Forbidden Territory

Going to Kashmir brought up some mixed feelings for me, as it was the place to which my roommate, Patricia, travelled, prompting the Fulbright program to unceremoniously kick her out. But so many people have told me throughout the year that it is the most beautiful place in India, and its status as disputed territory gave me an indication that this place was special enough to fight over. I was also excited to explore Kashmir with Sári, who spent time there before and had a good friend with whom we could stay. Before we went to Rajasthan, we bought train tickets at the Foreign Tourist Reservation Bureau, an air conditioned heaven within the madness of the New Delhi train station, the largest and most used in India. About 24 hours after returning from Rajasthan, Sári and I were on the move again, taking an auto to the metro, a metro to the train, and an overnight train to Jammu, the southernmost city of the state of Jammu and Kashmir. For the first time, I was traveling overnight in sleeper class, the unairconditioned equivalent of steerage (yes, the image I have in my head is from the movie Titanic), with bunk-beds stacked three on each side of the berth. We arrived in the morning and boarded a shared jeep that would drive the ten hour journey to the city of Srinagar. 

View from the journey from Jammu to Srinagar

Not. Comfortable. To ride. For 11 hours.

Dal Lake from across the street from Farooz's house

Unfortunately, we were the last to join the car, so Sári and I shared the back of the car with two other guys, on seats that faced each other, Sári's long legs crumpled and folded as small as they could go. Despite the discomfort, the ride was absolutely stunning, winding around the mountains and overlooking lush valleys with mountain streams. At one point all the cars were stopped on the highway for an hour, as we waited for a goatherder to get his flock through the mountain tunnel we needed to pass through. By the time we reached Srinagar an hour later than we expected (thanks to the goats), it had started to rain and was nearly dark. We shoved into one of Srinagar's black autos, closed on both sides to keep the cold out, but making you feel like you were trapped in a jewelry box on wheels. Around Dal Lake we drove, admiring the sunset through the rain and arriving 15 minutes later at Farooz's house on the other side of the lake. He and his father met us outside; we crossed the wooden footbridge leading past the greenhouse in front and into the simple sitting area at the front of the house. The most notable thing about the room, in which the entire family was congregated to watch the news and chat, was that it was absent of furniture. Everyone sat on the floor on the room's periphery, their long, poncho-like ferins covering their knees and insulating the heat released from the congars, small baskets filled with hot coals for exactly this purpose. Farooz's mom, thrilled to see Sári again, bustled around, rattling off in Kashmiri as if we could understand her clear as day, and bringing us kahva, traditional Kashmiri tea. Farooz's sister, Seyde, sat with her seventeen-day-old infant, alternating between nursing and rocking. We were treated to a piping hot dinner, consisting of vegetables flavored with turmeric and pressure-cooked to death, and, as always in Kashmir, an overly generous helping of rice. In Kashmir, they say if you haven't had rice, you haven't had a meal. We ate the way everyone eats there: with our hands, a skill I had fortunately already been taught by one of my students when I visited her house. If you're wondering why you need to learn to eat with your hands, I recommend you try eating rice with your hands and tell me how it goes. 

Farooz's mom tills the land

According to Farooz, the bureaucracy in Kashmir makes the rest of India look like a well-oiled machine. As a result, it's very difficult to get permits to do things like build houses on your own land, so Farooz's family took advantage of a government strike to build their home quickly, on the sly. The hasty building is barely insulated, making it pretty drafty and cold; Sári and I shared a room upstairs that we occupied only when we were under the covers. The absence of furniture is consistent throughout the house, with everyone sleeping on thin handmade mattresses on the floor and one room downstairs with shelves where the whole family keeps their possessions. Indeed, all the bedrooms were devoid of anything except for the mattresses on the floor. When Sári told Farooz she was cold, he went to get a hot water bottle and came back with an actual plastic bottle that once held cooking oil, filled with hot water. There was also only one bathroom for in the house, which included Farooz, his younger brother, his parents, his grandmother who looked about 16738462 years old, and his sister, who was abiding by the tradition stating that a woman returns to her mother's house just before and for a few months after giving birth. The bathroom included a squatter and a nearby spout, with a bucket placed underneath for bathing purposes. The great thing was that they had really hot water at all times of the day (don't know how, but it was awesome), so taking a bucket shower was really not unpleasant despite the morning chill. 

Mehru and Farooz chow down 

For our first full day, Farooz took us to the market near the holy shrine of Hazrat Bal, a mosque which is said to house a beard hair of the Prophet Muhammad. It was drizzling off and on all day, but the walk to Hazrat Bal was beautiful, the placid Dal Lake reflecting the sky as clearly as any mirror. Farooz took us to a bakery where we ate cream-filled pastries and rested from the rain before taking a minibus to Lal Chowk, a shopping area with a Sunday Market. The market consisted of used items from clothes to books, to dishes. Sári and I wore ferins that Farooz's mother had lent us, reducing the staring to less even than what it would be elsewhere in India. In the evening, we relaxed at the house and met Farooz's hilarious, too-clever-for-her-own-good three and a half year-old niece, Mehru. 

Ferin!

Paper maché madness at Khanqah Shah-i Hamadan

The next day, Sári and I headed for the Old City, saw the Jama Masjid (Friday Mosque) in all its glory, wandered the streets admiring the unique, wooden architecture and spending hours looking for the Khanqah Shah-i-Hamadan shrine, said to be the nicest in Srinagar. When we eventually arrived via auto, we were not disappointed. The entire façade and inner walls and ceilings are covered with decorative paper maché, bursting with bright color and intricate, hand-painted motifs. We started chatting with an older man working outside the mosque to welcome people, who was so impressed with my Hindi (Urdu) that he took us around and led us inside to where the women pray, a part of the mosque where foreigners and non-Muslims are not technically allowed. He was fascinated by my jewelry, asking me where I got each piece, and testing the stones to check their purity. He introduced us to every person we saw as we walked around the mosque, each person stopping to marvel at my limited Urdu and expressing their excitement at meeting me. When the namaz sounded and people began filing in to pray, a man who seemed to be homeless and drunk tried to gain access to the mosque, only to be physically escorted off the premises several times. The shrine was guarded by several Indian soldiers, which made for a somewhat strained atmosphere in the first place; then to see this old man being manhandled was pretty disturbing, even if he was drunk. 

Transplanting

We spent the next day helping Farooz and his family on the farm, transplanting seedlings that they  had grown from seeds by placing them with dirt in small plastic bags for sale. I warned Farooz about my black thumb, my unique talent for killing plants I try to cultivate, but he said it would be fine. Keep your fingers crossed! Farooz's mom commented that it usually takes farmers years to get a bent back, but that I had managed to acquire one in just a day! In the evening, we went down the road with Farooz and his cousin for kebabs, which consisted of a stick holding bite-zed pieces of meat, roti (bread) and fresh chutney on the side. Delicious! Though the food we ate at the house was not bad, I was completely tired of it after a few days and was anxious to eat something else. In the evening, we tagged along with John and Mehru to some festival celebrated in a few noteworthy cemeteries to commemorate Muslim saints buried there. It was pretty overwhelming, with so much staring and such huge crowds, but it was definitely interesting to witness. 

Pari Mahal

On Wednesday we did errands, spending a lazy morning and then running around making arrangements to get back to Delhi. No sooner did we buy train tickets from Jammu to Delhi (no trains go to Srinagar), did we discover that the entire highway between Jammu and Srinagar would be closed due to government ministers moving from their winter locale in Jammu to their summer workplace in Srinagar. So flying it would have to be! In the afternoon, Farooz took us to the Pari Mahal, a Mughal garden overlooking the whole city and lake. Much to my dismay, we walked the 2.5km uphill road to the site, watching the tour buses and vans zooming by. The view was incredible, and they were filming some kind of music video so there was music blaring, which made for an unusually funny atmosphere. It began to POUR rain and then hail on the way back, so the car that stopped for us to get in to take us to the nearest sheltered bus stop was surely a divine intervention.

Goat milking!!!

On Thursday, I milked a goat! I went with Farooz and his mother and squeezed the milk out of the teat! It was epic. Later, as we walked to Hazrat Bal to buy flight tickets, Farooz's brother, Irshad spotted us from his scooter on his way home from work, which it turned out he didn't have that day. He borrowed his brother-in-law's car and took us all around the valley, showing us some incredible places that I would never have gone on my own. What a gift it was to be taken around like that, to see the poppies and irises growing wild on the mountainside, meet nomadic tribespeople out for a stroll, spend time in the much-missed sunshine. Their cousin came along as well, which gave us the opportunity to talk about life in Kashmir, to ask their opinions about the situation and the future for the region. Most of what they said was thoughtful and unsurprising, but every once in a while they would say something so contrary to my frame of mind that it was hard to hold back my judgment. The most notable example of this was when the cousin claimed that the only rape that occurs in Kashmir is perpetrated by the Indian Army, that Kashmiris never rape. I asked him if he really thought that Kashmir was the only place in the world without rape, and he replied that Kashmiris would just never do such a thing, that women are respected in a way they are not in other places. This coming from a native of a city where maybe half the women we saw wore full burkas. The naïveté this displayed was not shocking, but rather echoed what I have heard in many parts of India, that their region, their people, their way of life is superior and somehow free of many of the contemporary issues that plague other societies.

Shikara walla?

Sunset on the lake

Dinner on the lake

In the evening, despite being tired from the wonderful day of sightseeing, Sári and I decided to go for a ride in a shikara, the traditional, wooden longboats propelled by a man rowing with a single, heart shaped paddle in the back. Farooz balked at this idea and said he was taking us on the lake himself, and disappeared for a few minutes before returning with a bag full of kebabs. He took us to his family's boat from which his father used to sell vegetables at the floating vegetable market, Farooz rowed to the middle of the lake and we turned in circles, watching the water become golden with the sunset and then fade into purple and black as the sun sank, eventually dotted with the jewels of lights reflected from Hazrat Bal. We ate our kebabs, making a mess and letting the juice from the chutney run down our fingers and chins, watching fisherman catch "illegal fish," as Farooz says, by casting nets into the water at night to collect in the morning, laughing and feeling the loveliness of the moment. It was truly a highlight of the trip.

It was on Friday, the Muslim day of prayer, that the political tension was most remarkable. There seemed to be more police and soldiers on the street than usual; we saw a police truck on Lal Chowk being loaded with madly chanting people being arrested for protesting, and Farooz said the same thing happened as he was entering the mosque. It's hard to imagine this beautiful city under one of their relatively frequent curfews, in which no one is allowed on the streets until further notice. The military presence is hugely resented by Kashmiris, who are outnumbered by members of the Indian Army. Everyone we spoke to expressed a deep dislike for India and a desire to separate from the nation, though no one communicated wanting to be a part of Pakistan either. There were things about the situation that reminded me of Israel, in the presence of weapons in plain sight nearly everywhere you go, the sense of tension about the possibility of unrest and the feeling that the political situation was caused and perpetuated by forces outside their personal control or influence. The major difference, however, was the sense of occupation, the fact that none of the soldiers are from Kashmir, that they don't belong in or to this land. 

Seyde and baby

It poured all day on Friday, which didn't stop me and Sári from exploring the Friday markets at Lal Chowk and Hazrat Bal, pausing for coffee at a bookstore, buying postcards for our friends from Corrymeela and exploring the shops selling Kashmiri crafts. Farooz took us around the food bazaar outside of Hazrat Bal mosque after he finished praying, and we admired the piles of kohlrabi, the kilos of grapes draped over carts, the whole, skinned goats hanging from meat hooks in front of the butchers. In the evening we sat inside, listening to the rain, drinking kahva, keeping the congars secure under the ferins, taking turns holding the baby while she napped. 

Farooz, Irshad and nieces

Fun in Nishat Bagh 

We had all morning in Srinagar on Saturday before our flight, so we took advantage of the rain's pause to go to the two famous Mughal gardens, Shalimar Bagh and Nishat Bagh, both impressive in their own way. Nishat Bagh, though less famous outside of Kashmir, is breathtaking, set up overlooking the lake in terraced gardens bisected by a series of waterfall fountains. It was a great way to spend our last few hours, taking silly pictures and people-watching. Even the sun came out to send us off! We returned to the house for lunch and then said warm goodbyes to the family as we got in to auto to the airport. Words can't describe how grateful I am to have been able to stay with them, what a meaningful, beautiful experience they gave me in Kashmir. They told me I always have a place to stay there, that I should come visit soon, that they will miss me. People that genuinely kind and hospitable are nothing less than a blessing. 

Nishat Bagh

To see the rest of my photos from Kashmir, click here.

It was the best possible way to end this beautiful year in India. I have been staying with my friend Sim, who is from here but went to Scripps with me, and have been chatting with her a lot, processing my experience and gaining some closure. I have such a deep sense of gratitude, mostly to my roommates, the other ETAS and to the students and teachers at school, who were the people who completely made this year what it was. I am proud of myself for making it through with such a positive attitude, for rolling with the punches, learning what I could and letting go of what I couldn't control. Though the truth is that I think there are much better fellowships on which to come to India in terms of support, purpose and organization, I leave this experience with a deep personal satisfaction about my time here, and whether or not that comes from a completely internal place, I am equally happy about my year here and ready to move on.

I fly this evening to Southeast Asia, Where Iwill be traveling for the next three months, hoping to make a loop through Northern Thailand, Cambodia, Laos, Vietnam and maybe Burma, before visiting my good friend Roland in the Philippines and ending my journey in Australia. I fly to San Francisco on August 8th and will be visiting all my favorite people there before returning to New York for a few weeks and attending a master's program in England (haven't decided which yet!) for conflict resolution. I will try to blog during my upcoming travels but any regularity is doubtful, so sit tight! Sending much love for the last time from glorious Mother India. And what a Mother she is.

Desert Days

The real reason I came back to India after Thailand was to see Sári, my good friend from Hungary with whom I volunteered at Corrymeela for one year, in Northern Ireland. Sári is one of my favorite people; I was very close with most of my volunteer team, and she was no exception. Sári turns 31 in October and complained constantly at Corrymeela about being "so old" compared to the rest of us (except for Roland, who was also 27 at the time), which always cracked us up. Before she came to Corrymeela, Sári spent nine months traveling around India and became very close with a guy she stayed with in Kashmir for several weeks, named Farooz. Sári always talked most fondly about Kashmir and we decided that's where we would go upon her arrival. First, however, our friend Ethan, who was on the Corrymeela volunteer team the year before us, was in India and going to visit a place in Rajasthan, Western India, where he had volunteered a few years ago. Ethan is an awesome person doing amazing things, including starting a nonprofit called Peace by Piece, focused on peacebuilding and sustainable development in the UK, India and Kenya (so far). He was traveling with his friend Antonio, networking in India for the organization and exploring possible projects. Ethan has muscular dystrophy and uses a wheelchair, which never seems to slow him down from what he sets out to do, but it did prompt us to hire a car and driver to take us to the tiny rural village in Rajasthan where Ethan had stayed.

Corrymeela goes desert! Starring Yael, Sári and Ethan

After a misunderstanding with my landlord about paying rent for the month of April, I moved all of my stuff out of our apartment, leaving a suitcase at a friend's house and taking only what I would need for the next two weeks in my trusty backpack. When Ethan and Sári picked me up to go to Rajasthan, I officially moved out of the apartment in Malviya Nagar, which (surprise, surprise) prompted a nice, big, emotional cry the day before. In any case, I walked to the market with my all my stuff and enjoyed my last few moments in the early morning at Malviya Nagar market before the van pulled up and we were off to the desert.

We drove mostly west and south for six or seven hours, stopping a few times to stretch our legs, through the dry landscape of Haryana and Rajasthan before pulling up around 5PM to the dusty campus of Singla's Barefoot College. The Barefoot College is an organization that seeks to teach rural villagers, especially women and children, skills and knowledge to make their families and villages sustainable. Some notable projects include training villagers to create and install solar panels to get off the notoriously unreliable Indian power grid, rainwater storage in the desert to prevent the damaging practice of pumping groundwater, and creating high quality handcrafts for sale to visitors and locals. The Singla campus, where we stayed, functions as a night school for rural children, and serves to catch them up to speed so they can enter school at grade level, since many kids miss out on years of school they are supposed to attend, mostly because they work on their family farms or need to spend half the day fetching water for the house. We were met by the friendly workers who run the night school, and were so delighted to see Ethan again. One of the main administrators, Shivraj, is a man who was clearly disabled by polio as a child. His upper body strength is pretty intact, but his legs are of little use to him, and he alternates between hoisting himself along the floor cross-legged using his hands, and getting around in a wheelchair that looks like an adapted tricycle for adults that he propels with his arms. It was striking to note the contrast between Shivraj and Ethan, both brilliant people doing great things, one who sits in a wheelchair that can fold and pretty much go anywhere, and one in a converted bicycle whose only indoor mobility is on his hands. It's also pretty heartbreaking to see Shivraj, who is obviously very bright and exceptionally motivated, whose life is so limited because he contracted this highly preventable disease and lives in a place with little access to resources that could significantly improve his quality of life. He told us about how sad it is for him to not be able to find someone who will marry him, how difficult it is to take care of his family in his condition. He was a really great, fun person and I was very grateful to have been able to meet and spend time with him. 

Shivraj wanted me to give his chair a spin 

Sukijee makes chapattis on the first night 

Feast!

That night, the cook, Sukijee, a lean man with the traditional gold hoops in his ears, multicolored turban on his head and the characteristic white dhoti worn by many villagers, made dinner which included chapattis (round, flat bread, like pita without a pocket) over an open fire. It was delicious!! Then Sári and I moved our mattresses outside and slept on the terrace under the stars.

Tilonia showroom and store 

Library friends!

The next morning we drove to Tilonia, a larger Barefoot College campus, where a lot of the crafts are made and where they have a store in which you can buy them. Ethan and Antonio are fundraising by buying lots of the goods from Tilonia and reselling them in the UK. This meant that they were buying a crap ton of stuff, and, more importantly, that we had free reign of the store to pick stuff out for them to sell. It was hot, but the "work" was fun, and the goods were so beautiful. We had lunch there and saw the puppet workshop they have, before hanging out with some kids in the library they have there for the villagers. By the end of the day, we were outrageously hot, dusty and exhausted, and Sári pretty much had heat stroke. W returned to Singla in the late afternoon to rest, and then I helped Sukijee make dinner.  He does everything on the floor, where the two-burner stove is, from washing to peeling to cutting to seasoning, opening jars of this or that spice and combining them in the lid of one of the containers before dumping the mixture into the pot and turning its contents completely red or yellow.

After Sári's strong reaction to the heat, we spent the next day taking it easy, relaxing, napping, reading, cooking and playing cards. At one point I became confused when I couldn't find my flip flops after a card game and realized that the driver had walked off with them. He offered to return them but I preferred to just let them stay his. It was weird. Sukijee eventually got used to my insistent help, (he tried to discourage me in the beginning), though if I was doing something too slowly he would just take it out of my hands and complete the task in two seconds. He was such a kind man, with a great smile and a generous spirit; cooking with him was definitely a highlight. 

Nothing beats a Sukijee smile...except a Sukijee parantha

For our last morning, Sukijee made the most incredible paranthas, fried flat bread stuffed with potatoes in this case, but often cauliflower or other vegetables. We were on our way after breakfast, and watched the desert scenery change gradually into the urban jungle of Jaipur and then Delhi. To avoid the sound of the incessantly whiny retro Hindi music the driver insisted on playing, Sári and I had a marathon singalong, completing the entire repertoire from the Sound of Music, along with many a Beatles tune and a few other favorites. It was so nice to be able to spend time with Sári and Ethan, neither of whom I had seen since leaving Corrymeela, not to mention the comfort of being with people who know you very well. Singla was also by far the most rural place I stayed in during my time in India and I was happy to get to experience that and see the Barefoot College.

To see all of my photos from Rajasthan, click here.

Me, Ethan, Sári, Shivraj and Amit the shoe-stealing driver

Escape to Thailand

I know it has been a while since I posted, but it's only because I have been having a fantastic month traveling! After the wonderful insanity of Holi, Hannah and I had two days in Delhi before heading off to Thailand for two weeks. Since the first month of our grant, my roommates and I had discussed going to Thailand together after its completion as a last hurrah before going our separate ways. Fast forward nine months and Hannah and I are the only two left in the Malviya Nagar nest, and we would be damned if we weren't going to take that vacation. 

Getting the Skytrain to Chatuchat

 We arrived in Bangkok on the night of March 29th and headed straight for my cousin Eric's house, located in a beautiful building in the heart of the city. After a night in the most comfortable bed of all time, we awoke to freshly cut fruit on an immaculately lain table, sunlight streaming in the windows overlooking downtown. We went to Chatuchak Market, a giant bazaar open only on weekends, full of stalls selling everything from pets to souvenirs, clothing to spices, dishes and silverware. I had been to the market on my previous trip to Bangkok, but it was great to go again and experience it with my shopping buddy of the year. We stopped for a lunch of noodles and fried chicken, cooked to perfection, and returned to Eric's for an afternoon by the pool on the roof.  Our friend Sarah, who had been an ETA in Madurai and has been traveling in Southeast Asia since she resigned her grant in January, came back to Bangkok to meet us, and joined us at Eric's that evening. Eric's awesome-beyond-words live-in housekeeper, Kuhn Eid, made an incredible Thai dinner, and Eric's good friend and colleague, Elsbeth, joined us with her husband. It was so great to be in someone's home, not eating Indian food and free of the pressure to go back to the crazy teaching in Delhi. 

With Eric at the State Tower

The next few days flew by, Eric treating us like royalty, wining and dining us all day and even taking us for foot massages. We went dancing one night in his neighborhood--such a relief to feel totally comfortable going outside in Western clothing at night. Eric runs a gem and jewelry business in Bangkok and we got to visit his office and see the gem cutters at work. 

Gem cutting at Eric's office

He took us for drinks at a hotel with an amazing view of the city, and then to a buffet at the Sheraton at which we could have sworn we'd died and gone to heaven, complete with Thai food, a raw seafood bar, sushi, steak, mashed potatoes, caesar salad, an array of cheeses, creme brulée, mousse and a dozen other little desserts. On our last night in Bangkok the three of us joined Eric and some of his friends for the best pizza I've had since New York, before he left for a cruise with his parents the next day. Living it up in Bangkok truly felt like a dream.

Longtail boats on Railay Beach

Sarah continued north to go to Cambodia, and Hannah and I flew to Krabi, a small town on the west (Andaman) coast of Southern Thailand, where we found a small hostel run by a crazy Rastafarian Thai guy who acted like a caricature of a beach town hippie. We met up with our friend Kelly, another Madurai ETA whom I was particularly close with in the time we spent as a big group, who was also doing the rounds in Thailand following the grant. We spent a few days on the stunning beaches of Railay, meeting some fun Swedish people (who, incidentally, abound in Thailand like peanuts in pad thai), and soaking in the sun.

From the longtail ride to Railay

Hannah, Kelly and I then departed on a bus and then a ferry to Ko Phi Phi, an island famed for being featured in the Leonardo DiCaprio thriller, "The Beach." Phi Phi is actually two islands: Phi Phi Don, where people stay, and Phi Phi Leh, which is a protected nature reserve. We took turns staying with the bags while the other two looked for a hostel, walking around in the heat of the afternoon after the long ferry ride. After settling in, we walked around, went to the beach and relaxed (again) before enjoying the party vibe on the beach in the evening. 

Ko Phi Phi Leh

 The next day we bought some beers at the local 7-11 and talked to the driver of a longtail boat, negotiating a price to take us around Phi Phi Leh for the day. 1500 baht later we were on our way, jumping out of the boat to snorkel in the crystal clear water every time the boat entered a different cove. The beach that is shown in the movie was beautiful, but packed with tourists and therefore less than picturesque. But the more isolated parts of the island that we saw were incredible. 

Maya Beach, of "The Beach" fame

After two days in Ko Phi Phi we headed for another ferry-bus-ferry combination to get to Ko Tao, an island on the east coast of Thailand, famed for its inexpensive, high-quality scuba diving. We spent a full day traveling and then made ourselves at home at Ban's a resort that certifies more people per year than any other facility in the world. The atmosphere on the island was very laid back, with people from all over the world converging to take advantage of the diving and scene. Hannah and I went for our initial diving certification, while Kelly did a course to get her advanced certification. We were in a small group taught by the dive shop's head instructor, an eccentric English guy who has been teaching diving for 20 years, following his retirement from the Royal Ballet (no kidding). He was on the crude side, but was a great instructor and we felt very safe in under his teaching. When we practiced in the pool I was a little nervous and found it a bit anxiety-provoking to breathe underwater. But as soon as we got in the ocean, I felt like, well, a duck to water. It was as if I had done it a million times, I was so comfortable and had very few problems maintaining the right buoyancy necessary to move freely. The fish were beautiful, swimming through lush anemones and brilliantly textured coral. I had the sensation of seeing something so familiar, yet so foreign at the same time. Long story short, I absolutely loved diving and can't wait to go again. It also made me feel a nice connection to my brother, who wanted nothing for his 14th birthday but diving classes and has been a fanatic since. We met some very nice people, ate good food and Hannah and I really enjoyed the last few days we had together before parting ways. 

Ko Tao livin'

At the end of two weeks we returned to Bangkok on an overnight bus to fly back to India. My friend Sári was arriving from Hungary and we were to travel together for a few weeks, while Hannah's aunt and uncle were coming from Atlanta to do the same. We returned to our apartment and enjoyed the last night of many we'd had alone in the apartment in Malviya Nagar, reminiscing and watching some of our favorite shows, tying up loose ends with our landlord and beginning to process the whole year's experience as a whole. Thailand was an awesome adventure, but it was nothing compared to the entire ten months we spent learning, growing, struggling and enjoying all that India had to offer us. I will miss India immensely, but am very ready to leave and move on to other endeavors.

To view all of my photos from Thailand, click here.

Holi!

Gulal

Holi is a delightful Indian festival that quickly became my favorite as of today. It celebrates colors, and, as all Indian holidays I know about, commemorates a deity vanquishing a demon, and, ipso facto, good triumphing over evil. It also celebrates the spring, the beginning of the harvest and is now mostly a cultural, rather than religious, celebration. The holiday is observed by throwing colored powder, called gulal, on everyone around you, as well has having water fights and generally running around. Yesterday (the day before Holi), Hannah and I went to a clothes market and then came home before meeting up with friends for dinner. Every time we were on the street, kids on balconies above us would pelt us with water balloons. They usually missed, but one time they got us good, and we spent an auto ride drying ourselves and licking our wounds. People tend to get CRAZY for Holi, and foreigners are especially targeted, which is why we decided to just stay in our neighborhood rather than try and find the biggest festival site or something. 

Waiting with water balloons on the balconies...

Dhol player at the party

Several days before the actual festival, our landlord, Manish, who has been wonderful to us throughout the year, invited us to a Holi party at a neighbor's house. He said that a news show had contacted him about filming people playing Holi (throwing the gulal) before the actual day, so they could air footage on Holi. We showed up in clothing we knew would get ruined, and arrived to fine about twenty people, not one of whom we had ever seen before, standing around listening to a drummer playing a dhol (like a two-sided Indian bongo drum). It was awkward, especially when they kept goading us to dance (by ourselves, in front of everyone) like hired entertainers. But the people were very nice and it was a good introduction for the real thing. To see the whole clip of the news segment, click here.

This morning, the day of Holi, we arose to the sounds of chairs being set up in the park and water balloons bursting. At around 10:30, we geared up in white clothes, moisturized our faces and oiled our hair (to prevent the color from staining too badly) and headed upstairs to play Holi on the roof with Manish, his wife and their two young girls, who are the CUTEST, most fun kids, and we've become attached to the whole family. Reena, the mom, was standing with a hose continuously filling buckets with pink dye to color the water, while the girls threw gulal and sprayed us constantly with waterguns that looked like giant injections. It was SO fun, so light hearted, just warm enough for the water to be refreshing. After a while, Sean and his girlfriend joined us, bringing way more gulal and giant water guns that they had spent way too much money on, considering that they leaked like crazy and had zero water pressure.

The girls play in a colorful puddle

Sean gets attacked!

With the whole family

It was an awesome experience, and after two full hours of madness, Reena gave us a snack and we collapsed into plastic chairs, thirsty, sunburned and exhausted, covered in color and content as could be. If any of you ever have a chance to play Holi, DO IT!

The three ETAs left in Delhi! We did it!

If only the Jews could have a holiday that involved lightheartedly attacking your relatives...

...just kidding. That would be the end of the Jews.

To see all of my photos from today, click here.

I am headed to Thailand on Friday the 29th for two weeks of bliss with Hannah, Sean and half the India ETAs. I'll try to post at least once while I'm there, but if not, see ya on the flipside! Love from Mother India.

Pitaji in Mother India

I was lucky enough to have my dad visit me in India for a hot second, which we spent going to Agra and Amritsar. In Agra, I finally saw the Taj Mahal, the jewel in India's sightseeing crown, as well as the lovely Agra Fort. Amritsar is a city in Punjab that lies a few kilometers from the Pakistani border in the northwest of the country. It is home to the Golden Temple, the holiest site of the Sikh religion. Both cities were places I had been meaning to see but had not gotten around to. Here is the link to my photos of Agra and Amritsar. Enjoy!

Agra: Mughal Magic

Amritsar: The Urban Turban

Mataji in Mother India

I just had a great two weeks traveling with my mom (Mataji) in this fine and varied land. We spent a few eventful days in Delhi, where she visited my school, enjoyed the great weather, and successfully avoided food poisoning! We then spent a few days in the Thar Desert and the city of Jaisalmer in Rajasthan in Western India. After returning to Delhi via overnight train, Hannah joined us as we flew to Bagdogra in West Bengal (Northeast India) and drove (ahem, were driven) to Darjeeling. Following Darjeeling, we drove through the Himalayan state of Sikkim before returning to West Bengal and then flying back to Delhi. It was exhausting...but awesome! Here are the links for my photos. Click and enjoy!

Delhi and Jaisalmer

Darjeeling, Sikkim and Kalimpong

First Impressions, Last Impressions

Well, the crazy adventure of teaching ended yesterday. I had a wonderful last day, full of beautiful cards made by my kids, plenty of hugs and even a few tears (but surprisingly not from me! I already had my cry at school on Monday). In cleaning out my locker, I found the notepad I used for my initial Hindi classes and in the beginning of the school year. Inside were some of the first impressions that I jotted down after my first few weeks:

• Teachers expertly pouring water in their mouths without touching the bottle
• Newspaper laid under shiny tiffins filled with yellow, orange and green curries with okra ("lady fingers"), potato and eggplant. In a second tiffin, rotis, torn gracefully apart, fingertips touched with yellow from the turmeric
• Brightly colored clothes, all in matching suits, flowing saris and dupattas, bangles on wrists, bells on ankles, rings on toes, and jewels in ears and noses. Hands with mehndi and foreheads with sindoor and bindis
• Empty bulletin boards, white walls and partner desks meant for two but crammed with four
• Children smiling, desperate for my attention, shoving papers and hands in my face, calling my name when I'm mid-sentence
• Children wanting to sing and perform, knowing which children are good singers and dancers
• Flooded halls during rain, chaotic arrival and departure via any and every means of transport short of camels and elephants
• Hot chai in the morning, burning my fingers and tasting of spice
• Laughter at my foolish attempts to say their names, blushing when I call on them, always standing and sitting and standing again, so EAGER to please, to tell me about themselves, to be in my favor
• Signing the attendance book, everyone cutting in line with no regard or awareness of my presence
• Children always waiting for permission to enter, serving and fetching for teachers
• Wet footprints when it rains, dusty footprints when it doesn't

As a thank you and farewell to my students, I edited a video from the several hundred photographs and dozens of videos I've taken over the past year. Below is a slightly edited version of the video I showed to my students during the last week of classes. It's a little long, but I recommend watching the whole thing...Enjoy!

And it's on to bigger and brighter things! Namaste, Navyug School.

Going Home With Students

Two significant events happened last week. The first was that my roommate Tangi resigned her Fulbright grant, electing to leave this Thursday, February 14th to go home. She made the decision for a variety of reasons, not least of which were the fact that she's done teaching, is tired of India and needs to visit law schools before she accepts offers of admissions. The second was that I accepted invitations to go to my students' houses and have spent every other school day for the past week riding the bus with my kids and going home with them.

Ishika and her mother

The first student who invited me home, thereby opening the floodgates of invitations, was Ishika, a very nice girl in one of my favorite classes in school, 6C. She had mentioned wanting me to come over a few times throughout the year, to which I responded that I would love to oblige but that she had to talk to her parents, make sure it was OK, and let me know a good time to come. Two weeks ago, she came up to me and told me that her mother really wanted me to come, that I should go with her after school on Friday or Monday, and I knew that I wasn't just going to be dropping in on some poor, unsuspecting mom. Last Monday afternoon, I climbed the school bus along with all the other teachers going to the metro, only I stayed on at the metro station while all the other grown-ups filed slowly off the bus. Seeing me still there, the kids flooded me with questions about where I was going. Upon finding out I was going home with Ishika, every one of them started asking when I would be visiting their homes. I played a good old game of Geography with some of my favorite 7th and 8th grade boys, and before I knew it, forty minutes had gone by and we were pulling up to the stop on Man Singh Road, by India Gate, smack dab in the middle of Delhi. I walked with Ishika to her house, through some alleys, past a garbage heap and some beautiful, towering trees, to arrive at a wide, two-storied blue and white building.I climbed the stairs to find her mother at the shared sink outside their home, washing dishes and cleaning the vegetables she was preparing. The apartment consisted of two rooms, the larger of which was at the entrance and was filled almost entirely by a double bed, across from which hung a flatscreen TV. The room was probably about twelve by seven feet, almost twice the size of the second room, in which a two-burner stove sat on the floor near a bird cage containing the saddest looking bird I've ever seen in my life.

Saddest bird ever

Half its feathers were missing and I swear its eyes looked glazed over. In the far left corner was a small Hindu shrine, characteristic of every home I've been in since, complete with small candles, flowers, tinsel and pictures of what I think of as the Gods' Greatest Hits (Shiva, Ganesha, Krishna...you know, the important ones). I was told to sit on the bed, the only elevated place to sit other than a small bench that barely fit in the corner next to the bed. The only thing of note in the room other than that the bed was a fairly large flatscreen TV hung on the opposite wall. Ishika's mother made fresh roti (flat, thin bread made on the stovetop) and finished making the paranthas (flat, fried pancake usually made with potatoes) and subzi (vegetable curry), while Ishika deftly connected the TV screen to the computer's hard drive and showed me the games she had. She also showed me an album on her mother's phone of their recent trip to the Golden Temple in Amritsar, which contained several photos of  random foreigners, whom I could sympathize with for having been nice enough to have their photo taken by strangers. Ishika's mom laid a piece of newspaper on the bed, before spreading the dishes in front of me and commanding me to eat. The food was seriously delicious, so fresh and flavorful. Afterwards, Ishika wanted to take me to India Gate, one of Delhi's more photogenic monuments, located several blocks from her house in the heart of the planned center of New Delhi. Full to bursting, I walked with Ishika, her younger sister, and her mother to the giant arch facing the Rashtrapati Bhavan, the official residence of the President of India. Her mother insisted on buying bhel puri for me, a famed street food from Bombay, consisting of puffed rice mixed with fresh onion, bell pepper, tomatoes, spicy crackers and a mystery brownish red sauce. I literally felt like I might pass out from being so full, but I couldn't refuse her generosity, so I made a show of taking several tiny bites. We walked around a bit, and when I was ready to go home, I flagged down an electric shared rickshaw. Before I knew it, Ishika's mother had given the driver ten rupees, and even my threatening to take another rickshaw wouldn't make her take it back.

The next day at school, the floodgates opened. Suddenly, dozens of students were insisting I come to their house, particularly those from 6C, Ishika's class, one of my favorites. A 6C student named Rishi, who was one of the first students at the school that captured my heart with his dancing, joking and generally fantastic energy despite his difficulty controlling it, was particularly adamant in his insistence. I told him in no uncertain terms that he hadhadhad to let his parents know and make sure it was OK to have me over, and the next day I boarded the bus with him. Up until the last moment, I really wasn't sure if he was bluffing, seeing if I really would come, or serious about having me over. Eventually I decided he was genuine in his invitation. On the bus I sat in front of Kartic, another 6C boy, whose sweet, chubby smile and quiet demeanor I always enjoy in class. On this day, however, he had a goal and was determined to meet it. For over a quarter of an hour, Kartic grilled me about when I would come to his house, what day, what time, whenwhenwhen. When I said that I could not give a specific date until I looked at my calendar, it was as if I was begging him to ask me again, as if his continued requests would make me give him the answer he was hoping for. It got to the point where I was just telling him he had to stop asking, and even the kids around me were trying to break it to him that he had to leave me alone.

Rishi shows off the courtyard

Rishi makes chai on the stove

I got off the bus with Rishi, along with half of class 6C, who, as it turns out, almost all live right near each other off of Man Singh Road. While many kids had parents who met them at the bus stop, Rishi was on his own and led me across the street and through a winding road, past a large dhobi ghat, or place where hired laundry is done by hand. The street was crisscrossed with clotheslines, strung between large wooden stakes tied together to form triangles so they would stand. Rishi took me through a gate, into a small courtyard flanked on two sides by low bungalows separated into four or five "apartments" each. The courtyard was not empty; each home had potted plants growing abundantly outside its door, several elderly people lounged in chairs in the sun, while a few young kids toddled about and at least five or six adolescents socialized with one another. Rishi led me to his house, which was actually a room and a half, about half the size of Ishika's house, maybe six by eight feet, with a tiny kitchen area leading into one tiny bedroom. As I walked toward the house, half the people in the courtyard followed me, curious about who I was and what I was doing there. One of these people was a child of seven who clearly had Downs syndrome. As he followed us inside, I asked Rishi if this was his brother that I had heard about on the bus, when the other kids had told me that Rishi's brother was funny and very nice but not much else. Rishi nodded and said his name was Harsh. The house was painted bright blue on the inside, with a small shrine hung on the wall and one double bed as the only furniture.The first thing Rishi did when he got home was clean up the house. He picked up the clothes off the floor, made the bed and hung up his brothers' school bags. Then he made me chai on the stove and prepared a bowl of namkeen, Indian snacks, which Harsh happily shared with me. When Rishi returned, I gave them the pencils and stickers I had brought them, before realizing that Rishi had a second brother! This made three brothers: Rishi, 11, Abhishek, 9 and Harsh, 7 plus the parents, all living in this tiny room together. Rolled up in the corner was a small mat with blankets, clearly to put on the floor for the boys to sleep on. Harsh could not have been more excited about the shiny pencils if I had given him a lifetime supply of ice cream. He kept holding them up and grinning at me, alternately putting them in his bag and taking them out. Adorable. Rishi came back with chai for me and for himself, and a small bowl in which he poured some for Harsh. Abhishek showed off his dance moves for me before climbing up the window grille to get something from a top shelf, and incidentally kicking out the window glass that sat propped up against the pane. I asked where his parents worked, where his mom was. He told me his dad is a painter, and his mom is on chai duty at the koti. I didn't know what a koti was and the only explanation he gave was by pointing outside. Watching Rishi with his brothers was incredible. At school, this kid was nothing if not the life of the party. Every time I taught a song, Rishi was up bangra dancing. He can hardly sit still in class, so excited and enthusiastic, not so focused academically but with a great sense of humor, an easygoing demeanor and a huge gorgeous smile. At home, he was the big brother, making sure his brothers had what they needed in his parents' absence, patiently pouring chai for Harsh and tending to his needs in such a patient and caring way. It was beautiful to watch.

When I first walked in, Rishi informed me that Lalit, a student of mine in 8C, lives in the same compound. Shortly afterwards, Lalit came in with his mother, who was both beautiful and surprisingly fluent in English, considering the limited bilingual abilities of other parents I had interacted with. She told me that Rishi's parents weren't here because Rishi's cousin had a baby who had been in the ICU and had just died, and would I like to come to her home for chai. Rishi's explanation of the baby's death was too complex for my limited communication in Hindi. All I understood was garam panni, which means hot water, so I had no idea what had happened other than that it was was tragic.

Rishi, Harsh and me

Harsh! The cutest.

After a bit, the boys took me outside to see the garden. When we exited the courtyard the opposite way from where we came, Rishi pointed to the giant white villa on the other side of a lawn and said, "koti." When I asked who lives there, Rishi replied, "the Sahib." Suddenly I understood the dynamic: the people in the courtyard all work, or have relatives who work, at this giant house in some capacity. To think that one household could support the livelihood of ten families was incredible to me, and was such a striking reminder of how much wealth exists in India in contrast to how much poverty.

The garden was beautiful, a large yard full of ripening vegetables--potatoes, tomatoes, cabbage, broccoli, cauliflower, onions, cilantro, and everything else you would need for a hearty curry. Some of Rishi's classmates from 6C joined us, giving Harsh big hugs upon their entrance and expressing excitement to see me there. I quickly noticed that Harsh was imitating Rishi's every move--he would point to the potato patch and say "aloo hai" (those are potatoes), and Harsh would do the same. 

Me and Lakshmi, Lalit's mother

We returned to the courtyard where I held some babies and Rishi played with my phone, before Lalit's mother insisted I come and have chai with her. She showed me home videos of a celebration they held last year for Lalit's birthday and that of his two-year-old brother Mayank, as well as a professional album of the event's photos. She pointed out every relative, telling me their names. In the photos she had clearly had her makeup professionally done, complete with some powder to make her face appear more fair, aging her lovely face about ten years. Lalit had made instant noodles for everyone that his eleven-year-old sister fed to Mayank and we all ate off plates. Eventually Rishi came in to tell me that his parents had come home and would I come back to his house.

Rishi's visitors 

I entered his home to find his three cousins, about my age, two of the three triplets, who looked about nine months old, his maternal grandfather, his parents and his two brothers. The grandpa was almost deaf and had a primitive hearing aid in his right ear that clearly barely worked, as every time someone addressed him they literally shouted in his ear. The three cousins were visibly upset, with red, puffy eyes and withdrawn as one would be following the death of a child barely hours before. I felt so uncomfortable being there in this intimate moment, but the parents were so evidently happy to have me that I couldn't leave. The mother of the babies nursed the boy, while the girl was bottle-fed by one of her aunts. The room was full of people, as you can imagine with a tiny space, seven adults, two babies and three children. Rishi's dad and grandpa were utterly jovial, chatting with me and asking me all kinds of questions about my life and work. Rishi and his brothers seemed oblivious to the suffering around them, Rishi insisting that his mother see the video of him playing soccer even as she was comforting her tearful niece. After maybe fifteen minutes of casual chat, when I was already desperate to be out of there, Rishi and Abhishek left with me to take a walk to India Gate. I bid farewell to the devastated group and we headed for the monument.

Once on the promenade leading up to India Gate, I insisted on paying for the inflatable ball Rishi bought from a street vendor and we attracted more than a few stares as we played and volleyed with the ball as tourists and locals alike enjoyed the view of one of Delhi's more well known attractions. As the sun began to sink, I made my way towards the subway at Central Secretariat, saying goodbye to the boys with promises of my return.

***

Prachi's grandmother

Prachi and Co.

On Monday of this week I again stayed on the bus after the metro station to visit the home of Prachi, another 6C comrade. Her mother and younger sister met us at the drop off, and we walked first to see Sakshi's house, a classmate who lives in a group of one-room apartments with her entire extended family. We got to Prachi's house, where her mother began preparing the fresh roti, I met Prachi's grandparents, and she showed me family photos. As she took me outside to show me her neighborhood, neighbor children tagged along until about eight strong were following along. They took me to the nearby dhobi ghat and the nearest mandir, small temple dedicated to the goddess Durga. We returned to Prachi's house, where her mother generously fed me delicious paneer curry, and I tried to ignore the texture of the cheese, which I hate, to enjoy the awesome flavors. My visit was cut short by the fact that I had a Hindi lesson at 5PM, and Prachi's uncle took me on his scooter to the metro at Khan Market.

Prachi and her sister, Tanisha

Perfect puri by Kartic's mom

The next day I was bound for the houses of Kartic and Anchal, Kartic being the 6C kid who drove me nuts the week before and Anchal a lovely, precocious girl from 7B. I went first to Kartic's knowing that I would need a concrete out to be able to ever leave. Their house was the largest so far--still only one room, but at least twice the size of Ishika's house, with walls painted teal and a small mandir in a cabinet with mirrored walls, to give the impression of infinity. His mom was awesome, understanding Kartic's incessant requests and apologizing on his behalf, a charge which I wholeheartedly denied. She was so warm and inviting, chatting nonstop in Hindi, giving me lovely bangles, and making ridiculously perfect puri. She asked me about where I'd been in India, what I had bought, and offering me everything I said was beautiful in her home. At aroung 4:00, Anchal showed up with her twin brother, staking her claim on my time even as I was struggling to eat the food in front of me. Half an hour later, Anchal's mom was at the door just as Kartic's dad was returning to meet me. After a quick hello, we went to Anchal's house, in the workers' complex adjacent to the official residence of the Vice President of India.

Her mother, like many women I have met in this country, was strikingly beautiful, and Anchal suddenly looked like a younger carbon copy of her mother, Nita. Their house was about the size of Rishi's but with white tiled floors and an indoor sink. I sat and ate her potato tomato curry, with her perfect puri, as she explained to me that her husband has been living illegally in Portugal for the past five years, trying to attain legal entry to the US and Canada. He had been home for the first time in five years, for three months, and had just left a few days before. My heart hurt, thinking about this gorgeous woman who looked so young, living alone with the two sweetest twelve-year-olds anyone could ask for, struggling on her own with her husband so far away. It turned out, as she told me, that the reason they lived in this complex was that her mother had worked in some capacity--servant, nanny, both maybe-- for the current vice president when he was a child. When Nita's husband left for Portugal, she was afraid to be a woman living alone with her children, and her mother asked a favor from the VP to let them live there.  I was enjoying my chat with Nita, especially when their neighbor came over with her toddler who said the funniest things, but Anchal was anxious to get out of the house. Kartic, his sister, Nupur, and his classmate Gautam, who also lives very close, met us as we headed towards India Gate.

We walked around for a bit before Anchal suggested we go boating on the small pond next to the park. I had to absolutely insist on paying, again, as Anchal's mom had given her and her brother spending money, to rent paddle boats for fifteen minutes on a pond the size of a large urban backyard. Kartic and Gautam shared a boat, much to Kartic's chagrin, as he wanted to boat with me, Anchal's brother Abhishav(?) went with Nupur, and I went with Anchal. I was immediately transported to Stow Lake, where my mom would take me, my brother, Sam and Max paddle boating on Stow Lake in Golden Gate Park, exhausted as the only adult paddling. The kids were absolutely thrilled, shrieking with laughter and smiles all around. I felt so grateful to be sharing this moment with them, enjoying so much the opportunity to just be with these awesome kids, relishing their company, their personalities and loving nature.

Bumper boating with Kartic, Gautam, Nupur and Abhishav

As the sun sank on a fourth afternoon of quality time with my students, I realized anew how unbelievably fortunate I am to have this opportunity. These children are the most precious of human beings. Inviting me into their world opened my eyes to their lives in a way I didn't know was possible, and I cannot describe the perspective it's given me on my whole year with them. Rishi's unbelievable tender relationship with his disabled brother, Anchal's mother describing the pain of living long-term without her partner, Kartic's mother insisting on putting the shiny bangles on my wrist to prove the authenticity of her generosity. I feel a connection to my students that I didn't know was missing, whether or not I've been to each of their individual homes. I am continuing to process the intensity of these visits, but for the time being, I am filled with a sense of gratitude and humility that I could never have expected despite all of the incredible experiences I've had in my short twenty-five years.