individuals who looked more like mannequins than actual women. When I began to talk to these walking mannequins about their role in Russian society, it became a little clearer. They were not defined by simply being unique individuals, but as mothers. It was to be someone who raised a family and took care of children and her husband. Regardless of whether or not she was also a career woman, marriage came first. Young women, some 21 or younger, explained to me that many of their friends were already married. And truthfully, weddings seemed to be non stopping events during the five days I spent in Russia. If I asked about what made Russian woman distinct from other European women, they would say, “Russian women care more about the home. We love the hearth, our mothers, we love to take care of the house.” Despite the changing status of women across the world, the priority in Russia is still to be with a man and to have a home. One middle aged woman seemed to say it all when she declared, “we are nothing without men.” It is true that the younger generation may not see it exactly like this, but her statement still holds some truth. But in a country where divorce rates are reputedly very high, maintaining the family household doesn’t seem to be as important as just getting married.
Clothing is a useful tool used in forming those marriages. In St. Petersburg, Russia, exposed skin and the latest trends are directly correlated with the priority of women to have families. For the clothing is an attracting device, one meant to lure the attention of others, specifically, men. In this case, female bodies are used to overemphasize femininity and to keep the identities of male and female separately defined. Thus, clothing, or lack thereof, reinforces the ideal of Russian women in society. Together, the Russian women are bonded through their similar expectations and concepts of body. But on a larger scale, the nation is unified through their appearance. As one scholar notes, “ the building of a state and the creation of a nation involve different interventions and inscriptions upon the body ,whether through the regulation of clothing, the creation of an order of bodily aesthetics, or the assignment of carefully forged rules, such as mother or soldier, all serving on way or another the formation of a sense of nationhood ” (Cinar 53).
In Egypt, clothing was even more tied to nationhood. As I meandered through the streets of Alexandria and Cairo, I witnessed more than 90% of the women covered with the hijab. Like in Russia, the importance of motherhood is never forgotten. One anthropologist notes, “the ideal woman is a wife and a mother, she is a woman who raises a new generation of Muslims, wears the veil, guards her modesty, obeys her husband, and expresses her views only through her husband” (Bahira 9). If we twist the opening of this statement in a slight way to say, “the ideal women is a wife and mother, she is a woman who raises a new generation of Russians,” most women in St. Petersburg would see that as valid. And yet the latter part of the declaration is what divides theses two cultures, and it has to do mainly with clothing. The veil has a powerful and ubiquitous presence in Islamic society. It cannot be forgotten that for different people, even within that society, the veil is worn for different reasons. Some women say it is their personal choice, while others are forced to cover themselves by their fathers or husbands. One woman I encountered, who was an Egyptologist, professed to me, “I am Muslim and I will never cover my hair!” Still, her views represented an extremely small percentage of the population. Half of the women seemed to be wearing full burkas, covering everything but their eyes, while the rest only wore headscarves and modest clothing. Modesty is the key term. Unlike the Russian women who were proud to share their bodies, Egyptian women felt the opposite. Whereas the Russians used clothing as an attracting tool, Egyptians used clothing to repel attention. And yet both help signify to men that they are
“wifely” material. In Egypt, covering one’s self demonstrates to the public that that woman is modest, respectful, and pious. In Russia, like in most other Western countries, clothing is used to exhibit our beauty and even personality. We make clothing entirely unique and customized, but use it also as a way to showcase our bodies. But for the women I saw in Alexandria and Cairo, “their veiled wife represents, symbolically, a traditional, conservative, pious woman. Even though gender roles may be changing within the intimate boundaries of family life, men can broadcast that they have chosen this particular woman because of her morals and strong faith, as can be seen in her choice of clothing” (Bahira 12). So here, clothing is not only an indication of a woman’s morals but also her religious views, views which most of the time, reinforce the patriarchy.
And yet the same thing is happening in Russia, where views of clothing were the complete opposite. A society where there is so much emphasis on a woman’s body and appearance is naturally linked to the institution of patriarchy. Whether it be in Russia, where clothing and the body are used to attract notice, or in Egypt, where they are used to resist it. In addition, these are both cultures where the ideal woman is directly connected to the concept of motherhood. A woman must be first, a family member, and second, an individual of her own choosing. She must think of being a mother and supporting a husband first before pursuing a career, if that’s even possible. Of course, women are almost always drawn to bearing children and having a family. But, in Russia and Egypt, the society expects that women follow this model, whether they want to or not. The culture and politics of the state creates this priority for each female, regardless of the individual’s personal desires. Despite such a similar environment for women to live in, the attitudes towards body and clothing are at the polar ends of the spectrum.
Still, the reason for these disparities is quite obvious. They are, without a doubt, the result of political, religious, and cultural establishments set in place. There’s no question the recent phenomenon of veiling is a consequence of the Islamic revival in the Middle East. The politics, which are intrinsically bonded, only support the hijab. If there is an exception, it would be the highly secular state of Turkey. And yet, that the expectations and priorities for women are the same in countries completely separated by political and religious circumstance, demonstrates that the social status of women around the world is more similar than we think.
After observing gender relations in ten different countries across Europe and North Africa, two images remain powerfully inscribed in my mind: first, the sensual, promiscuous and exposed Russian woman walking down the street and secondly, the eyes of the Egyptian Muslim female peering out from behind her hijab. Despite the two distinct pictures, the females are bonded by the patriarchal, male dominated societies in which they live and also through the expectations and priorities of their sex in general. That is, to be a mother and uphold the family ideal. And yet, regardless of the fact that these women share similar destinies, the role clothing plays in guaranteeing that destiny is quite different. Clothing is a very powerful tool for it “inscribes bodies with gender, class, status, ethnicity, race, religion, and age” (Cinar 55). Thus, the differences in clothing style between the Russian and Egyptian woman is reflective of the differences between the two cultures.
First, let us begin with painting a picture of the Russian female. She is young, beautiful, and dressed in the latest fashion. As her high heels click down the street of Nevsky Prospekt in St. Petersburg, she passes by woman after woman who look exactly like her. During my observances, the majority of women were slaves to their stilettos, all remarkably well dressed, and looked right out of Vogue’s latest issue. No matter where I went in Russia, I felt underdressed and frumpy. For here there was no lack of skin tight jeans, makeup, and individuals who looked more like mannequins than actual women. When I began to talk to these walking mannequins about their role in Russian society, it became a little clearer. They were not defined by simply being unique individuals, but as mothers. It was to be someone who raised a family and took care of children and her husband. Regardless of whether or not she was also a career woman, marriage came first. Young women, some 21 or younger, explained to me that many of their friends were already married. And truthfully, weddings seemed to be non stopping events during the five days I spent in Russia. If I asked about what made Russian woman distinct from other European women, they would say, “Russian women care more about the home. We love the hearth, our mothers, we love to take care of the house.” Despite the changing status of women across the world, the priority in Russia is still to be with a man and to have a home. One middle aged woman seemed to say it all when she declared, “we are nothing without men.” It is true that the younger generation may not see it exactly like this, but her statement still holds some truth. But in a country where divorce rates are reputedly very high, maintaining the family household doesn’t seem to be as important as just getting married.
Clothing is a useful tool used in forming those marriages. In St. Petersburg, Russia, exposed skin and the latest trends are directly correlated with the priority of women to have families. For the clothing is an attracting device, one meant to lure the attention of others, specifically, men. In this case, female bodies are used to overemphasize femininity and to keep the identities of male and female separately defined. Thus, clothing, or lack thereof, reinforces the ideal of Russian women in society. Together, the Russian women are bonded through their similar expectations and concepts of body. But on a larger scale, the nation is unified through their appearance. As one scholar notes, “ the building of a state and the creation of a nation involve different interventions and inscriptions upon the body ,whether through the regulation of clothing, the creation of an order of bodily aesthetics, or the assignment of carefully forged rules, such as mother or soldier, all serving on way or another the formation of a sense of nationhood ” (Cinar 53).
In Egypt, clothing was even more tied to nationhood. As I meandered through the streets of Alexandria and Cairo, I witnessed more than 90% of the women covered with the hijab. Like in Russia, the importance of motherhood is never forgotten. One anthropologist notes, “the ideal woman is a wife and a mother, she is a woman who raises a new generation of Muslims, wears the veil, guards her modesty, obeys her husband, and expresses her views only through her husband” (Bahira 9). If we twist the opening of this statement in a slight way to say, “the ideal women is a wife and mother, she is a woman who raises a new generation of Russians,” most women in St. Petersburg would see that as valid. And yet the latter part of the declaration is what divides theses two cultures, and it has to do mainly with clothing. The veil has a powerful and ubiquitous presence in Islamic society. It cannot be forgotten that for different people, even within that society, the veil is worn for different reasons. Some women say it is their personal choice, while others are forced to cover themselves by their fathers or husbands. One woman I encountered, who was an Egyptologist, professed to me, “I am Muslim and I will never cover my hair!” Still, her views represented an extremely small percentage of the population. Half of the women seemed to be wearing full burkas, covering everything but their eyes, while the rest only wore headscarves and modest clothing. Modesty is the key term. Unlike the Russian women who were proud to share their bodies, Egyptian women felt the opposite. Whereas the Russians used clothing as an attracting tool, Egyptians used clothing to repel attention. And yet both help signify to men that they are
“wifely” material. In Egypt, covering one’s self demonstrates to the public that that woman is modest, respectful, and pious. In Russia, like in most other Western countries, clothing is used to exhibit our beauty and even personality. We make clothing entirely unique and customized, but use it also as a way to showcase our bodies. But for the women I saw in Alexandria and Cairo, “their veiled wife represents, symbolically, a traditional, conservative, pious woman. Even though gender roles may be changing within the intimate boundaries of family life, men can broadcast that they have chosen this particular woman because of her morals and strong faith, as can be seen in her choice of clothing” (Bahira 12). So here, clothing is not only an indication of a woman’s morals but also her religious views, views which most of the time, reinforce the patriarchy.
And yet the same thing is happening in Russia, where views of clothing were the complete opposite. A society where there is so much emphasis on a woman’s body and appearance is naturally linked to the institution of patriarchy. Whether it be in Russia, where clothing and the body are used to attract notice, or in Egypt, where they are used to resist it. In addition, these are both cultures where the ideal woman is directly connected to the concept of motherhood. A woman must be first, a family member, and second, an individual of her own choosing. She must think of being a mother and supporting a husband first before pursuing a career, if that’s even possible. Of course, women are almost always drawn to bearing children and having a family. But, in Russia and Egypt, the society expects that women follow this model, whether they want to or not. The culture and politics of the state creates this priority for each female, regardless of the individual’s personal desires. Despite such a similar environment for women to live in, the attitudes towards body and clothing are at the polar ends of the spectrum.
Still, the reason for these disparities is quite obvious. They are, without a doubt, the result of political, religious, and cultural establishments set in place. There’s no question the recent phenomenon of veiling is a consequence of the Islamic revival in the Middle East. The politics, which are intrinsically bonded, only support the hijab. If there is an exception, it would be the highly secular state of Turkey. And yet, that the expectations and priorities for women are the same in countries completely separated by political and religious circumstance, demonstrates that the social status of women around the world is more similar than we think.
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