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The road at night
is silent and so dark,
my headlights are the only ones on the road.
The solitude is unnerving.
As I make my way home in the chilly evening
I flash to another road,
another vehicle.
I am in the back this time
and am clutching my bag close
as the rickshaw bounces along.
People and sounds and lights and music
vendors and vegetables, dogs and children
all clutter the street on my drive home.
I can feel the sweat dripping down my back
and I am tired
but this is not new to me
and I feel comforted by the bustle around me.

Maine does not exactly bustle in the same way; the tourists in downtown Camden with their crisp shorts and sandals are the same as last summer, and the one before that. They wander about in their privilege and I find myself ogling at the harbor with them; my home is so much more beautiful to me after time away. A little over a week after being back I am loving seeing my friends and family but am also baffled by how normal it seems to be here, and how other worldly India seems. It is beautiful here but then it was beautiful there, and I cannot seem to find the place where the two connect. Maybe they don’t--- except I have drawn the line, and faint though it seems, I know certain connections will be lasting and this experience will continue to shape me far more than I can possibly know now.

Star shows and dance parties and other lovely things

I guess I have never really enjoyed the endings of things. I get anxious about finishing, worry about what will happen next, and generally stress out about the fact that this something, (especially when it is really great) is never going to happen in exactly the same way again. So of course when my time in India started coming towards an end, I expected to feel pretty terrible. But I underestimated the kids. My last week at Parivartan was one of the most lovely experiences I have had on my journey, and thanks to the excitement and field trips and dance parties, I was not even allowed time to dwell on the fact that I was really leaving.

The look on the kids' faces as we drove in several crowded taxis to the planetarium was pure excitement and anticipation; dressed in their best attire, these children were ready for adventure. Watching them at the sky show and seeing all of space literally open up before their eyes was inspiring. The whole idea of space and the stars and planets has always seemed mind boggling to me, but there is something about viewing it with children that makes you catch your breath.

Waiting in line to go into the planetarium


My last day we had a dance party. Children and teachers and interns jumped around and felt the music and smiled and laughed and enjoyed. Using Karishma's i-pod of Hindi music we twirled and spun and generally tired ourselves out as the little ones climbed on our shoulders and backs, and the music pounded in the small room.



I will miss this; the people, the laughter, the music, and the joy of life. It is hard to realize that I don't know when I will be be back with them all again. So I give everyone big hugs, and hold on just a little longer before leaving.

Parivartan Pathways

As I walk down the narrow pathway, my knee wobbles, and I use a hand to steady myself against the brick wall, as I find my footing on the long pipes that run the lane. I look behind me and see Karishma stalled in the path. This is one of those moments when I wish my camera was with me at all times, there stands Karishma, with two goats in her way. The walkway being actually so narrow that she cannot pass them, Karishma stands there staring at them uncertainly, as the goats return her gaze, seeming to find no reason to move out of the way until one of the little girls guiding us shoves the goat to the side and she can continue walking. I burst into a peal of laughter as I try to imagine this scene anywhere else. Here we are, in one of the most crowded urban areas in the world, and what is blocking the path is not a person or a car or anything other than livestock.

Walking around the neighborhood where Parivartan is located can be a precarious adventure. Goats aside, I often spend more time looking at my feet than at the curious faces around me; the rains bring puddles and cracks in the walkway that must be crossed like obstacle courses. The main roads are usually pretty clear, less the various droppings from the animals that traverse the roads, chickens, roosters, goats and cows alike, all looking rather hungry and dingy from a life spent on the street, but it is the narrow pathways that are the most exciting; they are so tiny, and twisty, you never know what is coming next. I always feel like there is something different about the street as we walk it, the noise, the shops, the people, there are so many of each, you truly cannot catch the same scene twice. Yet I find there are common refrains, like the chorus of men standing outside the chai stand and the innumerable little children, half naked, running this way and that, holding hands, chasing a ball or each other down the most narrow alley ways. The other day, as Karishma and I walked we felt the rain begin to drop and hurried along to reach the center. On the stoop stood Nagma, and as we approached she waved eagerly and as we reached her she made a running jump into my arms, shouting “Hi teacher!”

Whenever I feel as though I am ready to return to the United States, to a land more efficient, less crowded, and definitely more used to my presence, I am reminded of these little bodies, who I have finally started to see each day again. The kids at Parivartan are so adorable, so eager, and so full of enthusiasm that it is difficult to think of not seeing them everyday. I am settling into my role as a facilitator more readily now, realizing that it okay to be an observer sometimes. When my planned activities cause the kids to freeze up (after all, who likes to be put on the spot?) I find that there is so much the children are offering us, I only have to learn to watch for the signals. I relish the moments when the children are drawing, Roshni with her meticulous flowers, (Karishma tells me she wants to learn mehendi) Saiyma with her houses, Salim and his straight lines, I swear that kid could be an architect, he is so apt with lines and shapes. Each of the children has something creative and wonderful about them, it is beautiful to watch the bonds they are forming with us and each other. I see Karishma and Saiyma, deep in discussion, this relationship of child and mentor is reciprocating a need to connect in both of them, and is a relationship that will reach long past a single summer. So maybe this project will not have a tangible end result, but I am learning what is tangible and real is not so far from the imaginary as I would have originally thought, just as the foreign and familiar too start to blend together in this land where I have spent nearly two months.

Why the trains are still my favorite

So yesterday I ventured on the local trains again for the first time in a long while. It was a warm and welcome change from being cooped up in my Chembur apartment, and I relished seeing so many people going about their daily routines, and most especially the feeling of wind on my face as I held fast to the pole and leaned outwards into the night air, seeing the lit buildings wiz past me.

Last week’s adventure included a trip to an Indian hospital when my roommate Sarah could not even keep water down, a sleepless night in the hospital with her as I became feverish, closely followed by days spent in our room, our side by side beds holding two very tired and weak girls yearning to be better, taking turns sleeping and running to the bathroom. Feeling ill in India is horrible and one of those times when you really miss home. Not exactly the top of the list in terms of activities I have experienced so far here. I am so grateful to be feeling better and able to venture beyond a 20 rupee rickshaw ride for fear of needing to run home and finally be free to explore this city once again.

Since my first day here I have been enthralled with the Bombay trains, and I still love them. One of the only things that actually move quickly here, the rush of people, the variety, the motion, the sound, the smiles and stares from little children, the sleeping babies, the old ladies sitting on the side, everything about them keeps you watching. Standing in the middle you can feel trapped on the swaying vestibule, but on the outside you can lean towards the wind and feel whatever small cool breeze there is and watch the city pass you by. Trains will definitely be something I will miss most about this place. It is crazy to even think about missing Mumbai but as I write this I only have a little over two weeks left in this country. I honestly don’t know where the time has gone and I worry about returning home without having experienced absolutely everything I could have here. I know its important to continue living in the moment, even as my health falters and my end project at Parivartan seems like more like a dream than an actual goal to be accomplished. My queries only seem to be increasing, but I am realizing that it is okay, and as I become better at the Indian head bobble, (a side to side tilting motion, possibly the most ambiguous of gestures here) I know that the complexity of things here will keep me asking and wondering long after I return home.

Insert Subtitles Here

The crazy sensation of salty, spicy, sweet, hot and cold combine in my mouth as Karishma instructs me to “shove it in”. Delicious and so Indian, a combination of all things, bhelpuri seems like almost an overdose of flavor but is actually incomplete without all the parts. Street food is like a metaphor for all things Indian to an outsider. One would not possibly know what to order on their own and the piles of sauce and other toppings are daunting to say the least. But unless you put it all in your mouth you wont know how yummy it can be. “You are practically Indian” Karishma tells me as I enthusiastically opt for another kind of street food, “samosa chaat”, at the movies and explain how I helped a real live Indian person know which stop to get off on the train. Her visiting friend from Delhi agrees and both are impressed at my ability to navigate the train system so well and generally be amiable to Indian culture.

But I am so epically far from being Indian even beyond the obvious white skin that literally reflects back at me in a blinding manner anytime that I spot myself in a mirror at the sweet shop in Andheri or in a particularly clean window as I walk down the street. As anyone who knows me well will tell you, mirrors are my thing, and I am infamous in my family for seeking my reflection in any surface that will give it to me. Yet here I find myself disappointed whenever I see my face reflected back at me, reminding me of just how much I stick out in this country. There is so much that I have discovered and love exploring about India but I am definitely feeling the barriers of my skin and language after five weeks here.

Going into the classroom at Parivartan again this week is sometimes difficult. Those children that I have worked with for the last few weeks always greet me enthusiastically but I find myself fumbling as I try to reach past the surface and really discover who they are. I am not a teacher, nor really a theater practitioner either and I know some of what I am trying to achieve would be difficult even in a place of all native English speakers. It is immensely difficult to break these kids out of their shells; when asked to draw a picture of their families one little girl’s picture starts to look suspiciously like Sarah’s. The others draw houses and families just like the person sitting next to them and since they cannot understand me, I can only patiently smile and encourage more drawing. When working on actions and sounds, they are great at following me and I can even make them act super silly and crazy, but when put in the center of the circle, they freeze. Some of this is typical shyness I know, and some comes from living in a culture where they are not often asked to be creative on their own.

At the movies I watch larger than life emotions fill up the screen; the lead actresses tear’s ballooning out of her elegantly lined eye, her longing for the hero evident in her every feature. There are no subtitles, I am at the cutting edge of Bollywood, Raavan was released just last week, with beautiful cinematography and a brilliant soundtrack. I tell myself I understand the plot and as I exit the air conditioned theater I lament the fact that the rest of Indian society is not as clear cut as the warm embrace before a choreographed dance number.

But Bollywood is above all else escapism, and watching it in its home culture I can understand the extent to which everyone wants to flee to the land of good and evil, clear emotions, and true love. So many of the problems that the children at Parivartan face are not clear cut; there are layers and layers of cultural and socio-economic barriers keeping these children from following their dreams. As I struggle to connect with them beyond the basic smile, I find myself wondering if it would ever be possible to break down all these walls. Yet even if I did have real subtitles for every thing that happens here I don’t think that means change would happen faster. It is slow going, but my personal barriers are the least of the issues that face an organization like Parivartan, and all they are trying to achieve. To approach things at a level that the community can receive them is so important. So I spin the little girl in circles until we are both dizzy and watch her grin, knowing that this is at least is something we both understand.

Experiencing the Country of “No”

"India is the Country of the No. That ‘no’ is your test. You have to get past it. It is India’s Great Wall; it keeps out foreign invaders. Pursuing it energetically and vanquishing it is your challenge. . . India. . . will reveal itself to you only if you stay on, against all odds. The ‘no’ might never become a ‘yes.’ But you will stop asking questions" (19)

The above quote is from Suketu Mehta’s bestselling non fiction book about Mumbai titled Maximum City: Bombay lost and found. I have been reading it here; it is fascinating to get an insider’s perspective on places that I frequent daily. I laughed when I first read this part in the beginning of the book, I feel like I have come into contact with this “no” many times since arriving in India. At first it seems inconsequential. Is it possible for the rickshaw driver to take me home from the station? If not then I will wait for the next one. Is it possible to find the right platform to take the train to Andheri? If not I can always traipse back up the stairs to the other platform. Yet in my fifth week here, hearing “no” becomes more difficult. When you have taken the rickshaw ride that is exactly 9 rupees from the station to your apartment and have received the 1 rupee change from your 10 rupee note innumerable times it becomes more annoying when the driver says “no change” with a glint in his eye. I know he is lying, but I let it go. It is after all 1 rupee. Something around 2 cents. An amount that in the United States I would not think twice about. But it is the “no” not the amount of money that starts to get under my skin.

Lately my stomach seems to be agreeing with the general nay saying of this country by not allowing me to properly digest a single thing I eat. After four weeks of feeling tip top I think this is what is called karma, but it is not so funny when it occurs on the train. (oh boy). I have never had a more challenging experience than attempting to find a restroom when I am in dire need, Sarah clutching my arm worriedly after seeing my ashen face. Bathrooms in this nation can be another no, and as we fled the McDonald’s (“no water, out of order, sorry for the inconvenience”) we frantically searched before climbing the stairs and marching into a bank’s office, demanding a washroom. Crisis averted. Temporarily.

Yesterday was the ultimate day of no. First, I was wakened by the unmistakable sound of crows squawking scarily close to my ear. For anyone unfamiliar, the sound of a crow right outside your window is comparable to hearing a cat dying loudly right next to you whilst trying to sleep. I rolled over and groaned. Can the crows stop screeching? A resounding “no”. Suddenly I really wake up as Sarah whips out her “slim rescue howler” from her first aid kit and sits up in bed, blowing vigorously. The crows are startled, and leave temporarily though I hear a chorus of them as I fall back into a restless sleep.

Later: can I come in to work at Parivartan? “No”, because it is raining. The school administrator calls in the early afternoon to inform us that the weather is too terrible and the children will probably not show up plus she is worried about the state of the roads. This is the real “no”, the rain, which while exciting is also just plain inconvenient. Rickshaws sputter and need to restart, the windshield wipers are useless and there is another stall in my project. Sometimes, like when I am sitting at the internet café watching Sarah get dripped on from the new leak in the ceiling I feel more than a little discouraged. But then we push open our umbrellas and venture home to giggle and revel in the fact that we ran through sewage in the street. If I can laugh at that, then I am pretty sure I can laugh at anything. My questions are still numerable, but India, whatever craziness you have coming next, I have my umbrella at the ready.

Really Raining

The rain sloshes down in sheets and collects in every crevice, the trash becomes soaked and then runs into the street with goodness knows what else. The puddles are a little kid's dream and an umbrella is almost a joke. Monsoon season has arrived here in Mumbai and it is exciting to say the least. I have never been to a place so ill equipped for something that happens so often. Every year the rains come, but besides the ever helpful umbrella vendors at every corner, the city seems unable to deal with the rain, the train drips as the windows don't really close and the cars moving through the streets do so at an even slower pace. It is a precarious walk to Parivartan but the kids are even more excited in this weather. "Barrish!!" (rain, though i am sure I have spelled it horribly wrong) they shout as they run to the door to look at yet another downfall.

I am sure it will get less exciting and much more frustrating, but for now I am basking in the glory of a cloudy sky and the lack of the sun beating down on dry land. It's a new season.