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