Shadi

The day that Hannah and I got back from Jaipur, we had the privilege of attending an Indian wedding.  My fellow ETA, Sean, was invited by Vishu, one of his students, to Vishu's cousin's wedding.  True to his gregarious and generous form, Sean asked if he could bring along four foreign girls, to which Vishu delightedly said yes. In India, to say that weddings are a big deal is a major understatement. In a country where society revolves around celebrations, weddings are THE most important of all celebrations. Especially because of the rising middle class, weddings have become the utmost status symbol. As far as invitations are concerned, the more people in attendance, the better, and foreigners at a wedding are an exciting and precious commodity. I say commodity because, as much as we went to the wedding out of our own selfish desire to experience such an important cultural event, the four of us who went were on display from the second we arrived to the moment we left.

Remembering our last sari debacle, Hannah, Tangi and I started getting ready two hours or so before we had to leave.  We had all gone together to the market the week before to get Tangi a fancy sari for the occasion, as Hannah had bought one already and I had a silk brocade sari my parents had brought me when they went to India. Patricia had gone away for the week, but the three of us trooped upstairs to have our saris wrapped by Reena, our landlord's lovely wife, who kindly wraps our saris when we wear them.  We had bought matching bangles and bindis, not wanting to skip the details that would be noticed by every auntie (slang for older woman) in the room.

Bangles, bangles, bangles!

Varanasi silk sari. Thanks, parents!

Getting on the metro, we were stared at in a way that even now, after three months, was noteworthy. As we descended into the metro, a woman did a double take before literally taking a step back to make sure her eyes were not deceiving her. We met Sean at the metro station, where the staring continued and we photographed ourselves looking as Indian as four goras can get.

Sean's awesome shoes!

    

The groom, flanked by the mini-grooms 

Vishu and his cousins

Wedding party

Vishu met us at the metro, from which we walked to the groom's house.  The groom was still being decorated when we arrived, and a team of drummers and dancers was moving from room to room, getting everyone (especially us) to dance until our breath was gone. While Sean and Tangi took a considerable pressure off me and Hannah (thank goodness), it seemed like every time we tried to rest a moment, the drummers were back and the cousins were yelling delightedly for us to dance. After an hour or so of waiting at the groom's house, we heard loud music and ran to the balcony to see the wedding procession begin.  Just as in Western weddings the most exciting part is when the bride walks in, Indian weddings are all about the groom's entrance. A little (or sometimes big) parade is formed, complete with marching bands, horses (or sometimes elephants), drummers, fireworks, lights, dancing, plenty of flowers and noisenoisenoise.

Wedding procession from above

Wedding procession from the ground

The groom's carriage

 After watching what we came to understand as the first set of fireworks, the whole party walked down the street, banging and clanging and singing and dancing, while the four of us piled into a car with a whiskey-drinking uncle to take us to the reception site near the bride's home.  Traditionally, the whole parade would travel from the groom's home to the bride's home, but the vast expanse of Delhi makes this procedure highly unpractical. As a compromise, the whole parade walks down a few blocks, where everything is dismantled and resumed next to the reception.

The groom's home,
decorated traditionally

The groom in his carriage

We walked into the reception hall, having tempted fate with our boozing driver, to a tent filled with light and color, not to mention at least a dozen tables piled with Indian food of every type.

The golden tent

Food, glorious food!

Plate piled high

Stuffed to the gills, we waited a while longer for the blaring music to start up again, at which point we went back outside to see the groom's procession move down the street for his entrance. 

In the tent

Awaiting the groom

We then witnessed a ceremony in which the pandit (equivalent of a priest or rabbi for Hindus) said mantras while men from the groom's family and men from the bride's family exchanged garlands of marigolds.  I thought this would only take a few minutes--how many relatives could there be?--but after half an hour the men just started recycling the garlands when they ran out so everyone could have a chance at this honor of becoming one another's family.  We went inside and waited for the bride. At one point, I think on Teacher's Day, I mentioned that in India, everyone loves giving speeches but no one likes hearing them. The same may be said about brides--everyone loves a bride but no one likes watching them. As the bride entered the hall, everything remained as usual. No one crowded around her except for the giant crew of photographers and filmers.  Everyone kept eating, talking, doing whatever; the bride's entrance seemed no more exciting than anyone else's. Even the groom's mother was inattentive, asking me to sit down and chat and fussing over gifts while her daughter-in-law was entering.  To be fair, the wedding lasts for several days, with different events on each day, so it's not like this was the only ceremony that bound them in marriage, but still! I suppose it could be the same for the groom's entrance at a Western wedding, but to me it was weird that no one, not even the little girls, found the bride's appearance as exciting as I did. She came in surrounded by her female relatives--mother, sisters, cousins and aunts, under a canopy held in each corner by four male relatives. Her traditional red dress was so completely covered in beads and sequins, she absolutely shimmered as she walked. 

The bride enters 

Wedding paparazzi

Least comfortable wedding garb ever

The time at this point was after midnight. For their first appearance together as a couple, the bride and groom stood on a platform, decorated with lights and flowers, in the middle of the room. There, they exchanged garlands, placing them around each other's necks (several times, so the photographers could get a perfect shot), while the platform they stood upon revolved.

On the platform after the garland exchange

After exchanging garlands, the couple sat on an elaborately decorated sofa on a stage next to the platform, in the middle of the room, and sat for over an hour getting their picture taken with anyone who wanted to come up for a "quick snap," as they said. Everyone wanted their picture taken with the foreigners, so up we went, three or four times; awkward, considering that's when we met the bride and groom for the first time! Throughout the whole ceremony(ies), it was so clear that this occasion had so little to do with the individuals themselves, and so much to do with tradition and everyone else in the family.  The actual people getting married are in some ways inconsequential--the ceremony follows a strictly prescribed order and decorum, planned by and for relatives and the community. In some ways I found this way of handling the wedding a more honest and straightforward approach. Weddings here rarely follow relationships; all the women I work with had arranged marriages, and a marriage symbolizes, more than anything else, the union of two families.  It is therefore appropriate that the celebration should be so focused on the families; the joy of a marriage is shared as much by the communities surrounding the two people as by the people themselves. We left the wedding around 2AM, tired and cranky and squabbling with each other. But the truth is that we had been invited to witness something so basic to Indian culture, something we never would have experienced without this connection to Sean's student, something I will remember and enjoy the memory of for a long time to come.  I love how much people here treasure celebrations.  I love how full of life and color and food the celebrations are here, that a family would be so delighted to share such an important personal experience with a group of complete strangers. Sometimes it feels like this country is here with open arms, inviting me in and welcoming me in a way I've never experienced. I will remember this wedding when I am waiting for an auto in the rain, or watching a mouse scurry across a restaurant, or standing in a line that keeps getting longer because so many people are cutting in front. Thanks, India, you owed me this one.
P.S. To those of you loved ones reading this album and hoping I will find an Indian to marry while I am here just so I can have an Indian wedding that you can come to, you are in for some serious disappointment.  If you think for one second that I will wear a dress that weighs fifty pounds, sit on a couch for two hours of the wedding getting my picture taken with randos, not get to eat the food, not have anyone be excited when I enter the room, and wear a nose ring the size of a bangle, you've entirely overestimated my tolerance for discomfort. Sorry, guys. Not. Going. To. Happen.

To see the rest of my photos of the wedding, click here and enjoy!

The happy couple:)

Jaipur

I've learned in India that getting advanced notice for important events is a rare gift, rather than an expectation. A few weeks ago we discovered that the kids would be taking exams for two weeks, during which we were expected to come to school but would not be proctoring or grading exams.  As the thought of spending two weeks hanging out in the staff room was less than appealing, we asked the people at USIEF to help us get excused from school during that time.  Sure enough, our principals gave us the time off, on the condition that we work on our "research projects." Yay! Hannah has a friend, Caity, who goes to UT Austin that she met while learning Hindi in Jaipur two  years ago.  Caity is spending the semester in Jaipur learning Hindi again and Hannah decided it was time for a visit. Though we had to be back in Delhi Monday night for a wedding we were invited to (more on that later), she urged me to join her, nervous about taking the train both ways in sleeper class by herself.  I was happy to oblige, and on Friday afternoon we met after school for sandwiches before heading to the train station.

Trains in India are such a unique entity, and the experience of riding them is so defining of travel in India.  Everyone in this country rides the train, it seems.  Train stations are such a microcosm of this country, it's incredible. I've been to several train stations so far, all in major cities, and each time I have marveled at the hundreds of people in the station, waiting in line, sleeping on newspapers laid out on the floor, families huddled around tiffins eating curried vegetables with roti, Chai Wallahs caring large tin kettles filled with the steaming sweet, milky tea, men with carts piled high with giant crates or sacks, women in bright chiffon saris balancing giant baskets on their heads. The tracks are filthy, covered in trash and human waste, but that doesn't stop people from jumping off the platform and crossing them on foot, leaping up to safety on the other side.  When the trains stop, men lean out of doors and windows, smoking beedies, drinking chai and staringstaringstaring. As you wait, little kids with matted, dirty hair and people young and old, crippled by polio or missing limbs beg for money and loiter in wait. The platform smells terrible, a putrid mix of urine and sweat and dirty laundry, and the air rings with constant chimes and announcements of incoming and outgoing trains. Sometimes the trains come on platforms other than the one posted, in which case you have to hope for a random good samaritan to let you know of the unannounced change.

Living the good life in Sleeper Class

The trains have several classes: First AC--two people to an air conditioned compartment, Second AC--four people in an air-conditioned compartment with bunk beds, Third AC--six people in an air-conditioned compartment with three-tiered bunk beds, Sleeper and General.  Sleeper is set up with three-tiered bunk beds in each compartment, with room for six people to sleep "comfortably." The cars are not air-conditioned, but the windows open and it's arguably the best way to see the countryside as you travel. The thing about Sleeper is that you can ride it without an assigned seat, so many people just board the train and hope to squeeze in to sit somewhere or just stand where they can.  What does this mean for the average foreigners who choose this transport option? It means that your conceivably "assigned" bench will be taken up by as many people as can possible squeeze onto it, and just when you think no one else can fit, someone practically sits on your lap.  Hannah and I nabbed window seats, a lifesaver in the situation, and refused to close the window, even when the rain came in through the slats and onto our laps. We were the only women in the car, but two nice guys sat next to us from the beginning who helped us fend off the stares a bit. It's not that we feel threatened in these situations, it's just uncomfortable to have so many people looking at you. At one point we just put our dupattas over our heads to just be a little less visible.In a space that would comfortably seat 6-8 people, at least 20 people were crammed, sitting on the bottom bunks, top bunks and side bunks, standing in the isles, leaning on ladders and sitting on laps. For six hours. The benefit of riding in Sleeper, other than "experiencing India" at its fullest? It's cheap as dirt. Our round trip train tickets to Jaipur cost less than 400 rupees (about $8 each). Believe it or not, this is not even the cheapest option.  General Class is just a car with no seats or compartments and they sell as many tickets as people will buy, so you can imagine how luxurious that journey is.

We arrived in Jaipur around 11:30 PM and headed for the restaurant where Caity and her friends were at a party.  We didn't stay long and fell asleep the second our heads hit the pillow.  The next day began with a trip to Anokhi, a lovely cafe attached to a fixed price store selling beautiful, traditionally-made Rajasthani textiles.  We wandered around the store after our beautiful sandwiches and a slice of carrot cake that, while delicious, left my stomach feeling less than happy.  We went to Bapu Bazaar, a main drag in Jaipur with row after row of shops selling the many crafts indigenous to India's largest state. Rajasthan is particularly well-known for its textiles, using many traditional techniques both in weaving fabric and adorning it. Block printing and silkscreening designs by hand, various methods of resist dyeing, such as batik and shiborai, decorating fabric with small mirrors, and the use of hand looms for weaving are examples of the wares on display in the market. 

Fabric heaven!

For a fabric junkie like me, this place was heaven.  I just kept wandering in and out of the shops, touching all the clothes and sheets and hangings, soaking in the sights and colors and patterns in all their forms. I bought some beautiful hand-printed sheets, off-white with a black paisley design and an olive and teal border. Caity's friend, Sabeena, was a bargainer to behold, refusing to pay even 10 or 20 rupees over what she thought was fair. It was great also that Hannah, Caity and Sabeena all speak fluent Hindi; vendors' reactions to their fluency was so funny to watch. They would ask questions like "Do you speak Hindi?", to which Hannah always replies in Hindi, "Am I speaking Hindi?" In the afternoon we headed to the mall, where we bought tickets to see the newest Bollywood film, Barfi. While I had some major issues with the plot, I really enjoyed it and was surprised that I could understand almost everything that was going on, despite the lack of subtitles.  The movie takes place in Darjeeling, and has a lot of the elements of everyday fairy tale inspiration that I liked so much in Amelie. I would definitely recommend it if it's playing near you. We took it easy that night, eating dinner with Caity and Sabeena's host mom and getting to bed early.

Baby gets juicy as mama chows down

The next day, Caity and her classmates went to study and Hannah and I headed off to be tourists. We took an auto to the foot of a hill, on the other side of which lay Galta, known colloquially as the Monkey Temple. We walked up the hill, taking in the landscape and the view of the dense city below.  The path was dotted with a hilarious menagerie of animals--monkeys, goats, cows, chickens, dogs, pigs and pigeons mingled with the temple goers and rummaged through the trash in the gutter in search of food. At the top of the hill we went in a small, white temple dedicated to the Hindu sun god. Some monkeys had perched on a motorcycle parked outside the temple; one was chewing on the fabric of the seat and two were sitting up front, in position to steer the thing. I couldn't have set up the shot if I'd tried. There were so many monkeys that it almost looked like the ground was moving at one point, but, unlike in Shimla, these monkeys were content to leave us alone and did not approach us aggressively.  The exception to this was when Hannah put her bag down for a second to take a picture, and a monkey quickly ran up and grabbed the snacks from her purse before she could stop him. As we began our descent on the other side of the mountain, an auto wallah had brought a bunch of watermelons to feed to the monkeys.  He took the melons, smashed them on the ground and gave the pieces to the monkeys, who greedily gorged themselves on the red juiciness. It's crazy to watch monkeys eat--they look so much like small people (grumpy old men, to be exact). Another sight to behold on the walk was the number of people--men, women and children--who just stopped on the side of the path in full view to relieve themselves. 

As the temple came into view, sand-colored buildings nestled in rich greenery, we felt like we were stumbling upon a treasure.  Walking down the steps into the temple's center, dozens of people were bathing in rectangular pools built into the rock of the cliffs. Monkeys and pigeons nested in the rocks above and watched the scene below of women splashing in their saris and men swimming in their underwear. As we walked towards the lower pool, a bright spectrum of color came into view, as women waded down the steps into the water in magenta, orange, vermilion, puce and turquoise.  The scene was so beautiful, watching the women who looked like jewels in the sun. We walked around the temple, taking pictures while trying to avoid the many topless women of all ages, and got in an auto headed back to the city center.  After eating lunch, we went to the Hava Mahal, the Palace of the Winds, one of Jaipur's most famous landmarks.  It was a Mughal palace built in 1799; the structure resembles that of a beehive from the outside, with windows that look like geometric compartments.  While not in the best condition, the building was very beautiful and we were both glad we had come. We then met up with the other girls, relaxed at a coffee shop for a while, and then headed to dinner at a hotel restaurant adjacent to a fixed price jewelry store--a match made in heaven! We relaxed over beer and biryani, bought some bling and enjoyed the pleasant weather.  

At 4AM, Hannah and I dragged ourselves out of bed and headed for the train station, where we were met once again with so many people on the floor of the main terminal hall that it was hard to step around the sleeping bodies. We boarded the train and I climbed to the top bunk where I got a few hours of restless sleep, before resigning myself to sitting sleepily next to Hannah on the crowded bottom bunk, crammed with other passengers. The last two hours of the journey seemed to take forever, stopping so many times within the Delhi metropolitan area that I thought we'd never make it.  With about an hour left to go, Hannah turned to me with an important question: "On a scale of 1-10," she said, "how open are you to going to the Bagels Cafe before we go home?" Not a week earlier, we had discovered the gem that is the Bagels Cafe, a restaurant near where we live that serves--you guessed it--bagels and cream cheese that are way better than mediocre! Arriving at our station around noon, exhausted and smelly and cramped and starving, we took the metro to our stop, got in an auto and emerged in bagel heaven. It was certainly no H&H, but let me tell you, I think it was the best bagel I've ever had.

To see all of my photos of Jaipur, click here and enjoy!

Happy Teacher's Day!

This post is admittedly belated, as the joys of Teacher's Day took place last Wednesday, but I will try to communicate the loveliness of that holiday despite the time elapsed. Teacher's Day is celebrated on the 5th of September throughout India, as an occasion for students everywhere to recognize the contributions their teachers make in their lives.  Even knowing that such a concept exists here is enough to make any American teacher envious, but the reality of the loveliness that transpired will knock your proverbial socks off.  From my first day at school, I was told that on the 5th of September I would have to wear a sari. I woke up early Wednesday morning, had Tangi braid my hair to the side and Hannah wrap my sari as best she could, which was considerably better than our first attempts (see: gorees in sarees). For the first time since I've been here, I put on my once signature bindi and walked out the door in heels and bangles, just as I was told to do. It felt like every single person on the metro was angling to catch a glimpse of the foreigner in the clumsy sari, their stares boring into me all the way to the station near my school, where I bumped into some other teachers I knew, also dressed for the occasion in saris.  The first thing my friend, Sushama, said to me was, "You look lovely! Don't worry, we will fix your sari." Ha! I had already told my co-workers who sit in the same staff room as me that they are allowed to laugh at me before helping me, as long as they help me eventually.  I entered the school, to the happy chorus of kids pushing each other out of the way to wish me a Happy Teacher's Day and touch my feet, in the traditional, formal way of showing respect to elders. Peeking into classrooms, I saw students rushing around their rooms, decorating the walls and preparing the soda and snacks they had brought in neat arrays.  

Busy bees preparing classrooms

Upon entering the staff room, Papiya, one of the more senior teachers who wears a sari every day and has been hounding me to wear one from the beginning, was so glad to see me wearing the sari and immediately took it off me to retie it.  Unsatisfied with her work, she sent a student to get another teacher to do a neater job, and her pleats were so perfect that I got comments for the rest of the day about how well the sari was wrapped.  Thanks, Davinder! An endless stream of kids flowed in and out of the staff room all morning, bearing flowers, chocolate and cards for their teachers. Eager to witness everything that was happening, I started wandering the halls, sneaking glances into classes, until some girls from 7C saw me on my own and (literally)   pulled me into their classroom.  

Hurriedly creating the display

They had adorned the room with streamers and balloons, set up a table with refreshments, and, most notably, spelled out the class teacher's name on the teacher's desk in rose petals.  As Shruti, the class teacher, approached, kids ran in to warn everyone, and the whole class went into hyper speed, putting finishing touches on their handiwork, straightening their chairs, and cleaning up any final messes. As Shruti walked in, the kids cried out with joy, bursting balloons filled with rose petals over her head, and throwing more petals on her as she walked to sit in her chair.  Several students gave her gifts and flowers, and then she gave a little spiel about how lovely they were, how 

Finished masterpiece

proud she was of them, how they should never forget that their first and most important teachers will always be their parents, that they should thank their parents when they get home, and that the greatest gift they can give her as students is to study hard and do well in their classes. The whole thing was adorable.  

Shruti Ma'am addresses her eager fans

Fancy teachers assemble

Soon it was time for the assembly, and the whole school went outside to sit in the outdoor foyer and watch a seemingly interminable string of speeches and songs, extolling the value of teachers.  It occurred to me that while Indians seem to love giving speeches, they are equally uninterested in listening to them.   


This was evident in the ratio of length and quantity of the speeches to chatter noise level among everyone in the crowd, students and teachers alike.The assembly ended with every teacher being called up individually to receive a rose from the 11th grade students, while the rest of the student body cheered and yelled their enthusiastic little heads off. They definitely forgot about me, which was fine, until Sushama realized they weren't going to call my name and sent another teacher to alert them to this fact and call my name.  Sure enough, I received my blessings and my rose, before heading up to the "party" I had been invited to in 7B. I again witnessed a class teacher showered with rose petals, gifts and a whole lotta love, as she entered the class for the first time that day. 

Shanu Ma'am is ambushed with love...

...and rose petals

The kids in that class had stood and made fruit salad (fruit salad!), neatly cutting apples, pears and bananas into bowls and sprinkling them with lemon juice, all brought from home, for teachers to enjoy.  They made me sit down and served me plates of snacks, which, like any good Indian host, they insisted I finish.  At one point I tried to leave my plate, and they literally ran after me with it for me to take.  Several cups of sugary fizz and a plate or three of masala cheetos later, school was over for a half day, ending at 11:30.  I walked to my fellow ETA Sean's school a few blocks away, toting my half-dozen roses I had received and trying desperately not to trip on my sari.  I ended up wearing it the whole day, including our visit to an international book fair and our English Language Teaching class.

The whirlwind of joy and affection that was Teacher's Day seemed to go by in a flash.  But let me tell you, that experience, that outpouring of appreciation, will last me a long time.  Jealous, anyone?

Why You Gotta Make It About Body Image?

"Yael, you look like you've lost weight, I can see it in your face."

"You are skinny so you can wear cotton saris…we [gestures at me] fatties can only wear synthetic and silk."

"I've noticed that you've been losing weight.  I look at you and realize there's a lot less of you to look at. Are you keeping well?"

"What do you put on your skin? It's so fair and glowing."

"Ma'am, you are looking sooo pretty today."

"When are you going to wear a sari? When you wear a sari you must wear bangles and heels."

"When did you get your nose pierced?  Your piercing is too small, it should be more prominent, you should get a bigger one."

"Why don't you wear kajal on your eyes?  You would look so nice if you wore kajal."

"Ma'am you have the most beautiful eyes."

"Ma'am you must wear your dupatta.  Where is your dupatta?"

"You look so lovely in Indian dress.  Do you wear Indian dress in the US? You should wear it all the time."

"You have such a beautiful face. Your face is so nice, Ma'am."

"You would make a beautiful Indian bride. Do you want to marry an Indian man or only an American?"

These are examples of comments I receive on a daily basis, multiple times a day, from practically every Indian person I know here. These words come from my students, my co-workers, my coordinating teacher, the Fulbright coordinator, my English language teacher trainer and my landlord's wife.  To be a foreigner in India is to live in a constant state of judgment.  It's very possible that Indian people are treated the same way by each other, but I can only speak about my own experience.  People at school, students and teachers alike, comment many times over the course of the day on how I look, and while it's usually positive, I find that I feel overwhelmed by how much people pay attention to how I look. Certainly India is a country where physical appearance means a great deal, albeit in a very different way from in the US. Whereas in the US people in the working world shy from color and sparkle, women in India dress in matching suits and saris every single day in the most dazzling array of similar and contrasting colors.  Red and green are not Christmas colors here, azure and magenta make an excellent match and the dupattas (scarves) of the salwar kameez usually contain a bit of pattern from both the top and the bottom of the suit.  The people I work with are delighted in a way that exudes pride, to see me wear Indian clothing, as if they personally chose the fabric or made the suit or designed the look.  The children are also fascinated by the way I look.  For the first two weeks of school, one little girl got out of her seat several times during every class to tell me my eyes were beautiful.  By the 7th time, flattered as I was, I just wanted to yell, "OK! My eyes are pretty but sit your booty in your damn seat and stop telling me about it!" What complicates the issue even more for me is the problematic nature of Indian body image among women, in general.  Of course it is not to say that body image issues are "better" or "worse" than in the US, but they are without a doubt very different.  For one thing, the pervasive nature of the former colonization of India has left deeply ingrained ideals of beauty, based on people of European descent.  It follows, then, that white skin is a coveted attribute, as evidenced by the aisles of skin lightening treatments and creams abundant in every supermarket, chemist and corner store. A couple of weeks ago I sat through a very uncomfortable conversation in which my coordinating teacher went on and on about how "lovely," "glowing," and "fair" my skin is.  I said that in the US, no one wants to be as pale as me, and that I think I look better when my skin is more tanned.  I also said that I just was lucky to have clear skin, and that my mother also has very nice skin.  This prompted my coworker to tell me that her mother has lovely light skin, but her skin is a darker tone and she wishes she didn't have such "ugly, dark skin."  Skin color is very important to so many people here, and in my personal experiences in the school, children are likely to be treated differently based on this, among other factors such as caste (though the two are many times connected). There is, of course, a well-documented history explaining how these distinctions came to be important, not just in colonial India but also in the establishment and perpetuation of caste.  It is striking, however, how this long history that I learned about several times in the context of various examples of imperialism throughout the world comes into play in my daily life here.

In an country where EVERYONE has an opinion, getting so much attention for just being present with a foreign face seems to incline people to share their opinion about you all the time.  From the guy behind me in line at the ATM who told me to press the "Withdraw from savings" button on the screen (Uh…thank you sir, I've used an ATM before and am obviously old enough to have a bank account, so back off) to the lady who warned me not to lean on the doors of the metro because they will open and I will fall out (Listen, lady, this ain't my first rodeo), the frequent exchange of opinions about even the most personal choices is not limited to people you know well, or even at all.  It's sometimes difficult to come to terms with the fact that the way people show concern is by giving you advice in a way that comes across as, "this is just a suggestion but if you don't do it you will look like/be an idiot." 

Grains of salt are taken liberally here, but it's when people comment on my weight that the undue attention to my physical appearance feels most intrusive.  Weight does not have the same connotation here; of course there is a wide variety of body types, but, among women, it is socially acceptable to comment on another's weight. For whatever reason, whether because the clothing is not form-fitting and is tailored to my body, or because our apartment does not have a full-length mirror, I find that I am generally less self-conscious here about my weight than I was in the US.  In fact, I rarely think about it, whereas at home it would cross my mind at least a few times a day.  Yet when people comment on my weight, whether to say that I'm a "fattie" (yes, it happened, see my post about wearing saris) or to tell me that there's "a lot less of me to look at," all kinds of neuroses about my appearance come to the forefront.  On one hand, I've never received so much positive attention about my appearance as I do here in India, especially at school, where it feels like every child and teacher has to tell me I look pretty, that my kurta is a nice color, that my eyes are "so lovely."  On the other hand, hearing so much feedback about how I look every day makes me realize how much people are paying attention to my appearance, and it makes me uncomfortable.  It's possible that it's no more attention than I receive in the US, but the straightforward and frequent nature of the way people communicate their every thought to you makes it feel like a lot more than I am used to, and it can be overwhelming.

Diversity means something very different in India than it does in the US.  While each class at school contains students of different castes, who speak a variety of languages at home and practice different religions, a great many have never been outside of Delhi, let alone outside the country.  If the shape of your eyes is unusual, you must be Chinese, "immigration" in this country refers to people that move from one state to another, and being from the state of Bihar is fair game for your classmates to make fun of you.  It also follows that when my students think of the US, they think of a country filled with light-skinned Christians and a few people from other countries that would never be considered American.  The classic example of this perception occurred when Patricia used the giant photos given to us as part of a pack of ESL materials from the State Department.  Tricia held up a photo of a classroom in the US, depicting a group of students in a classroom, and asked her class to tell her who was in the picture.  "Ma'am, there are three Americans and one girl from Africa," they responded, pointing at the one Black child in the picture.  Similarly, my roommate, Tangiah, can barely convince people that she is, in fact, American, that no, neither she nor her parents were born in Africa, and that no, she cannot say from where her ancestors left the continent, because such is the nature of African American history.  In a painful interaction, Tangi's coworker once asked her: "Why isn't your hair silky like mine?" How do you explain to someone that a question that seems so innocuous to them is very hurtful to us? Tangi eventually did tell the woman that she was hurt by the comment, giving Tangi a sense of relief and allowing her to let go, but the truth is that part of the issue is the frequency with which comments are made, both of a kind and a hurtful nature.

Sometimes I just feel like an alien here: when I speak two words of Hindi and people congratulate me like I was awarded a Nobel Prize, when I am afraid to cross a street that children fearlessly dive into, when my coworkers sit and gossip and laugh together and I pretend to have a clue what they're discussing, when I look around the lunch table and am the only one not eating curry, using the roti (bread) to sop up the yellow sauce, the only one whose food the other teachers never want to share.  But there's also a way in which I have never felt so welcome to a place I have never been.  Like when my students offered to walk me to the metro station on my first day, telling me it was on their way when it was in no way convenient.  Or when, also on my first day at school, another teacher gave me the spoon she was literally in the middle of eating with because I didn't have one.  Then there's the million times a day my students form a crowd around me, each wanting a hand shake or a high five or a hug from me. There's the boundless curiosity about my life, both here and in the US, which no amount of answered questions seems to satisfy.

A teacher and friend I knew in Utah, Alan, a big, stocky guy about 6'4" tall, used to joke with us when we commented about his height.  "Why you always gotta make it about body image?" he would say.  It was ironic and funny, considering that he was addressing a group of self-conscious teenaged girls. I often feel like saying that phrase in response to the comments I get. Yet I realize that the one making it about body image is me. They are simply making observations they believe to be factually true, whether it's that I look nice or that I look like a fatty.  I have to get over it, and find a way to appreciate the comment or concern without taking it too seriously for my own good. It's a journey, man.