The adventure continues

I was up to my ankles in muck. Dirtier than I've ever been in my life. Completely exhausted. Broke my sandal. Something painful is stuck in the bottom of my foot.

Man, it was a great day!

Today I went to visit Janvikas Pratishthan, an organization that works in the rural areas near Pune. They have many different programs aimed at healthcare, job training, youth development, microcredit, securing land rights, agriculture and sustainability.

They are what I want to be when I grow up.

We went to visit a small village to see one of their completed projects. The village was home to 27 families. I think the entire village could have fit inside my in-laws' house. The project was to build a pipeline to bring water to the village. Prior to this, the women had to walk nearly an hour to get water and bring it back to their homes. So we set out to take that same walk and see the work that had been done.

I had no idea what I was getting myself into.

It was a beautiful walk. But it was difficult and quite messy. Twenty minutes in I had to remove my shoes (actually they were removed for me by the muck I'd just stepped into) and carry them in my hand the rest of the way. We walked through rice paddies with water above my ankles. We slipped and slid up and down a pathway of mud. I lost my balance and fell on my ass only once (ok, twice). I stepped on sharp rocks, sticks and thorns. One is permanently embedded in the bottom of my foot. Wrangling with my dupatta provided a constant source of amusement for the village women walking with us.

After this adventure, we headed back to the office, located in another village. From there we took two girls to another village where a foundation runs a free nursing school. That village is about an hour away, and it is a one and a half year residential program, after which the girls have a one year contract to work in a hospital there. As these are poor village people (teehee Village People), it is very unlikely they will be able to visit each other during this time. Needless to say it took quite a bit of persuading to get the families to agree. But, when the two and a half years are up, these girls will be able to work anywhere they want and earn good money for their families. So in the long run, it's totally worth it.

And now, for your viewing pleasure, some photos I managed to take along the walk.

FYI: That's a plow

Halfway there!

I have officially been in India for 4 weeks, and have 2 days shy of 4 weeks left to go.

So far this experience has been a combination of eye-opening, exciting, annoying, boring and fun. The time alternately flies by and goes at a crawl. Pretty much like normal life, then.

I'm inspired by Gori Rajkumari's post on things she realizes she took for granted before moving to India two years ago. So I now give to you, The Things I Miss the Most:

1. Being independent: At home, I did not have a car. But my city is beautifully pedestrian friendly. I could leave the house whenever I wanted and go wherever I wanted. I did not realize what a privilege that is! Here, I can't do anything outside of the house without getting approval from my family and then convincing someone to give me a ride. I can't go out by myself, I can't take a rickshaw by myself, I'm essentially under house arrest. This would probably not be so annoying if I were regularly given rides places, but I have to harass everyone for days before finally someone will agree to take me somewhere. In the meantime, I'm trapped in the house. There are only 4 TV stations in English. The internet is unreliable at best. Extended conversations with my mother-in-law prove injurious to our relationship. I'd be grateful just to be able to take a walk outside on my own.

2. Hot water: The water here is heated by solar panels. It is monsoon season, therefore no sun. It is all I can do to not scream as I step under the water each morning. I can't remember the last time I shaved my legs.

3. Food: At home, I'm mostly in charge of the kitchen. I buy the groceries, I figure out what to cook each night. It's a chore I largely hated. But oh how I miss it now. My mother-in-law rarely relinquishes control of the kitchen. On the rare occasion she does (twice now since my arrival), only non-Indian dishes can be prepared. It must still be vegetarian, though, as she doesn't eat meat and doesn't allow it in her kitchen. I rarely cook meat at home, but then again I also make mostly Indian dishes at home. Vegetarian meals in other cuisines are difficult to come up with (or at the very least, they'd taste worlds better with meat). And being in a foreign country where there's no guarantee you'll be able to find the groceries you want makes it even more difficult.
Now, I'm going to let you in on a little secret. My mother-in-law is not a good cook. I love Indian food in the biggest way, but when she cooks it I have to just stuff it down. I thought perhaps it was just me, but hubby's best friend has revealed that she has always hated my mother-in-law's cooking. Every time we've gone for dinner at someone else's house it has been a huge relief. Finally, Indian food to be enjoyed! I would love to step in and cook some dishes myself, but of course, Indian food is her domain and no one else can touch it.
Food is forced upon me and if I try to refuse I'm questioned and made to feel like I'm being insulting. But it's perfectly ok for everyone else in the family to refuse the same item, even the person who just forced it on me. And if there are leftovers because people don't want to eat it, I am made to eat it day after day until it is all gone. I just ate idli and sambar for the third time in three days. The ninth time since my arrival. I didn't even really like it to begin with!
Every day there is a speech about how eating homecooked food is the only thing allowed. Eating "outside" as she calls it is frowned upon. To the point that if you even think you might be gone over lunch, she will pack your lunch for you to take with you. And if you have eaten something outside the house, which I have managed to do a few times with my brother-in-law, when you get home you are promptly served whatever it is she wants you to eat. And you're served twice as much as you would have been if you hadn't already eaten. And she stands over you until you clean your plate. What I wouldn't give for a bowl of cereal at breakfast once in a while.

4. Drinking water I don't have to boil first: That one is pretty self-explanatory.

5. Understanding what people are saying even 50% of the time: My mother-in-law seems to think that the best way to teach me to speak whichever of the three languages she has seized on at the moment, is to say something completely incomprehensible and then stare at me while wiggling her eyebrows. I don't know if she is waiting for me to repeat what she's said or she's waiting for me to respond. Repeating it only makes her say it again and wiggle her eyebrows some more. And a response is impossible as I don't have the first clue what she has said, I don't even know if it's a question or a statement. And my in-laws constantly contradict each other on the correct words for things or the way to say something. So essentially all I'm learning is that I can't learn a language from my family. This does not stop the painfully long monologues (sometimes dialogues if someone else is around) after which I'm asked if I understood. Of course I didn't! You were speaking three different languages at once and you mumble so much it sounds like one continuous word! For thirty minutes! My in-laws insist on going with me whenever I get the chance to meet or speak with someone I'm interested in working with while I'm here. They also insist on guiding the conversation out of English as much as possible.
I really do want to learn so that I can communicate here, but it is sooo incredibly difficult. There are many words that mean very different things, but the only difference between the pronunciation of the words is a sound I cannot for the life of me make. Every word has at least one sound my mouth cannot seem to form.

6. Sunshine and heat: It doesn't rain all of the time, the way movies would have you believe. But it rains quite a bit. And when it isn't raining, it's usually overcast. Sometimes the sky clears and there is actual direct sunshine...but it somehow isn't the same. When I sit outside to try and soak up the sun, it feels completely different on my skin than it does back home. I can't explain it, but it makes me sad. I love warm sunshine. And I love ridiculously hot summers. Yet the hottest it gets here right now is generally the lowest the temperature is getting at home. I want to be home and stand outside in the sweltering heat and feel the sunshine on my face melting my makeup and making my clothes wilt.

But it's not all sadness and gloom. There are many things that I will miss about India when I get back home:

1. Being noticed: At home, I blend in with the crowd. I'm just like every other girl. Here, I am unlike anything most of these people have seen before. I attract attention. I get noticed. Even on a crowded street filled with beautiful women, everyone turns to look at me. And not because my hair has absorbed every drop of moisture in the air and is now big enough to house a small aviary as would generally be the case at home. But because I am fascinating.

2. Being able to cross the street wherever I damn well please instead of only at the corners.

3. Incredible Indian food: Not that I'm getting a whole lot of that here. But I know I could if I can just throw off the leash my mother-in-law has me on. At home, we don't even bother to eat at Indian restaurants because they're all just so ridiculously bad.

Crap, I'm all out. Well there are still 4 more weeks to go, so I'm sure I will find many more things that I will miss about being here. I can already see that I would probably love living here for a while as long as I did not have to live with (or near) my in-laws. This country is getting under my skin, in both good and bad ways, and I'm sure it will only dig its way deeper by the time I leave.

Inspirational stories...and the way people can twist them

Today I heard the most inspiring story.

There is a man here in Pune who grew up in a slum. Somehow, his parents managed to send him to an "English-medium" school ( meaning classes are taught in English). As he got older, every day when he came home from school there would be a line of slum-dwellers waiting for him with things they needed his help to read. At the age of 16, he decided he needed to do something to help the people of his slum. So he started a school. It began with just a few kids meeting on the floor of his shanty. 30 years later, he is the principal of a school for all of the slum children. Just a few years ago, they finally had enough money to build an actual structure for the school. Teachers who could earn more money at other schools stay because they adore the man they work for. Children who would never have the opportunity for formal education are getting the chance to change their future. It's enough to bring tears to my eyes. And make me instantly want to visit.

I learned about this man and his school through a friend of my mother-in-law. This auntie is an incredible woman. She oozes peace and kindness. She and her husband are very well off (her house is incredible even by American standards...I could happily live in just her foyer), and she devotes a good deal of time and resources to helping those less fortunate. (This is the same woman who housed many warkaris, the pilgrims, when the palkhi came through this weekend.) She is incredibly easy to talk to, and she seemed to take a liking to me as well, seeing things in me that no one has ever noticed before. I could probably spend every day with her and be happy as a clam.

But for every good experience, there seems to be a bad experience as well. Meeting this woman introduced some very bad aspects of my mother-in-law (ok I've suspected, or in some cases known, they were there, but don't need it flaunted in front of me).

For starters, I had been told that this auntie "runs a school in the village." The school is in a slum, not a village (those are very different things), and she does not "run the school," she makes monetary donations and sometimes visits. After learning the actual origin of the school, I questioned my mother-in-law on why she said Auntie operates the school, and she responded with "she gives money, without her the school could not be." Oh really? Because it was up and running for 29 years before she learned of it and became involved. But obviously, the work of a slum boy is not worthy, it must be because of the involvement of a member of the higher class.

As I mentioned yesterday, this auntie was giving a lecture on the palkhi that I'd been invited to. It turned out that my mother-in-law didn't want to go, but even in letting me know that we weren't going she had to make it sound like it was because of me. "If you are tired, you should not go." Today, when Auntie mentioned my lack of presence at the lecture, Mama jumped in to say she had wanted to go, but it was not possible because I went out with friends. Plans I had made after Mama canceled going to the lecture. Annoyed with the blame game and unable to hold my tongue, I said that Mama and Papa had another meeting they had to attend instead. At which point Mama said she had offered to drop me off at the lecture (this was news to me!) but it, again, "was not possible." Whatever, she's a brat, I let it go.

Auntie and I discussed my background and what it is I want to do while I'm here. When I expressed my view that you can do more for yourself and your family, and better, if you also do things for others, Auntie broadcast her approval and said such kind things about me and my outlook. My mother-in-law immediately claimed credit for my opinions, saying these are things she has taught me. My mother-in-law has made it very clearly known that she believes you should do everything for your family, and then, maybe, if you have enough time and energy left over, you should do things for your "own kind". So how exactly did she instill in me a desire to help those less fortunate?

This, to me, was more than just an annoyance, it was a personal affront. I made a point of telling Auntie that my parents raised me to be this way, sending us each summer on mission trips with our church to help the poor in our community, never throwing away that which could be donated to someone in need, and on and on. Not that I thought her foolish enough to believe that, having met my mother-in-law three times, she had fully molded me into the person I am. But I needed to push back. This was not something that I could let just roll off me and chalk it up to cultural differences. I'm fairly certain something like that makes you a b**** in any culture.

My mother-in-law continued to pretend that her views and opinions are right in line with those that Auntie and I shared. And I continued to disregard her statements and make it clear in every way I could that who I am and what I think has everything to do with how my parents raised me and my life experiences and my innate personality and being, and has nothing to do with my mother-in-law.

Auntie and I continued to bond over our desires to help others, the reasons behind them, and many other things. She agreed with my statement that those who have been fortunate in life are obligated to help those who are not, and that "helping" those who have all the things you do is wasteful at best. (So take that mother-in-law-who-only-wants-to-help-people-just-like-her.) She agreed that no matter how busy you are, you should always make time to help others. (In direct contrast to Mama who believes others should only get your leftovers.) She agreed that taking care of the home and children is all well and good, but everyone should also have some other work even if they don't need the money. (My mother-in-law had just spent the car ride there explaining how village life is the best life because it is so simple and all you do is care for your home and children...just thinking about a life like that makes me want to shoot myself.) My favorite moment came when Auntie mourned the fact that Indian parents treat their children like babies even well after their grown, and proceeded to sing the praises of the more American style of child-rearing that results in competent and independent individuals. (In your face! Finally some vindication that the child-rearing tactics I'm constantly lectured on here blow. Hard.)

The final nail in the coffin of any favorable opinion I may have had of my mother-in-law came on the car ride home. Or I should say nails. First she talked about how she always maintains her relationships (upon entering Auntie's house she commented on the redecorating...that was done 10 years ago) and never allows any bad blood with anyone (except her daughter-in-law...). Then she said you should always have good relationships with many people, but never get in deep. Get in deep? Never get too close, she explained. Ah, so the secret to a good life is to have no real friends. Got it. I think Ted Bundy adhered to the same philosophy.

But the kicker was when she gave her shpeal about how, before I even came, she had told my hubby that she should introduce me to this particular auntie. A few days ago, when I was kvetching to hubby about my difficulties finding work to do here, he began brainstorming with me and remembered this auntie who was always involved in a lot of things, and maybe she could help find something for me. The next morning, he called his mother and mentioned it to her. She then called this auntie to find out what the heck she's up to these days. And there this meeting was born.

Now, my husband has been known to play ideas off as his own. But not in such a blatant way. Usually it's something as simple as "hey why don't we go do such and such this weekend", and, with a little questioning, it's revealed that the creative idea came from a coworker who had just done whatever the weekend before and highly recommended it. Never would he lay claim to something he had nothing to do with and then sing his own praises about what a great idea it was. If he ever did that, I would have to smack him. Much like I feel like doing to my mother-in-law right now.

Venting and complaining aside (I apologize but really had to get that out before I can play nice with her again), this is really just an example of a much bigger problem. For every truly great thing someone does, there will always be someone else to come along and ruin it. Some people literally ruin it by changing it into something else entirely, or at the very least changing it just enough to rid it of all its original good effects (the IMF comes to mind...). Some people just rain on the parade and make it hard for anyone else to learn of the good being done (and by extension, hard for anyone else to contribute to the good being done). Some people try to steal the thunder from those who actually do the work. However they go about it, someone will always be there to ruin a good thing.

Work like this is difficult enough. I don't know a single development student who hasn't at some time or another become completely discouraged by the scale of the problem and how ingrained harmful actions can be in a society. Development students start out like President Obama:  they're full of good ideas and desire to make real, meaningful change. Then they get into it and see, just like Obama did, that the decks are stacked so far against them, there are more obstacles to change than they can count, and there will always be someone whose job it is to ensure change does not happen. Discouragement sets in and they start to wonder "what was I thinking getting into this? The problem is so big and I'm just one person, there's no way I can make a difference." Add in those people who find infinite ways to belittle or discourage the good works that actually are being done, and it seems like an insurmountable problem.

To find these inspirational stories, and to continue to be inspired by them even in the midst of all the negativity, so that you can go on to create your own inspirational story, is a truly enormous challenge. But it can be done. A little boy in the slums can find a way out, and he can go on to show others the way. Faced with much fewer challenges than this boy, what can you do?

This is...palkhi

This is palkhi. 

If you say that like "This is Spinal Tap" it sounds a lot more interesting.

My understanding of this event is severely lacking, because even the English-language news articles have words I don't understand literally every other word. So really their just like the Marathi reports except using roman characters and putting the non-English words in quotations. Helpful.

From what I can glean from the haphazard way my father-in-law explains things, palkhi is this:  members of lower castes who are devotees of some god (sorry, missed that part) make an annual pilgrimage from some rural area in Maharashtra, through Pune (and lots of other places), to a temple of this particular god. On foot. It takes about 15 days. Of walking. All day. And then they have to walk back. Yeah. I'm not that devoted to anything. 

So yesterday, the palkhi arrived in Pune. There were estimated to be 250,000 people. Which is apparently fewer than last year. Wowza. (Btw, 250,000 is also called 2.5 lakhs. Takes just as much effort to say, and then you have to figure out how much that actually is. I just don't get it. Anyway, that's your Indianism for the day.)

We attempted to go see the procession, as I hear that they sing and play drums and cymbals the whole way. But after sitting in traffic for over an hour and moving maybe a quarter of a mile in that time, we turned around and came home. The pilgrims spent last night in Pune and took today as a day of rest before setting back out tomorrow morning. So while I didn't get to see them en masse, I saw plenty of them sleeping by the side of the road and in trucks and in shop stalls and anywhere else they could find a patch of ground.

Anyone who knows me even a little bit (or even has just seen me in a public place) knows I don't do crowds. I do not enjoy having no control over where I am going because it's impossible to move independently of those around you. I don't enjoy not being able to look around because I must keep my eyes at all times on the person I am trying to follow (usually my husband who always seems to forget I'm trying to follow him...today I learned he comes by that honestly but moving on...). I just don't like crowds.

I knew I had to sort of check that at the door when coming to India. India is a crowded country. There's no such thing as personal space because it's just not even possible. So you have to be prepared to battle the crowds to some degree no matter where you are. But even then, when I'm prepared for the situation, I usually spend the entire time hyperventilating and looking for the nearest way out. 

But today that did not happen. Maybe it was the vibe of all those religious pilgrims gathered together ("where two or more are gathered in my name..."). Maybe it was the fact that it had been my idea to check it out in the first place, so I better not back out. Who knows? All I know is, I was calm, I was focused, I maneuvered my way through that crowd like a pro never once losing either one of my in-laws, and I still managed to take in what was going on around me. 

There was a massive line winding through the streets of people waiting to see whatever it was the pilgrims had carried with them...had something to do with two saints...I saw the things and I still don't know. Anyway, it was the first time I've seen a line of Indians all waiting patiently with no pushing and even standing with adequate space between each other. We, however, did what I so often reprimand both my husband and my in-laws for doing...we skipped to the front of the line. We walked right past everyone else and right up to the police officers guarding an entrance. They were letting in the seriously elderly or crippled who couldn't spend hours standing in line. They also let in the white girl. 

This being India (and more importantly, a religious site, temporary though it may be) we had to shed our shoes before going in. Once inside, you hardly had to walk for yourself as the row of police physically propelled you along. As soon as you touched the holy item, which in this case was a cast of someone's footprints, an officer thumbed something black onto your forehead and you were ripped away and pushed deeper into the room. 

We made our way through the room in I'd say less than one minute. There were a few other temples that people would stop at before being shoved along by the police, but I left that to those who actually knew who they were worshiping. 

When it was all done, we were dumped out the far side of the room. On the opposite side of the building from our shoes. Into the makeshift bathrooms that had been set up for the pilgrims. I told myself the ground was wet from the showers, not from the toilet areas, as we padded barefoot down the alley. Then it was back out into the crowd to work our way through the streets, barefoot, back around to where we'd left our shoes. Wouldn't it make more sense to just have people carry them in their hand? I definitely would have preferred that. The other thing about being in a crowd is you can't see the ground to look where you're stepping. And I'll just leave that one at that.

When we finally made it back home, after spending another hour hanging out roadside while Mama did her business with the fruitwalla, we discovered there was no water. It would be another 30 minutes for the water tank to fill and give us water. My in-laws sat down and tucked into lunch. I looked at the blackness of my feet and the dirt caked onto my hands, and silently bemoaned the fact that I am not in the U.S. where eating like that is only done by the homeless.

The evening was going to be spent at the house of a family friend who was letting a few of the pilgrims stay with her and is going to give a lecture on the palkhi. In Marathi. I was so looking forward to this, as you can imagine. But my mother-in-law (whose idea it was to go) decided she did not want to go, and so told me that if I am too tired it's ok, I don't have to go. I wonder what she would have done if I'd responded that I really wanted to attend the lecture? 

At any rate, I'm off the hook for the evening, so I am heading over to B's house to hang out. I could really use a nap, but I will happily forego that in favor of some time spent with people my own age!

No matter how you slice it...

Today I came across what I think is the best and most easily understandable description of Hinduism I've heard.

Hinduism gets a bad rap. I'm thinking the only reason Americans (ahem...the fundamentalist Christian GOP) are not ripping the religion to shreds and trying to have all our IT workers deported from the country, is because things rarely (if ever) get blown up in the name of Shiva. So for now, the good little Hindus are fairly safe from criticism, thanks to a handful of bad apples in the Muslim community hogging all the spotlight.

But Hinduism still gets a bad rap. Back in college when my future hubby and I first started getting serious, I checked out a book from the school library...The Complete Idiots Guide to Hinduism. I just wanted a little overview to help understand his background, and this book seemed a good fit because it really is written so that a complete idiot can follow. The book was so eye-opening and informative, in fact, that once I could no longer hold that copy hostage from the library, I went out and bought my own. And proceeded to mark it up with highlighter like a good college student.

Before that book, all I knew about Hindus was that they "worship idols". That being one of the major no-no's in Christianity, I assumed like many people that Hinduism must be a wacko religion and I'd do well to stay away from that. But that book taught me that if you know even a little bit about Hinduism, it's not even remotely wacko. In fact it started to make a lot of sense.

Unfortunately, I would tell people this and they would then want me to explain how it works. And I couldn't. Well, I could, but it would take me about 300 pages to do so. That book's one fault is that it didn't give me any nifty short stories or one-liners to sum the whole thing up so that in a minute or less I could make light bulbs go off in people's heads and everyone would have that "ah-ha" moment that I had.

Well now, ladies and gentleman, I have found that nifty little summation. It goes a little somethin' like this: hit it! (Forgive me, the early 90s seem to have invaded my body for a moment. Moving on...)

"There's millions of gods, but all represent aspects of three, and all three are really one. Brahma is the Generator, Vishnu the Organizer and Shiva the Destroyer. Together they are G.O.D. or Brahman. All the millions of Hindu gods are just forms of the one Supreme Being."

The book this comes from goes on to say that Brahman can be worshiped in any aspect.

See, it's really quite simple isn't it? It's like the Holy Trinity but more logical! (Ok, I'm sorry, I'm sure that just offended some of you, but really the whole "son of God" thing always bothered me. I never understood why I couldn't just think of Jesus as God in human form rather than his son. I don't want to think about God semen ok? Ok.) Anyway...where was I?

Ah, so the simplicity that is Hinduism. While I will admit that some of the gods have pretty far-fetched, and at times irrational, background stories, and the fact that different regions of the country tend to have one god they prefer over the others makes no real sense to me, the general concept is easy peasy. All those little gods represent one attribute of God. 

For example, Ganesha, who figures prominently in my in-laws' household, is the remover of obstacles; he has the power to remove obstacles from your path, or to place obstacles in your way if you need to be reigned in. Lakshmi is the goddess of wealth; she is worshiped on Divali and that is the time that many people make their large purchases for the year, and take special care of the items that contribute to their prosperity such as school books or items they use in their jobs (Divali with my family is celebrated at Papa's factory).

And there are many other gods that represent many other aspects of the one God. Who is the same God worshiped in every other religion, but I'll save that soapbox for another day.

Where are my ruby slippers?

Being sick in India is a little like waking up in Oz. Nothing is as it seems and it's all very contradictory to what you're used to. (I should specify, being sick in India at my in-laws' house...I don't know how other Indian parents behave in this situation.)

Growing up, if I was sick at my stomach, it was all stale soda crackers and flat ginger ale and maybe some clear broth if I was a good girl (unless my dad was taking care of me, in which case there was always always always peanut butter on those soda crackers, something I still crave whenever I don't feel well). No dairy, no foods that are hard to digest, no sweets. As an adult I quickly learned that a big cup of coffee is a surefire way to let's say clear out your stomach in the morning. If I had a cold, the prescription was much the same. Simple foods like broth, the steamier the better, and lots and lots of rest. Always rest when you're sick. We weren't even allowed to leave the bed to rest on the sofa and watch tv until we started feeling better. This is what I grew up with.

And then I came to India. I know it's on the opposite side of the world, but I didn't realize that meant everything has to be the opposite.

Not long after I got here, I got sick at my stomach. This terrified me because the last time I got sick at my stomach in India, it lasted for two weeks and cost me about 20 pounds and only went away once I was safely back in the U.S. I still had about 7 weeks left on this trip, so naturally I freaked out and tried to do everything possible to ensure it would pass quickly. This is not easy to do when what you think you should do to feel better and what your in-laws think you should do to feel better are not at all the same thing. I was given daal three meals a day, a food that is notoriously difficult to digest. I was force fed a glass of milk every morning. Coffee was prescribed as a surefire way to calm the bowels and put an end to my sprinting to the bathroom.

All of my protests about how my stomach would actually react to these things were completely ignored or dismissed with a comment about how I just haven't been doing it right. And those brief, shining moments where my mother-in-law would appear to actually be upset that I felt so terrible and would seem to be taking care of me came to an abrupt end as soon as she had accomplished her goal for that particular minute (say, stopping the stomach cramps with some home remedy) or it was determined that I still did not feel better even after two minutes of attention from her. She would then promptly expect me to jump up and be 100% cured and ready for whatever it is she had planned for me that day, anything from helping to cook to going to a party with her friends. She is the queen of the fake out.

This week, after several days in a row of running around outside in all the dirt and pollution that is India, followed by a morning spent in the cold raininess of Sinhagard, I woke up with a cold. A full-on can't breathe, sneezing and blowing the nose nonstop, fevered, exhausting cold. On day one, this was met with some sympathy. They got me up to bathe and eat breakfast, then sent me right back to bed. Hallelujah. They understand what it means to be sick and are looking out for me! Day two of the cold, however, was met with a mixture of amazement that I could possibly still be sick and annoyance that I would do this to me for a second day.

My brother-in-law, who I know for a fact fell sick for no fewer than 5 days right after he returned to India from the U.S., suggested going for a jog would make me feel better. Because when your body is using all its resources to fight off a virus, it's always a good idea to do some heavy activity to give it competition. My mother-in-law repeatedly told me I should go outside for a walk. Outside on the traffic-laden road with all the dirt flying and the pollution that even natives can't handle? No thanks. In the evening I was told I would wake up at 5:30 in the morning to go to the gym with my mother-in-law because "once you get the body warm, the cold will go." I fully agree...if you're talking about the temperature. But since we're not, I will bite your head off if you dare to wake me at that hour.

Thankfully, today I woke up feeling much better, though I still need to carry a tissue box around with me. When I went downstairs at the much more respectable hour of 9:30 (compared to 1pm yesterday) I was met with such a look of relief. You would have thought I'd told them I was going to blow up their house and showed them the bomb, then said 'just kidding' and revealed it was actually playdoh.

I realize there are probably many many things I will never understand about my in-laws, and many things they will never understand about me. Maybe one day we can establish a truce where they're not expected to take care of me as long as they let me do things how I need to do them when I'm sick. Or maybe (hopefully) I'll just never ever get sick again while I'm in their house. I know the latter is probably impossible but so, I fear, is the former.

Sinhagad

Today we went to Sinhagad, an old fort about an hour drive from Pune (or at least from our house). I'm told the name means "lion fort." It got the name when some guy died recapturing the fort from the mughals (after he scaled a steep cliff leading to the fort with the help of a monitor lizard...make of that what you will). "Gad aala pan sinha gela" - "We gained the fort but lost the lion."

That's all the history I know of the place, and for once I don't really care to know more. Very little of the structure remains and it's now basically a pretty walk on a big hill with lots of huts set up to make and sell food.

If this photo looks old to you, that's because it is. I didn't take any photos today, because everything looks exactly the same as it did when we visited two years ago. We were followed by this very same woman, wearing this very same sari, carrying this very same giant tub of yogurt wrapped in this very same fabric. The only things different today from two years ago: the woman was wearing a different sweater, I was wearing a different rain jacket, I now have no hair, and this time they didn't make me put the pot on my head for a photo op.

Mama and Papa drank water out of a slightly more beat up looking bucket than this one, but from this same "well" that is actually just run-off from the pond above it.

Everything about the day was the same as two years ago. It was cold and rainy, I heard the story about the lizard, tada. Hubby of course was not with us on this visit, but his brother was instead. Luckily they did not try to make us recreate any of the awkwardly posed photos from two years ago. That would have been weird.

All in all it was a nice trip, though I wish I had more exciting stories to tell. I was a lot more comfortable this time around with the whole pee-behind-a-bush-eat-food-cooked-on-the-floor-of-a-hut thing, so I suppose that's something. Yay me!

India's Elite

I just came across this article from the New York Times which was written right after India won the Cricket World Cup for the first time in 28 years.

The author says "It might have appeared on Saturday that there is much that connects the different rungs of the Indian society and that cricket is the proof. But the truth is that cricket is the only manmade phenomenon that connects the nation’s upper classes with its vast masses. There is absolutely nothing else."


He goes on to talk about how the goal of India's elite is to protect themselves from India; to build a bubble around themselves that the crowds, dust and poverty cannot penetrate. I see this in action all too well every day here.


My in-laws are far from the most wealthy family in Pune. But they are far from the poorest too, and that's what counts here. They didn't inherit their money like many of the elite here. On the contrary, Mama grew up in a village, the youngest of too many kids to count, and her father died when she was very young leaving them struggling to get by. Papa grew up in a two room apartment (not two bedrooms, two rooms - kitchen and everything else - the bathroom was quite a walk outside) and his father was a teacher. Not exactly the makings of a billionaire family.


But Papa went on to become an engineer and started his own company at the ripe old age of 25. Ten years ago they were able to buy a plot of land and build their own house. When they bought this land, there was nothing else around them. They had no control over what buildings became their neighbors. When I stand in the yard looking out over the wall that encircles their property at the poorly maintained bordering on dilapidated apartment buildings around us, it gives me a surreal feeling. I wonder what the tenants of those buildings think, looking out of their grimy windows at our house?


The house is three stories high with three separate terraces. Four bedrooms, four bathrooms...it's more like an American house than an Indian house. The floors are all made of marble. A giant picture window graces the front of the house, covering all three floors. Despite the lavish details, the house still becomes dirty at breakneck speed from the dry dustiness that is India. No sooner has it been cleaned then a fine layer of dust resettles on everything. Of course this hardly matters because the maid will clean it again tomorrow.


Yes, my in-laws have a maid. Who comes every single day. She does the laundry and hangs it to dry. She washes ALL of the dishes. She cleans every room in the house every day. We do...nothing. We don't even call her by her name, this woman who spends several hours in our house every day. We call her bai, the marathi word for female servant (not to be confused with bhai, the hindi word for brother...the only difference seems to be an exhalation...damn these languages!).


There is also a...let's say groundskeeper, Bua. Bua was hired by in-laws to watch the property while the house was being built. He spent his days and nights on a construction site. He stayed on with them after the house was completed. My in-laws seem to view his employment as some sort of charity. He's too old to get work anywhere else, so he should feel lucky to have this job. 


The man is probably in his 70s, though no one seems to know for sure. He washes the cars (there are three, even though there are usually only two people living here). He opens and closes the gate every time someone leaves or comes home. He carries everything in from the car, whether it's groceries, Papa's laptop bag, whatever. No one else carries in anything. He maintains the lawn and garden Papa is so proud of. He runs any errand my in-laws need, coming running when they holler for him from any part of the house. They even expected him to carry my 50 pound suitcase up the stairs, but I refused to let him. 


For all this work, he is fed tiny meals compared to what is heaped on our plates. He must eat them outside. In fact, he must stay outside all of the time unless expressly asked to come into the house. If no one is home, he is locked out. He spends most nights sleeping on the porch. I'm pretty sure in the U.S. this would qualify as elder abuse. But he's getting paid, so he should feel lucky is my in-laws take. 


Last night my mother-in-law told me that, when hiring people to work at Papa's factory or in the office, they give preference to Hindus. The provide school books and uniforms for the workers' children. "You should not go anywhere to do social work," she told me. "You should only do within your community." That's all well and good unless you're telling me to only help people who are like me (which it really sounds like you are), in which case you can shove it. If you're telling me not to only help people in other countries without also helping those in my own, ok. But I really don't think that's what you're saying. Considering you refer to the children and staff I interact with at Manavya as "those people."


Both of their children have gone to university in the U.S. I'm not complaining, it gave me the opportunity to meet the man I love, but it's not like they got in-state tuition or anything. It cost them a pretty penny. Both kids also went to private school here in India. My father-in-law was trying to convince me to get involved with the Rotary Club here, and began telling me about a tutoring program they have for underprivileged kids. He then proudly told me he started a chapter of that program at his kids' school. He started a tutoring program for underprivileged kids at a private school. Doh!


My in-laws are sweet, well-meaning people, don't get me wrong. They just don't seem to know any better. The only people they interact with are well-educated affluent people who live just like them. It's no wonder nothing can connect India's wealthy with its much poorer, and much larger, masses.

Holy Cow!

A friend recommended the book Holy Cow! to me, and I was able to pick it up here in India for literally a fraction of the price it would cost in the U.S. I only started reading it this afternoon but can already tell I'm going to like it.

It's written by a woman who visited India for the first time and hated it, but a palm reader told her she would come back for love. Eleven years later she does just that, which is where the book picks up. But her story of the first visit (albeit brief) had me rolling.

Once she boards her plane out of there she says "As we take off I give smog-swirled New Delhi the finger. 'Goodbye and good riddance, India, I hate you and I'm never, never, ever coming back.'"

Hey that sounds vaguely familiar...oh yes, that's right, that was ME on my first visit too!

Except it wasn't Delhi. No, I adored Delhi. Drivers obeyed traffic signals and acknowledged the existence of lanes, nobody bothered the foreigner because there were just too many foreigners to worry about it, monkeys sat cutely by the side of the road and never once tried to steal food out of my hand or exhibited any sign of rabies. If anything, I was sad to leave Delhi to return to Pune.

My "I hate India" breakdown happened at a train station in Mumbai. I'd been here for three weeks and survived two weddings and a debilitating illness (though I wasn't sure yet that I had survived that last one). It was our last day in India. We'd taken the morning train from Pune to Mumbai and spent the day sightseeing. That evening, we headed to the train station to take the local train to Thane, a suburb for lack of a better word, for dinner at an aunt's house before being dropped at the airport.

I had already learned there is no personal space in India and everyone thinks they are the most important person and everyone else should just get out of their way. It's the reason driving here is so...life threatening.

At the train station, there were only a few ticket windows open and lines were long. I had a few minutes to observe that, for every line that was formed, an additional line would form beside it so that people could cut in line at the window. Then a new window opened. I was tired, I was irritable, these people were on my last nerve. When the new window opened, I ran just like everyone else: kicking out in every direction with elbows flying, not caring who I hit just as long as they did not get in front of me. My much more relaxed hubby strolled up to join me at our new spot much closer to the window.

It soon became clear, however, that for each person who'd actually gotten in line that got served at the window, a person in the second, cheating line would also get served. Therefore making it take twice as long as it should have. After a few minutes of this, I stepped over into the second line thinking we'd see which line went faster and get our turn that way. Well when I got up to the front of this second line, there was only one guy in front of hubby. I just couldn't bring myself to break in front of him. I was raised with manners dammit!

So against the wishes of the surging crowd behind me, I gestured for the man to go ahead and get his tickets. This unleashed the fury of everyone in both lines and several people who already had their tickets. People began shoving and yelling (well, more so than they were already). I couldn't understand the words but I could understand there were insults being hurled against me. I singlehandedly formed a human blockade around the ticket window so know one could push past me, try as they might. And boy did they try. I had bruises to show for it.

I held my ground until the man, who didn't seem even a little thankful, completed his purchase and hubby bought our tickets. Then I ran like hell for the platform. As if I could hide there, being the big blonde-haired white chick. But all rationale had left me at this point because I was a little bit scared for my life. Not completely though, because I know that as worked up as Indians get about things, they also let them go super quick. Most likely as soon as I was away from the ticket counter, everyone promptly forgot about me.

I, of course, did not forgive and forget so quickly. After a few minutes of raving about the general assholeiness (that's a word, I swear) of these people, which I most likely generalized to all Indians instead of just those inside the train station, I broke into tears.

"I acted just like them. I'm becoming one of them!" I cried. "Get me the hell out of this godforsaken country RIGHT NOW!!!"

I faked my way through dinner, speaking as little as possible for fear I'd say something horrible. My in-laws, who had driven our luggage from Pune, drove us to the airport. At the Mumbai airport, people who don't have tickets aren't even allowed in the building, so all goodbyes are said outside. I did my best to look sad to be leaving my in-laws, but inside I was doing a happy dance. We finally pulled away and went into the airport. We were immediately faced with a departures screen that said our flight had been delayed. By 5 hours. I looked at my husband and said "don't you even think about going back outside this airport."

The wait for the flight consisted mostly of hubby trying to placate me with hot chocolate and the like, and him running back and forth to check on our flight while I "watched" the luggage, meaning I laid sleeping on top of a suitcase. We eventually found ourselves waiting in a stony silence. I directed all my anger and frustration of the past three weeks at him. And from his side, well I had just essentially rejected his home, his family, his upbringing...HIM. How could he not be upset with me?

When our plane finally took off, I watched out the window as we flew over the city. As soon as we were over the sea, I leaned back, closed my eyes and thought to myself "never again."

Now, less than two years later, not only am I back in India and staying with my in-laws again, but I'm doing it voluntarily and without my husband. Clearly there's been a shift. I'm not exactly sure how though.

To be fair, the first trip had a lot against it from the beginning. It was the first time I was meeting the parents. That's nervewracking for anyone, no matter the circumstances. It was my first time on such a long flight. It was my first time in India. I was in school and had to double up on the workload in preparation for missing three weeks of class. And most importantly, despite my protests that I wasn't ready for a big wedding, which my in-laws had seemed to understand in the beginning, I had somehow been talked into having a big fat Indian wedding during the trip. So I kinda went into it already hating them. Not the best start. But in my defense, they also played right into all of my worst fears.

But regardless of the reasons why it was such a bad trip, the point is that it was a very bad horrible trip. So why did I not even bat an eye at the thought of doing this again? Selective memory loss perhaps? Or maybe I've just grown up. Hey, stop laughing! But I guess what it really comes down to is just like the girl in the book. I did it for love.

Maybe this wasn't such a crazy idea after all

Today all I wanted was some distance from my mother-in-law. So of course the exact opposite happened.

We went to the gym and walked home together. We cooked and ate breakfast together. We cooked lunch together. Then she asked if I wanted to go with her to buy fruits and vegetables. Indian markets are awesome so of course I said yes. I assumed she shopped at one of the many wallas lining the street close to home (I really don't know the best way to explain "walla"...someone who sells stuff, usually not in an official shop). But no, we piled into the car and drove for about 30 minutes, at which point she finally mentioned that she had a blouse at the tailor's in the city she needed to pick up.

We technically stay in Pune, but it's kinda like the metro DC area:  spread out and encompassing a lot of different areas. So we had to drive into the heart of the city to go to the tailor. There was a lot of traffic which slowed us down, and along the way we stopped at several different roadside wallas to buy random stuff like jackfruit. We finally get to the tailor and I recognize it as the same shop we went to with my mom and sisters to have blouses and underskirts made for their saris. I went in to make the pickup and spent a few wondrous minutes gazing at the floor to ceiling shelves of fabric. Now I'm trying to figure out how to convince her to give me money and drop me off at the tailor's so I can shop alone...

After leaving the tailor we went to the vegetable stand, where everyone was very fascinated with me and attempting to talk to me. Man I need to learn Marathi.

Shopping in India is a vastly different experience from shopping in the U.S. At home, you wander through the store on your own, finding whatever you need, and not interacting with any store employees until checkout time. Here, you do nothing. The shopkeeper brings everything to show you. Looking for fabric? They'll pull down 47 bolts whether you asked for them or not. You just sit and point and give orders. Veggie shopping is a lot like that too. The shopkeeper gets the veggies for you, lets you inspect them, gets others if you think they aren't good enough, weighs all of it, bags it up, and puts it in your car for you. And then, once they've done all that for you, they bring you a cup of tea. Really friggin good tea. I have GOT to figure out how to get back to that neighborhood on my own.

After all this, we drove home and ate lunch together at 3 in the afternoon. Giving me roughly 3 hours before I'll be expected back in the kitchen to help her cook dinner.

Now I would expect that spending all this time with my mother-in-law when she is the last person I want to see would lead to getting more annoyed with her and possibly saying something I'll regret later. But wouldn't you know that woman wiggled her way back into my good graces! She's just so smiley and laughing and happy acting (even when she's delivering insults) that it's almost impossible to stay upset with her for long. Not to say I haven't done it, I pretty much despised her with a passion for the entire three weeks of my first visit. But now that I know her better and can talk with her more, it's very difficult to stay mad.

Of course it's not like I wanted to stay mad at her, that would really defeat the entire purpose of my stay here. But that's neither here nor there. The point is that this woman can blatantly insult me and make me want to hit her one minute, and the next we're laughing and chatting over tea like we've never had a disagreement in our lives.

This reinforces something I realized while talking to the kids at the shelter. They were trying to learn all about me within the confines of their limited English, and a lot of questions centered around my family. Of course I referred to my blood relatives as my family, and my husband's family as my in-laws. Well the kids didn't understand "in-laws" and I couldn't come up with another word to use. So I started calling them my family too. I tried a bit of  "my husband's mother" and things like that, but after a little while that got dropped too. So I was speaking of everyone, my parents, my sisters, my husband, my brother-in-law, my mother- and father-in-law, as my family.

And then I realized...it's true. I don't just mean they're my family by marriage either. I am finally starting to see these people as a part of my family. For better or worse, insults or happy moments, these guys are my family and I love them. And being able to have an argument and make up feels like proof of that.

Pardon me while I vent a little

I like to think this has been a largely positive blog, not just an outlet for complaining. Today, though, I need to complain.

I realized this morning that today I have been here for two weeks. While perhaps I should have reacted with the thought that hey, I'm two weeks in and doing great, my actual reaction was more along the lines of that's all? I had hoped that once I got busy and into a routine, time would fly by. These two weeks have definitely not flown anywhere. If they're flying, they're flying in place.

I still have six weeks to go, and today I'm feeling down and questioning what I was thinking getting into this in the first place. And wondering how I'm ever going to make it through.

Everything seems to be getting on my nerves.

I hate the bugs and the complete lack of an attempt to keep them out of the house. The other night a mosquito found its way inside the mosquito net on my bed, and I woke up with bites everywhere including on my neck and face. What kind of mosquito bites your face!? I can't sit downstairs with the family in the evenings because even coated in insect repellent and constantly swatting with a newspaper, it's impossible to keep the bugs away. As I was going to bed, I spotted a beetle in my room. Not surprising, as the door to the terrace right beside my room had been open all day. I killed it and went to get something to clean it up with. When I returned, my father-in-law had kicked it out into the hallway. He said that in the night the ants would come and take it away. When I realized he was serious I felt a little sick.

Yesterday, as my brother-in-law and I got a snack from a roadside shop, I questioned the intelligence of that decision as I watched the flies swarm all around and wondered if the people preparing the food were even remotely clean. Today, as I watched my mother-in-law prepare food in her kitchen, which according to her is the only safe place to get food, I constantly swatted flies away and saw her commit any number of health code violations I'd rather not mention. It's disturbing to think food prepared at home and food prepared at a roadside stand are probably equally dangerous in terms of dirt and bacteria.

Speaking of cooking with my mother-in-law...I've done well up to this point to ignore her misguided comments and passive aggressive bs, but I feel the time is quickly coming when I will snap and respond in anger. She refuses to acknowledge that I do 90% of the cooking in my house including Indian dishes. She assumes my husband does it all no matter how often I tell her to the contrary. It's like she can't comprehend that I might actually take good care of her son. While discussing the fact that my brother-in-law can never get enough salt, I happened to mention that any time I think a dish is missing something, hubby says it needs salt, as though salty is the only flavor in the world. My dear sweet mother-in-law said that's because he doesn't have the heart to tell me the food isn't good, and salt can help mask any bad taste. She said this to my face while smiling! Bitch. Hubby loves my cooking thank you very much. And in all honesty, I prefer both mine and my hubby's cooking to hers. But if you ever tell her I said that I'll hurt you.

As I type this, I can hear my mother-in-law practicing for her classical singing class. Everyone tells me she has such a great singing voice. To me, it sounds like she's killing cats. Even my brother-in-law has the tv blaring and is listening to something on his computer with earphones. In all fairness, pretty much all types of Indian singing that I've been exposed to, whether it's Bollywood songs or hubby's beloved ghazals, sound bad the first time you hear it. Singing voices are not clear and they're apparently not supposed to be. Women's voices are screechy and men's voices sound like they're all lifelong smokers. It's an acquired taste if you didn't grow up with it. But it just reminds me of all the times I'd be singing hymns in church or something and wishing my voice was pure and clear like my mother's. Hers is a great voice. Never once made me think anything was dying.

Like I said, things are just driving me crazy today. I miss my home, my bed, my cat, the relatively safe assumption that nothing I eat is going to make me horribly ill. Most of all I miss my husband. It is not easy to go from waking up beside a person every morning, falling asleep beside them every night, and being able to talk to each other any time you feel like it, to being something like 8,000 miles and 9 and a half hours apart, talking only for a few minutes before he goes to sleep at night and before he starts work in the mornings, and having your in-laws monopolize those brief moments more often than not. Six more weeks is a loooong time.

Being faux Indian is hard to do

I think the clothes Indian women wear are beautiful. The draping fabric, the vibrant colors, the intricate details. I love people watching in India because it's like a parade of beauty coming down the street. Even the women who work as maids or on the road crew wear beautiful saris while working. 

While I love to look at Indian women's clothing, I am fully aware that I am white and would just look like a poser if I were to wear them myself. Even when attending Indian events in the U.S., I usually opt against wearing any of my Indian clothing. And I have lots of it. My mother-in-law loaded me up on the last visit. Unfortunately, the clothes I ended up with are like the ugly step-siblings of what I see all the other women wearing. My two saris are actually pretty, but one is such a stiff material its completely unrealistic for any activity other than playing mannequin, and the other I haven't had a chance to wear yet. The more common day-to-day outfits are called salwar kameez. See photo:

Now bear in mind that none of mine are this pretty. In fact, one is the color of pea soup, a color that wouldn't even flatter an Indian complexion. I've never been a big fan of these outfits.

The pants are made with so much excess fabric it's like wearing a diaper. Harem pants, basically. Even those that have a tapered leg (think skinny jeans) still have ridiculous amounts of fabric up top. You can fit maybe two extra people in the waist of these pants, which you tighten with a drawstring. So all this fabric is bunched up around your butt. Which I guess is why your top needs to be long enough to cover it. The tops are not so bad on their own, although much longer than an American girl is used to.

And then there's the spare strip of fabric, the dupatta. This can be worn many different ways. In Hindi movies you usually see it going across the front of the neck and hanging down the back, like in the photo. My mother-in-law likes to wear hers pulled more loosely in the front so it sort of drapes on her chest. And I've seen some women wearing it more spread out so it covers the shoulders and hangs down the arms. Any way you do it, it's a bitch to keep on. You lean forward, it falls off. Move an arm, it falls off. If a good stiff breeze comes up it could strangle you. It handily doubles as a shawl if your arms get cold, but that's pretty much the only time I'm glad to have one around.

Many women my age in India wear western style clothing. So I can go out in jeans and a tshirt and fit right in...well, as much is allowed by my skin and hair color anyway. But since I've been working, and especially since I've been going to a village where there hasn't exactly been a lot of western exposure, I felt like it would be more respectful to wear traditional Indian dress to work. I've worked out how to tie up my pants to minimize the bulk as much as possible. I've resorted to tying my dupatta loosely behind my back which keeps it on most of the time. I'm learning the ropes. What has taken me the longest to figure out, however, is maneuvering all this fabric around the bathroom.

For the uninitiated, Indian toilets are probably the most daunting thing you will encounter here. I probably shouldn't say "Indian toilet" because it's not just here, but moving on.

Yep, that's a porcelain hole in the floor. There are many places that will have western style toilets instead (or also), but regardless of which one you are faced with, you will not find any toilet paper. So, if you can't quite bring yourself to try the handwash dripdry method, you have to keep a clump of tissue in your hand or have your purse hanging from some part of your body. Not all that bad right? Thanks to being horribly ill on the last visit, I mastered the Indian toilet out of necessity.

However, adding 40 pounds of extra fabric to my frame makes this an entirely different matter. The floor will inevitably be wet, either because there is also a shower in the bathroom (just a shower head on the wall, you have to squeegee the floor after) or it's just been cleaned or just because of the vary nature of the Indian toilet. So attempting to move around without stepping in anything too questionable looking, and without slipping and falling, and trying to keep all the excess fabric and whatever else you have with you off the floor and out of harm's way...it's rather complicated. It did not take the kids long to discover that I always emerge from the bathroom looking very frazzled. They have no idea why that is, since this is all they've ever known, but it entertains them enough to make them follow me every time anyway.

Perhaps by the time I leave here I will have it all figured out. Either way, I will be absurdly happy to return to my own bathroom and wearing western clothes everywhere I go. I may be in India and have an Indian family, but I am American through and through.

Where to begin? A random post...

For the first time since arriving here, I didn't have time to post the last two days. Being busy is a very nice feeling after so many days of boredom, especially when it's a fun busy.

Today was my second day working at Manavya. On Saturday I went for two hours and today I was there all day. I ride in a van with others who live in Pune. Though I don't understand most of what's being said, it's nice to be around people who aren't related to me for a change.

The children seem excited to have me there, both because I give them attention and because I'm a novelty. The girls want to know all about me and the boys seem to want to protect me. Gotta love kids.

They really are a lovable group. Well, most of them. There's always a bad apple or two in the bunch. It's so easy to forget that these children are sick, because they are so incredibly happy and smiley and rambunctious. They are all aware that even with medication their lives will be short. So they are embracing the time they have. It's inspiring!

Starting Wednesday they will be in school all day during the week, so I won't be able to go play with them. Instead I'll be working in the office learning the administrative side of the organization. Sounds boring but looks good on a resume.

Yesterday I spent the afternoon with hubby's best friend. Wow was it good to talk to someone (close to) my age who speaks fluent English and totally gets the outside perspective of this family. We chatted over coffee, hit up a bookstore and a crazy grocery store that carries lots of imported items, and watched a movie. Movies in India are awesome. Though the choices were limited (because, this being India, the Hindi movies do not have English subtitles) I thoroughly enjoyed myself. The new X-Men movie is not half bad, just fyi. Even if you're not into the comic book movies (I definitely am not).

When you buy tickets to a movie here, you get assigned seats as if you were going to see a play. And, like a play, there's an intermission halfway through the movie where everyone runs to the concessions stand. But the most interesting part was before the movie started. I'm sitting there, minding my own business, when all of the sudden everyone jumps up out of their seats. The Indian flag appeared on the screen and the national anthem played. I have never seen even a single Indian stand so erect in my life, nevermind a group of about 200. It was incredible! They all stood straight and tall, shoulders back, perfectly still like soldiers at attention. And they sang! No one was looking at their phone, or commenting to the person next to each other, or any of that. It was honestly a little surreal to watch. As soon as the anthem was over they returned to normal, slouching in their seats, yelling across the aisles, letting their phones ring for far too long before answering.

I feel so much more at home in India now than I ever could have imagined possible during that first trip. Anyone who has known me for five minutes knows I don't like dirt, I don't like bugs, I don't like crowds. So I should basically be allergic to India, right? But instead I'm completely at east about it. Step in a puddle wearing sandals? Oh well, my foot will dry. Flies perching on every part of my body regardless of whether I'm moving or stationary? Eh, let em perch. Children who just ran barefoot through the mud and/or the bathroom trying on my shoes? I was planning to throw them away when I go home anyway, no biggie.

I think part of it is that I was more prepared this time. I knew what to expect, and knew things like not to bring my favorite flip flops because they would be destroyed, and not to bring my regular purse because it too would be destroyed. I basically brought only clothes that were bought in India the last time, plus one pair of jeans and some tshirts. My sneakers, which only come out of hiding for the gym and will be going through the washer as soon as I land in the U.S., ratty flip flops for wearing around the house and sandals that were bought in India that I never wear. With the exception of the sneakers, the shoes are going in the trash on my way to the airport. Same with the purse I'm carrying here. And some other things I'm sure. So I don't feel as tense when whatever I'm wearing gets dirty in a way I know will never come clean. It's no big deal. And the dirt and crowds and touchy feely people are just part of the package. It can't do anything to me that will last, so why worry? That mindset (which I really hope sticks) is a huge part of making this an experience and not just survival. And I'm lovin it.

Is it Indian mothers in general? Or just MY mother-in-law?

The exchange today at lunch went like this:

Me: This evening B (hubby's best friend) is coming by and I'm going to go out with her. I don't know if we will have dinner out or not but I will ask and let you know before I leave.

MIL: B? (comments to brother-in-law in whatever language she felt like at the moment) Ok.

We continue eating.

MIL: Today?

Me: Yes.

MIL: No today we are having dinner at Sameer mama's house.

Me: What?

MIL: Yes. It was decided.

Me: I didn't know. I made plans with B. I will see if she can change but I don't know.

Lunch continues in silence. Later, my brother-in-law suggests calling B to come by earlier, going out and then just not coming back. I laugh it off and give B a call to see if we can change plans to tomorrow. No answer. I'm not concerned. I apparently blocked all of my mother-in-law's behavior from my previous visit out of my memory. About three hours later, MIL comes to find me.

MIL: I am going to the factory now, and will come back with Papa. About 6:30 we will come back, then we will go to Sameer's.

Me: Ok. I'm still waiting to hear from B to see if we can change our plans or not.

MIL: But it is decided! We have to go!

Me: But I didn't know it had been decided. No one told me until after I told you I had made plans.

MIL: But it was decided!

Me: But you didn't tell me. And my plans with B are already decided. (Damn her for making me talk like her!)

MIL: You have to ask me before you do these things.

bug-eyed dropped-jaw stare from me

MIL: There were no other plans for Saturday so we decided.

Me: That's fine, but if you don't tell me when you decide then you can't be upset if I make other plans.

MIL: But you have to ask me if you can do this.

Me: Well you have to tell me when you make plans for me.

MIL: Just tell her Mama has decided and you must go tomorrow.

Me: I don't know if she can change to tomorrow. I have to see.

MIL: Just tell her! What is her number? Tell her to talk to me.

Me: (in my best explaining-to-a-two-year-old voice) I will talk to her. She isn't answering her phone right now, but as soon as she's free I will talk to her. I will explain about your plans and ask her if we can get together tomorrow. But if she can't change, I will go with her tonight because we had an agreement.

MIL: Just tell her. I will talk to her. Tell her to talk to me.

Me: I will talk to her.

MIL: You have to ask me if you can do these things.

Me: (teeth gritted) Fine, but you have to tell me if you make plans for me.

Mother-in-law leaves with a self-satisfied air, assuming that I will cancel my plans and do as she wishes. I barely refrain from throwing my shoe at her retreating back.

I have been here for ten days. Not once have we done anything. And I mean anything. We eat breakfast, lunch and dinner at home with a lot of laying around being bored in between. With the exception of the random visitors who dropped in early in the week, not a single interesting thing has happened. So forgive me for assuming that this weekend also was without plans. An assumption made even more valid by the fact that this family, as I've said before, never ever plans anything.

Growing up, if something like that happened, it would be fully acceptable (and expected) for me to see if my plans could be changed, and if not, continue on with my plans and forgo whatever the parents had planned. With my mother-in-law, however, it is not only completely unacceptable to keep your plans over hers, but she behaves as though it's unheard of. I know it isn't, because my brother-in-law is very much like me in that respect and I know he has done this to her many times before (as you could probably gather from his suggestion to just leave and not return in time for dinner).

But even more frustrating than the "my plans are always more important than yours" mentality was the idea that I need to ask her permission to do things. Excuse me, but I haven't had to ask anyone's permission in a decade. I will show you respect by letting you know of any plans I have as soon as they are made. I pay my family the same courtesy when I visit them. But I will not ask you if I can make plans. Not only is that patronizing, but I also know she will always say no because she never wants her children (and by extension, me) to leave the house without her. So it would be an exercise in futility on top of everything else.

The way I see it, the fair thing to do would be for everyone to tell each other any plans that get made as soon as it happens. And if I tell you I have plans for a certain night and you later make plans for that same night, don't expect to include me because it's not happening. Just like if you tell me you have made plans that include me, I'm not going to make other plans for that same time. This, according to my upbringing, is how grownups behave.

Now I've changed my plans with B from just going out for a few hours this evening to being out all day tomorrow. Take that!

Oddities of India

You know how when trucks go into reverse, they beep? Well, here in Pune, when some cars go into reverse, they play songs. It's one of the most entertaining things I've encountered. In fact, it never gets old. These cars parked across the street from my in-laws house play a range of songs. My personal favorite at the moment is the one that plays Jingle Bells. I want to find the owner and ask if he knows it is a Christmas carol. Same for the car that plays Silent Night. Another car plays Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, while the newest addition to the bunch plays that damn Celine Dion song from Titanic. None of my in-laws' cars play music. I wonder if I can change that...

the best day yet

Today was heaven. Well, heaven if you're a weirdo like me.

Today I traveled to a village just outside Pune (my first village! woot!) to visit an organization called Manavya. The in-laws were in tow, as this was just not something I could do on my own. For one, because no way in hell can I drive a car here, and two, they seriously would never let me handle something like this by myself. Anyway, having them with me added its own dynamic of entertainment.

Manavya was created as a shelter for children with HIV/AIDS. There is very little awareness about HIV, and even fewer opportunities for treatment, so children contract the virus from their mothers. Because of the stigma attached to the disease, those who are afflicted are shunned by their communities and often cast from their homes. When children are orphaned by AIDS, relatives do not want to care for a sick child. They are afraid they will get sick too. That is how children come to live at Manavya Gokul.

In the beginning, there was no money for treatment, so the shelter was simply a place where children could get food, shelter, education, and enjoy the few years they had to live. Now the shelter has a guardian angel, so to speak, who sees to it that antiretroviral drugs are available to the children for life. Manavya still provides food, shelter and education, but now they also provide job training and prepare the children to re-enter society once they reach adulthood.

For someone like me, who dreams of working with populations that have no voice of their own and giving them opportunities they would not traditionally have, visiting Manavya was like letting a 5 year old loose in a candy store.

For my in-laws, who secretly wish I were an engineer or lawyer, it was more like being stabbed in the eye.

Not only do I want to give my time for free when I could be earning money or relaxing around the house all day, but I want to schlep out to a village full of poor people and spend my time with children who are sick? Clearly, something is wrong with me.

On the way home, my mother-in-law asked what type of job I think this experience will help me get when I return home. When I explained that this is exactly the kind of work I want to do (ok, not specifically HIV, but I think you can get the gist), she just looked at me blankly. You would think I had just said I wanted to join the circus. Of course, she also asked what HIV is, at which point I lost complete control over my facial expressions, so I guess the whole concept is still very very new to her. My father-in-law at least seems to have resigned himself to the situation, although he does think that if I want to work at an NGO here I should work for a friend of his at the equivalent of a Hospice. So there is still a ways to go there as well. 

Gori Girls

On the front page of today's Pune Times (a newspaper that, unless pieces of it go missing before I get ahold of it, is concerned solely with the entertainment industry) was an article about Bollywood's obsession with goris (white girls). The article talked about how directors are casting white women from other countries in their movies, often in the role of an Indian character. The tone of the article was generally that this practice should be ended because there are plenty of talented Indian actresses who can actually speak Hindi and for the most part are better actors than some of the white women too.

But the part that caught my attention was the photos of the so called gori girls who are suddenly stealing all the film roles. I would not have known they were white if the article had not told me so. So...Bollywood is obsessed with white women who have long black hair and darker skin than the average white girl? They're importing Indian lookalikes basically.

In India, the lighter the skin the better. Skin whitening creams (even skin whitening deodorant) are advertised on tv here like anti-aging products in the U.S. The cream of the Bollywood crop are all fair skinned (see Aishwarya Rai). I have yet to see a fair skinned Indian doing any manual labor or looking in any way impoverished (though bear in mind that my experience is extremely limited). So it makes sense that directors would look for actresses with extremely fair skin, even if it means casting non-Indians. If they really want to see fair skin they should just hire me, but whatever.

This article on its own is only mildly fascinating. But I have recently (ok, yesterday) discovered that there are a lot (and I do mean a lot) of blogs written by white women married to Indian men. They're women from many different countries, some live with their husbands in India, some couples live in the woman's home country, some live together in a third country, and some live apart while dealing with the visa process. But they are all white women with Indian  men. I have not found a single blog, article, shred of internet proof of a white man married to an Indian woman, except in the case of Indian women born and raised in the U.S. or other countries, and in that situation the woman is just as much a foreigner in India as the man.

I know there could be many reasons for this. Perhaps women are more prone to blog than men, or white people more likely to blog than Indians. Maybe these Indian men just happen to be drawn to women who feel the need to share their lives and relationships via cyberspace. Or maybe finding themselves in a multi-cultural relationship inspired these women to share their stories in case others are going through the same thing and looking for guidance or commiseration (I have proven that this happens, how else would I know about all these blogs?).

Regardless of the reasons behind the blog phenomenon, the emphasis on fair skin being more beautiful and the increase in intercultural relationships among Indians begs the question: why did my in-laws not think their son hit the jackpot? No, I'm kidding. Is the Indian man/white woman dynamic just a part of greater globalization and Indians are marrying all kinds of people from all countries that they never would have had the opportunity to meet not so long ago? Or is it a result of seeing all their lives that fair skin is preferred and so they are attracted to the fairest skin they can find (i.e. white people)?

Because the majority of India is still so poor and it is only a very small percentage who have any opportunity to travel abroad (and of those only an even smaller percentage ends up in an intercultural marriage I'm sure), I suppose there is no real risk to the culture at this point. But it would be interesting to know how the situation has evolved many generations down the line. Will India become like the U.S., where distinct cultures used to exist but now it's all just a big ol' muddled mess?