A Day in the Slums

I'm sitting in the French cafe after another day of interviews. I thought I would share what life has been like since we have started our internships full time. Below is an account of a single day. As with prior posts, I apologize for any writing mistakes.

Today I went to Kashwadi, revisiting Archana, the stout and sassy Health Mutual Fund representative, and Uttam Gophane, a cartoonish looking man with formidable hair trailing along the curve of his ears. When my interpreter, Supriya, and I arrived there were no loan officers, but after a bit of prodding, the branch manager Manesh decided he would take us to 2 or 3 people before another loan officer could take over. His offer was generous; usually the the men at the branch offices do not do the loan officers’ ‘work’ i.e. talk to the clients sans pretext.

Our fist interviews were of a women and a couple. The former was a shop owner getting a loan for her daughter’s education. As we went through the questions, a young child popped his head up over the shop’s gate and asked for “chewkun,” a very disarming attempt at the saying chewing gum. She stopped for a moment to sell it to him and then, taking advantage of the pause, turned her attention to some men requesting bidis and cigarettes. 

Next we wandered 10 meters over to a women and man at their ironing business. The loan was to fund their daughter’s education in engineering. They said the loan amount was low, but that they had been told over time they would get a greater amount, granted they paid on time and were responsible. The women, no more than 4’11, said she always had the money ready 6 days in advance. The smell and taste of hot metal and smoke came up from a metal iron filled to the brim with scarlet coals.

After finishing, we headed back to the branch office since we had no idea where Manesh was. A few more people were at the branch when we arrived, including Archana. She was surprised I remembered her name, glancing up and smiling once the accented syllables flew off my lips. After waiting for a quarter hour, another loan officer stood up to take us to do four more interviews so I would have six by lunch time. We headed to the home of the woman who cleans PSW’s office. She had swollen cheekbones and a faded dark green tattoo on her right wrist with the names of herself, her sons, and her husband. The man in question, or her mister so to speak, was in the background talking to himself, clearly drunk. She said the interview had to be quick because she was preparing lunch.

The next house we went to belonged to a Hindu woman. A Muslim friend of her's joined us for the interview. The latter's son popped in soon after we started. To my immense amusement and surprised, he started speaking to me in English with a crisp American accent. He told me he was eight and attended an English medium school. He wants to be an engineer. I met his brother over the course of the interview too. He was twelve, but still deciding what to do. Yussef, the younger brother, informed me that he was not going to be an engineer. Their sister, ten, is to be a doctor.

Finally, we ended up at Meena’s house. Guarded by a two-month-year-old puppy named Rosie, we stepped inside and were told to keep out shoes on. Odd I thought. I told her I did not want to get her gleaming floor dirty and took them off anyway. The inside of the house was a pleasant shock. Not only were there tasteful tiles on the floor and a pet parrot, but there was also a fridge and granite counter. I told Meena her house was beautiful. She said there were two more floors. I asked how many people shared the space. Six, she responded: her three children, her husband, her mother-in-law and herself. 

We settled down to interview.  Over the next hour, she offered bits of information about why their house was in so much of a better condition than those surrounding it. Her husband worked in the Philippines as an accountant to make money to get his sister married and to support his family. He returned in 1997. Five years ago, they finished paying off a loan they took from a bank loan for 3 lakh, eating only one meal a day. The inflation in India at the time made the interest rise more quickly than expected. Supriya offered some details about why I was in India and the reason for the survey. Toward the end of the interview she asked if we had lunch.

When we told her we have tiffins, she said we should just eat one chapati and then eat our lunch at 3:00 pm. Thinking it was harmless, I said yes. Lo and behold a complete thali course that followed including fresh chapatis, papad, dal, eggplant sabji, rice, custard, lemon pickle, veggies. And she kept filling my dal bowl when I wasn’t looking. I tried to tell her, “Maaza pot burla,” but she would have nothing of it. When I said "tora tora" to the rice, she unapologetically placed a cup of it in my daal. I kept looking at the daughter, who looked stick thin, wondering how she was able to say no to her mother. Her large green eyes, hidden behind glasses, offered no insight. The son walked in during the meal. He had fine features and wore his hair unconventionally long. The scene was highly reminiscent of family life back home. 

When the father arrived, he seemed content that his wife was feeding us. He had enough English to small talk. During our exchange, he said the house was small, but I could tell he was proud of the life he had provided for his family. I wanted to talk and share, but Meena said I needed to eat while the food was hot. This meant that I did not get to talk much, or offer the geography lesson on where I grew up that I asked Supriya, a Geography Major, to take her book out for. The father’s sister soon arrived with her husband which meant that the place was getting crowded. We said a quick goodbye and Meena guided up to the main avenue. I told Supriya to tell her Meena that her kindness was very big and that I would always remember it. 

After lunch we headed back to the office and waited until a loan officer was free. One offered to walk us to where we could collect the interviews and said she would ask the families there to help me. I agreed. We passed a mosque and temple on the way, each no more than 50 meters apart. The following four interviews were conducted quite swiftly, all were women. Their children pulling at them eagerly as we went through the questions. None of the children were above five years of age. They all seemed content screaming and running barefoot, returning to their mothers to rest for a moment before jumping back into the excitement of squealing and wandering aimlessly. 

We walked to the main street to get a rickshaw. After 10 minutes, one stopped and even though the driver looked scarcely sixteen, we took it. It was the first time in four months that I have had to direct a rickshaw to FC road, one of Pune’s most frequented arteries. 

And now I'm drinking an Americano, delightful not just because it was only 60 cents. It's also packed with the boost I need to make sense of the interviews I have collected across six slum areas. I have a busy weekend ahead.

Travels: The Proverbial Elephant Ride Occurs

Four cities. Ten days. Twenty-one hours. A moment. Crossing my legs on the wooden chair by the dull ivory door of my small apartment, I am now pausing to write down what has transpired in the last three weeks. Illustrations will follow as soon as M posts pictures. 

As mentioned previously, it was a trip to Mumbai/Bombay that commenced my dive off the map. The seamless rush to see and do and experience as I traveled around the slopes and slums India’s energetic financial capital and then up to the hitherlands of Northern India has seared an intrepid collection of scenes in my mind. The mental branding has for the most part been shared with my older sister, M. Yesterday she and I finished cruising (literally, at one point on the back of a two wheeler), but mostly crashing through the golden triangle - Jaipur, Agra, Delhi- eventually dotting the journey’s regal shape with a final stop in Simla. The startling insights and humble epiphanies have been equally balanced with moments of intense groaning. I guess that’s the combo deal when you sign up for a fast-track experience. I was never worried that we wouldn’t get through it; equipped with a little over 2 months of Hindi I am able to ask where and what, even though I was more often that not missing the accompanying nouns that would make my questions more comprehensive. But somehow, even after three months in this country, I still don’t think there was anything that could have prepared my for the moment our driver, eager to demonstrate his knowledge of his country, definitively called the yak on the side of the road a shark. Even after 90 all-too-real days of dal and drums, I was still floored by the sight of  a baby monkey riding a pig past a five-legged cow. The 14-year-old boy whom we hired for 100 rupees to fend the primates off seemed nonchalant enough however. He had more pressing concerns regarding the other 2000 others stealing his dog, or was it the chapatti and the dog? It's hard to keep tails straight when the absurdities so delightfully synchronize.

To have had so many familiar personalities around the unfamiliar was very welcome. Meeting my sister-in-law and her warm and endearing family in Mumbai was lovely. I’m still not sure my nephew quite knows who I am, but someday I will be sure to tell him how excited he was to see me, how from our first encounter he knew how much I cared for him. I’ll be sure to note that he leap straight into my arms and was amused by my every gesture. There is really no need for him to know that he couldn’t wait to get out away from me and land back in his parent’s safe embrace. Let’s be honest, how many times have we been told we were impolite and frustrating as two-year-old children? Adorability trumps truth in those early years. And I really should return the favor: in India I am gracefully and frequently forgiven for my own missteps, both linguistical and logical.

The monuments we visited seemed unmoved by our exhaustive admiration. M and I ran around each city to view the Mughal tombs and forts, Hindu caves and temples, and British institutional structures that lounge around India’s landscape in plentiful numbers. We hopped from Hamayun’s and Lodhi’s tombs, to monkey infested Hanuman temples and the storied Elephanta caves, to a Scottish styled lodge in the Himalayas from which one-fifth of the world was ruled until’s India’s independence.  We rode elephants across Diwali infected Jaipur and up the stone pavements of Amber’s fort, ending at the adjacent Mira temple where we were blessed by a priest whose back was so arched he seemed to be ever searching the floor for some misplaced idea. Each architectural masterpiece lazily soaked in the weight of our travel-worn limbs as we paced their walkways, canvassed their embedded secrets with our eyes, and to a much smaller extent, M’s camera. The self-importance with which they observed us varied, however. The less lauded monuments seemed to gloat less, charm more, but without exception, the history of each place as explained by our guides was esoteric and intriguing. The scientific knowledge of the Jantra Mantra alone was enough to make my head spin in disbelief, a feeling that surely heightened by dehydration. But I must admit that the steady flow of white haired visitors and all too visibly and awkwardly protruding money wallets did tend to steal away from the moment. So that now that I think of the Taj Mahal I can remember it both an thoughtfully built and impressively stocked with a ever rising tide of bustling Indian families and starchy European middle-age tour groups.

Yet I think the characters M and I met were even more outstanding than the stones structures we so heavily documented. Dinesh, the small-framed rikshaw wallah from Jaipur who catered to our every whim and saved us from some otherwise unwise adventures, just texted me today to say he hopes I am doing well. Our guide at the Taj Mahal showed up clad in tweed, triggering the feelings a history professor might and adding a bewitching academic tone to our adventure to the world wonder. And the staff at a breathtaking former Raj’s home in Shimla, formerly a British summer escape constructed in 1835 named Chapslee, was simply outstanding. I cannot express how much we enjoyed having white-gloved Sebastian popped in his conical-hatted head as we arrived weary from a long day to offer us tea and sit and chat about his family. Our drivers, of which a whole one hundred percent did not know English, made India all the more exciting. Locking doors, using maps, and paying attention when asking for directions are all secondary, maybe even tertiary in India. And as long as we were moving and getting somewhere it was hard to get too overstressed about being lost. It’s only when the young men disappeared that we got irked. On their eventual return, our attempts to explain the discomforts of being two shockingly white women in a sea of strangers were comical. The transactions were sloppily laced with blank stares and intelligible comments from both ends.

There was that one rikshaw who did know English enough to tell us that Fab India was closed on a Sunday, a crafty ploy. But actually. He wanted to take us to the craft market instead, but we insisted on going to Fab anyways, figuring that he was bluffing. We were right.

All in all, the hopping and haggling across India has led me to have an ever stronger impression that it is more subcontinent that country, a land so diverse and expansive that it confuses even itself, stumbling and tripping over it's extended limbs on it was towards development. I feel very fortunate to have both family and friends in this strange land. And for the next month I hope I can continue to explore, perhaps on a more minute scale however.

Hopefully my next post will have some more details about Mumbai, a 5 day trip that truly really was a shining moment of the Alliance program. And perhaps a bit more about the food as well. Until I begin to think about writing more  however, I am going to snuggle up in the 30 dollar sleepingbag my sister left behind. It’s getting cold outside.

Carbon dioxide. Jasmine. Hash. 

One after the other, this sequence of scents tickles my nose as I walked to get a rickshaw after class. The three are among the repertoire of smells that frequent my sinuses. And clog them up on the ride home. But its fine, I’m too giddy to start packing to care.

Tomorrow we leave for Mumbai for a 3 day academic trip that includes a visit to Dharavi, Asia’s largest slum, and the high-courts in India’s financial capital. I’m about halfway packed, but I finally wrote some postcards so I’m telling myself that I’ve been productive this evening. I’m also telling myself not to forget my passport.  I did manage to remember it on a trip 24 hour dash to the Mumbai last Thursday and a weekend jaunt to the breathtaking Ajanta and Ellora caves. So there’s hope that I will place it in my overstuffed red backpack before I leave tomorrow for the train station. 

We are schedule to take the famed Deccan Queen to Pune at 7:15 am. This will be a welcome change from the 2 tier AC train I took a couple of days ago. On the four hour ride back from the I had a chance to go over the pamphlets from the conference on impact investing. In between reviewing the arguments for using philanthropic funds for for-profit business, I wandered over to edge of the train, opened the side door, and receive a smack of dusty air in my face. If I had allergies, my body would have shut down, but thankfully my only concern was falling onto the tracks. The train wallahs did show some concern about the situation: they needed to use the sink behind the door. Also, a food wallah intervened, eager to tell us he had tomato soup. 

The rushing scenery held some of the more simple sights in India: trees, grass, shacks. They were unobtrusively ordinary, their sight bringing on the feeling of seeing a familiar acquaintance. Even with the whoosh of the wind and the slamming of metal as the train glided towards our final destination, there was an silence to the experience. The same silence that echoed among the 1000 years old caves in Ellora, a lull that communicates that you should watch without thinking. Hindu and Buddhist alike, the message in the impressive temples was oddly the same: you are only a visitor, a passenger here to observe for a short period of time chasing a fleeting glimpse of eternity. Like the wallahs, for all the wrong reasons, I could not help but try and get involved. I crawled on Ellora and walk all over Ajanta, I climbed and clamored for attention. Neither of them seem to notice my acrobatics. That is until a guard came along and berated us for playing with the ancient temple’s sacred limbs.

So I should really get back to packing, most likely the most useful endeavor I will take on today.  

But before I walk the 10 feet to my room, here are some pictures to make up for my midnight ramblings:

British Architecture in Mumbai

Gateway of India

In front of the Gateway of India

Trainspotting

Birdseye of the Ajanta's Buddhist caves built from II B.C to VI A.D and discovered by John Smith 

Buddhist Shrine at Ajanta

Lounging about at Ellora, Ajanta's replacement built between the V and X centuries A.D.

Kailasa Temple, the largest monolithic structure in the world,  it is intricately carved with licentious imagery

The Mini-Taj, more formally known as Bibi Ka Maqbara

Goa is a slice of tourist heaven, an accessible escape from the smog, stress and searing discord of Pune. A former Portuguese and later Dutch colony, it hugs miles of west India’s coastline as if searching for the escape it offers its Russian, Australian, Swedish, and American guests. Palms trees are generously spread along it’s landscape, sharing space with rice fields, sand, and the occasional church - a interesting change from dominance of the temples elsewhere in India. The sun is an insistent charmer, and if you are not careful, it can make your skin painfully blush for days on end. 

Portuguese Ingreja (Church)

The two brief days we spend there were marked by a haze induced by sleep exhaustion from 10 hours on an unsleepable sleeper bus - a vehicle make you feels like you are a ragdoll as it throws your body up, down, left, right - and giddiness at having arrived at India’s Ocean City. After grabbing some deliciously safe fresh fruit and oatmeal for breakfast, we changed and walked over to the dazzling Arabian Sea. This is where began to Goa showed some of its less appealing nature, however. The ratio of men to women on the beach was about 7-1 and many of the former are looking to ‘click,’ or take a photo of young female tourists. Getting past this awkward speed-bump is challenging, but not altogether impossible if you are in the right company.

That evening we went to an absolutely gorgeous open-air restaurant right near out hotel. Fiesta in Baga Beach is all elegance and finesse, with details that keep you continuously entertained and engaged by its beauty. We ate under the canopy of coconut trees, sitting in dugout canoes filled with soft scarlet pillows. Each bite of food and sip of wine teased my senses and they in turn begged me to stay. The whole experience was exquisite and surprisingly affordable. 

We spent the next day wandering around, shopping at the small stalls along the road, and relishing in the gastronomy (highly recommend: Lila’s Cafe and Infantaria) and the simple pleasure of being able to dress according to climate rather than culture. 

The sleeper bus back was equally as ‘exciting,’ as the one there. We arrived soon enough at 6 am, giving us just enough time to come home, shower, and prepare for another week of classes, coursework, and internship preparation.

On Wednesday my parents, my brother, my sister-in-law and my nephew came to visit. Having the small delegation here, only a fraction of my family if you can believe it, was a surreal experience. I was especially excited to finally meeting my nephew Vivaan. It is always a funny feeling when you introduce close acquaintances to the pieces of your life you have come to know apart from them. It was with this mindset that I showed them around Fergusson College, the Japanese Tea Garden, Laxmi Road and the Ganpati Temple. We also went to Koregean Park for lunch at a Middle Eastern/India restaurant at ABC farms adorned in the likes of a tree house.  The next day I went to class and then met up with them to go to the Kelkar Museum, a private art collection that includes century old artwork, wooden and marble statues of Hindu gods and goddesses, massive dowry chests, and colorfully decorated palanquins. My nephew certainly enjoyed running around the building as he tried to catch daddy and aunty (me!). We went to a traditional Maharastrian restaurant on Tilak road for lunch, a veritable hole in the wall that served all you can chapattis, rice, dal, and other local dishes eat for less than 70 rupees a person. After we finished, Vivaan was getting restless him and his parents headed back to their hotel while my parents and I caught up over had ice cream at Shaviree. 

Wooden Vishnu

Old School Durga

That afternoon I visited my first slum in Pune to conduct some preliminary research for my internship. My interpreter and I were greeted into a remarkably small room as we waited for the micro-finance orientation meeting to begin. During the small pocket of time I was entertained by a one-and-a-half year old girl, dressed up in a delightfully bright green dress. She engaged me a game of peekaboo and my efforts at entertaining her were occasionally rewarded by a soft giggle or a shy smile from her mother. The time passed quickly and the room filled with women and a couple of men. The former were welcomed to sit on a thin cloth on the floor, while the latter took their place on the benches behind. The ratio of the former to the latter was about 3-1, indicative of the demographics of the loans that are usually paid out. As the lecture began, the Marathi and heat began to seriously jeopardized my focus so that I had to constatle move around to try and stay awake. Around 4 pm we caught a rickshaw back so I could go play with Hindi devanagri letters.

After class, I took a rickshaw to my family’s hotel and had dinner at the all vegetarian Italian restaurant right behind their quarters. The mouthwatering display of desserts as we walked in along with three pages of fresh salads in the menu were accurate harbingers of feast that we were to have. Halfway through dinner, courtesy of my brother Frank and his wife Isha, we took a break and were all treated to an impromptu magic show in the hotel lobby. The three men’s antics had impressed them earlier that day and my brother cajoled the hotel to let them in to perform. The main magician, a reedy man of roughly 50 with a grin that revealed a line of blackened lowered teeth, used over 10 languages including German, Kenyan, and French. By the time he was done with his final act, an impressive levitation of his fellow magician, we were dizzy and daft from charade.

Family at dinner

Italian Indian Dinner

Amidst all these occurrences, Pune has been bubbling with festivities yet again, this time in honor of the goddess Durga who is an embodiment of feminine energy or shakti. I cannot help but note that the goddess’ image has become more demure in modern depictions. Durga the fierce warrior goddess riding an equally ferocious mount, a snarling tiger, is mostly absent; the idols at the mandals show an elegant figure wrapped in a becoming sari. This could perhaps be an indication of a change in preferences, marketing, culture or a mixture of all three. Somehow I cannot see the same happening to Kali, however. Feminists around the world would surely be outraged. 

To celebrate the holiday, there have been garbas around the city. A garba is a Gujarati tradition. It involves hundreds of people gathering to dance in dazzling costumes. The high of twirling, swinging, and twisting my limbs in sync with those of dozens of welcoming strangers made me feel like I was accessing the culture in a way that words often prevent. It was liberating to be able to rely on steady, meaningful glances and hearty grins as complete means of communication.

Dancing in the Moonlight

Garba Dancers

On Sunday we were invited over to Priya Tai’s house for an aarti and dinner. A parade of girls from the program wandered into the apartment, each one dressed to the nines in embroidered kurtis, tailored salwar kameezs, and tastefully patterned saris. After we mingled, gushed over each other, and the ceremony was performed the gracefully hosts - Priya, Abouli, Amy, and Hannah- invited us to not just eat, but consume. A coma inducing brunch four-hour brunch earlier that day had my body begging for a rest from everything eatable, but the family insisted I try the carefully prepared homemade gulab jamun, sirope soaked fried balls of sin, and idli sambar. Unable, and admittedly somewhat unwilling to resist, I gave in. Sometimes you just have to bite the bait for pleasure and propriety’s sake.

Bonus: Flower Market and Fresh Idli for Breakfast with Swapna Tai

Idlii Chatani

Developmentphile: Internship Placement and a Revealing Tribal Visit

Last Thursday, after many weeks of anticipation, we finally found out our internship placements. I will be working at the Parvati Self-Employment Group (PSW), a decade old non-profit in Pune. According to the information provided, PSW works primarily to provide micro-finance, micro-insurance, and vocational training to the “poorest of the poor,” to improve their social and economic mobility in India.

As requested, I will be heavily involved in fieldwork which means, hopefully, that I will be going out to Pune’s slums to gather information on how the organization works. Overall, my responsibilities will include observing how business training and financial literacy programs work, and perhaps most importantly, asking PSW’s clients about the non-profit’s products and their utility. Finally, I will be submitting a report on areas where there is room for improvement. 

Although I won’t be starting full time until after Diwali, so towards the end of November, I was scheduled to go visit the organization today. Waking up, my excitement was matched by my exhaustion so when I was told that the point of contact at PSW could not follow through, I was immensely relieved. Don’t get me wrong, I honestly cannot wait. Just like I came to India to be challenged, I chose the Alliance program because I wanted to learn more about how things work from the bottom up. But I did get some experience in this area just couple of days ago. 

This past weekend I went to the small rural village of Jawahar, Chavi just north of Mumbai. Prof. Apte, the Public Health instructor on my study abroad program, has strong ties to the community from having spent two years living in a nearby the village. A middle age Indian man with a reliable habit of chewing paan or tabacco, Prof. Apte’s familiarity with the region provided the group with the rare chance to observe the state of affairs of tribal people in the country. 

On the second day there, I visited a local family’s farm and a primary public health center that caters to the roughly 35,000 people. During the the first part of the day, my breezy salwar kameez kept me cool as I paced around the manicured plantation that provided sustenance for a family of five. The family that owned the land has been working with an non-profit in three-year program to increase production, stability, quality, and size of their produce. Or as my Development Economics Professor would say, they have steadily been working on improving their products to reaps more profit. See below:

Jasmin Shrubs and Cashew Trees, Indian cash crops

Worm Composting, to make organic pesticide

Rice Field

After lunch we headed over to the medical center. The physician responsible for the facility’s management was a man of no more than 35 years. Our professors explained that the he has a five-month-year-old son he had never met because his dedication to his work. The doctor, whose foreign name has now completely escaped me, followed us around as the Prof. Apte gave us a tour.  The small building stored a meticulously kept inventory of medications readily lined up to tackle venomous snake bites and chronic asthma. Its walls were a museum of candid photos for the illiterate. After wandering around the walls draped with government posters and foreign script, we were led into a room and told that we could ask the physician  some questions about the state of public health services in India. After a few questions about the protocol for disbursing medication, I inquired into mental health. Although I was uncertain about the response the open question would garner, I was completely unprepared for the exchange that followed.

“For over thirty years we have had a bill that states we must address mental illness in India, but currently there is no allocation of funds for mental health at this center,” he explained. Perhaps it was my startled expression that prompted him to add, “We have never had a consoler providing those type of services at our center.” But why not, I asked. Was mental instability not only a prevalent but pervasive problem for the tribals? Almost defensive, the Public Health professor, jumped in. “In India, we are struggling with HIV/AIDs, infant mortality due to lack of access to water, diabetes, and so many other conditions. We simply cannot allocate resources to address mental health.”

The doctors’ explanations touched on a disturbing truth: mental health is not a priority in the rural areas of India. I was shocked at the time, but not entirely surprised. Yes, I know. I must place this experience in context of my sparse knowledge I have about India, but still. I continue to be as perplexed now as I was then. Considering everything I have heard about the government’s commitment to social uplifting, do India’s leaders believe the was a way to develop the population without addressing their mental stability? Do they care enough to allocate resources? Do they care at all?

After some customary research on the subject, I have come to the conclusion, however hasty, that the current state of mental illness in India is most likely due to a trifecta of domestic and international factors. Internally, the primary obstacle is the widespread taboo that surrounds mental illness and the lack of political incentives to address it. Internationally, there is a lack of serious and cohesive commitment to improvement; the lauded Millenium Development Goals, for example, have no reference at all to mental health targets. Some more recent articles did show that India has began to take up the subject, but the tardiness is....well, I guess that’s development right?

On the last day we were split into groups and given a tour of one of the houses in the tribal village. Below are some snapshots:

A Casual Guest, filling a casual vacancy at the back of the house

The Last Cucumber in the Harvest, saved to use its seeds for the next crop

A Toy Car, made by the hands of a boy of 12 years with a bright future in engineering 

Each House Had Pumpkins Growing on its Roof, guess they are gearing up for Halloween?

On a more cheery note, have I mentioned that I am taking the violin? In short, Alliance offers ‘Cultural Expression’ classes that range from traditional dancing to playing the sitar. After a failed attempt at Indian art, I decided to learn to play the violin. With Swapna Tai. Yes, the convenient location is a plus. But Swapna is also a fabulous teacher, a role that involves not only having the patience to help me sound out the notes, but also refraining from how telling me how terrible I am at it. I’m making progress at my sa, re, ga, ma’s. Interestingly, I have also been singing more....

So enough rambling for now. I’m off to Goa tomorrow. I promise to collect stories about the Indian beaches and the not-so-Indian beach bums. :)

Encounters with the F word I left behind in Durshet,* but insisted on crawling back

The past week has been heavy. Last Sunday I came back from a weekend in Hyderabad, another IT hub located in Andrha Pradesh. The two days Amy, HGM, and I spend there were a much needed break from Pune. Among the glowing-white marble carvings of the Birla temple and the naked foundations of Goldkonda Fort, the honeymoon feelings of the first couple of days playfully tugged at me. India was apologizing for soaking my lungs in tar and willfully dissolving my patience. Either that, or it was doing a damn good job at behaving for once. Pune, like a rebel limb, has so far remained reticent. It welcomed us back in a minivan whose door kept snapping open like the mouth of a petulant child.

Now roughly a month into the program, I can say with absolute conviction that Pune is consistently and aggressively confusing. Visually, it is a disjointed collection of outdated infrastructure and poor city planing. Psychologically, it is just as incongruent. Simple errands, such as getting toilet paper or going to the post-office, are highly time-consuming. There is also little flexibility: making suggestions is usually either irrelevant, impossible, or detrimental. Pune will be Pune, even if you ask it nicely to behave for a moment. Granted, coming straight from D.C., the challenges of living here were going to be [word here not currently available in English vocabulary. In Spanish: bien hijo de puta]. Yet they have not so much snuck up on me as they have pugnaciously stared me down.

So yes, unsurprisingly studying abroad in India does not mean being enveloped in rich spices so much as it does drifting along in a thick haze of smog and, here comes the f-word, frustration. On the other hand, reaching the outer bounds of my sanity so frequently seems to have actually extended their length. So that just as I think I am going stepping off some mental cliff, I find myself taking another step forward instead.

Overall, the trying inconsistencies make this place inexplicably alluring as if by investing more, it gets harder to pull away. And the fascination only grows. 

On that note, here are a couple of tokens from the past week:

The Charminar

Mecca Masjid, the Largest Mosque in Hyderabad. No women are allowed inside!

Bangle Shopping in Laad Bazaar!

Golkonda Fort

Biryani, a Hyderabadi Specialty, at Paradise

 Pictures From the Final Day of the Ganapati Festival:

Ganapati Idol

Rangoli, Sand Art on the Road

Third of the Five Main Ganapatis

Ribbon of the Procession Winding its Way Through the Crowds

Flag Dancers

Perspective

Dol Groups

In the Ebullient Throng

Watching the Massive Procession from Afar

*Frustrated, and all of its colorful derivatives

Festivals and Culture

I could describe all that I have seen, smelled, and felt regarding the culture here, but still pictures would  be necessary show the dances, the drums, the music, and the vibrance of Pune. Below is a selection of photos of the events I have attended in the past week which would be far too difficult and tedious to illustrate with words. 

Last Sunday, we were invited to a neighborhood event where local children and adults alike performed dances to traditional India music in commemoration of Teachers’ Day. It was a lengthily event, running over four hours in duration. The attendees told Swapna Tai that they were very much impressed with out ability to sit quietly for such a extensive period of time. Little did they know that as a missionary’s daughter I have been training for this type of stuff for years.

Older dancer in traditional dress for Bharatanatyam 

String of bells on feet for the dance

Younger girls dancing Bharatanatyam 

Yesterday the highly anticipated Ganesh Festival started. Since then invitations to aartis - worship ceremonies performed each of the 10 days of the festival to honor the God - have been plentiful. So far, I have attended four and the young girls in the neighborhood have assured us that we must come everyday to sprinkle rice on their idols and eat prasad. Not sure if this will be feasible as I can really eat only so much Jalebi, but nevertheless their hospitality and impromptu bollywood dancing has been both entertaining and welcome. 

Mini Ganapati we had out first aarti for

Post aarti at Swapna's in laws, Amy is modeling her breathtaking sari

One of the larger shrines that have sprouted up around Pune

Ganesh Shrine at another 'mandal,' or group worshiping site.

Another Mandal near Laxmi Road*

Moving Ganapati!*

Artists performing on the streets*

Temporary scaffolding for the festivities

The Crowds

Bonus! Architecture in and around Pune:

 Tulsi Bag

Rama temple in Tulsi Bag

Parvati Hill Temple at 6:00 am

Mundai Landmark

Pune's most expansive greenery

Temple near Parvati Hill before dawn

**Photo credit Lauren Cichock