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.
