Happy New Year!

Nava saal mubarak ho! Wishing you all the best in this new year.

A lot has happened in the past few weeks, and it’ll take awhile for me to catch up on blogging about everything. In the meantime, you can follow some of the adventure via pictures here.

Also, as an update, the clock is ticking on my time in Lucknow.

My Calcutta Shaadi (Marriage)

Summary: Having recently attended a friend’s wedding in Calcutta, I now have a greater understanding of Indian weddings. While the execution tends to differ by region, the specific couple, and the couple’s families, the consistent theme still seems to be food.

I made a bold claim in my last post – namely, that I was starting to understand this wedding business. What I really meant was I was starting to understand how weddings in Lucknow work. I just returned from a trip to Calcutta where I partook in festivities for a friend’s Gujarati wedding, and it was a bit different. For example:

• The sangeet was not ladies only, and consisted of organized performances and choreographed dances by both the bride’s and groom’s party. (Attendees were also from both parties.)
  
• The baraat (procession) occurred in the afternoon, and was followed immediately by the wedding ceremony, which includes exchanging garlands, pooja, and walking around a fire seven times.
  
• The bride and groom stood and smiled for pictures during the reception, greeting and interacting with the guests (versus looking somber and acting passively while everyone else moved around them).
  
• Through all of this, the bride and groom had physical contact (e.g., they performed a dance number together).

Part of this might be because the bride and groom had known each other previously, so this wasn’t a completely arranged marriage in the traditional sense.

Goodness there are a lot of functions for an Indian wedding! I attended probably only half of them, but that was still four different functions. The first night was the sangeet, which included choreographed dances. The second night was another dinner, and the third day was the marriage function, followed by the reception after a costume change (or, as my friend calls it, a “recovery period”).

Since we were from the groom’s side, we participated in the baraat (music and dance procession) in the streets. Our friend the groom sat in a chariot in the back with a few others (I believe one is his brother-in-law) while we helped him celebrate this glorious day by dancing our way to the venue.

When we reached the venue, the bride emerged, wearing a beautiful sari and who knows how many pounds of gold on her. She was covered in one thing or another (bangles, mahendi, makeup, gold, etc.) from head to toe; oh, she looked stunning. They exchanged garlands (each had to shy away the first time or two, before allowing him/herself to be “caught”), and, after a few rituals, the bride retreated to change saris. At that point, the bride’s ‘mother’ steps in for some fun; her task is to pinch the groom’s nose. (I’d explain further, but I myself don’t understand.)

The rest of the ceremony involved other ritual and pooja, etc. We (my friends from America and I) were given front row seats, as our hosts kicked out others to make sure we were sitting close to the events and comfortably. (Oh, it was an awkward situation!) Food (appetizers) was of course served to us, and plenty of pictures were taken of us.

Mind you, not a minute during this entire ceremony was there silence. Little attention was paid to the bride and groom; most of the hustle and bustle was about food and discussions among guests. It’s as if the bride and groom were doing their thing “on stage” just in case you wanted to watch.

This was, of course, followed by food, after which we left to prepare ourselves for the reception (read: more food) to follow a few hours later. The reception essentially involved a quick interaction and picture with the bride and groom on stage, and food.

The theme of the wedding was: food.

It’s strange. At American weddings, the attention is all on the bride and groom. In this case, the bride and groom seemed peripheral to the events; it was as if they were part of a force bigger than each of them, and they had no choice but to comply to what was requested of them. It really is a celebration not of the couple, but of the families and their friends. The bride and groom just happened to be the casualties of this union.

The Brass Band

Summary: Attendance at another wedding adds yet a different perspective and provides a better understanding of this wedding business.

I think I’m finally starting to get the hang of this wedding business. Unlike weddings in the U.S., celebrations and functions differ depending on whether you know the bride or groom. With the exception of the actual marriage, one would normally attend events hosted by the side you know.

As a refresher of events attended thus far:

• Event 1: Tilak hosted by the groom’s family, attended by the grooms’ acquaintances. Elizabeth and I were pulled onto the dance floor in front of an audience of a couple hundred, plus 30 men + cameras in close vicinity.
  
• Event 2: Ladies’ sangeet hosted by the bride.
  
• Event 3: Marriage, from the bride’s side. We paid the bride a visit in her bridal room and left shortly after the groom arrived.

Now we can add to this list events 4 and 5. Event 4 is a marriage, invited by the groom. Event 5 is a sangeet, hosted by the groom’s family (though unlike the bride’s ladies’ sangeet from earlier, this sangeet occurred after the wedding).

We arrived a little late to the marriage, but early enough to participate in the procession to the venue. In this procession (parade), the groom sits in the car while his family and closest 100+ friends walk behind a vehicle that’s blasting brass band music through megaphones. After a few steps of walking, the vehicle stops and everyone dances in the streets. And, in case you’re wondering, yes, it does clog up the streets a little bit.

Having reached the venue, the groom is carried to the threshold from the car, where he proceeds to engage in a series of ceremonial activities and pooja (prayer). While he is doing so, my landlords and I sit inside the venue, enjoying the appetizers / chaat being served to us. About 45 minutes later, we migrate downstairs for the dinner (buffet style, as always) before heading back upstairs to catch a glimpse of the bride and groom sitting on the couch on stage while others shift behind them, posing for pictures.

This is longer than we stayed at the other marriage; I finally saw the bride and groom together. But where’s the actual wedding ceremony?

Two days later was the ladies’ sangeet. This function has its roots in the time when women didn’t dance (or even attend) the marriage; they needed another venue to celebrate. This sangeet involved a central “stage” where various friends and family members danced and performed. (This is also the event where the bride showcases her talents to her new family.) Although I stayed only for an hour at the sangeet, I was pulled onto stage to perform (of course), and did my bit for the cameras before running away as far as I could.

After all, as a guest, you have to make your presence worthwhile. And now they have me caught on tape, though I have a hunch you won’t find it on YouTube anytime soon.

The Chinese Invasion

Summary: The Asian Table Tennis Championships was recently held in Lucknow , and I was a faithful supporter. During this weeklong event, I managed to walk across the floor during opening ceremonies and meander into the players’ practice arena. No one even attempted to stop me either time.

A few weeks ago, Lucknow, for the first time in history, hosted an international event – the Asian Table Tennis Championships. Now, I’ve never seen a table tennis match live before, but I’m in Lucknow, and if you throw me a bone, I’ll bite. Aside from this being a fun pastime and the chance to experience the most diversity Lucknow has ever seen, other critical pros of this event was that (1) it was in my neighborhood, and (2) it was free.

After seeing a wildcard match preceding the opening ceremonies, I was hooked. My attendance record was impeccable; for that week, I scheduled my other events around table tennis. (One evening, I left work at 5 pm, attended a post-wedding ladies’ sangeet until 6:30, stopped over at table tennis until 7:30, and headed over to a birthday dinner at 8.)

The Chinese ended up sweeping most of the medals (the men and women’s singles and the men’s doubles championships consisted only of Chinese players). Furthermore, turns out that the Singapore (and probably also Hong Kong) team was formed by ex-Chinese players. My friend and I deliberately sat behind the Hong Kong team one day so I might be able to sneak in a groupie Cantonese conversation with them; imagine my disappointment when I heard them all speaking Mandarin!

Regardless, I had a lot of fun there every day; when I wasn’t joined by a friend, I made one. There are, however, two events that summarize the haphazardness of the event, keeping in mind that this is an international championship event.

Firstly: The low-energy opening ceremonies consisted of a walk around the gymnasium by the players, a few speeches, and a kathak performance. When the players were lined up in the center of the floor, my friend and I realized that from where we were sitting, we wouldn’t be able to see the performance. The only way to reach the opposite side was to walk across the floor where the players were all lined up. This being an Indian event, we decided to just casually walk around the divider next to the players; as I walked past the Hong Kong team in the middle of the opening ceremony, I wished them luck (in Cantonese).

In what other major international sporting event would you be able to casually walk past the players in an opening ceremony? No one even tried to stop us; I probably could’ve stood there talking to the Hong Kong team for another five minutes without anyone battering an eyelash.

Secondly: During a match, my friend Elias and I decided to search for food. We followed signs that led to another gymnasium in the back; still searching, we walked past some security guards carrying big rifles, through a few switchbacks and official-looking people, and into the players’ practice court, which consisted of about fifteen tables arranged in a grid. Writing about this still boggles my mind. There were three Japanese players practicing at a table ten feet from us. I even picked up and handed them their ball twice. For over half an hour, Elias and I stood there, watching them, gaping at them, and laughing at the ridiculousness of Indian security measures. In this time, he considered asking to join their game, then reconsidered, and reconsidered again. I actually think they might have said yes, too.

It’s events like these that make you realize how big a role your own fear often plays in limiting your experience. Had we been deterred by the entrance to the players’ gymnasium or the sight of guards, we never would have seen the practice arena. Asking for forgiveness, not permission, certainly can allow one to accomplish more sometimes. Only I never did have to ask for forgiveness in this case.

Perhaps these security breaches are acceptable for an inaugural attempt at hosting such an affair; on the whole, however, rules and restrictions are quite arbitrary in Lucknow. While I was able to carry a big backpack cum laptop into these supposedly restricted areas without even a bag check, I am reminded of an episode where my boss literally had to fight to bring a camera into the movie theaters. I guess you can count on folks to catch things when it counts.

Gems of Lucknow

Summary: In many ways, living in Lucknow is like living in history, with many old, historical buildings that few people pay attention to, and even fewer know about. But if you take the time to look around when you walk, meander through less common streets, you’ll find something that just amazes you because of its simple, quiet presence. And, if you stay and listen long enough, it just might tell you a story.

You never know what you’ll find when you wander the streets of Lucknow. A few Sundays back, my friend Will and I spontaneously decided to search for a eunuch’s tomb, which he had read about in a newspaper. So we set out on our treasure hunt, and started by trying to locate the general colony. The folks we asked included baristas at Barista, a local travel agent, and Google (courtesy of a friend). About 30 minutes into our search for fool’s gold, we decided to delay our search until further information can be found.

It was at this time, standing on the main street in Hazratganj (the “downtown” of Lucknow), that I saw an architecturally fascinating structure beyond small arched alleyway. We walked through the alley, which opened up to an imambara.

But Lucknow is full of such gems and surprises; there’s so much history embedded into the nooks and crannies of everyday life, though much of it is poorly maintained and documented, and generally withering.

Of course, when I tried to tell my coworkers about it the next day, they immediately tried to convince me that I was wrong, and that I must have been talking about a more famous imambara in a nearby area. It was only after hard proof (a picture on my camera of the sign that said “Imambara Waqf Sibtainabad. Mubarak, Hazratganj, LKO” that they relented, claiming that my imprecise description of the location threw them off.

You may not be aware of this, but it is a fact. As a foreigner, I must accept that I know nothing, even when I know that I know.

A Time for Thanks

The world is far from perfect, but there’s still a lot to be grateful for. These past 9+ months in Lucknow have shed light on many of life’s dichotomies and injustices, and the irony of being grateful for what you have is the often accompanying sense of guilt and sadness for those who lack those exact things.

This year, I also feel the tension between appreciating what I have in Lucknow and acknowledging the things I took for granted back in the States. There is, of course, also a sense of gratitude for the basics of life (e.g., food, shelter, health, family, friends, etc.) that is much stronger this year.

Other things I am grateful for that stand out this year:

• Knowing that my friends and family love me, despite the physical distance and sometimes sporadic communications
  
• A worldview that I can shape my own future
  
• A family who valued education and teachers who taught me how to analyze and think for myself
  
• The freedom to choose, whether it be about my job, my marriage, or my dinner
  
• A sense of self-worth and identity as a female that is independent from my relationship to other members of society
  
• The kindness of strangers, whether it be trainmates or villagers
  
• Patience, friendliness, and hospitality demonstrated by so many I’ve encountered here in Lucknow
  
• Living in a place where I feel safe
  
• Platonic physical contact between males and females
  
• Modern real-time communication technologies such as Skype and Gchat

If I were back in the States, I would advocate a big kumbaya hugfest right about now. I think it’s about time teleportation were invented, if only so I could hunt down those who just squirmed at the thought of a hugfest.

Happy Thanksgiving.

Western Classical Music in Lucknow

Summary: Western classical music is a rare occurrence in Lucknow, and I had the pleasure of partaking in the festivities. There was, of course, an Indian flavor to the night (and it wasn't just the hors d'oeuvres of gobi and chicken tikka).

Last night, I had the honor of attending a Western classical (chamber) music performance by musicians from Europe, courtesy of my boss. Held in the Taj Hotel, this was a classy event attended by many famous faces in Lucknow. And me. (Look carefully.)

This is the first time any event like this has been held in Lucknow. The musicians played pieces by Schubert and Brahms, plus a medley encore. It was a stunning performance that transformed me to another place altogether – a place devoid of honking, temples, fireworks, and words. The music cut through all of the barriers in language and elicited in me feelings of serenity and utter calmness.

In spite of this, there were two things that made this a very Indian/Lucknow experience. The first is the back story behind the upright piano. Apparently the truck transporting the grand piano broke down, and they had no way of getting the piano to Lucknow. At the eleventh hour, a man offered up his brand new standing piano for use. Such is the story of misfortunes and accompanying generosity that pervade Indian society. Murphy’s Law is nowhere truer than in India; because this is so, there are usually people on standby that offer to help to alleviate the situation (whether solicited or not).

To me, the second uniquely Indian aspect was the unrelenting paparazzi. The first piece was over halfway through before the photographers with their loud, professional cameras took a break from their snapping. A viola player joined for the second piece, and he was much less tolerant than the others. His angry glaring and scowling did not deter the photographer one bit. In response to the musician’s physical “no more” finger wag, the photographer turned his attention and loud snapping to the audience. But even that was only a temporary distraction, as the photographer was snapping at the stage again in five minutes.

These quirks make even a “Western” experience in Lucknow interesting, and add a unique charm to the city.

A Jenma-Din [Birthday] Party

Summary: Reflections on a recent desi birthday party focus on (1) the formality of the setup, (2) the lack of pre-determined children’s games, and (3) the process of cutting and eating the cake.

My neighbor’s son recently celebrated his 10th (?) birthday, and I was invited to the celebrations. Instead of going out to Chuck E. Cheese (or the equivalent), they organized a catering service. This is because the equivalent of Chuck E. Cheese hardly exists in Lucknow. And apparently when catering service is ordered here in India, the restaurant actually sends guys (yes, usually males) to your location with raw ingredients, and the preparation and cooking is done on site.

Cooking in our driveway aside, the birthday party was a “big” event. Diwali lights were strung, fancy cloth-covered banquet chairs were brought in, and spotlights were kept outside. Women donned beautiful, sparkling saris and lots of makeup, while I entered make-up free and in my cotton FabIndia kurta.

There was a lot of mingling; the invited guests seemed to reflect the parents’ social circle just as much as it reflected the child’s. I quickly found myself connecting with the children, and was drawn into the kids’ self-organized activities. Instead of running around, jumping around in a bouncy house, or playing in a ball pit (none of which were available), these kids entertained themselves with a series of games, from “link the songs” to “telephone.” Even at a young age, there was a clear gender divide; teams were split by sex and clearly delineated by physical space.

I forget that things here happen in reverse order (relative to what I know). Instead of play, food, play, cake, the order that emerged was play, cake, food. It’s as if the food is the reward for sticking around, after which everyone is free to head his/her separate way.

I also particularly appreciate the cake cutting and eating process, something I first experienced in Tamil Nadu when one of my favorite kids picked up a slice of cake with his hand and fed me. On this day, the birthday boy engaged in a mutual cake-feeding process (not too unlike that which occurs at Western weddings) with various members of his family. To me, this tradition is simply another manifestation of the fundamental underlying sense of interconnectedness and the strength of familial bonds prevalent in Indian culture.

After the birthday boy completed this cake exchange ceremony, cake was shared with the rest of the partygoers on a communal plate. Individuals picked off a small slice from the plate with their fingers, and enjoyed it as such (without napkins). While I realize this tradition is unrelated to environmental concerns, let’s think about how many paper plates and plastic utensils are saved in this way (at 1+ billion birthdays in India per year)!

Some might call that an unintended consequence.

A Right Turn and Then Some

Summary: A weekend of new experiences included a friendly game of cricket and an exploration of the city on bicycle.

For those of you who have always told me that I will never become a professional cricket player, I am here to prove you right. This past weekend, I played a semi-organized game of cricket for the first time, with a bunch of other equally clueless Americans and a handful of local kids. The chosen field was in a relatively quiet neighborhood, and the boundary wall was high enough to prevent an otherwise inevitable growing crowd of curious observers.

This was, in short, the perfect introduction to cricket. Both my throwing and hitting form was a bit off, but it was nonetheless loads of fun.

My “new adventure” bug wasn’t so easily quenched. Given that cricket occurred at 10 am and took place in a semi-familiar area of town, I took the opportunity to go on a bicycle joy ride around town (never before had I left my neighborhood area of Gomti Nagar). I followed unfamiliar major roads just to end up in another (different) familiar area, from which I followed my directional instinct that was to lead me back home.

As I biked toward what I thought was Gomti Nagar, I suddenly saw a sign for Clark’s hotel. To my knowledge, there was only one Clark’s hotel, and that one existed on the far side of Hazratganj, the original familiar territory. Sure enough, this was the same one; as I biked through Hazratganj again, I racked my head trying to figure out how I managed to bike away from home.

A quick consultation with Google Maps upon reaching home clarified the situation; a right turn that took me in the wrong direction, and a left turn that took me back in a right one.

I maintain that had Lucknow been developed on a grid system, the turns I made would have taken me home. My fatal mistake was forgetting that I was in India, where urban planning doesn’t exist and things are never as you expect.

Diwali: Christmas, Meet Fourth of July

Summary: In Northern India, Diwali carries with it the significance of Christmas and the fireworks of the Fourth of July. Deciding to experience Diwali in the most authentic way possible, I spent the evening with my landlords, which consisted of a mix of pooja, fireworks, food, and house visits.

Diwali and Holi are the two biggest festivals across India, particularly in the North. Both are celebrated with lots of color and fanfare; Holi by day, and Diwali by night (+ 7 months). Holi is the Festival of Color, and Diwali is the Festival of Lights.

For me, Diwali is best characterized as a fusion of Christmas and Fourth of July. With the religious significance of Christmas (Lord Raama returns to his kingdom, having triumphed over the evil Ravana), Diwali is celebrated with lights, family and friends, food, and gifts. And, like the Fourth of July, fireworks are at the heart of celebratory activities. Bottle rockets, fountains, firecrackers, you name it. And they’re burned not only the day of Diwali, but in the week leading up to it and for some time after, explosions ringing sporadically from evening onward. You can literally hear Diwali coming.

On the night of Diwali, the entire neighborhood comes alive with personal fireworks. The fireworks actually also ignite a number of interesting conversations about noise and pollution levels and fears of terrorism. (Am I buying fireworks or other explosives?) My landlords invited me to celebrate with them, and we spent the evening doing pooja, enjoying the artificially lit up sky and making house visits. Good times were had by all.

My landlords were bold enough to leave me alone with the apartment for the next two days, while they and the other tenant family visited their relatives. Granted, they were only put at ease after they personally saw that I knew how to lock and unlock the gate, and how to use a padlock. (They had some serious doubts before they saw with their own eyes that I knew how to turn a key; they also wanted me to skip work on Monday so I could housesit for them.)

So, what does a single girl in Lucknow do when given such a long leash? Nothing, because let’s face it, we’re still in Lucknow. Lucky for them, my landlords came back and their house hadn’t been burnt down (which would, admittedly, have created quite a quandary since it’s made of brick and concrete).

The Country Bumpkin Meets the High Life

Summary: Sometimes, you don’t realize what you’ve got until it’s gone. Other times, you don’t realize what you’ve missed until you get it back.

The past eight months in the heart of the cow belt has turned me into a country bumpkin; this past weekend, I finally saw myself for what I’ve become.

Xi, a friend from Monitor, was recently sent to Mumbai for a project, and we arranged for a fun-filled weekend in Agra and Delhi. She has a friend working for the Singapore High Commission in Delhi, who was nice enough to let us both stay with him. Preliminary email exchanges foreshadowed what was to come – there was talk about his two spare bedrooms, playing pool and foosball in his apartment, and cars and drivers. Reading those emails in our humble office, I found myself feeling a little uncomfortable, and it wasn’t (entirely) because I was sitting on a plastic patio chair.

Delhi itself felt deceptively new for the country bumpkin. The train station, NZM, had a 24-hour Vegas-like café with music next door. There were still many lights and cars (and people!) out and about at 10:30 pm. It was like being in a dream; everything I used to know but no longer remembered.

Then there was the Apartment. When I first stepped into said Apartment at 11:32 pm on Saturday, October 10, 2009, I felt like I entered a parallel universe. Seventeen seconds later, I took my first breath in this foreign place, and commenced the exploration process. There were many things that “first” caught my eye – the spaciousness, the cleanliness, the pool table, the big-screen LCD television, the cleanliness, the couch, the brightness, the white walls, the shiny floor, and, did I mention the cleanliness? (He is from Singapore, after all.) Now, unless you’ve actually experienced life here in Lucknow, it’s hard for me to explain exactly why I was so struck by each and every one of those items listed.

After almost an hour of jaw-dropping awe, I made it into the bathroom to take a much-needed shower. As some background information, I’m lucky enough to have a shower at home, though poor water pressure sometimes forces me to surrender to the buckets. In order to maximize enjoyment from the shower, however, I have to time it very precisely, given that I rely on the sun to heat my water.

So I step into his shower underneath the raindrop shower head, and I turn the hot water on. The water starts falling on me, and washes away any remaining sanity left on me. I laugh. Not just any laugh, but the guttural laugh of a madwoman who has lost her last screw. And I can’t stop laughing. The more the water falls, the harder I laugh.

I finally pause long enough to see the shower settings (because yes, there were settings), and, like any good explorer, I test them all. There’s the stylish removable showerhead spray, the lateral jacuzzi-massage jet spray, and the regular spigot. I tried them all, in every possible combination.

As I stepped out of the steam-filled bathroom onto the tile floor, I finally remembered what it feels like to be clean. To feel like I am at home.

The Doctor is: IN

Summary: “Fiddle dee dee, that will require a tetanus shot.” (Homer J. Simpson)

In terms of efficiency, India seems to be binary: speed of light or slower than a slug.

Upon reaching a locked gate one evening, Anna decides to ceremoniously climb over as one of her last hoorahs, and Elizabeth and I follow. It’s an easy climb, with footholds and handholds in all the right places. Swinging my foot over the top, my foot grazed the sharp tip and I felt a slight, but sharp, pain. Ignoring it, I hopped down.

Glancing over at the wall, we see a spot of red. “Looks like blood,” I comment. “Nah, it’s probably just paint,” one of the girls reply. Lo’ and behold, turns out it was blood. My blood.

I’m sure the wound will heal and forget about it, but the word “tetanus” kept coming up in conversation. I can’t recall when I had my last tetanus shot, but I’m pretty sure it wasn’t that long ago. After all, I had had a series of vaccinations before my previous India trip two years ago. One friend convinces me that if I can’t remember, it ‘s been too long. Sure enough, records say it was just over a decade ago.

In my mind, I weigh the pros and cons of getting a tetanus shot (a) before I leave for Nepal in a few days, (b) when I get back from Nepal, and (c) when I get back to the States. For everyone’s peace of mind, I go with option (a).

Apparently tetanus is very common here, as are tetanus shots. I walk into the office of one of many doctors in the neighborhood, and instantly feel claustrophobic. (The entire office, partitioned into a waiting area, the doctor’s desk, and the assistant’s station, is smaller than my room in SF.) Our conversation, as I experienced it, was as follows:

"Hello. I want to get a tetanus shot."
[Confused.]
"Te-ta-nus shot chahie." ["Te-ta-nus shot I want."]
"Kaun se?" ["Which?"]
"Vaccine. Shot." [Imitate a drug addict shooting up.]
"Sit." [Still confused.]
"Tetanus. Rusted nails. Shot."
"Tetanus shot!" [Spoken by the assistant in the “back.”]
"Ji!" ["Yes!"]
[Assistant opens package containing syringe, takes out a vial, prepares shot. Doctor wipes syringe with a piece of a cotton ball pre-soaked in alcohol, wipes an area on my arm, and shoots some liquid from the syringe.]
[Getting nervous.] "Tetanus, right? T-e-t-a-n-u-s."
"Tetanus." [Head bobble.]
"Can I read the package? The box?" [Hand gestures to indicate reading.]
"Haa...." [Hands over vial. Vial reads: “Tetanus toxoid....”]
[Still uncomfortable.] "Tikh hai."
[Gives shot. Leans back, pauses, looks at me.] "Okay?"
"Okay."
"50 rupees."
"Tikh hai. Thank you." [Pay. Point at blood still oozing out. Ask for something to stop the bleeding, receive another cotton piece. Exit.]

I was in and out within five minutes (half of which was waiting time).

As I walked back across the street, the ridiculousness of my experience struck me and I burst into uncontrollable laugher. In my mind, I was imagining a parallel universe in the U.S., where a Band-Aid and even a lollipop wouldn’t have been out of the ordinary.

Staying Alive, Staying Alive…

Summary: Elizabeth recently contracted scabies from some village kids, and was gracious enough to share her new friends with both me and Anna.

When you visit villages, holding babies, playing with kids, touching things and drinking the water, you’re bound to catch something sooner or later. A coworker contracted jaundice earlier this year, and typhoid and lice found their way to Anna last year.

These past 6 months, stomach and hair problems (and potential malnourishment) notwithstanding, we’ve all managed to be relatively healthy. (Relatively is, after all, a relative word.) A few weeks ago, however, Elizabeth had developed a rash on the webbed part of her hands. Conducting a thorough self-diagnosis (with the help of WebMD), she concluded that she contracted scabies, courtesy of some kids in the village she recently visited.

One evening, when Anna was away, Elizabeth and I sat in her bed, watching a movie. After the movie ended, my attention drifted to an itch on my leg. Examining it closer, I found a trail of small, red bumps. I spent the next hour online, fervently reading everything I could about scabies, learning about what it is (mites that dig under your skin and lay eggs), how it is contracted (direct or indirect contact with someone who has it), what the symptoms are (incessant itching, a characteristic S-shaped trail of small red bumps), how to treat it (Permethrin, 5%), and potential side effects of the treatment options (minimal).

Check, check, and check. I had scabies, now what can I do to put my mind at ease? I read on some sites that one should wash everything that came in contact the body (e.g., sheets, clothing) in boiling hot water to kill the mites. So I figured, why couldn’t that work on the body itself?

Project Scalding was underway. Elizabeth and I boiled some water and started methodically burning the skin that had scabies. (When Anna found out the next day, she vowed to never leave us alone again.) A few days later, we finally got a hold of Permethrin, coated our entire bodies with it, and left it on overnight. The next morning, we congratulated ourselves, and proclaimed ourselves scabies free.

Another bullet dodged. What’s next?

Total Eclipse of the….

Summary: While we didn’t trek to Varanasi to see the century’s longest eclipse in totality, we did wake up at the crack of dawn to experience it from our roof, in Lucknow.

The longest eclipse of the century occurred on July 22, 2009, and the path of totality crossed over parts of India and China. Varanasi, a recommended destination for this anticipated event, was only a train ride away.

Unfortunately, work beckoned, and July 22 fell smack in the middle of our teacher training. In fact, we had to reschedule our training to accommodate the superstitious teachers, who, among other things, refused to leave the house the morning of the eclipse.

Naturally, the night before the eclipse, some friends and I found ourselves scrambling to figure out plans. Would it be worth waking up at the crack of dawn? Do we spend the night sleeping on the floor of a friend’s apartment in order to get a 9th-story view of early morning the eclipse? Do we get an autorickshaw to pick us up at 4:30 am to head over to their place then? Or, do we enjoy the view from the roof of Anna / Elizabeth’s apartment? Would the sun even be high enough during the eclipse to be viewable from the apartment?

We settle for the last option (viewing from our own roof), and woke ourselves up at 5 am to catch the sunrise (and beginning of the eclipse) at 5:30, and the 96% totality view from Lucknow at ~6:30.

Reading about the eclipse, I had learned that looking directly at the eclipse (even with sunglasses) can cause permanent damage to the eye. One simple alternative is to view a projection of the eclipse; hence, I found myself trying to recreate my 7th grade pinhole camera setup. I took a small piece of cardboard, used earrings to poke a hole through it, and used a paper bag as the screen. Nothing. Repeated, with a slightly bigger hole. Still nothing.

Of course, this repeatedly failed endeavor resulted in endless laughter and disbelief at my stubbornness and nerdiness. At around 6:15, I finally reaped the results of my efforts – a miniature projection of the eclipse, measuring about 1 cm in diameter. Turns out it had been working the whole time, but I mistook the image I saw as one of the pinhole and its shadow, rather than the eclipse.

At about 6:30, the sky was noticeably darker, and at about 7 am, we realized that it was once again brighter and the highlight of the eclipse had passed us by.

Underwhelming and anticlimactic, to say the least. But that was because (a) we weren’t prepared with appropriate viewing equipment, and (b) we weren’t in the path of totality. Had we been in Varanasi, we would, according to a friend, have seen a line separating the day and the night, with blue sky on one side and stars on the other. And that would’ve been something.

But we were in Lucknow, on our roof, one of the few crazies who were out during the eclipse. Glad I woke up? Sure. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have seen the surya grahan (solar eclipse) cause duniya kattam (the end of the world).

I’m glad my Hindi is gradually improving with useless vocabulary.

Meet Elizabeth

Up until now, the image of Elizabeth you’ve created in your minds has been bounded by my words. I now give you the opportunity to meet her as she is, for she has been maintaining a blog of her experiences in Lucknow as she has experienced it. Her dramatic speaking style and dynamic storytelling shines through in her writing, which is supported by her astute observation skills and ability to understand and assess the situation around her.

Check her out at evbeff.blogspot.com (linked also on the right). Her first post upon reaching India is here.

Rage Against Time

Summary: One phone call from my landlord has once again put me in my place, or so they think. But I won’t surrender my freedom to come home at 9:32 pm that easily!

It is 9:40 pm, and I have just entered the front gate of my house when I get a phone call from my landlord:

“Hello?”
“I think you are not coming tonight.”
“I’m sorry, what?”
“I think you are not coming home tonight.”
“I’m downstairs just now.”
“These past two nights, you have not come before 10:30, isn’t it?”
“No, sir. My friends and I watched a movie last night and I didn’t realize it was so long.”
“I think you need to come home by 9:30.”
“Sir…”
“Please lock the gate.”
“Okay, I will do it just now. Good night.”

Conversations like this might be one reason I’m losing all my hair. In my defense, these past two nights have been unique situations: one was a July 4th dinner with friends, and the second was a freakishly long Bollywood movie that started at 7:30.

Part of my “rage” against this phone call is such:

(1) I make a point to not disturb my landlords when I come home late. This is because (a) I believe the other tenant is more understanding, and (b) the landlords have stairs and further distance to travel to open the gate.
(2) For the most part, I’ve made an effort to be home by ~9:30 or 10 pm. I think it would mortify them to learn that, left to my own accord, I would probably regularly come home at 10:30 or 11 pm.
(3) I’m being chastised for not doing anything “wrong” in my book. He spoke to me like I was a bad person for coming home late; like he assumed I was wreaking havoc in Lucknow.
(4) This now-official curfew has little to do with concerns about my well-being. There was one day when everyone had to go out of town, and they requested that I come home right after work that day, not for my own safety, but to guard the house. (This was blatantly expressed.)
(5) I suspect other self-interested motives and sexism at play. I think he may also be concerned about what the neighbors think about a female coming back to his house by herself “so late” at night.
(6) He spoke to me in a pedantic manner, as if he had all the facts and needed to inform me of the error in my ways. There was absolutely no respect, care, or inquiry in his voice.
(7) I don’t feel that they have a right to tack a curfew onto me the way they would their own child. Simply (and harshly) said, I do not see him as an authority figure.

I’ve successfully reached my mid-twenties without a rebellious teenage phase, but it very well might come now, in India. Then again, maybe I’ll be able to convince them to be more lax until August, because I’ll pretty much be under house arrest after that for lack of places to go and friends to hang out with.

A Five-Star Rejuvenation of the Spirit

Summary: A weekend at the Taj Hotel, courtesy of Anna and Elizabeth’s friend, was critical in rejuvenating my spirit, which had been suffering greatly as of late.

Elizabeth and Anna have been plagued with illness lately, and have tried to identify the source of their ailment through a series of tests and examinations, culminating with a particularly harrowing experience with the “woman doctor.” A good friend of theirs, an ex-DSH employee who has been to Lucknow, naturally understood their plight and arranged for them a mini-vacation at the Taj, the neighborhood 5-star hotel. (And when I say neighborhood, I mean it in a literal sense. The Taj is about half a mile from their house.) Lucky me, I get to tag along for the ride.

Unlike the girls, I haven’t been physically sick (unless you count the unnatural hair loss currently occurring), but I have been emotionally on edge and perpetually irritated by everything associated with a foreigner’s experience in Lucknow. It took all of my self-restraint to not explode at every man who stared at me, every autorickshaw wallah who tried to overcharge me, every person who tried to tell me what to do, etc.

Of course, this frustration had nothing to do with India being different, and everything to do with me reacting differently. One could say that this was the inevitable eruption of a volcano has been bubbling with stress and emotional suppression over the past 4+ months.

The weekend at the Taj rejuvenated my spirit in ways I didn’t even know were possible. I was unaware of how grumpy I had become until I felt the frustration wash away with every dip in the clear pool (which was, by the way, noticeably devoid of people). Now, I’m not normally a poolside lounger; I’d much rather prefer to do something or go somewhere. But that was also before I experienced the healing properties of Vitamin D, cool pool water, clean sheets, a good shower, and central AC. Freedom from stares and touts probably didn’t hurt either, as we stayed within the confines of the hotel throughout the weekend.

After a brief period of withdrawal from the serenity of the weekend, I have rediscovered the joy, appreciation, and humor of my former self. And, after some reflection, I’ve come to realize that our (Anna’s, Elizabeth’s, and my) frequent mocking of the absurdity that is India had a negative undertone that began to permeate my entire being.

Perhaps truly accepting another culture and your life in it isn’t something you “accomplish,” but rather something you continually do. Every situation provides the opportunity to either accept or rebel against said culture. However, too many rebellions, both internal and external, subtle and extreme, result in emotional turmoil and a self-reinforcing downward spiral toward the abyss of frustration and negativity. (Of course, rebellion in and of itself is not a bad thing, for it can result in growth for all parties involved.)

It was in this whirlpool of antagonism I was unknowingly caught when the Taj tossed me a lifesaver. And, sometimes, when someone gives you help (even if you don’t ask for it), you should take it. Because only through the process of healing did I start understanding the source of the pain.

“The India Confusion”

I find India impossible to explain or describe to someone who has never been or experienced it. Apparently I am not alone, as I stumbled upon this article, which seems to put in words some of the things I’ve seen and experienced but couldn’t explain. (Read the full article here.) In the meantime, here are some excerpts:

Background: “It is a unique, overlapping, and entangled landscape - one living within the other. India is one part stuck in history. You, as a tourist, are going there to experience this living past. The other part is the modern India that facilitates you as a traveler. India’s past collides with her present in the middle of the road. You witness this never-ending and mind-boggling fusion of contradictions.”

First Impressions: “Your welcome to India is not a friendly one. The first thing you notice is the people. I mean lots of people. People moving in all directions. You have to deal with the worst of India head-on, and it’s really raw. Be it the beggars, the touts, the poor children, or the local taxi drivers, you have to deal with all of them minutes after your arrival.”

Culture: “There is no Indian culture! … And you fail miserably if you are on a mission to find "real" Indian culture. India is not a monolithic cultural block. It’s an anthology of a thousand countries within a country.”

Class: “There is nothing like the contrast between the poor in villages and the rich in the cities. The extreme rich and the unimaginably poor live almost side-by-side in any Indian city. … All share, more or less, the same public landscape. The cultural co-existence of these classes is an unexplainable miracle.”

Family: “Parents play highly influential role in their children’s lives. … A family is more of a collective consulting body where everyones opinion matters. … The family is the elementary building block of the Indian society.”

Communication: “Any layman on the road wants to say something to you. Indian love to talk, and do so even with a total stranger on the street. Such communication hardly starts with introductions by name. … They talk for hours as if they are long time friends, and may depart without knowing each other’s names.”

Advice: “The most valuable currency you need to enjoy India in total is patience. She never allows you to run faster than her nor she is bothered about your hurry. The India elephant moves at her own pace, stopping here and there at its own wish, enjoying every bit of it’s journey. Follow it’s procession in style... it is the best way to enjoy India.”

India is like nothing else I’ve ever seen; at the same time, traveling elsewhere has prepared me for India. It’s the kind of place you have to experience firsthand to understand, but the initiation process definitely not for everyone. But if you can tolerate, accept, and embrace it for what it is, you’ll want to keep searching for more.

How Many People Does It Take To…

Summary: My life in India in a nutshell – it took me 5 days and 16 people to do a job others claim could’ve happened in 2 hours with 1 person.

To everyone’s shock and disbelief, I’ve been surviving Indian nights with nothing but my ceiling fan and an occasional frozen bottle of water. However, folks at the office, concerned about my health, wanted me to use a spare AC from the office. I can only protest so much, so I give in to the forces that be.

This may appear to be the story of how I got an AC installed, but in actuality, it’s a story of how things get done in India (even at the minute level of refilling a glass of water in a restaurant). My coworkers will claim this is how foreigners get things done in India....

(1) Day 1: Coworker calls the StudyHall School electrician to send an AC wallah to take out the AC and install it in my house.
(2) AC wallah does not come, but carpenters do. They’re not needed yet, so get sent back.
(3) Day 2: AC wallah comes and takes down the AC. Visits my house to see where and how it will fit.
(4) AC wallah determines that a fabricator (i.e., arc welder) is needed to cut the bars on the window, and calls the StudyHall electrician with the news.
(5) Day 3: StudyHall electrician brings the fabricator to my house to examine what needs to be done. Fabricator agrees to come the following day at noon.
(6) Day 4: Fabricator comes with another man to inspect the job (again). Agrees to come back in two hours (after lunch) with the tools.
(7) With a lot of help, we move the AC to my house via cycle rickshaw.
(8) Fabricator and yet a different boy come to cut the bars. There is no shortage of small fires that need to be doused with water.
(9) Call StudyHall electrician to see about next steps. It is determined that an AC wallah is not needed, and we send for the carpenters.
(10) Day 5: StudyHall electrician arrives in the morning with a carpenter to take measurements. Will return in three hours (after lunch).
(11) Carpenter and wingman come to “fit” and install the AC.

Days to complete job: 5
Actual work time: 5 hours [AC wallah (30 min.); fabricator (2 hours); carpenter (2.5 hours)]
People involved: 16. [coordinators / translators (4); StudyHall electrician (1); AC wallah (1); carpenters (2+2); moving the AC (3); fabricators (3)]

The fabricator doing his thing from inside. See the sparks?

The "hole" left by the fabricator for the AC:

The final product (notice the plywood covering my entire window):

My coworkers claim that they only need 1 person and 2 hours to complete the same job. True, perhaps folks made the job unnecessarily complicated because I’m a foreigner. But this is India as I’ve experienced it, even when I ask locals for help.

Mother India’s Lessons

Summary: In my four months here, Mother India has managed to teach me a few things. To date, my coursework has included: expectations, time, planning, persistence, standards, openness, cynicism, generosity, patience, humor, and control.

Four months ago today, a clueless, naïve, idealistic, and slightly crazy Chinese American stepped off the plane in Lucknow, oblivious to what lay ahead. This silly girl thought she was going to help improve education in India, unaware that the real education was the one in store for her.

In a mere four months, Mother India has managed to teach her quite a few things about life and survival. So far, her education has covered the following:

Expectations: Your view of the world often doesn’t translate. Don’t expect anything to happen, but be prepared to respond to just about anything. Because your expectations will often mislead you, and anything just might happen.

Time: Things will happen when they happen. More often than not, time runs late. Time is valuable, but living in and enjoying the present for what it’s worth is just as important. Getting frustrated when things run late is futile.

Planning: Closely tied to both expectations and time. Things will never go as planned, but you have to plan for the unexpected. Be ready to throw all your plans out the window, for flexibility is key. Appreciate when anything goes well, because that’s an accomplishment in and of itself.

Persistence: When people tell you “It is not possible,” they’re basically saying, “Find another way.” Life is full of obstacles, whether it be underdeveloped skills, uncompromising bureaucracy, or cows.

Standards: Standards are certainly relative, and need to be adjusted so. Status quo is never acceptable, but the definition of “success” lies somewhere along a continuum. Perfectionism is not an option. Think baby steps.

Openness: Freeing yourself from your own worldview and implicit judgment is a very difficult but necessary prerequisite for understanding another’s culture. Things that make no sense from your perspective can often be understood when the others’ culture and worldview is considered. “Equal but different” can, and does, exist.

Cynicism: Never underestimate the power of the situation, and try not to lose your belief in the inherent goodness of man without losing your mind. Thinking that everyone is out to “get” you is unhealthy, but believing that everyone always behaves virtuously is naïve.

Generosity: No matter how poor, people always have something to give (and often do so). If the poor can be generous, why are the wealthier not more so?

Patience: Unwanted attention can be uncomfortable, and touts can be quite trying. Every moment consists of a choice – do you accept it for what it is, or do you fight back? You don’t have the energy to fight every battle that’s waged, and even a battle you win has already been lost.

Humor: Taking a step back, humor can be found even (especially?) in the most ridiculous of situations. Humor is like a Swiss Army Knife – carry it around all times, for it can save your life.

Control: Most things come down to control. In “Seven Habits of Highly Effective People,” Stephen Covey astutely suggests proactivity within your locus of control. Everything else is mental energy wasted. Sometimes you just have to throw your hands in the air and let things run their course. If nothing else, India teaches you that less is in your control than you think, yet at the same time, your locus of control may actually be larger than meets the eye.

Basically, life is full of contradictions and paradoxes you need to wade through.

Thing is, Mother India is quite the hands-on teacher. Once is not enough. This oblivious girl encounters each of these lessons at least once a day, in different shapes and forms. And four months later, she still struggles with them. Old habits are hard to change, but Mother India is not one to give up anytime soon.

I suspect she spends a little more time on this girl because the girl is “special,” and a tad more stubborn than the rest of her class. Don’t worry, Mother India, she’ll get it soon.

By the way, when’s recess?