Best Laid Plans

This post isn't about reminiscing.

Three years ago almost to the day, I ventured with my dear friend Sári on an overnight train in sleeper class to Jammu in Northern India. The train was followed by an approximately 12 hour journey in the cramped rear seats of a jeep along the winding road through the western Himalayas to Srinagar, Kashmir. Misty, magical Srinagar, where we stayed with Ferooz and his gorgeous family on their modest flower farm, holding baskets of hot coals under our traditional cloaks to keep warm in the chilly April air, taking jerrycans full of hot water to keep our beds toasty, wandering through manicured, Mughal-era gardens and playing with the sassy toddler and red-cheeked newborn in the house. 

In the fall of 2014, severe floods affected large portions of Jammu and Kashmir, and Ferooz and his family's home and farm fell victim.

The sign on the left is for the family farm.
The water covers what is usually a busy road.

Across the street. These planters are about five feet tall. 

The lakeshore is normally 10+ feet to the left of the planters.

The family home

The green tarp hangs over the flooded greenhouse

According to Oxfam, over half a million people throughout Jammu and Kashmir were displaced by these floods, which were reported to be the worst in over 100 years. Roads that usually swarmed with traffic and bustle were now traversed using traditional shikaras, the long boats propelled by hand with small heart-shaped paddles normally used to shuttle tourists and traded goods across Dal Lake. "Yep," Ferooz said, when I asked him how his family had fared in the flood. "Too much water." After completing "some repairs," Ferooz and his family returned to their home where they began to rebuild the contents of their nursery from scratch in order to restore the family's primary source of income. 

But this post isn't about a flood. 

After a painless thirty minute flight from Kashmir to Delhi, Sári attended a wedding in Patna and I spent the next three months traversing Southeast Asia and Australia on my own and with spontaneous, wonderful companions. By October, I had begun my Master's degree in Conflict Resolution in Divided Societies at King's College London, living in student housing and spending the same amount of money for a beer as I would have on a week's worth of groceries in India. I hoped that this degree would allow me access to the field of peacebuilding and conflict resolution that I had envisioned being a part of for so long. My professors were knowledgeable and (mostly) engaging and my classmates hailed from all over the world. They provided unique insights and experiences to create a rich basis for discussion of some of the most pressing issues of our time. 

But arguably the most important lesson I learned in this Master's program had nothing to do with the ins and outs of Track I diplomacy. Maybe the lesson I most needed to learn was that a job that does not involve working with children for most of the day will not work for me.

Fast forward to January 2016, when, after applying to dozens of jobs and experiencing a mounting sense of disappointment and rejection, I was hired for the position of Youth Facilitator at a charter school in Oakland that had been recently founded. I was told that my primary responsibilities in this position would involve leading exercises to nurture teamwork, build trust and educate students to effectively and nonviolently manage conflict. Yet the school's major structural, administrative and academic failings precluded my ability to do meaningful long-term work with the kids. Within the first week, it was clear to me that I had been hired to do a job that did not exist; I had been warmly invited onto a sinking ship and then left to bail myself out with little or no support. Two months after I had been hired, I was laid off when the administration chose/was forced to discontinue the sixth grade and send the students to other schools. (There are many more details to this story which are irrelevant to this discussion of my current plans and whereabouts.)

As luck would have it, my roommate/landlord informed me a month ago that I would have to move out, as the house's faulty foundation had possibly led to mold inside the walls of my room. And so I find myself back where I started a few months ago, without a place of my own or a job to speak of. Last fall, however, I did create a Plan B, taking exams and applying to teaching programs. I was accepted to UC Berkeley's Developmental Teacher Education Program, through which I will obtain a Master's in education and a K-8 Multiple Subjects teaching credential. My hope is that working as a teacher will allow me to work with children in an extended and meaningful way, and will eventually lead to a path that incorporates elements of peacebuilding and conflict resolution into educational systems. Or that's the dream, anyway. The program starts in June, which gives me about three months to make the most of before I become a student again (for hopefully the last time, though my mother has her eye on a PhD that I feel uninclined to pursue). 

And so we reach the reason for this post after such a long hiatus. I think the theme of my past year has been restarting, relearning lessons I thought I had learned, repeating mistakes I swore I would never make again, and emerging with a whole new set of plans. Because you can cultivate a nursery full of seedlings and hybrid flowers in your own backyard, the safest place in the world to you, and then floods come and suddenly you find yourself sitting in a rowboat, peering into the second story window of your house. I played my cards right, went for a degree in something I thought would lead to what I wanted, completed a lengthy interview process for a fellowship that was offered and then rescinded, was rejected from jobs that I knew I could do with my eyes closed, and offered a job which made me doubt myself and my abilities in profound ways. And yet I find myself with an acceptance to graduate school, surrounded by some of the kindest and most supportive friends imaginable, trying to take deep breaths and feel calm, content and accepting of whatever comes my way.

That last part is easier said than done. My new plan is this: 

On Tuesday, April 5, I fly to New York where I will hang out with my family and other people I love, help my mom settle in to her sweet new digs, sort all my possessions, which have been in storage since I went to India four(!) years ago, and eat a bagel or twelve (before Passover, of course). 

On Sunday, April 24, I fly to London, from which I will travel via rideshare to Calais, France. Calais is the current site of one of Europe's largest and most notorious refugee camps. It is the main French port on the English Channel and has housed a camp, with varying degrees of state sanction, for refugees and asylum seekers since the late 1990s. I spend eight or nine days volunteering there with Help Refugees, a UK-based charity that  is working to distribute resources and provide basic services for the estimated three to six thousand refugees that are living in the current camp sprawl. I have requested to work in the kitchen and will be posting again soon with more information about the work being done and how you can support the humanitarian efforts there.

On May 4 or 5 I return to London, where I will enthusiastically and joyfully snuggle the future newborn of Neta and Rotem, whose delightful two-year-old nugget I had the pleasure of caring for after finishing my (first) Master's. Neta is due on April 19 and I'm going to hang out with them and other London people I love until May 15, when I fly back to the Bay Area to look for an apartment once and for all! Or until it gets moldy, I guess. Words cannot describe how excited I am to see Alma again, the baby I nannied for who is now a year older than when I saw her last, or how thrilled I am to hang out with a neonate. Did I mention I love babies?

Who knows how this plan will work out, but at least it exists! If you will be in New York, Calais or London when I am there, and you care enough about me to have read until this point, I would lovelovelove to see you. Cheers to the waiting period between floods! 

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.

Picnic to Akshardam

A few weeks ago I accompanied my students on a field trip to Akshardam Temple, a well-known complex playfully known to some as “Hindu Disneyland.” Why, one might ask, is Akshardam deserving of such an odd nickname? The temple is located east of Delhi, on the other side of the Yamuna River, and was completed several years ago. Over 7,000 artisans were commissioned to create this beautiful but extremely ostentatious display of pious devotion, dedicated to a guru who lived in the 18^th century. In addition to the temple, the site has several attractions that clearly illustrate the association with Disneyland. Field trips here are called “picnics” and the only reason I knew there was one is that my kids started asking me whether or not I was going several days before the scheduled trip. The whole of the 6^th, 7^th, and 8^th grades were going, so it’s a good thing my students like me and asked me to come, because otherwise no one would have mentioned it to me and I would have arrived at school to teach empty rooms. When I asked the principal the day before whether or not I could go, he stared at me blankly and nodded his head, though it’s highly possible he had no idea what I was talking about. In any case, I showed up Friday morning to many excited children. Please note that with 90-120 students per grade, this picnic was no small undertaking. Shortly after the children arrived, four large buses pulled in front of the school. They were coach buses, much nicer than the regular school buses that take kids to and from school, because I’m pretty sure there were doubts about whether or not those decrepit vehicles could make it as far as the temple. But I digress. The kids started lining up according to their class, with monitors walking down and counting them, seeing how many were present and absent. At first the scene was orderly, with designated teachers calling the students one by one to board the bus, making sure they knew which kids were there. I boarded the bus with Shruti, one of the teachers I’m close with who sits in the same staff room as me. She is the class teacher for 7C, a class that has a ton of personality, which I love, but can be difficult to manage sometimes. I sat beside Shruti in the front, classes 7C and 7B energetically bouncing and squawking around us. Our bus was full, with many students sitting three to a seat clearly meant for two, but they shuffled and made it work. Looking outside, I saw that the other buses were equally full, and also that 8C, being the last numerically and alphabetically, had yet to make it onto a bus. Before I knew it, the girls of that class were boarding our bus, crowding it so much that every seat had three children and some had four. Not exactly the stringent seatbelt requirement of the US. It didn’t really matter, though, because as soon as the doors were closed, half the kids started walking around, sharing the ample snacks they had brought for the trip and insisting that Shruti and I have some. In seeing the way both kids and adults eat in such a communal way, freely taking from others’ plates and expecting others to do the same, that this is not necessarily seen as ‘sharing’ but rather as belonging to everyone in the first place. Believe me when I say that these kids do not share easily. When I place markers on the table for an art project, you’d think I was giving rations to famine survivors by the way they elbow each other out and hoard the colors. And yet, when it comes to food, there is no such reservation in offering and receiving.  In any case, it seems that, for my students, the eating experience is not complete if I have not partaken with them. A steady stream of children approached me at the front of the bus bearing chips, bhujia, spiced nuts, and other snack food, pleading, “Ma’am, you try, just one, please.” On the occasions when they offered something I really did not want to eat, they would just keep pleading until I eventually took and ate the proffered item. The other noteworthy thing that happened on the bus was the singing. I know those of us from the US will remember a few rounds of 99 bottles or even some camp songs sung on the occasional bus journey. This was nothing of that sort. This was 70+ children all singing Hindi pop music at the top of their lungs, each child knowing every word and inflection, the boys getting especially into the choral aspect. It was a sight (and sound!) to behold.

We arrived at the temple at around 9:00, at which point all the kids got into their lines again, monitors straightening the rows and teachers counting. There was an attempted bombing at Akshardam a few years ago, so security there is RIDICULOUS. No one is allowed to bring phones, cameras or electronics of any kind, and if you think you can hide these items in a secret pocket—guess again. The security guards open every pocket of every purse, pants and jacket before frisking you so thoroughly it makes you feel uncomfortable. After all the kids and teachers were through, the lines were made again and we waited for a while because that’s what you do in India. We walked into the big reception hall where several other school groups of comparable sizes were also sitting, and had morning prayer. We led our group afterwards to a small auditorium, and proceeded to watch a video introducing the guru to whom the temple is dedicated. I thought we would then leave the building and see the temple, but in fact the building was a complex, which I later found out was called the Hall of Values, in which you go from room to room, hearing about the guru’s life and work. 

Hall of Values

All of the explanations were in Hindi, so I understood very little, which made the spectacle that much more interesting. Each room was comprised of a diorama-like scene in front of rows of seats. The scenes each depicted a part of this guru’s life journey, and were made of life-sized robotic people, á la the Pirates of the Caribbean ride at, you guessed it, Disneyland. Each robot had a small range of motion and they acted out various life events that were important in this person’s life, including conversations between robots. One of the scenes took place in a thunderstorm, and the effects included flashing lights, realistic thunder sounds, and actual water that rained down on the scene. The last room of the tour was about the importance and techniques of incorporating Hindi practices into your every day life. One such area had a barnyard scene with larger-than-life cutouts of animals. The animals had speech bubbles, such as a hen with chicks saying, “We don't eat their babies so why do they eat ours?” a cow declaring, “I give you my milk but it’s not enough; you must take my meat too?” and a lion stating, “I have fangs and claws for eating meat. You don't, yet you eat my food.” Guess what that diorama was advocating! I found the whole thing pretty tacky, but the kids loved it! They kept asking me if I liked it, and when I said , “of course! Do you?” They would reply, “Ma’am, it’s so beautiful! Isn’t it beautiful??” Their enthusiasm made the whole experience so enjoyable for me…at one point one of my sixth grade girls came up and held my hand, walking with me from room to room for a while.

The next stop on our temple tour was an IMAX film about the life of the guru as a child, and how he came to be a spiritual leader. Having stayed up fairly late the night before, and not understanding almost any of the film’s Hindi narration, I tried my best to keep my eyes open but eventually fell asleep. I was sitting next to Geetanjali, an 8^th grade girl that I LOVE (even though she told me last week in all seriousness that I looked fat). For the first few minutes after I fell asleep she kept nudging me awake, saying “Ma’am, the movie!” and I would open my eyes for a minute, responding, “yes, I’m listening I’m just closing my eyes,” before succumbing to the fatigue. I have no idea how long I slept but remember waking up about two minutes before the end of the film and looking frantically for the ticket to the next attraction that I had been holding in my hand, before the girl on my other side graciously handed it to me. When the film ended, we filed outside into the sunshine, at which point every child seemed to need to ask individually how I enjoyed the movie. When I started to say how lovely I thought it was, Geetanjali would appear out of nowhere to rectify my lie, saying, “Ma’am fell asleep.” At first I tried to deny it but then I just told her to stop blowing up my spot by telling on me.

The last, and indeed most spectacular(ly over-the-top) activity before seeing the temple itself was a mystical boat ride through Vedic India. The introductory plaque in English and Hindi said something along the lines of, and I’m paraphrasing here, “India is the greatest country and culture in the world and we were accurately measuring the distance between planets when Europeans were eating sand and each other during the Middle Ages and prehistory.” The wooden boats, shaped like peacocks, complete with peacock-head helms, had several rows of four seats each, and ran on a track through a “river” surrounded by more robot scenes. Picture the “It’s a Small World” ride but with the aim of teaching Hindu-Indian superiority rather than about the loveliness of geographic diversity. Mechanical people were arranged in scenes portraying the ins and outs of Vedic life in India, from medicine to blacksmithing to education. The second part of the ride showed all the great Indian scholars, sages and otherwise high achievers, such as the “Inventor of Astronomy” and the “Greatest Epic Writer in History.” There was Hindi narration that I would have loved to understand, but alas, my language skills continue to fail me. Once again, the kids were entranced while I was left wondering why no anthropological studies have been done on this overt display of Hindu chauvinism.

Boat Ride/It's A Small (Indian) World

Our last and most hurried stop was the temple itself, a massive display of the extraordinary talents and dedication of India’s many fine craftsmen still in practice. The white marble temple sits on an enormous platform of red sandstone, bordered by detailed bas relief frescoes of elephant herds. The inside of the temple is completely white, and every inch of the ceiling and walls are covered with the most intricately carved patterns I’ve ever seen. 

Crazy carvings inside...

I wasn't kidding about the glitz.

 Each ceiling, pillar and room is different, and flanked by enormous wooden doors covered with similarly complex handwork. The center of each room was occupied by different idols of gods, in displays as glittery, shiny and tacky as the artisanal craftsmanship was impressive. As I was walking from the ride to the temple, Ghozia, an 8^th grade girl with a good head on her shoulders and a very genuine demeanor, started chatting with me. In class, I try to speak only English, to get them used to speaking even if they don’t know all the words. But at Akshardam I felt I could be a bit more casual, and tried out my Hindi with them more than I usually do. Most of the kids were shocked that I knew any Hindi at all, let alone enough to get by. Ghozia saw how hard I was trying and was so supportive of my learning, speaking slowly, repeating herself, and chastising the other kids who said that I couldn’t understand anything she was saying. “Ma’am speaks Hindi!” she would say. At some point she took my hand, and we enjoyed the walk to the temple together. After we had paused to take off our shoes before entering, she stood waiting for me and then stuck out her hand again, as if to say, “Aren’t you forgetting something?” It was so nice to be able to have so much one-on-one time not just with her, but with several students throughout the day.

My students were so lovely that day. Not once did I hear a single kid complain about anything.   For anyone that has ever been on a field trip as a child or an adult, I would venture to say that a day on a field trip without complaining is as rare and precious as Indian traffic without honking, as a tropical vacation without sunburn. The children were so genuinely excited to be there, to be having fun and treated to this trip. Their expressions of happiness at my presence made me feel so joyful and privileged to know them.  It was for this reason that the attitude of the gym teacher toward me was so jarring.  [**Quick background which has no immediate relevance to the Akshardam expedition: For those of you who may not know me well, I never was the sporty type. Quite the contrary, nothing at school filled me with more dread and loathing than physical education. When we would go to the weight room, I would sneak in my crocheting and hide in the corner, knotting away. I was always in the last three to finish the mile run, and I remember thinking after the two-mile run in ninth grade that I would die from exploding lungs. And what always added insult to injury was the attitude of the gym teachers that “anyone can do it,” and “there are no winners and losers,” when there are clear victories and failures, and we were being asked to perform tasks that required a very specific skill set that some people are naturally gifted in while others are not. I personally am fairly good at learning languages. But I’m not going to teach someone for whom language acquisition is especially difficult and say, “you’re just not trying hard enough,” which is EXACTLY what gym teachers say. Anywho, in conclusion, I am not a fan of PE in general and have a real aversion to many of the gym teachers I have met in my life, Ms. Marsella of Clear View excluded. That being said, I have a particular vendetta against the gym teacher at my school here, who is the general disciplinarian of the place, meaning that he is the one called in (or barging in, as in my case) to smack the children. In my opinion, he seems to take a perverse pleasure in slapping and making kids afraid of him, and has never been particularly respectful of me. On several occasions when I have chosen to take a class outside, he has sent kids to tell me that he says I’m not allowed to be on the playground at that time for no apparent reason, to which I reply, “Well, if he feels strongly enough about it, he can come tell me himself.”**]

Before we boarded the buses to go home, the kids of course had to line up by class again so they could be counted.  Though this sounds like a simple and logical task, it was complicated by the fact that no one person was doing the counting. Each class had the monitors count, and then some of the classes the teachers would count as well. Everyone was moving around so every number was different and it took forever. The teacher of 8C was nowhere to be found and the kids had already counted themselves, but the gym teacher, stupid clipboard in hand, kept repeating that he was missing numbers for 7A and 8C. Several times I told him the count until finally I yelled to be heard, “8C pura hai!” which means all of 8C was there. Even then I had to say it several times before he paid attention to me, at which point he made fun of my accent by repeating the phrase in a stereotypical American accent, and continued talking that way, cracking up all the kids and making me look like an idiot. And that’s when I dropkicked him. Just kidding.

The bus ride home was fairly uneventful, other than the tons of food being forced into my face by my eager students and more singing. When we pulled up to the school, the kids let out a massive cheer at least as big as the one they yelled when we left. I had a great day and was so happy to have been able to accompany them. Some questions that were raised for me by this trip include the following:

• What is communicated to students by the fact that the one field trip of the semester was to an overtly religious site whose mission is to educate and reinforce notions about the Hindu faith?
• How did the non-Hindu students feel about this trip? How did their parents feel? How would I feel as a child if I had gone on a field trip that was so overtly Christian?
• Do my kids enjoy me in class as much as they did at Akshardam?
• Could it have touched my lil’ heart more that a thirteen year old wanting to walk around holding my hand? (Answer: no).

**All photos stolen (because cameras aren't allowed inside) from the incredible Akshardam website, which I highly recommend you visit because it's cray! Maybe as crazy as the place itself.

Perspective

Last week I had the good fortune to attend a conference for all the Fulbright English Teaching Assistants in South and Central Asia. The conference was held in Kathmandu, Nepal, which would have been enough to make the week fantastic, but the incredible location turned out to be just a part of why the week was such a memorable experience. The ETAs present are teaching in amazing places-- Bangladesh, Sri Lanka, Nepal, Tajikistan, Kazakhstan and Kyrgyzstan. I think there were about sixty of us total, (including the 15 from India). I arrived early, on Saturday afternoon, with Porter, as Sean forgot his passport and missed the flight and Hannah and Tangi were flying in the next day. We were told in no uncertain terms that if we were getting there early we would have to pay our own way that first night, including transportation from the airport. Naturally, when I met up with the other ETAs who were there early from Kolkata and Madurai, they informed me that the hotel would be free that first night. Thanks, South Asian bureaucracy! After getting lost for a while trying to find my friends, we went to a Mexican restaurant my friend Ernie from Corrymeela had recommended, and it was DELICIOUS! So exciting to just eat tortillas and salsa again! I ended up staying in the hotel that night, even though I had already paid at a roach motel in Thamel, the touristy area. The next day we went walking around Kathmandu, a city reminiscent of India, but with a very different feel. People were much more laid back and less aggressive. Crossing busy streets didn't make me feel like I was imminently going to die and the pushing came from the shoulders, rather than the elbows. We wandered around Thamel, admiring the abundant pashminas, camping gear and silver jewelry that adorned the windows along the street. We dined on momos, Tibetan dumplings that constitute much of my diet in Delhi, bargained a bit, and enjoyed the mountain air and blue sky. Eventually we reached a square with a stupa, or Buddhist shrine. We rang the bells and spun the mandalas, taking pictures and passing our fingers along the sanskrit engravings.

In the evening we returned to the hotel for dinner, meeting up with the other ETAs, many of whom I was meeting for the first time, as I'd had to leave early from the orientation in Austin in June. It was exciting to see all these people who I knew were having experiences equally significant as my own but in completely different places and contexts. Those of us in India have also been lucky enough to have had several opportunities to spend time as a large group with everyone from the three cities, both at the orientation in Delhi upon our arrival and in Kolkata during Durga Puja.

Nepal ETAs go traditional

The next day began with presentations. Each country gave a half hour presentation about their placements, students, and experiences. The Nepal kids went first, describing their life in rural villages, living in homestays and working in a wide variety of school. One girl works in a very large school, with class sizes ranging from thirty to eighty students, as the major teacher shortages require classes to be combined. Another ETA, teaching in the Gorkha district of Nepal, showed a picture of her staff room, a small, square area with a dirt floor and a bald lightbulb. She pointed to the lightbulb and explained that it was the only one in the school. “Sometimes it has power,” she said, “and sometimes it doesn’t.” There was a violent civil war between the government and Maoists that began in 1996 and ended only in 2006. Over 15,000 people were killed and 100,000-150,000 internally displaced. The upheaval and human rights violations committed by both sides forced many people to seek work abroad, ending up mostly in the Persian Gulf and Southeast Asia, and the economy there is extremely dependent on the income sent back to relatives that remain in the country. The ETAs there live in the Kathmandu Valley and in a district called Gorkha, about five or six hours from the capital. They all wake up around 5AM, help their family with chores and cooking and go to school only around ten. Many of their students work five or six hours in the fields before school, arriving already exhausted at 10AM from their day’s work. Their Nepali was way better than our language skills, certainly no coincidence considering their living situations. Two big differences from our placements are the fact that they all co-teach with Nepali teachers and are rarely alone in a class, and that they work in ACCESS programs, English classes for underprivileged, highly motivated advanced English students. It was fascinating to hear about their experiences, but also hard to listen to all of the great things they get to do with their students—the election speeches they prepared with their kids, the lyric writing competitions they held—when we are just struggling to get our students to sit in their seats for more than five minutes at a time without attacking each other.

Because there are so many India ETAs and we are in such different places in the country, our presentations were split into the three cities—Delhi, Kolkata and Madurai. Hannah, Tangi, Sean and I had decided to make our presentation about well-being: what gets in the way of it in India and how we try to achieve it. Tangi made a decision to talk openly about her difficulties in India as a Black woman—the crisis of identity she’s experienced when people here insist she is from Africa, the ignorant, hurtful comments made about her hair and skin, even the time she was refused entry to a club because the bouncer said they don’t allow Black people because they cause fights (true story). She started crying and the presentation became very emotional, causing half the people in the room to cry with her. I spoke about accepting and working with the fact that I am so outside of traditional norms of being a teacher in my cultural differences and classroom manner, and about learning to see and appreciate children beyond their disruptive behavior (thanks, Clear View!).

After our presentations came those of Sri Lanka and Bangladesh. The Bangladesh group only arrived six weeks ago and are still in language training, so they made an awesome video in which they interviewed people on the street about their perceptions of the US. The Sri Lanka kids gushed about how they live on the beach, teach motivated students in university settings, in which they can create their own curriculum based on literature they choose, and one guy at an NGO for children affected by violent conflict. Yet the presentations I found most captivating were those of the ETAs in Tajikistan and Kazakhstan. I have never learned about Central Asia at all before, and it was so interesting to hear about something so unknown to me. Tajikistan is a developing country, the only former Soviet Socialist Republic that does not speak a Slavic language. Tajik is actually a dialect of Farsi, and the region is an unusual intersection of Near Eastern culture with heavy Soviet influence. The Kazakhstan ETAs told us about the history of that country, the dictator they’ve had since the fall of the Iron Curtain, the emphasis by the government on learning English, the horrible pollution caused by the Soviets that has left the water heavy with lead and the air full of carcinogenic toxins. Both countries expressed an unrivaled eagerness among the people they interact with to learn English. Several of them said they are stopped on the street to ask for English lessons. Both countries have such a dearth of native speakers that having one in the community is extremely exciting and motivating for the local English teachers as well. They discussed the difficulty of creating sustainable English learning programs that can function after the departure of the ETAs, rather than having people sit around and hope for another native speaker to come along. All the ETAs in Central Asia work in centers called American Corners, programs set up by the US government after the fall of the Soviet Union to encourage people to learn about the US in a positive way, and about what it has to offer in order to counteract the negative image propagated by the USSR.

The rest of the conference was mostly seminars on English teaching, in which I learned some great activities to use, but found largely boring and unhelpful. Those of us in India were also so depressed by the contrast in support and experience teaching between our own placements and those of everyone else; it was hard to focus on being a better teacher when we realized we were the only ones just struggling to keep a class from the brink of total anarchy. But hanging out with the other ETAs was awesome. The group was full of so many smart, motivated, adventurous people and I felt so inspired and honored to be a part of it.  

Patan Durbar Square  

Because our time was consumed mostly by the conference, a few of us got up very early several mornings to explore the Kathmandu Valley before the first session. The first of these mornings consisted of a trip to Patan Durbar Square, about twenty minutes from where we were staying. There are three Durbar Squares, the generic name for the area where the palaces of the three kingdoms were. We got out of the squished shared van and wound our way through the quiet streets in the hazy sunlight of dawn. People were performing pujas (ritual prayers) at shrines along the way, smearing the red tika on the foreheads of the idols. After the Nepal ETAs tried unsuccessfully to convince the lady at the ticket booth to let us in for free, we walked around the corner and waltzed right into the square. It was peaceful and lovely, and we stopped for some chai before heading back out.

View on the hike...

After the morning’s session that day, we went on a hike as a big group in the mountains, climbing to the top and descending through a stunning, picturesque village. Low houses peeked over mustard fields, women passed us carrying bundles of firewood as big as their bodies, I held a wandering baby goat and watched some chicks follow their mama hen. There was a lovely temple at the end of the trail, in which we played with the stray puppies when we weren’t watching a local toddler hit them with a stick (seriously).

Foggy Morning at Swayambunath

The next morning we went to a Buddhist temple called Swayambhunath, seated atop a hill overlooking the whole valley. We climbed the steep stone steps, passed along the way by uniformed soldiers exercising by running up the stairs, and I snuck in for free (again) while the others unsuccessfully argued about getting in for free with the ticket man. It was a foggy morning so we couldn’t see very far, but we walked clockwise around the stupa, ringing the bells and avoiding the swarms of monkeys and pigeons. We sat for some chai before heading back. 

Cremation and Almost-Dead Foot Washing

That afternoon we went to Pashupatinath Temple, one of the holiest and most famous Hindu temples in the world. It is also a burning ghat, or place along the river where cremation takes place (like in Varanasi). This temple is where members of the Nepali royal family were traditionally cremated, and it’s the only place people asked me if I’d been to when I came back to Delhi. Pashupatinath sits on the Bagmati River, which is believed to be holy but looks like one giant sewage site, and we could see workers combing the shallow water for usable wood that hadn’t completely burned. We watched someone being cremated, covered in marigolds, with their relatives all around. The guide explained that there is a hospice right next to the ghat. Doctors monitor the patients very closely to try and figure out exactly when they are going to die, so they can be taken beside the river and have their feet washed in its holy water to be purified before their soul leaves this world. After Pashupatinath we went Boudhanath Temple, the second largest stupa in the world after one in Myanmar. The thing is enormous, and the plaza surrounding it is accordingly round. 

Boudhanath

We walked around the stupa clockwise, buying tchotchkes and entering a school for thanka painting, the traditional art form used by Tibetan Buddhist monks to create mandalas and other religious art. We climbed on the stupa itself to take pictures among the prayer flags and soak in the last rays of the sun before it sank. That evening was the last of the conference, and the open bar ensured a long night of dancing and merriment that took place outside on the patio of the hotel and then in a bar down the street, where we were pretty much the only people there. It was a great night with (shockingly) no debauchery, just fun people enjoying each other’s company.

Clockwise we go...

Thanka Painting

Most people departed for their respective countries the next day, including Hannah and Tangi, but Sean and I and everyone from Madurai and Kolkata had a few more days. That day was spent mostly wandering around Thamel again, saying goodbye to the lovely people I had met and unwinding after the overload of information the week had provided. On the last day, we went to an awesome brunch and sat outside in the clear air and sunshine, and then I was determined to see Bhaktapur, the most extensive and beautiful of the three Durbar Squares that had been recommended to me by everyone who had seen it. Sean insisted on taking a cab rather than a bus, so five of us piled in, with Sarah stretched across our laps and a breeze coming in the window. Despite its 1,100 rupee price tag (about $15 but that’s a LOT of rupees), Bhaktapur was totally worth it. As with the other architecture we had seen, the buildings resembled pagodas somewhat, but with decorative motifs highly reminiscent of both Indian and Chinese designs, but somehow different altogether. 

Bhaktapur Durbar Square

When one spoon just isn't enough...

We met a group of adorable street boys playing on the stone temple guardians—lions and dragons and elephants. We saw them pass again as we sat to eat momos, and bought them some along with samosas, watching them delight in the food and chuckling at the boy that needed two spoons at a time to eat all the chutney and then straight up ketchup. Sean and Nicole went back around four, but Kelly and Sarah and I walked aimlessly for a few more hours, watching women string beads and children play jacks with pebbles. The ornately carved windows formed a stunning backdrop against the blue sky…it made me realize how much I miss blue sky when I’m in Delhi.

The three of us found our way to the bus station and got seats on a minibus that would soon be jammed with passengers. We watched the dusk turn to night through the windows, and I was so grateful for the extra time to have seen Bhaktapur. We left the hotel early the next morning, still full of the sights and sounds and smells of the week, the pine in the altar flame, the bells beside the deities, the puppies nuzzled at the feet of the statues at the entrance to the temple. Nepal is a beautiful place that I hope to see more of soon, and I really treasured the opportunity to meet all those great people doing fascinating things in all corners of the world. To view the rest of my photos, click here and enjoy!