When To Let Go

So sorry for the delay in posting, but if it makes you feel any better, this post is twice as long! A major change happened in my life here, in the my roommate, Patricia, was forced to resign her grant and leave the country. Incidentally, this news came to me during my trip to Ladakh, a place in North India on the border with Tibet. Because these events happened at the same time, I couldn't separate them in my mind, and it made the most sense for me to write about it as one long post instead of two separate ones. To see the rest of my photos, click the link here or at the bottom of the post.

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Two weeks of vacation! For those of you that might not be aware, I finished working as an assistant teacher at Clear View on a Friday and flew to India for the Fulbright the following Sunday. While we'd had a few long weekends since we arrived at the end of june, the last time I had more than three or four days off work was my spring break in April. After much deliberation over where to go with the two weeks I had been gifted thanks to exams the kids had to take, I decided to go north. I booked a flight to Leh, the largest city in Ladakh,  region in the northeast corner of India, right on the border with Tibet in the Himalayas. I thought I might want to see Srinagar, the capital of Kashmir, and the flight back to Delhi was so much cheaper from there that I booked it and figured I would spend a few days there before heading back. Hannah and Tangi wanted to stay in Delhi to save money and work on their applications, and Patricia's break started the week before mine, since her school runs on a different schedule. Patricia is super outdoorsy, and really wanted to go on a trek in Kashmir, a troubled region of the country that many argue is the most beautiful place in India. Kashmir is on the border with Pakistan and has a serious political history, but Indian people have profusely encouraged me to go there, shrugging off warnings. Srinagar is one of the few places my students have visited outside of Delhi, and my friend Sári, whom I lived and volunteered with in Northern Ireland, had an incredible experience there. During our orientation, Vinita, one of the program administrators, had told us not to go to Kashmir, in the context of many things we were and were not supposed to do in India. We were not to go to Kashmir. We were not to go to Palika Bazaar. We had to wear salwar kameez to school. It was unsafe to eat fruit and vegetables on the street without washing and peeling it. They were warnings we took seriously, but also with the understanding that they are going to give us lots of extra precautions, if only to protect their own reputations lest something should God forbid happen to us. And so we took some of these warnings with a grain of salt, and when Patricia and I  thought about going to Kashmir, we considered that we had been told not to go, and decided that what USIEF didn't know wouldn't kill them.

Patricia is a tough cookie, having traveled in India by herself several times. When Hannah and I went to Shimla, Patricia had gone to Ladakh by herself and had an incredible experience.  And so Patricia hopped on a plane to Srinagar at 5AM on a Friday morning and we wished her well and were not particularly concerned about her. What we didn't expect was to receive a travel advisory that afternoon from the American Embassy in Delhi, warning US citizens that people in Srinagar had begun protesting the Innocence of Muslims video, that Americans posted in Kashmir were being evacuated, and that it would be risky for Americans to travel there at this time. Hannah and I were headed that afternoon for Jaipur, so I didn't get the email until later, but Hannah and Tangi called me from home to let me know and to ask if I thought we should contact USIEF to let them know that Patricia was in Kashmir. My opinion at the time was that it Patricia is smart and savvy and was anyway headed on a trek and would unlikely still be in Srinagar anyway. We had no way of reaching her, though we tried emailing her on the off-chance that she would check it. My thought was that USIEF would make a big deal out of her going, that there was nothing they could do and would therefore panic upon not being able to reach Patricia, and that if the situation was bad, Patricia would see it and come home. I was not in favor of telling USIEF but I of course understood why the other girls wanted to and was not going to tell them not to. For what it's worth, I also thought about the travel advisory having lived in Israel and Northern Ireland two places that outsiders would consider "high risk" and "dangerous" because of political conflict, but that really are safe places on an everyday basis. Of course if anything happens in Kashmir, the US is going to take every precaution ever, but that doesn't mean the sky is falling and it doesn't necessarily reflect what is actually happening on the ground.

By Saturday, the protests had continued and I read an article online reporting that tear gas had been fired.  At this point I got nervous and really wanted to hear from Patricia, but, again, I knew she was probably camping and out in nature somewhere. Meanwhile, after Tangi contacted USIEF  on Friday to notify them of Patricia's whereabouts, the staff were completely panicked, and called some of us several times over the weekend to see if we had heard from her. Finally, on Monday night as we walked from the metro to the groom's house in our Indian finery, my phone rang and Patricia was on the other end of the line. I was so relieved to hear her voice I could have cried. I yelled to the others that it was Patricia and immediately asked if she was alright and told her how worried we'd been.  I found out later that she had indeed been in the mountains, had returned and decided Kashmir was not where she wanted to be, and had decided to go to Ladakh early the next morning, where she would meet me. She'd had no idea that the unrest in Srinagar was considered so serious until she heard how relieved I was on the phone that night. Patricia gave me the phone numbers of the guy who was driving her to Leh and her friend in Leh whom she'd met there on her previous trip. I asked if I could forward the numbers to USIEF and then promptly called them to report that she was fine and give them her contact information.

The next day I flew to Ladakh, arriving at the airport early to get a window seat, passing out on the flight and opening my eyes to a spectacular view of the Himalayas sprawled out before me. Emerging from the tiny airport into the crisp, dry air of the mountains, I shared a cab with two Hungarians and two Israelis that I saw were waiting for cabs and headed into Leh. Patricia had told me on the phone to stay in the guest house she had recommended to me and that she would find me there or at the office of her tour guide friend whose number she had given me. I trudged, exhausted having not slept the night before between the wedding and my early flight, into the guest house, and promptly fell asleep.

Six hours later I emerged from my happy cocooon, got dressed and walked into the town center to meet Stanzin, Patricia's friend.  Stanzin runs a tour and travel agency called Ecological Footprint. I easily found his office and he greeted me warmly before telling me that Patricia had called to say she would not be coming, that she had decided to return to Delhi from Srinagar. Disappointed but not crushed, Stanzin took me to dinner at a pizza place down  the street, where a lot of the tour guides, young guys mostly from all over northern India, hang out at the end of the day.  We sat outside in the chilly air, shivering a little but enjoying the warmth from the bonfire the guys sat around nearby. You could see so many stars, and when I walked back to the guest house after dinner the sky was a beautiful navy blue, the mountains lit up by the moon. Ladakh has an unusual climate, semi-desert at a very high altitude so it gets very cold and snowy in the winter. Water is scarce and precious and the city of Leh is very conscious of its lean ecological resources. There is a very clean and effective system of irrigation in which water is carefully guided from mountain streams through canals that run alongside the streets throughout the towns.  People respect that this water is intended for use, and in general the baby canals that course downhill are pristine. Drinking water is bought or filtered, but residents can frequently be seen kneeling by the water outside their homes, doing laundry, washing dishes or filling jugs to water their gardens and vegetable patches. When you walk there at night, you can hear the water quietly running beside you, like a guide to accompany you along the way.

I awoke the next morning, having decided to leave the guest house in search of somewhere more central, packed my stuff and headed out. I walked through the town center, crowded with shops filled with cheesy embroidered shirts, Pashmina shawls, Tibetan silver, trekking gear and prayer flags galore. Walking down Changspa road, a touristy area with lots of lodging, I found one that had been recommended by my guide book but didn't get a good feeling about it. I kept walking, following signs to a row of guest houses that looked fine, and lingered for a minute, not knowing which to approach. Looking up, I saw a man filling several gallons of water from the concrete stream beside the house, wearing a straw hat and big green rubber rain boots. When he saw me standing there, he asked if I needed a place to stay and ushered me through the wooden gate leading to the guest house he runs with his wife. I watched him water the plants in the garden as I went inside. Standing in front of me was a gorgeous, hugely pregnant Ladakhi woman wearing a long grey sweater, round face glowing with her smile and her black hair tied back. She showed me the room I could stay in, consented when I asked for a lower price than she offered, and went to tend to her mother-in-law. This second woman had maybe the most wrinkled face I've ever seen, with about three teeth in her mouth, hanging for dear life and two long, black braids down her back, tied together at the bottom to form a v. She smiled at me, her hands full of flowers she had just cut from the garden out back, full of marigolds, daisies and dahlias.

The ascent...

Feeling settled, I headed out and walked down the road towards Shanti Stupa, a Zen Buddhist shrine built on the mountain by some Japanese monk(ey)s. Following Changspa road down as far as it would go, I came upon the stairs leading upward and braced myself before beginning the journey towards the white dome above. The climb took me a while, as I ascended slowly and frequently lost my breath. The sky was so brilliantly blue and cloudless that it almost hurt to look at it. On the way up I met two middle-aged dentists from Colorado who had come to Ladakh on a "dental mission" (their words, not mine), offering free dental services to children.  They said that there is one dentist for every 20,000 people or so in this part of the country, which made sense to me as I recalled the dreadful state of some of the teeth I'd seen in the past 24 hours. After that I started noticing peoples' teeth more, thinking about how painful and difficult would be to have a dental emergency anywhere near here.

Shanti Stupa

In any case, I reached the top and just stood in awe of the view for a while before walking clockwise around the stupa a few times. I soaked in the sun and the incredible vista, drinking my water and taking photos, conversing with a Canadian guy on vacation and removing my shoes before climbing the stairs. I watched visitors below me hike the stairs I had just finished climbing, felt the wind on my face, and turned around to head down.  Descending took me no time at all, and I walked to a restaurant I had seen on the way up. Starving by this point, I ordered the first thing I saw on the menu--eggs--and sat enjoying the ability to breathe again. Seated at the table next to me were two students from England, and we soon were chatting about our experiences in India and plans for Ladakh.

Where the Zanskar merges with the Indus

On the way back into town from lunch, I bumped into the Hungarian guys I had met the day before, who told me they had been very ill since arriving. We set a time and place to have dinner together and then I continued on my way to meet up with Stanzin. We set up a trip for the next day to drive in a jeep to Khardung La, the highest motorable pass in the world, and mountain bike down back to Leh. By pure coincidence, on my way to use the bathroom at a restaurant I bumped into both the Hungarians and the British guys and told them there was space available in the jeep, and that they should join. I returned to Ecological Footprint and Stanzin took me for a drive, winding between the mountains, to the place where the Zanskar River merges with the Indus. It was cool to see the Indus River, something I remembered from learning about the river valley civilizations in school.  The light in Ladakh is amazing--the sky is so unbelievably blue and the sun so bright that it makes colors stand out and shadows define the rocky curves in a beautiful way. You can see an actual line where the rivers merge--there is a line where the currents run into each other, and when I saw the same spot later on, I realized that the rivers were also two different colors. The Indus headwaters are in Tibet, so the river is still pristine in Ladakh. We sat at a cafe overlooking the scene and had chai, Stanzin chugging his and moving on to black tea before I had finished half of mine. We turned around and drove back, listening to John Mayer and watching the colors fade in the dusk around us.

Back in town, I decided to check my email, not only to make sure Patricia had made it safely to Delhi but also because I had so wished Patricia had checked her email before she went trekking. This was the email waiting in my inbox from Hannah:

Hey girl. If you get this message, please please call one of us or message us back. They are revoking Tricia's grant and she has to leave by this weekend. We are in shock and just got the news. I hope this message reaches you.

Love,
Hannah

My first thought was that it must be a mistake. How could they revoke her grant when she was violating a rule that was mentioned in passing? It honestly did not occur to me at that time that this would actually happen. It seemed so absurd that I really did not take it seriously deep down. I left the internet cafe and met up with the Hungarians, feeling completely shocked and taken aback but really not as concerned as I might have been had I really understood the situation. I had a nice time at dinner, the Hungarian guys, Tamas and Balasz were good company and I chose not even to bring up the issue that I was completely preoccupied with. I tried to call the girls on Skype for more information but couldn't get through. That night I slept very poorly, waking up several times and worrying about Patricia, wondering what had happened, what she would do, what our room would look like without her. In the morning I went straight to Stanzin's office, told him what I had found out and borrowed his phone to call Patricia. Fortunately, she answered, on the metro on the way to another meeting at USIEF. She explained everything that had happened--Vinita had called her the night she got in touch with me, told her to take the next plane back to Delhi, and had her come to USIEF for a meeting first thing the next morning. Patricia went in for the meeting with Vinita and Maansi, the program administrators and Adam Grotsky, the executive director of USIEF. Adam asked whether she knew she wasn't supposed to go to Kashmir, to which she replied honestly that she remembered Vinita mentioning it but had understood it as a warning and not as a rule set in stone. In so many words, he proceeded to tell her that the ambassador was moving to revoke her grant and that she could either resign her Fulbright and retain alumna status or wait and challenge the decision, which he described as "postponing the inevitable." Patricia asked for some time to think about it and consult with people outside of USIEF before making a decision and they told her she had until the morning. An hour later, Maansi called Patricia to tell her she had to return to USIEF to resign immediately or she would definitely have her grant revoked. Feeling completely backed into a corner, Patricia sent in her resignation. Nowhere in the Fulbright ETA handbook does it mention travel to Kashmir being prohibited, nor is it written in our contract that we signed. In fact, this "rule" was not found written anywhere that we could find--not on the website or any USIEF materials we have seen. Of course Patricia could have waited and challenged the decision. But all of a sudden she was in a position in which the people whose job had been presented to us as being for support were kicking her out, and I can't say I would have done anything differently if I had been in her place (which I very well could have been). And the truth is that if the Ambassador of the United States to India wants to take away your Fulbright, I think there is very little that you can do to stop it. Patricia was made an example of, punished for the terrible timing of her trip and for the failure of USIEF to make their rules and grant conditions clear. On the phone with her in Leh, I became so angry and upset, and yet still did not understand how final this decision was. Patricia told me that I didn't have to come home, that she wanted me to enjoy my stay in Ladakh, that we would speak again before she left. I took her words at face value, went inside, wrote a clearly articulated email to Adam practically begging him to let her keep her Fulbright, and rode up the mountain with two Hungarians and a Brit.

We drove up, up and upwards, the bikes in the bed of the truck, taking pictures around every curve of the vast and beautiful expanse below us, marvelling at the snow becoming more abundant as we climbed, bracing ourselves when the paved road ended and we jerked and bounced up along the gravelly last stretch, pocked with potholes and unfinished repairs. We emerged from the jeep at the top and I really felt the effects of ascending 1,835 meters (6,020 feet) in an hour.

View from the top of Khardung La

I want to be friends with whoever decided to put up this sign.

I felt very dizzy and light-headed and my felt a sharp pain in my head. The Hungarian guys were worried about me and were very sweet, offering to accompany me in the jeep to start at a lower altitude. We went into the little cafe there, had some chai and schmoozed for a bit, and I felt completely better within a few minutes.   It was freezing at the top; there was snow and ice everywhere and I was so glad I had layered well when I got dressed. I took out the gloves and hat that I had brought (a godsend!) and, of course, took 263487467 pictures before we headed on our way.

Fellow adventurers! From left, Robin, Tamas and Balasz

We all started slowly, taking turns being in front, turning carefully around curves and stopping every 100 feet to take pictures of the incredible landscape. But it soon became clear that I was the not going to speed up from my grandmotherly pace, and the boys went ahead, stopping to wait for me every kilometer or so.  The jeep driver stayed with us the whole time, following us slowly in the car and helping us (read: me) when our gears shifted randomly on their own and we had to pull over to let truckers pass. The road was extremely uneven, very rough and completely  covered with what looked like they would be great moguls for skiing but were less than ideal for a Jew with a penchant for sloth. I went ridiculously slowly (seriously, it might have been faster to walk), and focused all my energy on keeping the bike upright.  I braked more than I didn't brake and was very careful to stay as far on the inside as possible while keeping on the left side of the road (India, remember?). I concentrated so hard on going downhill without falling that any muscles not already tense from being on a mountain bike were tighter than ever. My hands hurt from gripping the handlebars over the rocky terrain and my knees were sore from being bent for so long. The unpaved part composed about the first third of the journey in distance but took over two hours to complete. I counted the kilometers on the signs to the small army rest stop where the paved road began again, and was able to open my eyes enough when I stopped for photos to take in the astounding view around me. The boys continued to wait patiently for me every so often, giving me a bench mark of my progress, and when we got the the rest area, Robin decided to go on ahead back to Leh. At this point it was between four and five o'clock and we had less than two hours before dark. We carried on, knowing we could jump in the jeep if it got too dark. But suddenly, the road was smooth and paved, and there were very few cars around us. Riding the bike became like flying, the crisp, sweet mountain air rushing in my face, rounding the mountain and circling down, enjoying a completely different view at every turn and altitude. It was so beautiful it almost hurt my eyes and brain to look at it, the late afternoon light outlining the textures of the mountains, highlighting the colors and drawing long shadows across the earth. Sometimes the few clouds in the sky would move and cast different dark shapes on the ground, sometimes we would round a bend and see the whole side of the mountain covered in green grass and trees, sometimes the other side revealed arid hills in ochres and umbers without a spot of green. My whole body ached like one giant bruise, but I didn't want the ride to end.  Tamas and Balasz kept waiting for me, even after they had said they would go ahead. No longer as consumed by the fear of falling, I coasted downhill, letting myself go faster and lifting my head to look at the scenery instead of the road beneath me. I took off my sunglasses, squinting but happy to see the full colors of the countryside. I let go of the fear once the bigger risk was gone, and felt so present in that moment, in joy from my surroundings, in companionship from new friends, in soreness throughout my limbs, in gratitude for the experience. We got back to Leh before dark, following behind the jeep to get to return our bicycles at the office and relishing our last moments on these grounded wings. We agreed to meet for dinner, and I went back to my room to rest a bit. I lay on the bed for twenty minutes, not moving or sleeping but just enjoying being still and allowing my muscles to relax for the first time in hours. (Can you tell how bad I am at physical anything?) I wanted to check my email before dinner to see if I got a response from Adam. Deep down, I was sure--sure--that Adam would read my email, see how ludicrous it was to make Patricia leave and revoke the revocation. The circumstances were so illogical, I couldn't believe how any educated, smart person could read my email and not agree with me or at least doubt the decision enough to reverse it. But the message in my inbox was terse. He acknowledged my "emotional reaction" and defended his actions by saying that Patricia's safety and welfare was always the "first priority." I got a second email from Hannah, to whom I had sent the email as well, who really laid it out for me. "I don't know if there's anything we can say or do to affect Adam in the slightest," she said. "Based on everything that has happened, everything Tricia has been going through, there's nothing we can do but comfort her and show our support for her to USIEF." At that point I realized that there was no reversing this decision, that it was set in stone, that she would be leaving the country by Monday and our room would be half empty for the rest of the year. I started crying then, and my immediate thought was that I had to ignore what Patricia had said and just come back to Delhi. I knew Hannah and Tangi would really be having a hard time too, and I just wanted to be together so we could have time with each other before Patricia had to go. I showed up in tears at Stanzin's office and he patted my back and said "don't cry" in the most genuine, least comforting manner in the history of consolation.

The next day there was a strike throughout India in protest of a big hike in gas and diesel prices.  Every store and restaurant was closed, making it impossible to get Patricia a gift or get a breakfast more hearty than the granola bars I had brought from Delhi. The other issue was that I couldn't use the internet to get a ticket home because all the internet cafes were closed! I met up with Stanzin, who drove me to the airport where he "knows a guy" and though his friend wasn't there, the woman at the ticket office was a schoolmate of his from way back. She booked me a ticket for the following morning, for a price lower than any I had seen on the internet, and I felt an immediate sense of relief, knowing when I would be seeing my roommates again. Stanzin took me to his house, where I sat on the porch with his 97-year-old grandfather, a wizened man with beautiful, weathered hands and eyes that shone with life. He wore a long, heavy, brown, woolen tunic and sat in an easy chair next to an untouched glass of yak butter tea. The well-tended garden had the biggest marigolds I've ever seen, and  view of the mountains. A photo of the Dalai Lama hung from pole holding up the roof in the center of the porch. Stanzin brought me some (delicious Indian) food, for which my starving stomach was so grateful! We relaxed for a bit and then he dropped me in town while he had stuff to do. 

On the set...

I walked past the town's main mosque and climbed up the stairs to Leh Palace, where Ladakhi kings were based for hundreds of years. In the courtyard of the adjacent Buddhist temple, a film was being shot, requiring twenty or so people to stand around dressed in full, traditional Ladakhi/Tibetan attire (fur hats included) in the midday sun. Walking quietly past the security guard to avoid the lame entry fee (teehee), I headed into the palace. You can tell it was once a hopping place, with beautiful windows and doorways and room after room.  But the lack of maintenance shows in the building--most of the rooms are empty, dank and dark, and even the small prayer room which was the only room that seemed to have any upkeep was dusty and a little creepy. But the views were lovely and when I left I began climbing stairs to get to Tsemo Fort, another landmark from which you can see for miles around. The sun was hot and the path was dusty and I had not eaten a lot or had much to drink, because everything had been closed all day. I got about two-thirds up the mountain and went to a rocky ledge to see the other side of the mountain. It was still quite a climb to the fort and I was tired, but I didn't want to give up on going. I didn't want to have the feeling of coming so close and not reaching my destination, my goal. I sat for a while and rested, taking in the blue of the sky and the dry breeze and the sun's gentle heat. I was tired, emotionally and physically. Why did I feel obligated to finish doing something I was not compelled to do? And then I let go. I let go of wanting to finish the hike just for the sake of finishing it, I let go of needing to prove to myself that I can do it on my own, and I let go, for that moment, of needing to control my experience. I thought about Patricia, how soon she would be out of the country, away from our community, leaving behind what she had built here over the past few months--relationships with her kids, plans to see new places. I had already let go of the idea that there was anything I could do to keep her here, and now I was letting go of the old truth that I was still hanging on to, that she would be in India for the rest of the grant. It sounds melodramatic, like she was dying or something (which thank God she wasn't!), but it really felt and continues to feel like such a huge loss. When you've become part of a family that supports each other and spends time together the way we have, it really feels like you're losing them when they are removed from that situation.

Feeling more relaxed and affirmed, I headed back down the mountain. At the bottom of the trail a couple from Canada and Australia asked me for directions.  We began chatting and ended up conversing for more than half an hour, asking each other about travels in India and the rest of the world, listening to each others' stories. It occurred to me that I would not have met them had I finished my intended route to the top. I'm sure had I finished the walk I would have met some other really cool couple, seen some other great views. I'm not trying to say "things happen for a reason," a cliche that I really hate and don't agree with. But I do think that decisions we make, however arbitrary, and coincidences that happen often have meaningful unintended consequences. I didn't turn around for the purpose of meeting those nice people, but it was a lovely result that I was glad to have happen.

I made my way through the winding streets of Leh back to Ecological Footprint to meet Stanzin and his friend, Pina. They came out and as they were about to move a giant boulder out of the way of the car, which had been blocked in. We heard some yelling and chanting and two minutes later, hundreds of Muslim schoolchildren were passing with signs saying things like "Down with Israel," "Boycott the US,"and "My Prophet, My Honor." It was bizarre to see so many children shouting such political slogans, nothing violent or threatening, but I was glad I was not on my own then. After the groups of kids, still in their green and white school uniforms, marched past, there was a group of adult men taking part in the protest as well.  I wondered how Israel got dragged into this video catastrophe, and what these children understand about the Middle East.

Monastery with a view

Stanzin, Pina and I got in the car and headed outside the city. We passed the meeting place of the Indus and the Zanskar, sailing by mountains, desert, and not a small number of goats and cows. After our obligatory chai stop (Stanzin is a chai-drinking machine!), we drove to a small village with a monastery. The sun was low in the sky, making the shadows long and the air hazy. We were the only people there, taking in the scenery, climbing on the roof to admire the view, removing our shoes to enter the prayer room painted with murals depicting reincarnation and lotus flowers, stacked floor to ceiling with cabinets containing written scrolls of mantras. The colors everywhere were the colors of Tibetan Buddhism--yellow, blue, green, red and white, symbolizing different buddhas or states of mind. We walked around to the side and saw the giant blue seated Buddha, adorned with lotus roots and gold symbols I didn't recognize.  We crossed the street and entered the courtyard of the monastery's small school for boys, with kids that looked about eight to eleven years old, running around and playing in their monk-like vermilion robes. Stanzin played with them and I shook their hands and admired their smiles. On the way out, Stanzin ran into a monk he knew through his uncle, also a monk. He invited us into his room, a small space with a packed dirt floor outside and a concrete floor in the small area where his bed and stove were. 

In the monk's house

He made us chai on the stove, pouring condensed milk from the can into the pot, stirring while Stanzin looked at the photos on his computer of his recent trip to Chile to meet with Buddhists there and create a sand mandala for a charity auction. The shelves around his bed were piled with books and manuscripts, scrolls written in Tibetan, and the view through the tiny window showed the mountains, half in afternoon shadow, contrasted against the brilliant sky. What an experience--to sit in the hut of a Buddhist monk in Ladakh, drinking chai and looking at photographs on a laptop of his journey halfway around the world.

We headed back towards Leh, watching the sun set over the desert and listening to Coldplay and Tom Petty. We headed towards dinner, bumping into Robin and Rory on the way and asking them along. I was STARVING, having eaten only a granola bar and the small meal at Stanzin's in the morning, and ate my noodles with delight. The power was out so we ate by candlelight in the full restaurant. After dinner, I said goodbye to Stanzin and thanked him profusely for his kind hospitality and help during my stay. Back at the guest house, I approached the family to settle my bill, as I would be leaving early the next morning and didn't want to wake them. They sat around eating their dinner, asking me about my stay in Leh. Suddenly, the grandmother got up and went outside, coming back a minute later bearing apples from the tree outside, and putting them in my hands to take.

I slept well but briefly, and watched the sun rise over the mountains in the small airport. The security was insane there! I had to pass through three metal detectors at three separate stages before getting on the plane! I was so relieved to be returning to Delhi, so excited to see my roommates and have time together before Patricia left. I watched the landscape shrink beneath me as we ascended, falling asleep and waking up upon landing. 

I had called Hannah to tell her I was returning, but had told her to keep it a secret from Patricia, so when I walked in, Patricia's face lit up and she jumped up to give me a hug. Hannah was relieved to see me too--the past few days had clearly taken a toll on her and Tangi, and they looked exhausted. I put my stuff down, showered, and cleaned the kitchen, wanting to be useful and do something nice for the girls, all of whom had been through so much during the week. Patricia spent some time organizing and packing, and, after a failed attempt at mailing two boxes back to Seattle, Patricia, Hannah and I went to a cafe in the market. We spent two hours there, just hanging out and chatting, taking photos and enjoying each other's company. In the evening, the four of us and Sean  went to a delicious South Indian restaurant in Hauz Khas, near our house, and feasted on vegetable korma, chicken curry and spicy lamb. We went to two different cafes afterwards looking for cheesecake, settling on one but ending up disappointed by the product. The five of us crammed in an auto on the way home, squeezing and sitting on laps to make it work. Patricia finished making cards for every class she taught, Sean worked on his card for Patricia and Hannah and I hid notes in her luggage for her to find later. We just sat together, Hannah eventually falling asleep and Sean leaving around 1AM. Patricia and I watched some Friday Night Lights together, and then it was 2:00 and her taxi was waiting outside the gate. She hugged Tangi and Hannah and they walked her out the door while I helped take her luggage to the end of the street where the taxi waited. We loaded her bags and hugged for a while and then she got in the taxi and was gone. 

I was tearful for much of the next day, spending my time rearranging the furniture in my now single occupancy room, as the empty bed was too depressing, and cleaning the living room floor. Cleaning makes me feel useful and took my mind off of what I couldn't stop thinking about. I moped pretty much all day, and then woke up Monday morning with a determination to do something. 

Not having Patricia here really sucks. We miss her a lot, and I know it's painful for her to not be here. She's spending a month in Tanzania, visiting her boyfriend from college, relaxing and presumably processing the crazy whirlwind that culminated in her leaving the country. It's funny to think about how this event meshed with my trip to Ladakh, my thoughts about letting go that arose both from saying goodbye to Patricia and from going somewhere by myself, having adventures that I shared with people I may never see again and yielding my need to have things under control. This chapter of my time here was unexpected and painful, and I am still waiting for some joyful unintended consequences. But I was so lucky to have had Patricia as my roommate these past few months, and I treasure the friendship that remains.

To view the rest of my photos of Ladakh, click here and enjoy!

Sending much love from Mother India,

xox

Shadi

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

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

Bangles, bangles, bangles!

Varanasi silk sari. Thanks, parents!

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

Sean's awesome shoes!

    

The groom, flanked by the mini-grooms 

Vishu and his cousins

Wedding party

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

Wedding procession from above

Wedding procession from the ground

The groom's carriage

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

The groom's home,
decorated traditionally

The groom in his carriage

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

The golden tent

Food, glorious food!

Plate piled high

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

In the tent

Awaiting the groom

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

The bride enters 

Wedding paparazzi

Least comfortable wedding garb ever

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

On the platform after the garland exchange

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

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

The happy couple:)

Jaipur

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

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

Living the good life in Sleeper Class

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

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

Fabric heaven!

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

Baby gets juicy as mama chows down

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

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

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

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

Happy Teacher's Day!

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

Busy bees preparing classrooms

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

Hurriedly creating the display

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

Finished masterpiece

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

Shruti Ma'am addresses her eager fans

Fancy teachers assemble

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


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

Shanu Ma'am is ambushed with love...

...and rose petals

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

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

Why You Gotta Make It About Body Image?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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