10 Years Later

It's been said that 9/11 is to my generation what Kennedy's assassination was to my mother's.

As though to prove that point, when discussing the anniversary of 9/11 with my sisters over Labor Day weekend, our mother chimed in with her account of where she was when she heard about JFK. (Sidenote: an electronics store let her borrow a television to take back to her office...it was seriously a different time then.)

My mother was 18 years old when JFK was assassinated. I was 18 years old on September 11, 2001.

Just like her, the details of the day are burned into my memory. Around the anniversary last year, I clicked through an online slideshow of images from that day. They provoked a physical reaction. I could remember the way I felt on that day as clearly as if it happened only a week before, rather than nine years.

I was just a few weeks into my freshman year of college. I'd slept through my 8am class, so I was rushing to my 9:30 class without so much as turning on my radio. I wasn't the only one to do that, obviously, as only three people in my class knew that a plane had flown into the World Trade Center. While strange, we wrote it off as an accident and continued on with class (philosophy, for the record). From there I went straight to my 11am economics class (this is the only day of my entire college career that I remember what classes I had and/or at what time...though I do know I never again attempted an 8am class) where it was revealed the other tower had been hit. No one knew any details, and talk of the other flights that morning came across as rumors. No one seemed to really know what had happened. After class, I headed back to my dorm room where I found the marker board my roommate and I used to leave messages laying on my bed. "Turn on the TV" was all it said. I did, and I didn't turn it off for two days.

Before that day, I had no idea what the World Trade Center was. I definitely didn't know that it was two tall buildings standing side by side in New York City. I knew the Pentagon was in DC, though I had no idea where exactly (and no clue that it's technically in Virginia). I had never heard of Al Qaeda and probably could not have found Afghanistan on a map. I know I'm not the only one.

What I remember most now, though, is not the confusion of what was happening or the sick feeling that sat in my stomach for months. It's the way everyone came together. I was living in an all female, all freshmen dorm. We all gathered in the lower level of the building where we had a large TV room. We hugged each other and cried together as we watched the news. We cooked dinner and baked cookies together in the dorm kitchen. We all spent the night on the floor so that no one would have to sleep in a room alone. All across campus it was the same story. People who had known each other only a few short weeks were supporting each other like family. Even after we were told the attacks came from an extremist Islamic group in Afghanistan, openly Muslim students were treated no differently in the beginning. We were all united in grief.

Then the tide turned and we were united in hatred of the group that had done this to us. And somewhere along the way, hatred of one group spilled over and became hatred of millions. Americans went from banding together to turning on each other. What had been one for all became every man for himself. We went from being a wounded, justifiably angry country, to being the schoolyard bully. A country with as many internal divisions as the countries we've taken it upon ourselves to "fix".

What happened to the UNITED States? How did a country founded by immigrants looking for a better life become a country that refuses to let immigrants in and prosecutes those who do get in?

These are the things I'm thinking about on this, the ten year anniversary of the deadliest attack on my home country.

I'm thinking about the fact that my own husband, who came to school here in 2002, will never know what America was like before 9/11. He'll never get to meet a loved one at the gate instead of on the other side of a lengthy security process. He'll never see different houses of worship co-existing peacefully, without a protest or holy book-burning in sight. And most importantly, he'll never be treated like he truly belongs here.

So on this anniversary, let's focus less on anger and sadness. If we never recover from that day, never let go of the anger, the terrorists win. So instead, let's remember that 99.9% of people who come to the U.S. do so because they love our country and the opportunities it provides. They don't come here to hurt us. Remember that this country was founded by people coming from all over the world looking for a fresh start. If that stops, we lose what makes us America. So go out today and make friends with an immigrant. Show them they're accepted. That would've really pissed bin Laden off.

"SlutWalk"...in India!?

Next weekend is DC's SlutWalk, part of an international movement to end what the organizers call "rape culture." Basically, that whole "she was asking for it" mentality.

It started in Toronto when a police officer said women should refrain from dressing like sluts in order to prevent rape. Essentially saying that if a woman goes out dressed provocatively, then it is her fault if she gets attacked.

So the SlutWalk was organized to "reclaim the word 'slut'." I think the organizers fouled up on that one. March to end victim blaming, yes. March to say women should be free to do and wear whatever they want without risk of rape, yes. March to "reclaim" a word that has never had any positive connotations? Not so much. You can't reclaim something that was never yours to start with.

That is the issue many people had with the SlutWalk that took place last week in Delhi. That's right, a SlutWalk in India. When I first saw the headline, my immediate reaction was something along the lines of "WTF?"

If ever there was a country that needed a movement to end victim blaming and sexual harassment, it's India. What India does not need is a movement to reclaim the word "slut." That word is not common in India, and most people don't even know what it means.

More to the point, though, is that the way women dress in India is not really the issue. You could be wearing a burka and men would still leer at you and try to fondle you. This article explains the harassment culture of India, something that is inexplicably (to me) called "eve-teasing."

So Delhiites jumped on the SlutWalk bandwagon. On event day, Indian women turned up to march dressed in salwaar kameez with dupattas demurely covering their chests. Foreign women showed up in their underwear. Way to represent, ladies!

This is the topic of most of the debate surrounding the Delhi SlutWalk. Some people say that the women dressing so conservatively (more conservatively than they would normally, according to some accounts) actually supports the opinion that women who dress scantily are asking to be raped. Others say that the foreigners' dress adds to the impression that western women are easy.

Nearly everything I've read has expressed the thought that either the conservative dress of the Indian women defeats the purpose of the SlutWalk, or that holding this event in the same vein as the SlutWalks takes the focus away from the real problem in India.

Many bloggers drew comparisons to the Blank Noise project, a movement that has previously swept through India. Blank Noise was also conceived to draw attention to the plight of women in India. Instead of being told to make a point of dressing provocatively, as is seemingly the point of SlutWalk, women were told to wear any dress that they have been harassed or attacked while wearing. Sure, some of the outfits could be considered provocative, but more importantly, there were many conservative everyday outfits as well. The point being that women in India are harassed and attacked mercilessly no matter what they are wearing.

SlutWalk is essentially trying to make the same point. However, as many bloggers pointed out, use of the word "slut" seems to bury that message. It's seen as a gimmick to attract the media. As one woman put it, "How many of the reporters you saw today would've turned out if it had been billed as a march against sexual harassment (which is what, it seems, it really was)?"

I will be marching in next weekend's SlutWalk DC. I won't be marching in just my bra or my swimsuit, as photos from other SlutWalks around the world show women doing. I won't try to dress like a slut. I will be wearing whatever I'm comfortable in. Saying to the world "This is what I wear when it's 100 degrees outside. It is not an invitation."

Here are some really interesting articles about Delhi's SlutWalk:
Coverage of the controversy leading up to the SlutWalk.
A first-hand account of the march.
A very good piece about the march, which inspired this blog.
An opinion piece about the end result

Home Sweet Home

The trip home was largely uneventful. Mother-in-law and I took the bus from Pune to Mumbai, and a movie played loudly the whole way, discouraging any conversation. (She was talking to me again by this point, thanks to the morning cup of tea I made for her. My peace offering.) A few hours were spent at her sisters house, where I mostly just tried to stay awake and pretend like I was interested in what they were saying...in a language I can't understand. Then it was off to the airport. There were some delays and some turbulence during the flights, but I was passed out like I'd been drugged so I really didn't care.

Unexpectedly, to me at least, the strange part was when I actually arrived home.

The entire drive from Dulles to DC, I couldn't stop staring at my husband (at least when I wasn't scarfing down the delicious cheeseburger he brought for me). It was as though I couldn't believe he was actually beside me instead of just on Skype video. And not just an "oh I'm so happy to be home I can't believe it" but literally I could not believe it.

When we reached the apartment, everything was at once familiar and completely unfamiliar at the same time. Everything looked just the way I'd left it. But I found myself not knowing where to put things and having to open multiple cabinets or closets to find what I was looking for. It was like being in a completely new house. Even though everything was kept in the same place it had been since we moved in.

Being away from home for two months is nothing like being away for a long weekend. It's disorienting to be unsure of things in your own home.

I couldn't remember the quirks of our shower. I couldn't remember where my phone charger was kept or even which one it was. I opened the wrong cabinet to get a water glass. I woke up in the night, in the dark, aware that there was something beside me but I didn't know what or where I was. It had to be at least a full thirty seconds before I realized I was at home and the mound beside me in the bed was my husband. Well, the big one anyway. The small one on the other side of me was the cat. That took like an extra minute to figure out. I got up to go to the bathroom and walked straight into the door, which hubby keeps closed at night. As I'm unpacking, I can't remember where exactly I kept everything for my morning routine. I have no idea where my house keys are, and I had trouble locking the bolt behind my husband when he left for work this morning.

I'm home, but it feels almost like I've never lived here before. Like while I was away, hubby moved to a new apartment and this is the first time I've been there.

It sucks. I in no way anticipated it would be so strange to be home. Don't get me wrong, I'm ridiculously happy to be here. But there is most definitely an adjustment period required. Yay I'm home! But where do I keep my shoes again?

I'm sure things will settle down in a day or two and it will be like I never left. All my things will be in their places and I'll get back to my routine. The cat will stop chasing me every time I move in the direction of the door, and will accept that when I leave the house I really will come back this time. Hubby won't sound confused that I can call him in the middle of the day. I'll remember to cross the street at corners and give people adequate personal space on the trains and buses. But in the meantime...well, let me remember this if I ever again think going on such a long trip is a good idea.

Goodbye India

This will be my last post from India. In an hour I leave for Mumbai by bus with my mother-in-law (who is not speaking to me after last night's episode...should be a fun trip). We'll set up camp at her sister's house for a few hours, and then it's off to the airport for me.

I can't believe that two months in India is almost at a close. I'm so eager to get back home, but at the same time it feels strange that it's already over. So now it's time to reflect back on what I came here to do, and what I've learned from the experience.

Could I ever come to live in India?
Honestly, I think the answer to this is yes. I would want to find a city that is more comfortable to me, as Pune is much too slow paced. And I would have to tackle that whole learning to drive on the wrong side of the road while acting out a game of Frogger thing so that I can have independence. But I do believe I could learn to be happy living in this country and make it my home. But not for an indefinite period. If or when we move to India, it would have to be with a set end date in mind. I don't think I could come here and stay forever.

Could I ever live with or near my in-laws like a good Indian wife?
That's a big fat NO. There would be much too much day-to-day friction. And I want the freedom to raise my children the way my husband and I see fit, and that would not happen with my mother-in-law in close proximity. The perfect distance would probably be one which is too far to travel more often than every few months, but close enough that a weekend stay is sufficient. Obviously, as long as we are in separate countries, the visits will last for more like two or three months (or six, if Dadaji's trips are any indication). But at the same time, once that visit is over, the rest of the year would be in-law free. I haven't yet figured out which is the lesser of two evils.

Has my relationship with my in-laws improved?
This is a tough one. Before this trip, I had essentially no relationship with my in-laws, and that has definitely changed. Whether or not we now have a good relationship is up for debate. I've learned a lot about them in my time here. But I have not learned much that I like. I have generally felt like they could care less that I'm here and have no desire to get to know me. My beliefs and opinions differ so drastically from my mother-in-law's that it is difficult to even hold a conversation.

Obviously, we have not become close friends because of this visit. But I have learned enough to feel like I now know how to handle them. I know what to expect from them, I know what my limits are, I know when I need to just walk away. Basically, I believe I can now survive long visits with them without anyone having to die. And that's something, right?

Did I gain any marketable NGO experience?
That would have to be a....sort of. I have had experiences that you certainly wouldn't get sitting behind a desk in the U.S., so that should count for something. But I definitely could not say I've learned the ins and outs of an organization. Or even performed any actual work with them. To be fair, I had ten days to arrange this trip. There are many organizations here that seem highly organized and provide their volunteers with incredible experience...but volunteers have to apply months in advance, a luxury I did not have. I was able to find and make contact with (and actually receive a response back from) only one organization before I arrived here.

Manavya is a great organization, providing a home, education and healthcare to HIV-positive orphans. They do amazing work. However, school started for the children two weeks after my arrival (and four days after I'd finally managed to arrange to visit), and so I could not work with them during the week because it would disrupt their schooling. Who knew school would be in session during this time? Not me. It didn't occur to me that schools in India might operate on a different schedule than in the U.S. Not something I thought about. After first being told I could work in the office once school started, I was then told that no I could not because I don't know the Marathi language. I told every organization I contacted that I do not speak any of these languages. Manavya seemed fine with it. But when it came down to it, it was an insurmountable problem. So I could not work with them, but was encouraged to raise money for them when I return to the U.S. Right.

Janvikas is also a great organization, working in rural areas and tackling all aspects of development. I discovered them through hubby's best friend after I had been in Pune for nearly a month already. I had a very fascinating day with them, but again, my lack of Marathi skills limited my opportunities. They did however allow me to attend training sessions even though I wouldn't understand a word of them. And they did take time out to at least sum up what was being discussed, even if I did still miss out on the details. But I was unable to visit them again and see more of their projects.

Visiting the slum school was an incredible experience. To see people from such an impoverished background that they don't even have a proper home is very humbling. They are rejected by society everywhere they turn. But this one man, a man who was once a slum dweller himself, is giving them all a chance. I really wish I could have spent more time at this school, but I guess it just wasn't in the cards. Three weeks wasted playing phone tag means that I only had two days at the school. Enough to change me, absolutely. Enough to tell a great story, sure. Not enough to boost my resume.

Did the trip meet my expectations?
The answer to this one is, sadly, no.

Part of that is that my expectations are always absurdly high. I don't think anything or anyone, myself included, has ever fully met my expectations in any situation. I expect not just greatness and perfection, but superhuman levels.

I expected to be capable in at least one language by the end of my trip. Indian languages are in no way similar to English or the romance languages, which are the only languages I have experience with. In fact, I can't find a single thing they have in common, but least of all are the sounds that form the words. My ears cannot detect certain differences and my mouth cannot form them. And those differences are very important to the language. I did not give this challenge the credit it deserves. I assumed it was just a matter of studying and practicing. Which of course it is to some degree, but without the natural ability that comes with learning a language from childhood, it will take time. When my in-laws got married, my mother-in-law did not speak Marathi, she only knew Hindi and Gujarati. Those two languages are very similar to Marathi, and yet it still took her six months of private lessons to become proficient. And I expected it to happen in two months. It was an unattainable goal, so I can't feel too bad that I didn't achieve it.

Except that I gave up. When I realized how difficult it truly would be, I stopped trying as hard. I couldn't motivate myself to study in my spare time, even though I had a lot of it. I didn't harass my in-laws to teach me phrases and words. I blamed that on the fact that they would each say things differently and if I asked them to repeat something they would say it in yet another way. Sure, that didn't make it easy. But I could have kept trying.

I expected to get a lot of work experience, to the point that when I send out my new updated resume, employers will be climbing over each other to get to me. Instead, I got about 8 days of work experience. In three different places. Can I use that to promote myself? Sure. But let's face it, there are people in my field who spent two years in the Peace Corp and still can't find a job. So how much will 8 days really help? I did, however, gain a lot of personal experience through those 8 days. I saw a side to the world that I could never see from the U.S. or even from my in-law's house in Pune. That has changed me. I hope potential employers will be able to see that in me, but if they can't, I can. And that makes me happy.

I expected my in-laws to fall in love with me once they got to know me. But even living in the same house for two months, there's only so much you can know about another person. I still occasionally discover little surprises about my own husband, and he about me. And it takes me time to warm up to someone and let my guard down so that they can get to know me. That didn't happen in this situation unfortunately. But perhaps I've set the stage for it to happen in the future. I hope I have.

So, no, this trip hasn't lived up to my expectations, but that has less to do with my stay here and more to do with the way I handled it. I didn't live up to my expectations. But again, I hope I've set the stage for easier and happier future visits.

Last day...and not a moment too soon

Sunday night, I head to the Mumbai International airport for my flight back to the U.S.

If I can survive til then. And not get arrested for assault either.

Me getting sick on Thursday threw a wrench into the getting-out-of-India plans. Instead of spending the weekend in Mumbai, I stayed in Pune. That left the question of how I will get to Mumbai on Sunday.

I figured that, it being the one day of the week Papa doesn't work, we would just drive to Mumbai. Easy peasy.

It turns out, Papa has to go to Mumbai for work on Monday. Even better, I thought. They'll drop me to the airport and spend the night with family, then come back to Pune when Papa is done with work.

Apparently that's no good. Papa doesn't want to go until Monday morning. And he doesn't want Mama to have to wait for him in Mumbai.

I spend all of Friday trying to settle the plans to no avail.

Saturday morning, before Papa left for work, he presented me with two options: take the train with Dadaji, or be put in a cab that would take me directly to the airport. We discussed both possibilities. He said we'd decide that night.

I assumed one of the two options would be selected. Silly me. I've learned nothing of how they operate.

I spent the day with my mother-in-law, having decent conversation and cooking together. When a friend invited me out to a movie, she readily agreed that I could go. What a great way to end the trip!

And then I came back.

And found out the plan was now for me and Mama to take the bus to Mumbai. She would come back the next day by bus. Even though Papa will be driving there and back that very same day. And Dadaji will be taking the train there in the morning. So we will all be traveling to Mumbai, but at three different times by three different methods of transportation.

Did I mention the bus would've been my last choice? See, there's a lot of hills between Pune and Mumbai. And the driving here is not so good. And even on the well-behaved roads of the U.S. in a little car on a straight road, if I don't have an unobstructed view out the windshield I get nauseous. So on a bus in India through mountains? That's a recipe for disaster.

I tried to tell my mother-in-law the plan made no sense. She ignored me. I told my husband the plan made no sense, and he told his mother the plan made no sense. Again, ignored. I threw in the bit about vomiting, and that's when it got bad. Ok, worse.

Hubby told MIL that I would get sick on the bus. She yelled at him that I should have been here tonight to discuss it instead of going out. Then she threw the phone at me. Yes, threw. Kids aren't the only ones who have temper tantrums.

I was here in the morning. I was here last night. I discussed and discussed and discussed with everyone. If anyone had mentioned the bus, I would've told them immediately that it wouldn't be a good idea. But no one mentioned it. I was given only two options, which were discussed in detail. I said I was fine with either one, and I went on about my business. Mama even called her sister this morning in my presence to say that I would not be coming to her house after all. The same sister we are now taking the bus to go see. They knew where I was this evening and how to get in touch with me. They could have just picked up the phone and asked if their new plan was ok. They did not. And somehow it is my fault for not foreseeing this completely new plan developing.

I shouldn't be surprised, everything has been my fault for two months. And nothing ever goes according to the original plan. So I guess really it is my fault for not anticipating it. I should have learned my lesson.

All I know is, somehow, someway, I'm getting to Mumbai tomorrow. And I'm getting on a plane. And I'm getting back to a world where it's hot in July, and people think before acting, and life makes logical sense. It can't come soon enough.

My first hospital stay...and it's in India. Go figure.

God has a sense of humor.

Last weekend, before we left for Lonavala, I thought that finally my in-laws wanted to actually do something with me. Then, I found out that six of their closest friends would be joining us. I was just tagging along, really. I was upset. On the way home, when it was just me and my in-laws in the car together, we got stuck in traffic. For three hours. No TV or computers or separate rooms to disappear to, just the four of us finding ways to entertain each other.

Thursday morning, we were all set to leave for Mumbai. My brother-in-law's flight back to the U.S. was late that night, and my flight is early Monday morning, so we were just going to spend the time there with family instead of driving back and forth. My father-in-law wasn't going to come with us, because he couldn't miss three days of work (he works Saturdays too). I was sad that he couldn't come with us, because I felt like I'd hardly seen him in the past two months because of his work schedule and his penchant for staring at the TV all evening once he's home. Well, God had an answer for that one too.

I woke up super early on Thursday morning in incredible pain. My right lower abdomen felt like it was alternately in a vice and being stabbed. I spent three hours unable to leave the bathroom before everyone else woke up and wondered where I was. I couldn't take any medicine because I would immediately throw it up.

My father-in-law loaded me into the car and took me to a doctor he is friends with. The doctor examined me, made a phone call, and off I went to the hospital. We marched right past all the waiting patients and directly into the doctor's office. From there, I was whisked upstairs and immediately given a room. Oh the joys of knowing people.

My room was in the "Super Deluxe Block." I kid you not, that's what the hall was called. We in the U.S. tend to name areas of the hospital based on the types of patients put there: ICU, Maternity, etc. I thought perhaps this was where they put their VIPs: political figures, celebrities, white girls they're afraid of, you know, the usual. But if this was a "super deluxe" room, I don't want to see the "substandard block." It was a small double room with barely enough space for someone to stand between the beds. It did have its own bathroom, so perhaps that's the deluxe part. Otherwise it looked more like a prison cell than a hospital room. In fact, I'm fairly certain those beds came from a prison cell. Wrought iron, hard as bricks, with none of the mechanical fun of hospital beds in the U.S.

I was given an antibiotic and put on an IV of saline and pain killer. Sadly, the pain killer was not of the fun variety that ought to be required when you're in a hospital. This was straight up ibuprofen or something, I don't know. It did the job, but I really could have done with some loopy happiness.

My in-laws packed my brother-in-law onto a bus to Mumbai so he could make his flight, then set up camp in my room. As I attempted to rest, they talked (loudly), watched a singing program on the TV (again, loudly), and turned the A/C (which I had requested be left off) on full blast. I thought I will have to remember this next time I want to visit someone in the hospital. Get in, say hey I'm thinking about you, then get the hell out so they can get well already! Once the drugs started doing their thing, though, I began enjoying their company and was glad they were there. They kept me entertained with stories, and we talked more than we probably have in the entire two months I've been here.

Word that I was in the hospital spread like wildfire. Mama had called her two siblings we were supposed to visit that day to tell them why we weren't coming. They called the rest of the family. Who then called us. And somehow at some point word spread to Papa's side of the family who then also began calling. At this rate, I figured my family would find out from their morning news.

The doctors wanted to do some tests to make sure it was nothing more serious than a problem with food. They did an ultrasound to make sure my appendix wasn't the source, due to the placement of my pain. Everything checked out fine, though I would like to know why the technician felt the need to smear the gel over my entire mid-section just to check the lower right side. The highlight was when they handed me two small containers, as big around as a quarter and about as deep, and told me they needed urine and stool samples. Then they left. Excuse me, but what do you expect me to do with these? I'd be doing good to pour water into an opening that size. And who did they send to collect the samples? A doctor so hot he should be in movies. Life is unfair sometimes.

By early afternoon, we knew there was nothing seriously wrong. A little antibiotic and some time were all I really needed. So you can imagine our frustration when we were not allowed to leave before 10 that night. The only reason they didn't succeed in making us stay overnight is because of Papa's friendship with the doctor.

We didn't want to stay overnight because, apart from being really uncomfortable, it would be very expensive. Very few people have health insurance here. There's no real point to it from what I gather. So everything is out of pocket. Even the medications that are administered in a hospital, the doctor gives a prescription to the patient, who hopefully has a friend or family member with them to send outside to the pharmacy to purchase the medicine. They then bring the medicine back in, give it to the doctor, who then gives it to the patient. I mean really, wtf is that? If I'm in a hospital and need medication, just f'ng give it to me! If I'm ill enough to be in a hospital, I'm too ill to go shopping.

The one advantage over American hospitals is the food. Papa had told me that when he was little and his sister was born, he would go visit in the evenings and eat the food the staff brought to the room. "I can still remember the taste of that daal" he said. I assumed it was burned into his memory because it was so terrible, but apparently no, he thought it was delicious. So then I assumed he's out of his mind and I can understand now why he likes my mother-in-law's cooking. But when they brought my food...I'll be damned if it wasn't pretty tasty! Good food! In a hospital! Will wonders never cease.

By the time I was discharged, I'd been in the hospital for 11 hours. That was plenty for me. I hope I never have to repeat the experience, in India, America or anywhere else. Today, everything seems to be back to normal. I guess I just really didn't want to spend four days in Mumbai. Although now that I know my mother-in-law snores (she fell asleep at the hospital), I am a bit glad I don't have to spend the night anywhere where I have to share a room with her. I'll finish out my last few days here in the big house in Pune, thank you very much.

Slummin' it...literally

Visiting the slum school took forever to happen. Three weeks after I met with a woman who is involved with the school, I still had not been able to visit. First she arranged the visit for one week after our meeting. Then, in the days leading up to the visit, when we tried to reach her to arrange a specific time, she would not answer or return our calls. Once another week had passed, I finally succeeded in speaking to her, but was again left waiting for her to arrange an exact day and time. Another week went by, and finally on Tuesday I was able to go visit.

She had called my mother-in-law on Monday morning, but she didn't wake me up so that I could go that day. So she tentatively set it for Tuesday at 9am, depending on when my brother-in-law goes to play tennis. Well I knew if I was dependent on him for a ride, I would not be able to go at 9am because he would not leave the house before 10:30. So Monday evening, I asked my MIL if she had spoken to the woman to set the time. She had not. I asked for her number so I could call her. She would not give it to me.

My evening phone call with hubby consisted of me, yet again, venting about his family. It took him calling his mother directly, and what sounded like a very heated phone conversation (I really need to learn these languages!) before he was able to tell me that she should give me the woman's address and phone number (and if I didn't have it within 15 minutes to let him know) and that I would be allowed to arrange a rickshaw to take me, rather than waiting around on my in-laws (all of whom would be home at the time I needed to leave, but of course none of them can be bothered to give me a ride...or rickshaw money).

So I finally secured the woman's phone number, and called her directly to set a time. She told me to come by 9am, and I told her I would arrange a rickshaw to bring me. I called up the rickshaw walla and asked him to pick me up at home at 8:30. We live in BFE and rickshaw drivers don't come here. It's nowhere near anything, so they can't generally get a return fare from here. Hence the need to arrange a rick in advance.

At 8:28, my mother-in-law tells me that this auntie had called her in the morning, and asked that I come at 9:30 instead. My brother-in-law was going by there on his way to the dentist at 10 (an appointment that was apparently scheduled after 10pm the night before, because no one seemed to know about it then), so he would drop me. I was fully expected to call up the rickshaw driver, who was at that moment pulling up in front of our house, and cancel. Even though he had driven so far out of his way and would not now be able to get a fare.

Instead, I called the auntie and explained the situation, and asked if it was alright if I still came at 9. Of course, it was. So I went. And my in-laws watched with a mixture of disbelief and disapproval. I really was expected to send the driver away, and then sit on my hands for an hour waiting. No thank you.

I reached the auntie's house with no problems, and from there her driver took us to the school (the name of which is Kilbil and always makes me giggle). They have two separate schools, a nursery school and a kindergarten-10th school. In India, after the 10th grade students go to "junior college" which is more focused towards their fields of study. They can go to schools for the sciences, commerce, or arts (at least I think that's all of them), but those two years are outside the realm of general schooling.

We visited the nursery school first. All of the children were about two and a half to three years old. There were more than 60 kids per teacher. And they were the most well-behaved kids imaginable. They all sat in neat little rows, quietly working on their pasting and scribbling skills. When they were done, they cleaned up all stray scraps of paper from the floor and put them in the trashcan. Two years old! Cleaning! When I went to the other school for the older kids, I saw the same thing. Model behavior from the students, and creative and passionate teaching.

I wonder what my mother-in-law would think about me sending my kids to a slum school?

The teachers are incredibly invested in what they do. Some have been there for 20 years. They could get higher salaries at other schools, but they stay because they love their principal. 

On Wednesday, I visited the school again. It was decided that I would come to the auntie's house by 7:30 to have breakfast before going to the school. My mother-in-law, surprisingly, said she would drop me to her house. She would just go to the gym an hour later than usual. When I asked if that would really be alright for her (what can I say? I was in disbelief), she responded that when it comes to doing things for me and her kids, it is never a problem. 

Come again? I think perhaps someone else had invaded her body. It was still there in the morning when she not only kept her promise to drop me off but said she would pick me up as well. But by afternoon, when she refused to answer my phone calls for 2 hours until I found another way home, the alien had clearly left.

I again visited the nursery school first. Within twenty minutes of the kids' arrival, I had blood, snot and urine on me. Man I miss working with kids!

The children (remember they are 2 and 3 years old) were learning "Twinkle twinkle little star." But rather than just learn the song by memorization, the teachers had completely darkened a room with black paper and put silver stars everywhere. They wanted the children to know where and when you see stars, what stars are, everything. Not just a song. When they learn about a particular color, everything in the school is that color for the entire day. The clothes, desks, wall decorations, everything. These kids will never forget what "red" is.

Once the nursery school was over for the morning, I shifted to the other school. The morning session was younger kids, kindergarten through 2nd grade (or "standard" as they say here). I was able to sit and observe a class, and got to see how vastly different schooling here is from the U.S.

In the U.S., teachers are told what and how to teach. They don't get to exercise much creativity in their lesson plans because someone else dictates the best way for kids to learn. Except whoever it is that decides this stuff doesn't seem to know anything about kids. At this school, teachers are able to teach the lessons in whatever way will work best for their students, and they are so committed to it, as evidenced by the "Twinkle twinkle" lesson.

In the U.S., the kids who get good grades and get the answers right in class are picked on. Smart kids dumb themselves down to avoid looking like a geek. Here, it's the kids who get the answers wrong who get picked on. Everyone wants to be the best and smartest one in the class. The class I observed was a 1st grade class. They were working on their handwriting (cursive) and their multiplication tables. Now, I don't remember what grade I learned multiplication and cursive writing, but I'm pretty damn sure it wasn't 1st grade. No wonder when Indian kids move to the U.S. their parents complain the homework isn't challenging enough! 

The biggest difference, I would say, is discipline. In the U.S. today, many parents don't even spank their own kids, let alone allow a teacher to do it. Parents are so quick to jump all over the school if their child is reprimanded in any way, that teachers are left with very few options to discipline their students. Not so in India. When one child continued to chatter after the teacher silenced the class, the teacher called the student a mouse and drew whiskers on his face with such force it broke the chalk. When one student hit another, the teacher smacked him on the head. Students who misbehaved were made to stand on their chairs for the remainder of the lesson. But very rarely did any of the students misbehave, so it must be working. Even with a person who was not just new, but also foreign, in the classroom, there were only a handful of incidents of misbehaving or not paying attention.

After the morning session ended at 12, and before the afternoon session for the older kids began at 12:30, I was able to speak with some of the teachers. They wanted to know how schools work in the U.S. and how different subjects are taught. They wanted to learn how we Americans do things. Unfortunately, after watching them all morning, I felt like they had more to teach us than the other way around. Each teacher is responsible for a class probably 2 or 3 times the size of a class in the U.S., and yet they always maintain discipline, the kids always learn and remember the lessons, and they always manage to give each child some individual attention.

Keep in mind that these are kids growing up in a slum. They know nothing of the world outside their slum, and they've never been given any opportunities. The teachers could make them memorize just a small thing to recite to their parents each day, and the families would be satisfied that their kids are learning because they don't know any better. But instead, the teachers give their all and do their best to ensure these kids get a real education. Thanks to them, these kids will receive all of their schooling, something that rarely occurs in the slums as many children are sent to work instead, they can't afford tuitions or schools just won't accept them. These children will also be proficient in English, something that is now required if they are to have a fighting chance of getting out of the slum.