Shimla, or How We Learned to Defend Ourselves

As we teeter tottered up the mountain and motion-sick Hannah tried desperately not to throw up our nutritious breakfast of cake, oreos and potato chips, the temperature dropped as we wound our way up the Himalayas.  At one point we sat in traffic for more than 15 minutes without moving.  All the other passengers on the un-airconditioned bus crept forward to see what was causing the holdup.  After they all sat down and we were still motionless, Hannah and I stood up to see two drivers of cars that had been waiting in the traffic had gotten into a fender bender and were starting to fistfight. As they were pulled apart, we laughed and waited patiently to move on.  When we finally went forward, we saw that what had happened was a bus going in the opposite direction had broken down and all of the cars going against us had moved into our lane, making it impossible for anyone in our land to advance.  In any case, we were eventually on our way again and by the time we reached Shimla, we were starving and so grateful to be on solid ground.  We checked into a hotel from the guidebook, put down our stuff, and headed straight to the town's main street in search of Cafe del Sol, a restaurant recommended by the Lonely Planet for its variety of foreign food, including Mexican! Finding it sooner than we hoped, we ordered a burrito and nachos and a quesadilla, and, let me tell you, I don't think I've ever enjoyed a tortilla more in my life.

Happy to be at Cafe del Sol!

We spent the rest of the day wandering the streets, going to the Tibetan Refugees' Market, full of brand knockoffs, going in and out of little shops on the main street, admiring the beautiful hand work on pashmina shawls and salwar kameez, we retired early after our day of traveling and meandering, enjoying a beer in the comfort of our hotel room and passing out by 9:30.

We woke up the next morning at 8:00, stopping first at the nearby travel agent and buying tickets for the evening bus to Dehra Dun, from which we would continue on to another hill station, Mussoorie. From there we walked a few kilometers, including several steep, uphill climbs, eventually reaching a small art museum containing beautiful relics of India dating from several thousand years ago to the present. It was a diverse array of art and we really enjoyed ourselves.  We had thought of continuing on to the recommended Viceregal Lodge, a historic building known for having been the place where the treaty for Partition was signed.  However, when a man, (who turned out to be from Malviya Nagar N-Block!) whom we asked for directions pointed to a grey building on another mountain, we gave up and decided to walk to another recommended spot, called the Glen.

Retracing our steps, we returned to a fork in the road with a sign pointing to the Glen and headed downhill.  The walk was lovely, despite being on a paved road, with foliage so green it looked like it had been painted.  Every so often the trees would open up, revealing the misty valley below, and, occasionally, the meadow/cricket field/helipad called Annadale.  After a while, we noticed that a young guy who appeared about 18 or 19 was walking not too far behind us, but being that there aren't too many actual trails in the area, we didn't think anything of it, assuming he was headed to the same place we were or somewhere near it.  Seeing that he seemed to know where he was going, I asked if he knew where the Glen was, and he said it wasn't far, pointing to a footpath just up ahead.  At this point we had been walking downhill for over an hour and I was seriously concerned about my physical ability to climb back up the mountain, considering the effects of the altitude on my breathing and my general complete lack of any type of fitness. We started down the footpath, which opened into a clearing, and saw a (clearly homemade) sign that said "the Glen" and pointed left.  Still having no idea what this "Glen" actually was, Hannah again asked the guy whether we were far, and whether there was a road at the bottom from which we could find a lift back up.  He said that the only way back up was the way we came, and that it wasn't too much further.  As we continued our descent and the path went deeper into the woods, the guy behind us started to walk with us, at first asking the questions we always get of "where are you from?" and, to Hannah, "how do you speak such good Hindi?" We answered him as tersely as possible, and soon he was creeping us out with questions like "what hotel are you staying in?" After about five or ten minutes of us trying to ignore him, he said something to Hannah in Hindi that made her stop in her tracks.  I had no idea what he'd said but I saw Hannah's face and tone change completely, as she said words like jao (go away) and got in his face.  He shook his head and pointed in the direction we were headed in, at which point Hannah turned around and headed back the way we came.  I followed her and after a second, she stopped, overwhelmed and upset.  She finally related that he had blatantly propositioned her, and had refused to turn around, insisting that he wanted to continue his walk. We practically ran up the hill, as Hannah especially was very freaked out by the whole experience.  It's not that anything would have happened--there were two of us and one scrawny him, but to be in such an isolated place and have your surroundings and sense of safety invaded like that was shocking and disturbing. When we got to the main road, we stod and waited for one of the many taxis and tour vans we had seen on the road coming down, and as we stood waiting, Hannah glimpsed the creep hiding behind a tree, watching us; he must have taken a shortcut back up to the road.  By the grace of God, an SUV full of women appeared after only a minute or two and Hannah jumped into the road to stop it and were quickly motioned to pile in.  No sooner did we close the door of the car did Hannah burst into tears, so relieved to be in a car moving away from that place and that guy, and overwhelmed by how scared she had been.  I think the people in the car were taken aback by Hannah's reaction, saying things like "it's no problem," and "it's no big deal." But it felt like a big deal to us, and Hannah in particular felt extremely invalidated and upset by this response that it was nothing to fret over.  When we got out of the car at the top of the mountain, we felt a need to tell someone in uniform about what had happened, and the first such person we saw was a military guy stationed in the nearby base.  When Hannah told him what had happened, he smiled and shook his head.  "For this, you're upset?" he said.  Hannah started crying all over again, dismayed all over again at his indifference.  "Was he your friend?" he asked. "NO!" we yelled. "We have never seen him in our lives before!" I was so mad by his complete lack of empathy upon seeing how visibly upset Hannah was about what I consider a very legitimate trespass.  Frustrated by my limited ability to communicate due to the language barrier, I asked if he spoke English and he nodded. "WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU??!" I yelled.  What I really wanted to do was push him or slap him to see if he would wake up from his alternate reality where propositioning young girls for sex in an isolated place in the middle of the day is acceptable, but I settled for giving him a lecture in English that he in no way understood.  "This town makes a ton of money off of tourism," I said.  "We are two foreigners here, spending our money and patronizing this town, telling you that we felt very threatened while seeing one of the town's major tourist attractions, and you're saying that it doesn't matter.  How is that OK to you?" In retrospect, this soldier was absolutely the wrong person to approach; he had no prerogative to help us, and it really wasn't his duty to help us out, not that there was really anything he could do (or even that we especially wanted him to do!). But when you see that a person is upset, even if it is about something you don't particularly care about or think is important, how can you treat them with so little empathy? His reponse, or lack thereof, made the experience all the more unsettling, as it was such a stark example of how low a priority women's safety is here for so many.

We made our way back to our hotel, where we told the travel agent, that we had gotten to know a little, what had happened. He was very sympathetic and agreed that we had every right to be upset. Days later, when I relayed the ordeal to my mom, she pointed out the problematic nature of our needing external validation of our experience.  Hannah and I are two bold, sassy and smart college graduates, in India on a prestigious government grant as ad hoc cultural ambassadors.  We have written theses, won awards, and each have stable support systems at home, not to mention each other, to back us up and be there for us.  Why, then, did we need strangers in Shimla to confirm what we knew for a fact to be true: that our safety was involuntarily compromised and a creepy, stupid kid had objectified us to the point that he felt it was OK to defy major social norms and presume he could treat us in such a disrespectful and invading manner.  Part of the need to tell an authority certainly comes from in ingrained notion that police, despite corruption and shortcomings, are generally there to protect us from harm; that the State monopoly on violence is justified because the State will defend us.  Not so in India, and often in the US. Even in Delhi, there is no real emergency 911-type number which you can call and receive immediate assistance. During our Fulbright orientation in Delhi, we were told by the US Embassy representative in charge of all Embassy security-related matters that the police were not whom we should call in an emergency.  He said it was important to know someone in our neighborhood, whether a landlord or kindly neighbor, that would be able to assist and guide us if something should happen. And of course we both knew all of these things, the cultural differences, the untrustworthy authorities, but in that moment, what we sought was some kind of official stamp of approval that yes, we had been justified in being freaked out and yes, we had every right to be hurt and angry at having our walk ruined by that arrogant asshole.

Determined not to let this incident ruin our day, we decided to eat our feelings (at Cafe del Sol...again) and engage in some retail therapy before heading up to see Jakhoo Temple.  Lunch, followed by ice cream for Hannah and cake for me, was delicious, and we bought some beautiful clothes at the nearby market.  As it started to rain, we headed to a taxi stand to take us up to the temple, famous for its 180 foot tall statue of Hanuman, the monkey god to which the temple is dedicated.  Emerging from the cab in the pouring rain, the first thing we saw were monkeys. EVERYWHERE. The sand-colored Rhesus monkeys had been visible all over Shimla, but suddenly it seemed like we had happened on a monkey convention of sorts, and we understood why the guide book had recommended renting a stick to ward them off.  We went in the small temple at the food of the hill, across from the main temple, leaving our shoes in the little cage outside and latching the door to prevent the monkeys from stealing them.  Literally.  As we walked in, an unfortunate man was furiously trying to lure down a monkey from the eaves who had stolen his flip flop when he failed to lock it in the joote ghar, or little cage for placing your shoes when you go in the temple.  

The offending monkey with his loot

By the time we came out of the temple, the offending monkey was sitting all the way on the edge of the rafters, chewing happily on his new flip flop and gazing contentedly at the increasingly disgruntled one-shoed man, who was now cursing profusely and pretending to walk away, saying, "Tata!" We laughed and laughed, a relief after the morning's events, and then Hannah asserted that there was "no way in hell" she was going up to the temple "unprotected," and we shelled out 5 rupees each for some sticks. At this point it was raining hard, and many monkeys were seeking shelter under the walkway leading up the hill to the temple.  As they approached us, we shook our sticks and alternated between yelling and laughing, fending them off and stopping to catch our breath.  The temple was cool, and it was funny how the temple devoted to a monkey god would be so crowded with actual monkeys. The rain caused the structures to be encased in a thick, swiftly moving fog, so that our views constantly changed and images in the distance were appearing and disappearing all the time.  The sound of the rain, the low volume of people, the smell of the pine forest around us lent to a sense of magic, and we left the temple feeling empowered by our sticks, weapons against thieving monkeys and all things evil.

We emerge victorious! Thanks, sticks!

The rain had stopped by the time the taxi took us down the mountain, and we slowly made our way back to the hotel, stopping for coffee and getting sandwiches to eat on the bus.  We collected our stuff and wound down through the old market, asking every other person for directions to the old bus terminal, from which we would get a local bus to take us to the new bus terminal where we would board our bus to Dehra Dun via Chandigarh.  Hannah and I got on the local bus, which was pretty crowded when we got on, and stood on the stairs to lean the wait of our bags on the rail.  as SOON as the bus started moving, literally 20-30 more people jumped on the bus before I could get out of the way, nearly every one stepping on my feet and ungraciously pushing against my face. The only advantage was being by the door, so I could stick my face out the window and not smell the aroma of 378946247678 people crammed into such a small space.  After a fair bit of running around, we found the right bus and took our seats.  The first few minutes of the journey were fine, as we left Shimla and started down the mountain road towards Chandigarh.  But it soon became clear that the ride that had been so scenic, if rocky, on the way up during the day would be dizzying and pitch dark on the way down.  Prone to car sickness, Hannah was soon writhing with nausea, feeling claustrophobic and trapped when the man in front of her leaned his seat all the way back so he was practically in her lap. She felt better at the rest stops and made it over three hours on the bus before her stomach succumbed and she vomited into a plastic bag I held for her, which dripped all over both of us.  She felt terrible for puking on me, but I assured her that it was no big deal, and that she wasn't the first person to ever throw up on me (thanks, Aileen!). Hannah was not a happy camper, and I felt terrible that there was nothing we could do but wait it out.  As all of this was going on, the bus was stalling with more and more frequency, often jerking forward five or six times after every time it braked.  We reached Chandigarh after five hours, about halfway to Dehra Dun, and people got off the bus to stretch their legs and use the bathroom.  I saw that there was a crowd of guys standing around the front of the bus peering at the hood, looking into what I assume was the cause of all the stalling.  I thought nothing of it, but after ten or fifteen minutes, instead of seeing people get back on the bus, passengers were collecting their bags and getting off, and it soon became clear that this bus wasn't going anywhere any time soon.  Having left Shimla at 8:00 PM, it was now 2:00 in the morning, and people around us were saying the bus company may send another bus.  I rolled my eyes and saw that many of the people from our bus were running towards a newly arrived bus, un-airconditioned and so packed with Indian men that limbs seemed to stick out of windows in every direction.  After consulting with Hannah, we made an executive decision to give up on Mussoorie, ask for our money back, get a room in a nice hotel and go home the next day.  When another bus pulled up, as rickety and packed as the first, the bus agent offered us a seat on it.  "What about all these people, don't they need seats too?" Hannah asked, gesturing to the ring of men standing around watching the interaction. "No," he responded, "they're just here to look at you." Ahhhh okay, all clear. We quickly gave up on getting our $10 back, got in an auto and, after rejecting the roach motel the driver tried to take us to, pulled up to the Sunbeam Hotel, a vision of paradise.  As we showered and delighted in our air conditioned palace, we realized how grateful we were to not be on the bus, to be comfortable, that the bus broke down in the largest city on the route, a place we were already familiar with.

Happy in our hotel

We slept until 2 the next day, collected out things and headed out to get a train ticket.  The travel agent we came across informed us that he could not book us a ticket, as the train was to leave in less than four hours and the bookings close four hours before departure; we would have to go to the station and buy it in person.  We headed for the train station, praying for the luck to obtain precious tickets and get back to Delhi that day.  We walked up to the ticket booth, waiting patiently behind the long lines, when a glorious angel in the form of a station agent came and pulled Hannah out of the line.  Not sure of where she was going, I stayed in line, and then found her ten minutes later, holding to tickets for the 4:20 train to Delhi and beaming from our good fortune. The agent, seeing she was foreign, had taken her to the back and sold her tickets then and there.  She paid 136 rupees for two tickets (about $2.50), less than what we had paid to take an auto from the hotel to the station.  They were for "general boarding," the last car in the train reserved for last minute tickets and generally occupied by men who were poor. But the agent told us to sit in the Sleeper class and pay the conductor the difference in fare when he came around.  We sat in an empty berth, from which I yelled at several men who tried to take our picture, and when the train started moving, we couldn't believe our incredible luck.  Finally!  

The journey was uneventful and lovely, passing through the farmland of Punjab and Haryana, villages and towns and orchards.  We watched as day turned into night, as men played cards and children fell asleep on their mothers' laps, as chai wallas and snack vendors and tchotchke hawkers and eunuchs collecting money for blessings passed through the train's aisles at each stop.  Hannah and I listened to music, pausing every once in a while to chat, reflect on the past few days, as the world around us passed us by. We arrived at our apartment around 10PM, dusty, exhausted and full of stories and relief to be home. Over the previous five days, we learned that sometimes a stick is a good thing to have, that good food and solid sleep can be an amazing cure, and that when you travel in India, you often have to just throw up your hands and say, "plans, schmans." Despite many trials and tribulations, our trip was overall a beautiful adventure that I will not soon forget.

Chandigarh

Our journey began at the Inter-State Bus Terminal at Kashmere Gate in Delhi.  Our bus was due to leave at 5:40, and we knew that we were cutting it close time-wise. Emerging from the metro at 5:30, we made our way towards where we thought we needed to be, arriving in the bus terminal and asking around to try to find the right bus.  We were directed from one bay to another, ultimately realizing that our bus had already begun to exit the terminal.  Out of the corner of my eye, I recognized the company name on the side of a bus located feet from the exit gate. Hannah and I ran towards it, shouting, and some guys knocked on the door of the bus as it was moving to stop and let us on.  We climbed aboard, gasping for breath, and sat where there were seats, in the back, in front of a man pouring whiskey into his coke bottle.  So relieved to have caught the bus, we should have known that this was the start of a crazy few days.

From the bus station we found an auto to take us to the hotel where we had a reservation and woke up the next morning excited about celebrating Independence Day in Chandigarh.  An unusual city for India, Chandigarh is a planned city that was built in the 1950's and designed by French architect Le Corbusier. The city was built to be the capital of the state of Punjab, after the original capital, Lahore, became part of Pakistan as part of Partition.  It's pretty spread out as a city, making it hard to walk all over, but fortunately there were lots of autos.  Unfortunately, the small number of tourists in the city made it super hard to get a fair price from the auto wallas, who consistently overcharged us.

Paranthariffic breakfast

Our day began with paranthas: flat, fried bread made from potatoes.  A traditional breakfast item, these paranthas were spicy, greasy and delicious, paired nicely with plain curd (like yogurt) and chai. The restaurant was a typical Punjabi dhaba, or local place with Punjabi food, and was full of people, many of whom stared at us the entire time we ate.  After stopping at a bag walla to buy straps for the top of my backpack so Hannah could use it as a day pack, we got in an auto headed toward the Nek Chand Fantasy Rock Garden. 

The auto walla, however, had plans of his own, and dropped us off at the manmade Sukhna Lake, created as part of Le Corbusier's vision of the city.  We walked around the lake for a while and then walked along the side of the road for about 20 minutes to reach the garden. Nek Chand was a Punjabi road inspector who moved to Chandigarh during Partition, as his home of Gardaspur ended up in Pakistan when the borders were drawn.  The story goes that he was struck by the amount of waste generated as  people left their homes and moved across the borders of the new nations during Partition.   With no formal training as an artist, he began collecting the debris and junk left behind and creating massive sculptures on several acres of government land.  When the city eventually discovered his project, its demolition was imminent, until Chand got public opinion on his side and the site was designated a public park, allotting him a salary and employees.  Being that we were visiting on Independence Day, everyone had the day off and the park was crowded with people--families, couples, girl scouts and teenagers.  I took a ton of pictures, which can be seen in the album which you can see via the posted link. 

Swings! Notice the texture of the columns made by
 filling sacks with concrete.

Chand used very innovated techniques to create unusual effects, such as filling sacks with concrete to create walls that have the texture of lumpy pillows, and using recycled glass to color the saris of his sculpted women.  My favorite part of the park was an area with huge arches,  above which stood large horses covered in white tile, and between which where huge swings, obviously made for adults.  Nearly every swing was occupied, sometimes by several people at once, and you could hear the laughter and cries of delight echoing across the courtyard. 

After the rock garden we headed into the main downtown shopping area, had a quick lunch of rolls on the street, and spent an hour in an air-conditioned cafe just resting.  We decided to head towards the museums, located in a cluster not far from the city center.  We got in an auto and agreed to pay 40 rupees.  As we approached the museums, we saw that they were closed for Independence Day, and decided to head to the bougainvillea garden, one of several gardens incorporated into Le Corbusier's master plan of the modern city.  When we got out of the auto, the auto walla demanded 80 rupees, double what we had agreed upon!  Granted, he did take us farther and I was going to give him about 20 extra, but double?! This was outrageous.  He was so insistent and refused to take any money if it wasn't what he felt he deserved.  After arguing with him for like 15 minutes, Hannah said he looked like he was about to cry and we gave him 70. Keep in mind that this has never happened to me in India, where a driver demands more than we initially agreed upon; the  unwritten code with auto wallas, at least in Delhi, is very clear in that what you agree on initially is what goes, and if you change your mind about the destination, the driver says something then and there about more money.  We walked around the garden for a while--it was very lovely despite the fact that not much was blooming.  Throughout our time in Chandigarh, we were impressed by how clean and well-kept the city was, and the garden was no exception. It was fairly empty, with a few couples here and there, and we just enjoyed the silence and peace.  At one point, a girl came up to Hannah to beg.  Hannah declined, in Hindi, and the little girl muttered "danda kha!" (eat dick!) as she walked away. Not even ten minutes later, as Hannah and I sat on a bench, she approached us again, this time asking me.  Hannah reminded her of the rude parting words she had shared just moments ago, and the girl claimed she had no idea what Hannah was talking about.  "Those are very bad words!" she said in Hindi.  We spoke with her for a while and eventually went on our way.

When we left the garden we decided to visit a temple called Mansa Devi,  a little outside of the city in a town called Panchkula.  It wasn't in the guide book, but everyone Hannah had spoken to at her school had recommended she see it, so away in the auto we went.  Twenty minutes later, we emerged in a small market with stalls selling all kinds of accoutrements used for prayer.  An important element in visiting Hindu temples is prashad, basically an offering of food--usually puffed rice or nuts--which you have blessed by the temple holy man, give a little bit to the god, and eat the rest yourself.  People often will bring a whole bunch of prashad that they have blessed and then take home to put on their own altars and to savor throughout the week or share with friends, family and coworkers. Stalls also sold the powdered vermilion, placed in the part of women's hair to show that they are married, or mixed with water and dabbed on the forehead. There were framed pictures of all different gods, incense holders, marigolds, and a variety of sizes of red fabric covered in gold tinsel, used on altars and to leave in the temple.  We took off our shoes and climbed the marble steps, where we waited on line, the only non-Indians, to ring the bell and enter the temple.  Bells are located at the entrance to each temple, as a way to "wake up" the gods and alert them of your presence.  When we got to the front, where the idols were, we rang a second set of bells and the monk asked if we had prashad.  I said no and he handed me tiny manila envelopes filled with sugar and cardamom, as well as a large piece of the red fabric with gold tinsel. When I asked what I should do with it, the man behind me said I should keep it in my house, that it's a nice thing to have.  

We walked up to another temple just up the hill, nicer than the first, and made even more lovely by the setting sun.  We saw the temple and then sat on the warm marble of the courtyard for a while, just taking in the sights, watching young boys race each other up and down, and entertaining the few families that asked us to hold their babies while they took our picture. I really have no idea why people want this, a picture of random foreign strangers holding their babies, but who am I to know?  There was an enormous tree with hundreds of the red-with-tinsel squares tied on its limbs, giving it the appearance of strange organic fringes on the bottom of the foliage.  As we made our way back down we were swarmed with very young girls, between the ages of five and eleven, begging and tugging at our clothing to give them money.  Upon approaching the security guard at the first temple as we descended, he took off running after them, shaking his giant bamboo stick and eventually throwing it at them as he chased.  We also witnessed amateur, makeshift tattoo artists, inking boys that looked about 13 with electric needles that looked homemade.  

Hepatitis, anyone?

We took the bus back to Chandigarh, and enjoyed a meal at the Indian Coffee House, a co-op run by its workers, packed with locals and waiters dressed in traditional white uniforms.  

Inside the Indian Coffee House

After dinner, we strolled around downtown, enjoying being part of the crowd of people celebrating Independence Day and just enjoying the mild evening weather. Weary and worn, we found an auto to take us back to the hotel in Sector 42. (The areas of the city are called "sectors," making me feel like I was in Star Trek).  We agreed to pay 70 rupees, a price we knew was high for the distance we were going, but not caring to continue arguing.  As we neared the hotel, the auto walla turned around and stated that he had only agreed to take us to the market in Sector 42, and that if we wanted him to take us to our hotel it would take us another 40 rupees. Shocked, we told him that would not be happening, and insisted he drive us to the hotel, another 100 feet beyond where he claimed we had asked to go for 70 rupees.  When we got to the hotel, I gave him 70 and he started yelling and ranting that we had cheated him, that we owed him more money, blahblahblahblahblah.  Like the other guy, he refused to take our money if it wasn't the amount he wanted, so we gave it to the hotel workers that came out when they heard him yelling and just went upstairs, where we leaned over the balcony to listen to the commotion.  The guys from the hotel agreed that even 70 was overpaying, and he eventually drove off in a huff. Oh, well.

We awoke early the next morning to take the bus to Kalka, in which we would board a toy train to Shimla, a hill station in the eastern part of the state of Himachal Pradesh, in the Himalayas.  Upon arriving at the bus station, I ran in to the dhaba cum convenience store to get something for breakfast, while Hannah made sure the bus didn't leave without me.  I walked into the store and realized that I was limited to three food options: potato chips, samosas and cake.  

Hannah eats her breakfast of champions

As I walked back to the bus, Hannah took one look at what was in my hands and went: "Is that...cake??" Indeed, I chose cake as the lesser of three evils at 9AM, and boy, was it delicious.  Little did we know that it would be the only food we would eat until 3PM that afternoon!  When we got to Kalka, we were promptly informed that the train to Shimla was not running, and onto another bus we went, winding through the Himalayas and holding on for dear life as we we jerked and jostled up the mountain at what felt like a ridiculously fast speed, (considering we were barely hovering over the edge of a cliff). 

For the epic conclusion to our journey, tune in to the next post! (read: I am too lazy to finish writing right now and want you to not have to wait so long to read this and also don't want to make you read something 4728647286 pages long). If you really canNOT wait, I would encourage you to read Hannah's blog, because a) she is awesome, as is her blog, and b) we were on the same trip! 

Sending much love from Mother India,

xoxox

Chandigarh and Shimla

After an eventful few days, Hannah and I have returned to Delhi.  I will write about our trip soon, but in the mean time, here is a link to my photos, which are annotated as usual.
Enjoy!
xox

Independence Day Assembly

One last thing before I go-- here are some pictures from the independence day assembly this morning for your perusal/enjoyment.

Sea of children

Second grade class! Note mini Gandhi, and that's Nehru all in white.  Adorable!

Me and Rishabh.  Isn't he the cutest?!

Storm Before the Calm

Well, faithful readers, start planning your activities for the five extra minutes of free time you'll have this week, as I am leaving Delhi for six days and will probably be off the grid for all or most of that time, and will therefore not be posting.  Hannah and I leave tomorrow for Chandigarh, a city a few hours north of here, which happens to be the capital of two states--Haryana and Punjab.  From there we will head to the hill station of Shimla, where the British Raj used to move their capital to in the summer when Calcutta and then Delhi was too hot.  After a few days there we will go to another hill station called Mussoorie, (not Missouri, though that was confusing to me at first), and depart back to Delhi from Dehra Dun. We have Wednesday off for Indian Independence Day (wahoo!) and Friday and Monday off for Eid al Fitr.  Man, do Indians love celebrating.  The traditional Independence Day activity is flying kites, and random stores all over the cities have been selling simple kites and string for the past few weeks. It's pretty wonderful to see children playing with actual objects like kites and tops and homemade paper boats, rather than the standard recreational diet of video games and virtual reality in the US.  There are video games here too, but kids of all ages and backgrounds seem to love just being outside, playing cricket and flying kites.  The Independence Day tradition, so I'm told, is to try to cut down other people's kites with your own, which seems to me like the easiest, fastest way to make a kid cry.  Hopefully I will be able to see some kite flying in Chandigarh!

School continues to chug along and is starting to go by more and more quickly. Last week I was pretty shaken up when some of the boys in my class were misbehaving and the gym teacher, also in charge of "discipline" entered the room after either hearing the commotion or seeing that I had sent kids outside.  The boys had been fooling around, throwing water on each other and not paying attention, as 13 year old boys are apt to do, but the gym teacher came in, asked the student monitor what happened, and proceeded to slap the shit out of five or six boys.  He pulled each one up by the ear to face him, slapped their faces two or three times and then hit them on the back.  At one point he was about to hit a student who hadn't been involved and the rest of the class cried out "No! Not him!" and so he was spared.  Then the gym teacher (whose name I don't know, can you tell?) smiled at me as he walked out of the room, as if to say "you're welcome." I felt so uncomfortable and shocked, even though I had been warned this would likely happen.  Being made aware of it ahead of time doesn't prepare you to witness a grown man physically assaulting children in front of their peers.  That day in our English Language Teaching seminar with the other Fulbrighters, I totally broke down and cried.  Today I was doing an activity with the kids, having them act out verbs like eating, sitting, standing, running, jumping.  When they got a little loud, a senior teacher who seems to function like a vice principal came into the class and screamed at them, made them move their desks around causing the most earsplitting screeching as the table legs scraped across the hard linoleum.  He slapped a kid across the face who had been helpful to me earlier in translating for kids who didn't understand what I'd said and quieting students.  After the teacher left I apologized to the students for letting them get so loud...I know they are used to being treated like this by adults, but I don't want any part of it, and I am struggling to distance myself from that behavior and institution while maintaining the respect of both the kids and the staff.

I'm definitely getting better at controlling the class, little by little, despite the massive language barrier. It's super hard, though, like when a child misbehaves and I want them to know that I would like them to stay in my class, that I don't want to send them out, that I value their contributions.  Getting used the the CONSTANT ma'am-ing is tough, too.  Even when they raise their hands, they do so while standing up and yelling--yelling--Ma'am!Ma'am!Ma'am! They also get so out of control so quickly; not even Clear View could have prepared me for it.  I tried teaching the Hokey Pokey the other day and the "turn yourself about" part cause such an inordinate amount of chaos, I had to stop the activity. In general, working at Clear View has been super helpful in preparing me for the roller coaster of feeling deeply satisfied with my work and the next moment deeply inadequate.  I miss the support of working with a team and having the time and space to build relationships with students and help them achieve their potential.  It's funny because my experience at Clear View has affected my perspective such that most of my favorite students here are the naughty ones, the boys who I constantly see sent out of other teachers' classes, whose lack of effort in class and humor and bravado mask all the insecurities of adolescent boyhood.  My favorite kid might be Rishabh, an 8th grader who looks about 9, with ears that stick straight out of his head an impish grin, and (I swear!) a twinkle in his eye.  I always see him standing outside his classroom when I walk around the school, having been kicked out for talking or being idle or fighting.  He knows I think he's awesome because I am always so happy to see him, and I know he likes me because he gives me that loopy grin and really tries to speak English to me, despite his very limited level of comprehension and speaking ability.  Today in class he moved on his own to sit towards the front of the class (next to a girl! ew!) because his neighbors at his seat were talking and he couldn't hear me and wanted to participate.  He wrote a paragraph about cricket in the most poorly constructed grammar I may ever see, but I was so proud of him I just kept telling him how great it was, and he even volunteered to read it to the class!  I know I need to correct their work and tell them what they're doing wrong, but it feels like such a privilege to me to be able to have these kids without any strings attached in terms of having to grade or examine them, that I really want to focus on just building up their confidence and making them feel OK about whatever level they're at.  There is so much emphasis here on quantitive success and there are so many children in each class and so few teachers that it seems like the kids that struggle or lack internal motivation are given up on pretty easily, as there are so many who are motivated and perform better that it seems logical to direct the precious resources towards them.  At the end of the day, I would rather them feel comfortable speaking English poorly than say only perfect sentences, but so rarely that they cannot carry even a simple conversation.  As it is, I think it's hard for teachers also to get out of the mind frame of rewarding those who can achieve at the expense of those who can't.  There's less of the sense we have in the US that a kid can Do Anything! Follow Their Dreams! Choose Their Destiny!  Roles are ridiculously specific and well-defined, and I think it's pretty hard for people--kids and adults alike--to think or dream on the periphery of these set options.  Please do not mistake this observation for a judgement but rather as a commentary on why it's difficult to get kids to have confidence in themselves when it comes to doing or trying something not evaluated numerically.

Every day at school brings new adventures, sometimes good and sometimes terrifying and sometimes so unpleasant or sweet or confusing.  I get laughed at a lot, my Hindi is brutally mocked by the kids, and I scared the bejesus out of an 8th grade class today when I recounted the biblical story of my name, tent spike hammered into head and all. If any of you were worried about me getting a big ego over here, just picture me sweating my patooties off, with pit stains the size of dinner plates and chalk all over my salwar kameez (read: genie pants with long tunic shirt), standing in front of a class of 35 14-year-olds, doing the hokey pokey and getting laughed at and aped when I try in vain to say "please be quiet Anubhav/Taranjeet/Nikhil/Gaurav/Abhishek/Rithik/Geetanjali/whatever other name I can't pronounce. Show some respect to me and your classmates."

Wish me luck on my next adventure...and my upcoming trip!:)
Sending much love from Mother India....
xoxox

Gorees in Sarees

Today is Lord Krishna's birthday!  Happy birthday Krishnajee! People all over India are fasting and going to the temple to honor the Hindu god known as the Creator. Last night we were invited to a dinner at the US ambassador's house to meet her and the newly arrived Fulbright research fellows.  Unfortunately, our ambitious attempts at sari wrapping took so long, and in combination with the clusterfuck that is Delhi traffic, we missed the dinner entirely.  Disappointed but still needing to show off our new and awesome matching saris, the girls and I went to Khan Market for the most American dinner possible: hamburgers and fries.  The following is a documentation of our misadventures in sari wrapping and wearing:

After several failed attempts at putting on the sari, we called upstairs and solicited help from Rina, the landlord's wife.  She is a very nice person, who immediately agreed to help us.  I put on the petticoat and blouse and wrapped the 6 yards of chiffon around me, resulting in my looking like what Hannah deemed "a bag of India."

Hannah had come the closest to an acceptable wrap job.  When we got upstairs, she asked Rina in Hindi, "Is mine OK?" Rina shook her head no. "Theek nehin hai." It's not OK. She began by laying the fabric on the bed and pleating the top for the part that goes over the shoulder.

Then it was Patricia's turn.

It was around this time that Rina said to Tangi and Patricia that they can wear cotton saris because they are so skinny.  She turned to me and Hannah.  "You two can wear synthetic or silk because you're not so thin." Thanks, Rinajee.

My turn! Rina again spread the fabric out flat to make and pin even pleats to go over the shoulder.

Her adorable six-year-old daughter stayed in the room the whole time, playing with an assortment of tchotchkes that seemed to come out of nowhere.

In my petticoat and blouse pre-wrapping. The fabric gets tucked into the petticoat so the petticoat has to be tied ridiculously tight, to make sure the sari stays intact. Definitely the least comfortable thing about wearing a sari.  That and the charming display of backfat in between the skirt and blouse.

Tangi's turn!

"You are so skinny," Rina said to Tangi.  "Skinny people always look so beautiful in saris. Not like us fatties [gesturing at me and herself]." Double ouch.

Finished product!

Out on the town!

Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you: The Masala Girls!

El Ma'am

August is off to a great start.  With five days of teaching here under my belt, I can (hopefully) safely say that I'm going to enjoy teaching here and will definitely learn a lot.  I'm teaching at a school that is part of a consortium of schools here in Delhi, called Navyug, located in central Delhi on Mandir Marg.  In Hindi, mandir means 'temple' and marg means 'street.'  The street is aptly named because there are two Hindu temples on it. One, called Lakshmi Narayan, is very large and is located across the street from my school; the other is called Kali Bari, and is smaller but apparently quite popular.  To get to school, I walk out to the main road and flag down an auto rickshaw to take me to the metro station.

[The task of getting an auto to take me at a reasonable price first thing in the morning is easier said than done. Two out of the four days I have been at work, it has been pouring rain.  The first time it rained I got lucky, but the second time I stood and waited in the downpour for 25 minutes before running up to a high school student who managed to nab a free auto and pleading with him to drop me off at the metro.  The first day of school was the first day of the major power outage, which affected my daily life in that the metro was shuttered and closed when we showed up.  I took an auto for 100 rupees (on the meter!) and ended up being one of the first teachers to arrive, as everyone else was also stuck because of the metro.]

I then travel nine stops from Haus Khaz metro station to Rajiv Chowk, in Connaught Place, the main metro hub in central Delhi.  I switch from the yellow line to the blue line, travel one stop and emerge at Ramakrishna Ashram Marg, an area that straddles the boundary between New Delhi and Old Delhi. The first thing you see when you get off the metro is dozens of bicycle rickshaws eagerly awaiting your arrival. I always feel conflicted about the cycle rickshaws, and have yet to take one, because the thought of paying someone so little to do such a strenuous, backbreaking job feels wrong to me.  On the other hand, I know these guys are lucky to have a job, and would jump over each other at the chance to accept my fare.  These quotidian dilemmas are a part of my life here, not least because of the striking dichotomy between those who have and those without.  In any case, because I am either running late or it is pouring rain, I take a second auto from the metro station to school, about a kilometer or two.

Saraswati, the goddess of knowledge,
adorns the entrance to the school

When I enter the school, it seems that every child in the building has to come up to me individually or in the pairs they often walk in, to say "Good morning, Ma'am."  The words 'sir' and 'ma'am' are possibly the most overused words in the average Indian's English vocabulary, and when this year is over, I can almost guarantee that it will be my least favorite word in the language.  To avoid confusion, I told the kids my name was El, which immediately transformed into ElMa'am (all one word).  There is such an air of formality within the school, from the way the kids greet you to the fact that they are conditioned never to enter a room without asking for permission, even if they just left to use the bathroom.  It completely throws me off to be constantly interrupted by kids wishing to enter their own classroom, when I have only been in the room a grand total of three minutes.

On the first day, I was met by Sudha, my coordinating teacher, an English teacher who looks about 30ish, who is very sweet and very quiet.  I went with her to her classes that day; each teacher generally teaches six out of eight periods a day.  Sudha was extremely helpful, making it clear to the kids that I was to be respected and regarded the same as herself or any other teacher.  Some of my fellow ETAs were not so lucky, given no time to observe and a schedule of back-to-back classes to teach by themselves on the first day.  The other teachers were very nice too, asking me about myself and patiently pronouncing their names several times until I could say it right.  The first teacher I met, other than Sudha, was Sushama ("Sooshma"), an English teacher whose father had been in the foreign service and had lived in Ireland and Trinidad as a child.  The day began with an assembly, which was signaled by a student beating a bass drum and each class lining up on the grass outside the school.  The children sang songs, presumably patriotic, and there was also a short prayer for which each student closed their eyes and placed their hands together.

The school is structured around three identical courtyards.
The hallways are all open balconies with green space in the center

There are aspects of the school that remind me very much of the school I attended while living in Israel as a child.  The long periods of time during which kids are left completely to their own devices, the school layout and its use of outdoor space, the sometimes harsh manner with which teachers deal with children, the kids' sense of freedom and cockiness that accompanies a lot of independence from an early age.  While I have not personally witnessed it at my school, some of my fellow ETAs describe some harrowing incidents of teachers physically punishing students, smacking them across the face or on their hands.  The kids are very physical with each other, both affectionately and aggressively.  The other day a boy slapped another boy's face so hard, I thought the sound was loud enough to reverberate in the room.  Another aspect of the classroom dynamic that is very difficult for me to adjust to is the use of peer monitors.  Every class has one or two students who are designated "monitors" and are placed in charge of the students in lieu of teachers.  They take it upon themselves, as it seems they are expected to, to discipline other students, yelling at them and hitting them at times. From my perspective, these monitors are often extremely disruptive to what I'm trying to do, in that they feel rules don't apply to them.  They are often the ones out of their seats and walking around the classroom during lessons, which encourages other students to do the same and leads quickly to chaos.  They are good kids, but many of these monitors seem to enjoy their power too much.  It seems at times that teachers and authority figures pit kids against each other, encouraging them to tell on each other for the most trivial transgressions and rewarding some at the expense of others.  The truth is that as frustrating as it can be to maintain order in the classroom, after working at Clear View, the naughty kids, the ones that demand more attention due to inappropriate or disruptive behavior, are generally my favorites.

The kids are so enthralled by my presence--they swarm around me when I walk down the halls to the point that I feel like I am being followed by a camera-less paparazzi.  It's a little awkward when other teachers witness this, as the kids can't get enough of me just because I am a novelty.  At least once a day, I will be walking towards the staff room for a free period and a pair or group of kids will take my hand and coerce me into teaching their class during their (otherwise unsupervised) free period. I can't go anywhere without kids coming up to me asking, "When will you be in our class, Ma'am?" But what really drives me nuts is the CONSTANT hum of chatter throughout the lesson or activity--there is such a different understanding of respect and attention here that I really think is a cultural difference.  In their extraordinary eagerness to learn every single fact about me, they bombard me with questions: What food do you like?  What are your hobbies? What singer do you like?  Who is your favorite Bollywood hero?  What is your father's and mother's names?  Do you have brothers or sisters? What dancers do you like? What do you think of India? What Indian food do you like? What's your favorite color?  When is your birthday? How many ounces did you weigh when you were born? OK I've never gotten that last one, but the others are questions I have by now answered a million and a half times.  It's not that I mind answering the questions, but when I allot time for questions, there is little patience for waiting for me to call on them.  The second a kid finishes asking his or her question, ten other students stand up with hands raised, saying "Ma'am. Ma'am. Ma'am. Ma'am. Ma'am. Ma'am." I try to tell them that they don't have to say my name, that I will call on them, that I want to hear from them but can't when everyone talks at once, but the thrilling possibility of two seconds of my attention right then is overpowering.  It's hard to get mad at them for being so enthusiastic, but it's absolutely maddening and I find myself yelling all day just to be heard over the echoing din.  When I do call a kid out, whether for smacking their desk neighbor or for being intractably chatty, I am often met with the most adorable body language that ever was, and it's so hard not to smile or laugh while reprimanding a student.  Just as nodding your head means 'yes' in the States, when children are sorry they grab their earlobes and shake their heads, saying "mafkijiye, mafkijiye" (forgive me, forgive me). The sight of contrite boys grabbing their ears is enough to make my heart melt, and my frustration turns into wanting to give them a hug.  

Here's one bulletin board I can't imagine
seeing in an American school!

I have pretty much given up hope of learning even a majority of the students' names.   My schedule is such that I see each class in the 6th, 7th and 8th grades twice a week, and each 9th and 10th grade class once a week.  Each grade has three classes of 30-40 students. According to my calculations, this means that I will be teaching 525 students, multiplying five grades by three classes by 35 students.  525! The kids laugh their little heads off as I struggle to pronounce their names correctly, whether I say it completely wrong or just put the emphasis on the wrong syllable. Some names are ridiculously common and I usually have at least one if not three or four in each class.  Some common boys' names are: Akash, Amit, Manish, Gaurav, Anubhav, Yash, Karthik, Hrithik (pronounced "Ritik"), and Jatin.  Some common girls names are: Simran, Anjali, Khushboo, Kritika, Siksha (I always want to say shiksa), and Maansi. Even if I didn't have so many students for so little time, the names are so unfamiliar to me that it's taking me forever to learn even a few of them.  Also, did I mention how many more boys there are than girls?  It's crazy.  It's striking to note the difference in temperament between the sixth grade girls, who are outgoing and are often the first to respond, and the 10th grade girls who generally keep their personalities quiet and speak when spoken to.  Our instructor who teaches out English Language Teaching classes at USIEF tells me this is not a coincidence, that the transition period from age 10 to 15 is when girls start to really respond to the expectations placed on them by much of Indian society. The girls are beautiful, with thick black braids down their backs and arms ornately decorated with henna, following the recent holiday.  Though shy in the formal classroom setting, as soon as the bell rings they circle around me with questions and things they want to share with me.

As with any teaching job, sometimes I want to give myself a concussion just to avoid having to teach one more class. But most of the time I really like it, and all of the time I am learning, learning, learning.  I wonder if there is any job in the world where you learn more than you do as a teacher.  And really, the more I travel, the more I recognize that at some point, kids are kids.  They love a good laugh and want your attention and need people they respect to tell them they're okay. I have tons more to say about my teaching experience so far, but for now I will leave you with this lovely experience that my roommate Hannah had the other day.  Her class was completely out of control, kids screaming, paper airplanes flying, the works.  She tried and failed several times to settle them down, or even just get their attention, but after 20 minutes of complete and utter mayhem, she resigned herself to standing in the front of the room and covering her ears. Suddenly, a glimmer of hope: a senior teacher was in the hall and saw her standing amidst the chaos.  She came in, approached Hannah, and said, "So...do you have any brothers or sisters?" Because what better time to make small talk than in the middle of a classroom full of hyperactive noisy kids.  Am I right?