My night as Jasmine, Cinderella... but really, my night in a sari

Auntie is one of the smallest women I know. At about 4’10” and weighing maybe 85 pounds, she makes anyone standing next to her look like a giant. This itty-bitty woman, with upper-arms the size of those blue Pillsbury crescent-roll cans, however, dons 6 meters of fabric everyday in the form of her sari. Two days ago, I had my first (and probably only) experience wearing a sari, which further highlighted that in my opinion, Auntie is a superhero in disguise. How else could she wear a piece of clothing that is more than three times her length, with such poise every single day. Not once has Auntie looked like her sari is swallowing her. Instead, Auntie wears some of the nicest saris I have seen with such nonchalance, that if I didn’t know better, I would think that the sari was invented just so Auntie could wear it. I’ve asked Auntie countless questions, trying to trip her up and get her to admit that wearing a sari is a hassle. I have yet to succeed. “Don’t you get hot in a sari in the summer?” I’d ask, but no, every time Auntie would have a rebuttal: “well in the summer, I wear cotton rather than silk saris, which breathe better.” “What about during monsoon season?” I tried, assuming that meters of fabric and pouring rain are a recipe for disaster. Auntie, once again, shot me down: “I carry an umbrella.” I racked my brain, hoping to think of an exceptional circumstance that would force Auntie to admit, that on occasion, saris can be inconvenient, but so far I have failed. I personally found wearing a sari such an ordeal that I was hoping to hear that it wasn’t just my American delicacy that made me feel awkward in my sari, but I found no such reassurance. Maybe my one bit of consolation is that Auntie would be just as uncomfortable in a pair of jeans, but wait, I forgot she’s a superhero, so she'd probably rock jeans too.

Two nights ago, my study abroad program held its farewell dinner because believe it or not, I’m only in India for another 3 weeks as of today. While the dinner itself was a bit of a let down—we spent more time sitting in a conference room listening to a lecture about the hard time we were going to have readjusting back to life in the United States, reverse culture shock if you will—it was an excuse for a bunch of American girls to play dress up and look absolutely ridiculous in saris. While most of the girls on my trip have bought saris of their own, I decided that no matter how beautiful my potential sari might be, I would probably never wear it again, and I’m even not sure if I could fit 6 meters of fabric into my suitcase to take home anyway. Instead, I was planning to attend the dinner sari-less, maybe even wearing a Western-style dress, but no, a sari was in the cards for me. When Auntie found out that I wasn’t planning to wear a sari, she insisted that I borrow one from her. (By the way, I would guess that Auntie owns dozens if not 100 different saris.) My roommate luckily had an extra blouse because there was no way that I was going to fit into one of Auntie’s; I’m actually not sure if at any point in my life, I would have fit into one of Auntie’s blouses. For those of you less versed in what actually goes into a sari, it basically consists of a blouse—a skin-tight, short sleeve top that covers your chest and very little else—a petticoat—a floor-length plain skirt to tuck your sari into—and the sari itself—the 6 meters of gorgeous fabric that is expertly wrapped and tucked around yourself so that you don’t need any pins to keep it on your body.

While I was just wearing the blouse and petticoat I felt like Jasmine. (While I realize this reference is inappropriate because Aladdin was set somewhere in Arabia, the Sultan’s palace looks suspiciously like the Taj Mahal, which I think justifies my connection to Jasmine.) I then had to get Auntie’s expert hands to help wrap the sari, which included tucking, pleating, draping and a whole host of actions I couldn’t even begin to imitate. When Auntie was done, there I was standing in a dazzling teal and silver sari, looking especially white (even though I’ve been in India for 3 months, I haven’t picked up much of a tan). I promptly proved my sari ineptitude by tripping over myself on my way out of Auntie’s room. Crossing the street an hour later, which is already a bit of an adventure given India’s lack of traffic laws, was even more of an ordeal than usual. My stride, while is already not very long, was cut in half by my sari, forcing me to stand on the median in the middle of the road, looking like an idiot, for much longer than I would have liked.

I felt like a little girl playing dress up for the evening. Just like when I used to put on my mom’s pumps and her jewelry, wearing a sari made me feel both beautiful and awkward, because I knew that’s what grown-ups wore, but it didn’t quite seem fit me. (Saris, other than the blouse, which are tailored specifically for you, are actually one size fits all.) I felt funny walking in the sari because my legs had to move through the layers and layers of fabric. I was constantly rearranging the part of the sari (which has a specific name that I currently can’t remember) that crosses diagonally across your chest and over your shoulder. It felt odd to me to have a breeze across my midriff, especially since I’ve been dressing more conservatively here than I would back at home. I wasn’t sure if it was appropriate for people to be able to see my waist or not and so I continually moved the material around to cover more or less of myself up. Auntie told me that I made the sari beautiful because I was wearing it, but I’m pretty sure it was the other way around. At the end of the night, it felt quite liberating to step out of the meters and meters (note: not yards and yards because this is India after all) of fabric and put on a simple t-shirt. I was Cinderella after the carriage turned back into a pumpkin, expect I was fine for my figurative night at the ball to remain a bit of magic. Maybe Auntie is not only a superhero, but a fairy godmother as well.

My too short trip to Kerala

My friends and I were greeted by a small figurine of the Virgin Mary that was lit with neon flashing lights at our homestay in Ft. Cochin this past weekend. In India, it seems, any light is auspicious, and so everything from Hindu temples to the many churches in Kerala are decorated by florescent lights that I would normally associate with Las Vegas. Disco Mary was just one of the many fun quirks that made Kerala so charming. To start with, our flight to Cochin was the first flight that I have been on where the pilot announces the current cricket score along with our estimated arrival. (In case you didn't know, India is playing Pakistan in the semi-finals of the World Cup today and campus has basically shut down to watch the match.)  The Cochin airport emanated a tropical vibe, as its red-stucco roof made it look more like a Caribbean villa than an international airport. One of my favorite parts of the trip was all of the fresh fruit I ate throughout.  On Friday morning my breakfast included fresh papaya, pineapple, orange, and a banana. On Sunday, I tasted my first ripe mango in India.  It was dripping with juice and tasted like it had just been plucked from a tree. Plus I got it all over my face, which made the experience that much more enjoyable. 

Other highlights of my magical trip included a journey to a nearby beach where I went swimming in the Arabian Sea! Even though I wore my most conservative life-guarding bathing suit, I was still exposing more skin than I had in months, which felt both liberating and slightly uncomfortable as our exposed legs and shoulders attracted a lot of attention from the Indian men at the beach.  Even though we were at the beach for over 5 hours, I didn’t see a single Indian woman go into the water, though there were plenty walking up and down the beach fully decked out in their saris, which seemed a bit out of place in my opinion.  Unfortunately, I did have to witness quite a lot of Indian men swimming, which meant seeing a lot of Indian men in their underwear, as they seemingly forgot to bring their bathing suits to the beach.  It was an unfortunate sight to behold. On our bus ride back, while listening to the dulcet tones of Michael Jackson on the bus stereo, I came to the conclusion that Indian bus drivers are crazy.  The little Keralan roads didn’t exactly seem to be constructed with the width of the bus in mind, which didn’t phase the driver as we sped down the dark streets, with the bus horn blaring to prevent someone from getting run over.

My other favorite Keralan experience (I realize that the whole point of having a favorite is that there is only one, but I had such a good time in Kerala, it's too hard to narrow things down) was the day I spent in a boat on the backwaters. Sitting under the overhang on our lovely wooden boat, watching the palm trees and water lilies go by, I decided that I could stay on that boat for the next 3 weeks rather than the next 3 hours. It's really the way to travel in India.  Rather than inhaling exhaust fumes, getting a headache from all of the car horns, or sitting on a train that's about 3 hours behind schedule, I got to read my book, take a short doze, and just soak in the nice sea breeze as 2 strong, but incredibly skinny Indian men poled the boat down the channels. The only time I got off the boat during our tour was to eat a traditional vegetarian lunch on a banana leaf, which wasn't exactly a hardship.

Sadly my time in Kerala had to come to an end, but not before breakfast at the Teapot. There are teapots hanging from the ceilings, paintings of teapots on the walls, and cabinets full of teapots all throughout the restaurant.  The menu also boasted of about 20 different kinds of tea, which just happens to be my favorite hot drink. After breakfast we headed over to Jew Town—yes, there’s actually a section of the city called Jew Town. I didn’t see anyone Jewish looking while I was there, but I did go into one of the oldest synagogues in India, built in the early 1500’s.  The synagogue had a beautiful blue and white mosaic floor, different shaped lanterns hanging from the ceiling, and had the cantor’s podium in the very center of the building.  However, the highlight of our visit to the synagogue had to be the pants-less tourist we saw there.  Apparently, Sunday is the day when all of the big tour buses bring their groups to Jew Town, so the place was inundated with elderly Westerners and girl’s school groups.  One older woman was wearing a knee-length white kurta, but here’s the catch, with no pants underneath!  I’m not sure if she thought she was wearing a dress, but the slits up to her waist on both sides probably should have clued her in.  Two of my friends first spotted her inside the synagogue, so we decided to all wait around to see her before leaving. It was worth it!

So ended my lovely weekend journey to Kerala. To conclude our experiences with random American music on the trip (in addition to the MJ on the bus from the beach, Britney Spears and the Backstreet Boys serenaded us over one of our dinners), Shakira came on the bus’s sound-system on our way back to the airport.  While I don't miss Kerala's humidity, this state with the highest literacy rate in India, a self-elected communist government, and historical matriarchal society gets my vote for one of my favorite areas in India!

“Your nose is too clean,”

explained the guy who promptly smeared Holi colors down my face. This weekend is Holi, the Indian festival of colors, which corresponds with the full moon. Though Holi is primarily a North Indian holiday, I managed to “play Holi” both today and yesterday in Hyderabad. Playing Holi basically means covering each other with colored powder or with a water-powder mixture. Though I’ve heard that the more intense Holi celebrations can get a bit dangerous because sometimes people mix acid in with the Holi powder, my Holi experiences have been fun, surprisingly polite, and of course, very colorful. I think we should celebrate Holi back in the U.S. It’s basically an excuse to act like little kids again. You get together with your group of friends and yell “happy Holi” as you give them hot pink streaks in their hair, turn their cheeks green, or make sure that their clothing is completely ruined. Any suppressed vendettas, secret crushes, or more likely, strong friendships, can be expressed all in the name of Holi. Holi also brings together random strangers. On my way to campus this morning, three young men armed with water bottles full of pink dye ambushed my friends and me. Normally I might be a little uneasy if a group of men approached me with rakish grins spread across their faces, but today I knew that it was all in the name of fun and color. At school my friends and I played Holi with a couple groups of Indian students. We didn’t know one another, and to be honest, I probably wouldn’t recognize them if I saw them tomorrow, we were so covered in color.
Nonetheless, guys and girls who normally wouldn’t be seen holding hands with one another in public, showed no mercy as they attacked each other with color. I don’t know if my favorite part of Holi is the trill of playing, the link between strangers that the festival generates, or just the sheer rainbow of colors you can see throughout the city. Coming home yesterday I saw a green and yellow richshaw driver zoom by, soon followed by a man sporting purple hair and a pink complexion on a motorcycle. Right now the pavement outside my house bears a resemblance to a Jackson Pollock painting, though with neon splatters rather than somber browns and blacks. Presumably my hands will regain their normal color…

Banana Phone

Don't get too excited, Raffi hasn't come to Hyderabad. I'm currently listening to the kids at the preschool next-door sing the Indian version of "Frere Jacques," so I'm momentarily reliving my childhood. Anyway, "Banana Phone" isn't just some random reference, it's just the best song I know about bananas. For the past two weekends, I've gone on trips in the state of Karnataka, which I've dubbed "the land of bananas." Seriously though, I have never tasted such delicious bananas before, or seen so many different kinds. I'm not claiming to have become a banana connoisseur or anything, but I am now convinced that you haven't tasted a banana until you've tasted a banana in Karnataka.  My new favorite bananas only share a basic resemblance with the bananas that you buy in American grocery stores. These Karnatakan bananas are about 3-inches long and at their widest point, have about a 1-inch diameter. (While I've become accustomed to the whole driving on the wrong side of the road, I have yet to develop an affinity for the metric system.) The banana peel is so thin that on the really ripe bananas it takes a little effort to separate it from part that you want to eat. Did I mention that these bananas were probably just cut off of a banana tree at the edge of town that morning? These bananas are the banana-y tasting bananas that you'll ever eat. As my family can attest, I'm pretty picky when it comes to fruit. I don't do bruises or squishy bits or anything of that sort (though India has taught me not to judge a banana by its peel). These delicate little bananas, however, are ripe and delicious and are a beautiful firm texture that passes even my hyper-sensitive quality check. To top it all off, you can buy a bunch of about 10 of these wondrous mini bananas for Rs.10, the equivalent of about 20 cents. I wish I could bring you all some of these amazing bananas so you could try them for yourselves, but somehow I don't think U.S. customs would take to kindly to that idea.

Ok, I promise that's the one and only banana rant that I'm going to put you through. Karnataka, is in fact, much more than just bananas. On my first trip in Karnataka I journeyed to Hampi, which is the ruined city of Vijayanagar, and could easily be described as the land of the dreadlocked-hippies. Really, they were everywhere. Sometimes I wonder what Indians must think of these dreadlocked tourists, since in Hinduism only extreme ascetics, the sadhus, dreadlock their hair. Anyway, Hampi was this very cool combination of impressive temples, relaxing roof-top cafes, funny-looking rock formations (which, legend has it, the monkey-god Hanuman and his monkey army created by dropping boulders to show off their strength), and elephants. Or actually one elephant in particular--Lakshmi. (Ok, one more digression. This was about the third or fourth elephant in India that I've met whose name is Lakshmi. You'd think they could be a little more creative or something.)  Lakshmi is the 21-year-old temple elephant at the main temple in Hampi, the Virupaksha Temple. She's quite remarkable. If you catch her at the right time, and give her the correct amount of money (Rs. 2 for Indians and Rs.10 for foreigners), she will bless you with her trunk. To be more accurate: she takes the monetary donation in her trunk, gives it to her owner, and then bops you on the head with her trunk. I've discovered that elephants are sort of prickly--they have these very stiff hairs on their trunks sort of like whiskers. To make a full circle, Lakshmi is a big fan of those little bananas too!

Lakshmi taking a bath in the river.

If Hampi is the Jungle Book-esc version of Karnataka, than Mysore is the regal, Aladdin-like version.  Except it sort of, actually is: Mysore's last maharaja is still in residence in his palace in the center of the city. I didn't actually spend too much time in Mysore itself, but my favorite part of the city was the Devaraja Market, which is full of fruit, flowers, and the brightly colored powder called kumkum. It smelled amazing, which is saying quite a lot because in India because your nose tends to be assaulted by less pleasant aromas. My favorite part of my Mysore trip was our day trip to the nearby town of Bylakuppe, where a community of Tibetans in exile live. As soon as we entered the town there were fluttering Buddhist prayer flags attached to almost every building. The town also boasts of a large Buddhist monastery and temple.  At the monastery I got to witness the monk's prayer session, which was incredible. About 100 monks sat in the temple in very straight lines while a head monk chanted in this beautifully deep voice. To accompany the chant, monks in the first rows beat hand-drums in unison along with two huge drums.  The effect was overpowering. I felt like I had internalized the drum-beat and could feel it beating inside of me. I've never felt anything like it.        

The Halfway Point

It’s March, which back home means that it’s the start of college basketball tournaments while here in India, it’s the cricket world cup; in Connecticut, the last of the winter snow will start to melt, while in Andhra Pradesh, the summer heat is beginning to descend. March also means that my time in India is halfway over—a fact that I’m having a hard time comprehending.

The Delhi skyline=Indian endlessness

Over the past two months, I’ve gone on four amazing, and incredibly unique, trips to different parts of India. I have continued to grow closer to my host-family and the girls that I live with. I’ve become more accepting of India-time and how it takes about twice as long to do anything in India than it would back in the U.S. I feel like a have a comfortable handle of Hyderabad’s public transport, though I don’t think I could ever claim to understand how it works completely. I no longer feel the need to take pictures of every cow that I see. At the same time, I still don’t understand how I’m supposed to find out what material I’m supposed to know for my exam when my professor doesn’t actually tell us in class. I haven’t mastered the Indian way of standing in line/pushing your way through a mob of people, so you aren’t completely ignored. My slight tan isn’t enough to fool people into thinking that I actually belong here, and so I’m finding it hard to overcome the whole foreigner-card. As much as I’m learning about India every day, there’s still so much I don’t really understand. I guess it’s a good thing I still have 2 months left to figure everything out!

Telangana Update

It seems as though 2011 is the year for political upheaval.  Though I'm woefully out of the loop in international news, there has been plenty going on right here in Andhra Pradesh to keep me occupied.  Andhra is the fourth largest state in India, stretching all the way from the Bay of Bengal into the Deccan Plateau. The Telangana movement that has currently captured Indian headlines is a push to separate the western region of the state, Telangana, from the rest of Andhra, and to create two distinct states, which would recognize the political, cultural, and linguistic differences between the two areas.  In Hyderabad, the supporters of the Telangana movement declared that today and yesterday would be days of bandh, or shutdown—closing down the city’s public transportation, stores, and campuses.

My program director sent us all an enigmatic email two days ago saying that due to the political situation, we shouldn’t leave campus during the bandh.  Of course, I don’t live on campus, so I was slightly confused on whether or not I was supposed to go to school at all. My professor, however, hadn't canceled class yesterday, so I headed to Hindi as usual.  I encountered the first signs of the bandh on my way down to the building where my class is held: to get down to the building I had to carry my bike over the barricade that some students created out of tree branches and cement pillars.  The creators of the barricade did nothing to stop me, and so I went on to have a regular Hindi class. After getting back over the blockade on the way out, I quite literally rode my bike through a protest of about 20 students chanting “Jai Telangana” and carrying black flags on my way to history class. Once again the protestors were loud, organized, but didn’t make attempts to stop me from going around them.  Before reaching my class, I found out that all classes had been canceled for the rest of the day. All of my encounters with the protest on campus had been peaceful, though a bit disconcerting, and I had no trouble getting home. The guy that had been selling catfish on the side of the road for the past week was at the bus stop as usual.

Later that afternoon, I went out with my host brother, Alok, to run some errands in the nearby town, Lingampali.  After picking up Uncle’s ayurvedic medicine, Alok and I hung out at a local coconut stand, drinking coconut water. Though there were some roadside stands still open for business, almost all of the stores were closed, with their metal gates down in the front. One biryani restaurant behind the coconut stand, however, was still operating. While we were sipping on our coconut water, a group of men entered the restaurant, and we could hear the sounds of broken glass as they vandalized the inside. We decided to leave pretty quickly. The whole experience was very surreal.  There I was, standing on the side of the road with my coconut (by the way, I don't usually hang out eating coconuts, this was a first), and then the coconut man was covering up his coconuts with a burlap tarp, and I was witnessing something that I've only ever seen in a movie. The bizarreness continued that evening when my roommates and I decided eat dinner at the Domino's down the street. (I never thought I would enjoy eating Domino's pizza, but it tastes exactly like it does in the U.S., which was exactly what I was craving.)  Some stores had opened back up at this point. Domino's reconciled the bandh by keeping their metal security gate about halfway closed, but functioning like normal inside. After ducking under the gate, we sat down and ate pizza like it was the normal thing to do. This morning I went back to school, on the off chance that my classes were being held today, which they weren't because all of the classrooms were still locked.

I’ve never witnessed such a extreme form of political protest before. While I've seen protest marches back home, they aren't as disabling as the bandh (not that I'm discrediting legitimate forms of protest). Because I live on the outskirts of the city I didn't see the more violent bandh activities (at the downtown university, students were setting cars on fire), but I was still amazed that all of the Indians seemed to take it all in stride. Maybe most of the store-owners around here support the Telangana movement, but I can't imagine a political group in the U.S. mobilizing enough support to shut down a city. (I'm not exactly sure what that says about American politics.)  Things are apparently back to normal tomorrow, but my passive-participation in this 48-hour bandh has really highlighted for me that India is a developing nation, not only economically, but also politically. 

The Taj Mahal

This past week I took a long weekend, and with four of my friends, journeyed to the North for the first time. We did a condensed "golden triangle," visiting Delhi, Agra, and Jaipur, with the Taj Mahal as the centerpiece of our trip. Though it's completely stereotypical, the Taj was my favorite part. We woke up at 5:45am so we could buy our tickets when the Taj opened.  All of the Indian monuments have a separate ticket price for foreigners, which tends to be drastically more expensive than the Indian price.  The Taj was no exception. I paid Rs.750 while Indians pay Rs.20. My ticket, however, included a bottle of water and these red booties to put over your shoes for when you actually go into the Taj. They made me look like I was wearing elf shoes. Somehow, I decided that I didn't need to save them as a souvenir. Originally I wasn’t considering visiting the Taj. Hyderabad is in South India, where there is plenty to see, and so I figured I would see this half of the sub-continent while I was here. I’m so glad I changed my mind. I first started reconsidering my travel plans when Indians—my host-brother and his friends—told us that me that I couldn’t come to India and not visit the Taj Mahal (though ironically my host parents have never seen it). Now I understand why.

At 7 in the morning, the Taj is shrouded in mist—the off-white marble melting into the grayish fog surrounding it. After going through security you pass through a large gate and suddenly the Taj is in front of you. The monument is much larger in person than you would think from looking at pictures. Its sheer physical massiveness just descended upon me. It rendered me speechless or more like thoughtless—the only coherent thought that crossed my mind was, “I can't believe that I’m at the Taj Mahal,” which wasn’t exactly the most sophisticated reaction.We gradually made our way across the grounds—first to the reflecting pool and then up to the mausoleum itself, taking an absurd number of photos as we went.

As I've been thinking about it afterward, the Taj, embodies the continual streams of dichotomies that is India. On the one hand, it is the symbol of India—a majestic architectural marvel from one of the high points in Indian history—that is recognized across the globe as one of the 7 Wonders of the World. The Taj is one of the first images that appear in someone’s mind when they think of India. While I was actually experiencing the Taj, however, I felt like I had stepped out of India into this carefully manicured version of what India wishes it actually were. Entering the Taj grounds was like entering an enclosed bubble, while the smells, sounds, and people of India remained outside. At the Taj I could breath in and not inhale the combination of urine, exhaust and the occasional whiff of incense that I have come to know and, not exactly, love. I was suddenly transplanted form the world where men (because women rarely seem to drive) use the horns on their trucks, cars, rickshaws, and motorcycles to communicate: “hey, I’m over here,” “hey, I’m going to pass you,” “hey, get out of my way,” or most often, it seems like their general frustration with the world; a world where I am continually being invited to look at the unique merchandise being sold by one shopkeeper that happens to share a remarkable similarity with what’s being sold next door; a world where people actually move their cell phones from their ears to directly in front of their mouths—all the better to yell in. At the Taj, I didn’t do a double take each time I saw a white person, assuming that I knew them, but instead, there seemed to be more foreigners than Indians. I’m not suggesting this break from reality was a bad thing. I enjoyed myself immensely—it was like I was in that magical, mystical India that the Orientalists used to write about, but I had yet to actually experience.

One of my friends made a great observation: she said that we were able to appreciate the wonder of the Taj more than the typical Western tourist because this wasn’t our first Indian experience. Many tourists step off of a plane in Delhi and head directly to the Taj because it is the thing to see when you come to India. I’m sure it fulfills everything they imagined (I don’t think the Taj could ever disappoint) because the Taj is exactly what India is supposed to be. I, however, have a very different view of India after being here for almost two months. I’ve moved beyond my initial disbelief, when I couldn’t really comprehend that I was in India. I think the Taj Mahal exceeded my expectations because now I am living in and not merely visiting India. My understanding of India has evolved as I experience India through my day-to-day interactions with my surroundings.  Because I am gaining an intimate knowledge of the smells, sounds, and people of India, I can appreciate what a departure the Taj Mahl is from the very real, not always appealing, India.

Ok, end of my philosophical digression. If you couldn’t tell, I loved the Taj Mahal. From a distance, its massive size is imposing. Up close, however, you are able to see all of the intricate details on the marble itself—how the stones in the archways entering the mausoleum are carefully cut in a countless number of angles, creating a sense of texture on the marble, while different colored stones are inlaid in the inner walls forming delicate flowers and geometric patterns. Sometimes monuments are meant to be seen from a distance, and up close they lack the details that continue to inspire true wonder. The Taj, however, is stunning from any distance, far or near, demonstrating its genius. It’s amazing.

Yoga with Papa Om

To set the record straight, this isn’t my nickname for the yoga guru at school, it’s my friend’s. Papa Om is a short old man, with a white beard, hearing aid, and a very pronounced belly. I can’t actually imagine him doing yoga, though he must have been good when he was younger. To begin with, I’m not a yoga person. I’ve tried in a handful of times, at various places back in the U.S. and it’s just never struck a chord with me. It’s the whole breathing thing that tends to get me—I’m a fidgeter by nature, so sitting absolutely still just concentrating on my breath isn’t very appealing. Oh, and there’s the fact that I’m not the most flexible person in the world. But, I’m in India after all—the birthplace of the yogic philosophy and practice—so I figured that it’s the place to give it another shot.

The yoga center on campus is in the “old sports shed”: a sizable concrete building with metal sheeting for the roof. Today I went with one of my friends who is in a class to get her teaching certificate, so I figured I could steal a glance at her to figure out what I was actually supposed to be doing. We started off with a breathing exercise, which seemed pretty comical to me, but then again, I’m not a yoga person. With our thumbs we closed our right nostril and inhaled through our left nostril. Then we closed our left nostril with our ring finger and exhaled through our right. This happened for a while. I don’t think I’ve ever paid so much attention to my nostrils outside of blowing my nose. Anyway, I was pleasantly surprised by the number of poses I could do reasonably well. I would tell you what they were expect the teacher only used the Sanskrit names for them. I did recognize the tree pose, however, and only fell over once!

To conclude our class, Papa Om had us lie in the resting position that my high school gym teacher called the “sponge,” not to get all technical on you. Papa Om, by the way, has this deep vibrating voice that would be perfect for those meditation tapes that are supposed to help you quit smoking. Starting with our toes he had us relax every body part. When we got to our calves, he told us to let them “sag.” After our knees, we were supposed to let our thighs “sag.” Papa Om, great leader that he is, should work on his word choice because instead of relaxing like I was supposed to I was internally cracking up. As we proceeded to sag the rest of our body I decided that this exercise was a cross-between that scene in Zoolander where Ben Stiller gets hypnotized by the song “Relax” and the game we used to play at slumber parties: “light as a feather, stiff as a board.” Papa Om told us to “relax” about every other word—hence the Zoolander connection—though in a much less frenzied manner. After completely relaxing our body, we were told to imagine ourselves light without connection to the ground, which except for the whole being limp rather than tensed up because a bunch of 10-year-old girls were about to lift you from the floor, brought back the sleepover memories. In sum, I failed to do anything at all that Papa Om told me to do because I was mentally composing this blog post. I am planning on going back tomorrow. Papa Om must know what he’s doing after all…

My every-day India

So you don't all start to think that my life has absolutely no structure, that I'm just jumping on trains left and right, I wanted to make sure you knew that I do have the semblance of a regular routine.

On January 10th I finally moved into my permanent housing for the semester.  Along with 4 other international students, I'm living in the home of the Mohan and Sudha Ramanan. Mohan, or "Uncle" as we call him, is the dean of humanities at the University and an English professor, while Sudha, "Auntie," is the vice-principal at a nearby international school. Uncle's mother also lives here, as well as Alok, a doctoral student, and Durga, the Ramanan's housekeeper and cook.  Durga is the sweetest person, though unfortunately the language barriers make it difficult for me to communicate with her at lengths. (She speaks Telugu, which is a prevalent language throughout South Indian.) Last year the Ramanans had an international student who stayed with them for the year also named Becca, so for the first week or so whenever Durga needed to tell all of us something she would call me. I'd like to think that I'm her favorite, but really it's just that she knows my name best.

Durga at our front door. (You'll notice that the 2 birds in the muggu aren't exactly symmetrical-- that's because I drew them. Durga is an expert muggu-ist.)

Every morning Durga cooks us breakfast at 7:30am which always consists of toast, oatmeal with warm milk and honey in it, and chai. We live about 5 minutes from the main gate of campus, so after breakfast a catch a shared auto (not a rickshaw, but this bigger white van that travels along a set route). It costs Rs.5 to get to school. At the gate, I jump on my bike and ride to the other end of campus for my 9am Hindi class. (Today we had our first major test on the numbers 1-20, plural nouns and adjectives, and describing our family and friends. Don't worry, I said that you all are lovely people.) I try to leave Hindi about 5 minutes so that I can make a mad dash back down to main campus for my Modern Indian History class. My history professor is great-- she can lecture with absolutely no notes whatsoever and is willing to answer almost any question, even if it's not history-related. She also wears beautiful saris. I have these two classes Monday through Thursday for one hour each day, while my other two classes (Women's History in 18th to 20th century India and Indian Human Rights) meet for two hours twice a week. It ends of being more class time than I'm used to back at Dickinson; also, 2 hour-long lectures are sort of rough. I eat lunch on campus most days. At the student canteen you can get "one meal" for Rs.18, which consists of a big plate of rice, 3 different kinds of curry, and curd. I've discovered that meals are easier to order than the individual dishes because than you can just thrust your little meal chip at one of the cooks and get an immediate turnaround. I haven't quite picked up the steady pushing that all of the Indian students use to get the chip-less dishes yet, so I've been sticking with the meals. I've become quite adept at eating with my hands, if I do say so myself. Well, actually, it's more like eating with your right hand because you're not supposed to touch food with your left hand because it's your "poop" hand. I'm just glad I'm not left handed.

The afore-mentioned main gate of campus.

At the end of the day, I bike back to the gate, get on a shared auto going in the opposite direction, and go home for dinner.  Dinner is always some combination of rice, vegetables, a chutney, and dahl or sambar (a lentil-based sauce that goes on the rice). The Ramanans are vegetarians, like many Hindus, so I have a pretty different diet here. The food, however, is delicious and incredibly spiced. I love living in a home-stay because I feel so much more connected to Indian culture.  Every morning when I come down to breakfast I get to hear Uncle singing in their home shrine. Even the simple commute each way to school makes me feel much more immersed in India.    

Medicine in Khammam

Over my one week at home for winter break I ran into Sam Carter, who I went to middle school with. We discovered that we both would be in Andhra Pradesh in January and decided that the coincidence was too good of an opportunity to ignore. Next thing I knew, I was heading to Khammam—about a four-hour train ride from Hyderabad—last Tuesday. I stepped off the train at Khammam and an hour later I was standing in scrubs, a hair net, and facemask in an O.R. watching the end of a thyroid surgery. I came to Khammam to see the mission hospital that Sam had been volunteering at, but I didn’t expect to see quite so much. Over the course of the day I observed the thyroid surgery, an abdominal hysterectomy, a vaginal hysterectomy, a hemorrhoid removal, a polyp removal, and a scope being put into a woman’s bladder. I actually scrubbed in for the abdominal hysterectomy, but I quickly discovered that standing over a women who was having her abdomen cut open was very different than dissecting a frog in bio class; I spent the rest of that surgery sitting on a stool where I couldn’t actually see the scalpel cutting through her flesh. I wasn’t planning on becoming a doctor, but now I definitely can cross it off my list of possible professions.

St. Mary’s Mission Hospital was originally built in the 1880s by the British, and so isn’t exactly what you would see back in the U.S. Reverend John Mark and Dr. George have been running a clinic there for 13 years now, and they do all they can to treat as many patients as possible during the short period that a group of American surgeons come over from the U.S. I have absolutely no medical background, but from what I could tell, the doctors were making the most of the bare minimum of supplies that were available to them. The patients range from children that had been burned to young men and women who looked like they could be grandparents to elderly tribal people with no gray hairs on their heads. None of these people would be able to afford their surgeries without this hospital. My experience was eye opening. I was both disturbed by the reasons that these people needed medical attention and in awe of the incredible impact the doctors were having on the patients’ quality of life. Though I only dropped in for one day everyone—the pastor, the doctors and nurses, Sam, and the two girls I met at the polio clinic, Hemma and Devi—was welcoming, kind and compassionate. For me, it was one of those "only in India" experiences: where else would I be able to show up out of the blue and witness such intense medical procedures with no preliminaries other than the word of a kid the was in my 7th grade English class? I missed two days of class, but for one of the most unique days I’ve ever experienced. 

Indian trains are infamous for a reason

I would think that since I’m an old hand at dealing with Grand Central Station, I could handle almost any train station, but the Indian version is of a whole different breed. Uncle and Auntie recommended that I leave home by 6:15am for my 7:40am train to Khammam. (They also suggested that I take a cab so I wouldn’t have to worry about missing the train. The cab ended up costing more than my round-trip train ticket.) I ended up at the station almost an hour early, and I carefully checked the signboard that listed my train as departing from platform 00—a bit odd because I thought the platforms were numbered 1-10, but I had plenty of time so I didn’t worry. I wandered for a while and then camped out under a TV monitor that I thought listed the train platforms. Occasionally it announced an incoming train, but mostly it showed commercials from the Indian train association, including one of a motorcyclist getting hit by a train because he didn’t wait behind the gate at a train crossing. (This involved lots of screaming and projectile-like blood.) I waited until about 15 minutes before my train until I realized the TV wasn’t showing a platform number for my train. I raced to a different monitor, found the correct platform number and with 10 minutes to spare found my way to 5. I carefully checked my ticket, which said I would be in car D4. I waited by the pillar labeled D4 until the train arrived 5 minutes late. My fellow passengers included one of the shortest men but with the longest ear-hair I’ve ever seen: he looked about 4’6” tall but his ear-hair was a good 2 inches long. I thought it was odd that he was carefully unlatching the carriage doors as they passed while some young men had already grabbed a hold of the railings on the side of the cars. As the train slid to a stop, people began to push towards the cars, a bit odd since we had assigned seats, but perhaps, I thought, this was just the Indian way of doing things. I noticed, however, that the car in front of me did not say D4, but was labeled UR, so I turned to a young woman next to me and she told me that this was an “unregistered car.” I had been patiently waiting where it said D4 on the platform, but the car D4 was nowhere in sight. I started to rush towards the other end of the train, but because of the constant Indian crowds, I couldn’t rush very quickly. Up ahead I saw C1, D1… and there it was: D4! I felt a rush of relief as I stepped in the car, not caring that the woman behind me was persistently pressing her luggage into the back of my legs. I reached my seat, which was the middle seat on a bench for three, which in the U.S. would probably accommodate two (the average Indian seems about half the size of the average American so it works out). I did it! I conquered the Indian train system! We pulled out of the station 15 minutes later (only 20 minutes behind schedule).

Early morning in India

Ok, so I know it's been a while, but suddenly I've had so much to write about that obviously I haven't written about any of it. Tomorrow is India's Republic Day (when the constitution came into effect), and as a national holiday I have a day off from classes! I'm hoping to catch up on sleep, get organized for my next trip (to the Ellora caves), and update my blog, so be ready for some posts in quick succession.  To tide you over until I actually accomplish all of this, here's something I wrote in the train station at the start of my very first train adventure to Khammam. (PS- A month ago today I flew out of JFK for India.  I'm not sure where exactly the past month has gone.)

India is a different country in the early morning. If it wasn’t for the constant smell of I’m not actually sure what, and the music coming from my cab driver’s radio, I might not have recognized it. As we drove towards the train station, the roads were silent, nearly empty. There was no need for the constant swerving of typical Indian driving because there was little to get around. What was really missing, however, were all of the people. One or two food vendors were open for business, serving breakfast to early morning customers, but for the most part, India’s multitudes had yet to get out of bed. The sun—the ruling force in India—had yet to rise, and so had the people who lived under its heat.

As the horizon began to turn from a blue to a pink to a pale yellow, India began to regain some familiar qualities. The traffic on the road began to get heavier as the rickshaws started to pick up their first fares. Bus stops had commuters waiting to catch their bus. Most importantly, my taxi driver began using his horn. He had already flabbergasted me once when he flashed his high beams to pass a bus rather than using his horn. As Shiva (a lot of Indians have names of deities) swerved into oncoming traffic to pass a truck while leaning on his horn, I breathed a sigh of relief—I hadn’t woken up in a completely different country. As we approached the train station, pedestrians sauntered across the street, with their seeming indifference to the vehicles racing towards them. We reached a standstill as the combination of traffic attempting to move in three different directions forced everyone to inch forward bit by bit. Finally I got out of the car and into the crowds of Secunderbad Junction. Streams of travelers shuffled and pushed past the people lining the walls who were waiting for their trains. A steady roar of voices enveloped me. The sun had risen—India was back to normal.

2 Weeks Later

So I was planning to write this very reflective post to mark my first 2 weeks in India, but as 2 weeks turned into 2 and 1/2 weeks, inspiration has yet to hit. Instead I've been keeping a running list about the everyday things that I love/ amaze me about India, so here's a selection:

• My new bike- well, it's not exactly new. It looks like it could be at least 20 years old, its brake don't really work, it only has one gear, and my butt is sore from the incredibly hard seat, but now I can bike to class in about 10 minutes rather than walking for 30! Also, the other day I successfully gave my friend Denise a ride on the back of my bike, which made me feel very Indian (minus the fact that I'm a white girl, and glow in the dark in comparison to everyone else).
• Before I got my bike, my friends and I hitched a ride on this tractor that was pulling a flat-bed behind it. We couldn't really communicate with the men driving, but they thought we were hilarious.
• All of the Indian trucks are painted bright colors-- red, yellow, green-- and have individually painted designs on them. I would wish that American truck drivers would pick up this practice except I'm a little afraid of what would get painted on the 18-wheelers.
• Everyone is continually sweeping in India. I think they might be fighting a losing battle because there is dust absolutely everywhere, but that doesn't stop the women from sweeping the dust of the dirt path in front of the academic buildings.
• You can buy almost anything from a man on the side of the road. My personal favorite so far is the chandeliers. 
• At sunset, when the temperature starts to drop to maybe 60 degrees, the auto drivers break out their earmuffs.
• The batting cage at the park is for practicing cricket.
• Mango juice boxes.
• At the largest art museum in Hyderabad the most popular exhibit is a cuckoo clock. The clock is in the center of the museum with its own viewing room including video hook-up so people who don't get seats can watch the little man come out and hit a bell on the hour on TV screens.
• "Tie and dye" is an art form, not just something kids do at summer camp.
• The Indian boy/girl scouts where these fanny packs with the moto "proud to be Indian."
• Two days ago I visited the cobbler who works on campus. I got to pick out the material and style of sandal I wanted, paid a Rs. 100 deposit for shoes that will cost about $6, and will pick them up next week. I don't think I've ever had something made just for me! It's quite a nice feeling.
• The other day, my human rights professor explained why he is always 10-20 minutes late to class: he grew up in an agrarian village where there were no clocks, and so he has never outgrown his sense of "timelessness." I wish I could use this excuse when I was late.

This list could go on and on, or include things that are slightly more significant. I find, however, that I really enjoy noticing these little details about India because back home I would never really think to take note of them. 

Happy New Year!

A festive kolam, a rice flour design drawn by Hindi women in South India outside of their homes, just beyond the south gate of campus.

New Year's celebrations are very big in India, though everyone seems to get dressed up to celebrate on January 1 rather than December 31. I celebrated New Year's with my new friends in my program at an incredibly elegant restaurant called "Our Place." We entered the restaurant through a marble-laid corridor filled with artwork, but then the restaurant just opened up into the night air.  The entire seating section was open air, with tables framed  palm trees, whose leaves also made a more secluded balcony seating.  The best part of the atmosphere, however, was created by the continuous live traditional music featuring sitar, tabla, and bamboo flutes. The evening was incomparable-- I celebrated the New Year with a great group of people while listening to beautiful music in INDIA! It's pretty hard to beat.

The new year has also ushered in new experiences with Indian transportation, which I am continually amazed by. For starters, the Indian approach to walking is drastically different than the equivalent American opinion. Campus is approximately 2,300 acres of mostly forest, with the international dorm located on the south end.  The main campus where the different academic buildings are located is a brisk 30 minute walk from where I’m currently living, though longer if you walk at the more leisurely Indian pace.  “Shop-Com,” the small commercial area on campus where there’s a ATM and a couple of small stores which sell your basic notebooks, soda, and the like, is also about 30 minutes away and is located just before you reach Main Gate, where you exit campus to get onto a city road.  Everything in campus is apparently entirely walkable, though many of the Indian students have bikes or motor- scooters. It makes Dickinson seem absolutely tiny, and any reservations I had about a building being too far away seem ridiculous.

I've also had new adventures with the public buses and the  ubiquitous "auto" or Indian rickshaw. An Indian student, Anita, helped a group of us Americans attempt to understand the bus system on Sunday. We boarded the M216 bus outside of the Main Gate, headed toward Mehdipatnam, a major bus hub and shopping area. Generally on Indian buses, women enter at the front of the bus while men get on towards the back. Once you’re on you wait for the conductor to approach you and you pay a different price based on where you’re going.  We were staying on the bus to its last stop, which cost Rs. 9, the equivalent of about 20 cents.  Indian buses also have seating designations.  About the front half of the bus has seating for women, and is labeled “Ladies” on the corresponding bus sides above the windows. Anita had Lindsey, a girl in my program, gain a seat by asking a man to move because he was seating in a “Ladies” seat, which he automatically did. Maybe better seating on the bus is one benefit of this pseudo-chauvinistic society?

Today a small group of us took a rickshaw to go explore Lingampally, a nearby town. We bargained the driver down to Rs. 60 for the 5 of us, which seemed reasonable since it was going to be at least a 20 minute ride. In ended up taking about double that because we were stopped at a train crossing for a good 15 minutes, which provided an excellent opportunity for some pictures:

Some new friends

The view out our driver's windshield

The modern Indian woman