Postcards from Rajasthan

People, Places, and Things

2008-03-27T05:22:00.000-07:00

My writings on India, like my thoughts, remained unfinished for a long time. I spent a month running around Rajasthan by myself, having an abundance of experiences that probably could have been wrapped up nicely into anecdote form, complete with unusual spacing and self-conscious commentary. But I couldn’t write about them because I hated India too much. When my MSID amigos went away – to South India, to Nepal, to Thailand, to Bhutan, to anywhere but Rajasthan – I lost that critical layer of perspective that had helped me laugh instead of cry about all the weirdness everywhere.

And it, well, sucked.

My body craved human contact and comfort, but any touch (especially from someone of the opposite sex) was wrong and invasive and degrading. Normal gestures like a friendly pat on the shoulder or head had become mutated by the social and religious moors of the country. I started to involuntarily shudder whenever anyone brushed against me. And I felt strangely dirty, as if I had done something, I must have done something to deserve being subjected to the touches and brushes and gropes.

As my body wilted, my mind desperately needed someone I could connect with, but whenever I tried to find even a hint of normalcy the conversation would suddenly shift towards something alien and/or inappropriate and/or wrong and I’d be crushed. And there’d be no one to laugh about it with, no one to tell me it was ok when they’re Indian and repressed and not worse just different. There was no escape and nothing I could tell myself to make it all go away.

And I couldn’t write about it because that made it true, sealed the deal. I had failed. I just hated, I mean reaaaaally hated the whole damn country that I had tried so hard to love.

It’s now been ten months since I was there. Time has almost totally healed what hours and hours spent trying to rationalize couldn’t even staunch. When I close my eyes and imagine India now, I don’t relive all the stuff that sickened me. I drink mango shakes on a hot day. I eat boiled eggs with spices from the eggwalla on the street. I watch creamy sunsets over lakes and specked stars as I lie in the desert. I play rugby with the street children and jacks with the village children. I stumble around and look foolish and people laugh and feed me and ask me about my life. I get invited to weddings. I experience hospitality and generosity as complete and pure as anything I’ve ever felt from people who have nothing and want nothing.

When I think of India now, I think of people full of hope and happiness and anger and despair. I think of places sometimes beautiful, sometimes hideous, often seemingly contradictory but always quintessentially Indian. I think things I want to forget, but a lot of things I wouldn't change for anything.

I miss India. Perhaps someday I'll go back.

Things

2007-05-01T04:17:00.001-07:00

To smoke or not to smoke? That may not be THE question, but it’s certainly one of them while I’m here in India.

I don’t really smoke cigarettes back home, but I’ve started doing it occasionally in India- mostly because living here is so damn stressful and the delicious but evil smoke calms me down a bit.

In India, the men smoke constantly. The women never smoke. What am I supposed to do? I want to fit in, but gender inequity aint cool yo. Do I spoke to show that women can do anything that men do? Do I not smoke to show that I can respect their cultural norms? Does smoking represent women being empowered or American women being sluts? Should I compromise and only smoke bitis, the evil little homemade uber-cancer sticks that rural men and women smoke and nobody likes?

It’s exhausting to always be noticed and analyzed and judged. All the time, no matter where you are or who you’re with, people are watching. I am not Sarah Press in India. I am the living embodiment of the White American Woman (Probably Rich) and everything I do reflects on not just me but my people.

Which is ok. I can deal. Honestly, I can. But for the love of god(s), do I really need to have this mental debate in my head every time I think about lighting up? It really negates the whole stress reduction thing.

Things

2007-05-01T03:50:00.000-07:00

---This is mostly cribbed from the second half of the impromptu and almost awkwardly earnest speech I gave for my internship presentation on the last day of the MSID India program.---

And so I’ll do all that. And then I’ll go home. India, for all its glory, is not and will never be home for me. And being here made me realize how much I absolutely love America. I mean completely and totally love it. I see the deeply embedded problems in India- education, health, the environment, and of course gender –and I know that they need to be addressed. But I have neither the ability to blend in and work as a peer in the community nor the patience to dedicate my life to such small incremental change over generations. And I think I’ll always feel a little uncomfortable and to some extend paralyzed at the idea of intruding into a culture I don’t completely understand and enforcing solutions that might be unnecessary or unwanted. I care about the Indians I have met and believe in what they want to do. And I’ll do what I can to share my ideas and assess their policies and make other small contributions. But ultimately, it’s their fight and not mine. At some point there will be little more I can do but wish them well.

I look at America. A country where the same types of problems exist but to me they appear challenging instead of insurmountable. They are problems that, in many cases, I have personally experienced in areas that I live in and understand. I know where I stand in America and can see the tremendous potential that exists here. And I genuinely believe that my actions now and in the future can have a real and positive impact for as long as I still care and still breathe. And that’s amazing.

I’m not going to dedicate my life to development work in India. But what can I take from my experiences here and translate into my work back home? There were a lot of things I didn’t like about Cecoedecon and the way it operated. One of those things was hypocrisy. I don’t think you can preach the gospel of caste equity in a village and then go home and give a different type of teacup to your servant because you’re a Brahmin and he or she is not. It’s obvious.

But what seems obvious over here becomes so much murkier when I travel across oceans and the colors are different. What exactly do I want to do with my life when I get back? I want to create a tutoring program that will provide affordable education assistance to everyone in the area and also build ties in the community. I want to encourage high school students to create their own public service projects that address environmental issues, health issues, discrimination issues, all the other problems that people need to actively combat. I want parents and other adults to replicate those ideas in their own lives. Basically, I want a lot. But I can’t expect other people to believe in these values unless I am able to internalize them all myself. And that goes beyond turning down plastic bags at the supermarket. I need to have my life reflect what I want others to do.

At the same time, there is a fine line between practicing what you preach and being preachy. Living here has reinforced in my mind the harm that comes from condescending attitudes towards the group you are trying to help or change. The women who come to the villages to inspire social change while refusing to eat dinner with the villagers and interact with them are not doing things well. How do I avoid that? A lot of the values that Netta talked about from Shikshanter applies here, about how a city as a learning city where everyone has something to contribute and can help one another. The understanding that you are creating a space where everyone can interact with one another rather doesn’t just sound nice on paper…its true.

And corruption in the NGO sector. My friends and I categorized the microfinance operations of cecoedecon as “corrupt” because of the way they seem to shave off extra interest when transferring loans from the bank to the cooperative societies without doing anything to deserve it. They are not operating at an optimum level of efficiency because they are trying to profit where they can, and that strikes me as wrong. But in America that type of “corruption” is to some extent celebrated and supported. Social entrepreneurship is all the rage. You can do good AND do well.

Which sounds great to me. I was cut from a competitive and driven cloth. I want to be successful, to be respected, to be great. I thought I had found a way to have both. I could exercise my social and business sense and become an Ashoka Fellow and an Echoing Green grant recipient and a Skoll Superhuman Transformer Person (or whatever they call their awards). The grant money (and the accolades that come with it) would start rolling in and I could turn down making $400,000 as a corporate lawyer to make $200,000 as a chief executive officer of an NGO instead. Sweet.

It all rings false to me now. Getting millions of dollars is not the ideal level of efficiency for a social venture. The kinds of programs I want to develop should not require the funds of three gigantic grant-givers in order to function. I’ve learned from SWAT and other programs operating at ground zero that you can do a lot with very little. And that’s what I want to do. I don’t want to get money for the sake of winning and prestige. That money should be left for the scholarship programs and the house building projects and the research for AIDS vaccinations, things that actually do require a lot of buck for the bang. There is something almost perverse about trying to differentiate yourself from your social venture ‘competitors’ like you do with toothpaste. Colgate and Crest may never be on the same teeth cleaning team, but I want the people trying to cheaply produce hybrid cars and create job training programs on my side.

More than just my program ideal has changed- my personal ideal has as well. Although it’s hard for me to swallow, I think that maybe, just maybe I can no longer do the things I want to do and make the amount of money I want to make and be the person I want to be simultaneously. It would mean accepting the kind of corruption and hypocrisy that on some level I know is not right. That realization will require me to make changes in both what I do to live comfortably both now and in the future.

Which all sounds very noble. Trust me, it's not. I'm not sacrificing everything, and the little that I do sacrifice I do because I have to as much as because I want to. It’s so easy to fall into a superiority trap when you’re acting more socially conscious than others. And maybe that attitude of superiority would be fine if you were living in a bubble and just doing things for yourself. But you can’t do good in a bubble, everything relies on other people. A self-promoting attitude is really just self-destructive when you’re trying to convince others to work with you.

I wanted to be the next great social entrepreneur. But what does that even mean? That I'm the BEST? I think up the BEST ideas? Ideas are not organic. Every person in the world comes from a different series of life events that has shaped what they believe in the present. I was lucky enough to have a series of positive interactions with others that caused me to think that I should give back to the UNC employees. And through my classes and personal conversations the idea as grown from there, and maybe it will grow more in the future. And perhaps I’ll come across other good ideas in the future. Those good ideas can and should be shared. But that sharing must come from love and understanding and respect, not from a pool of self-gratification. I need to constantly remind myself that even if I come across the greatest idea on the planet, and use it to create the greatest model in the world has ever known, it’s still only the idea that is great. Not me.

It’s these lessons that I have learned and reinforced during my time here. From the lectures I heard from the teachers and the debates I had with my friends. From the people I worked with at my NGO and the people they tried to help. From gmail chats with friends back home and late night conversations when I was walking the line between lucidity and total exhaustion. From the times when I was so busy and overwhelmed that I wanted to scream and the times when I was completely and totally bored and had absolutely nothing to do but think. From India.

People

2007-04-19T00:33:00.000-07:00

I killed time waiting in the Mumbai International Airport for my friends to arrive by scrutinizing the faces of all the Indian women who walked back and forth in front of me. It was really rather interesting, all the varieties of noses and eyes and ears that can exist in one room. I to imagine how each woman I saw could be found staggeringly beautiful or tremendously unattractive based on which feature was emphasized and wondered if maybe beauty actually is in the eye of the beholder.
And then in walked Bollywood Actress Katrina Kaif.

Damn girl.
Screw that theory.

Post Script- I spent a few minutes looking at different pictures of Katrina so I could pick one that showed what she looked like without seeming semi-pornographic. I turned around to see the head of the internet cafe staring at me strangely. You all might not think I have pornographic tendencies, but internet cafe man certainly does.

People

2007-04-19T00:31:00.001-07:00

We laugh and we sigh and we seethe as we see them walking through the tourist traps with their shiny new digital camera thumping merrily against their bulbous thighs and we watch them snapping pictures of cute Indians going about their daily lives and we glance at them eating obscenely overpriced ‘Continental’ food in the tourist restaurants and we take a break from our delicious plate of steaming spaghetti to click on the review button of our own gleaming picture taking equipment and see the smiling faces of adorable Hindustanis staring back at us as we smugly reflect on how different we are from them.

Things

2007-04-19T00:21:00.000-07:00

Three Indian commercials that involve two of my favorite things: candy and trickiness

-A boy who is late to class spots an open desk next to a pretty girl and tries to walk quietly in sloooooow motion to his seat without the teacher spotting him. When he gets about halfway there the teacher turns around and sees him. “Get out Melvin!*”The next day, this same young chap is late again. He spots the same open desk in the front and walks in backwards towards the seat. When he gets about halfway there the teacher turns around and sees him. “Sit down Melvin!” Melvin sits down in his seat, grins at pretty girl, and takes a big bite into his granola bar.

-A man and his wife are nuzzling on the couch having some kind of conversation when the woman asked her husband if he has forgotten something…her birthday. The husband has naturally forgotten and for a second looks panicked.
The doorbell rings.
It’s the pizza guy.
The husband takes one look at him and starts screaming.
WHERE ARE THE CANDLES??? WHERE ARE THE CANDLES?? HOW COULD YOU FORGET TO PUT THE CANDLES ON THE PIZZA. Pizza is thrown to the ground. Pizza boy runs away terrified, Husband and wife nuzzle in their bed and share a box of cookies.

-A girl wants to buy a candy bar but store dude says no because she doesn’t have enough money. She sees a dirty looking twenty-something hippie guy against the wall taking a nap and puts a shoebox in front of him. She throws in a coin. Other people walk by and throw in coins as well. After some time, she picks up the shoebox and takes it to the register. She has enough money for TWO chocolate bars, one for herself and one for the sleepy guy who wakes up with a bar of chocolate and wonders what the hell happened.

People

2007-03-29T05:44:00.001-07:00

At the end of the three-day conference for CEOs of NGOS that give loans to self help groups there was this cultural presentation thing. Despite the persistent demands by MC and me for the performance of TIN ADMI (which actually translates into “three man” in my grammatically incorrect chipmunky hindi) all the men refused to dance. The next morning, one of the older NGO employees explained that the reason why the men weren’t dancing was because they believed dancing and singing are activities for the women. He recognized that this was stupid, but argued that change takes time. How can people go around to villages preaching the gospel of female empowerment and gender equity but be completely unwilling to change their own conceptions of gender even when they KNOW they’re outdated. “Change takes time” is an excuse for the people you’re trying to change… not for the change agents.

Places

2007-03-29T05:11:00.000-07:00

Goodbye Delhi to Chicago on April 29th.
Hello Delhi to London on April 29th.
And London to Budapest on May 5th.
And Hungary to Slovakia to Czech Republic to Austria to Romania to Bulgaria
And Bulgaria to Athens on June 1st.
And Athens to London to Washington DC on June 10th.

Did you know? With the exception of three people*, everyone reading this blog is meeting up with me in Europe at some point. A clear indication that the people I know are cool (and that I really need more friends).

*particularly creepy but yet admirably diligent stalkers who managed to somehow discover this address notwithstanding

Places

2007-03-29T05:04:00.001-07:00

An average day at the CECOEDECON office.

Our heroine, Sarah Press, has efficiently and attractively finished all her work for the day and is seeking something else to do. She spots Tushar, her sort of supervisor, slowly typing up some names from a notebook into a word document.
Sarah: I can type that up for you
Tushar: Actually, that would be great. I’ll read the names out loud for you
Sarah: No, that’s ok, I can just type them from the sheet. You can work on something else.
Tushar: No no, I’ll read them and you type them.
Sarah: Well, since they’re Indian names, I won’t know how to spell them. It’ll really be easier if I just look at the sheet.
Tushar: No, that’s ok. I’ll read them out loud to you and spell them out loud to you as well.
Sarah: I really think it would be faster if I just typed it myself.
Tushar: Is it ok with you if I read the names out loud?Sarah: …fine

Things

2007-03-29T05:04:00.000-07:00

In Devli, I am conducting a survey of women from communities involuntarily resettled from a government dam project to see what kind of income generation activities should be initiated in that area. My partner for the study bought me some grapes after dumping water on them. Grapes haunt the nightmares of saavy travelers such as myself, and I was 98.2% sure that I was guaranteed to get violently ill. Do not worry, says my sage guide, the water was filtered- it came from the Bislapur Dam. Later that night when we got to our site, I pulled out my water bottle to brush my teeth. No no, says my wise friend, you don’t need to use bottled water to brush here. Our sinks use Bislapur water as well. It was all kind of funny. I came to help the rural villagers forced to move because of the wicked mcevil government dam project. But everywhere I look the Bislapur dam is making my life easier, tastier, and healthier. Perhaps its not so bad.

In the bathroom later that night…
I hate India. I hate Jaipur. I hate Cecoedecon. I hate the Bislapur Water Supply Project. I hate Devli. I hate life. I HATE grapes.

People

2007-03-29T05:00:00.000-07:00

During my week in Devli, I lived next door to a family. They called the little girl Choto, which means little, because she is small and cute. The showed me how to make chai and taught me a Rajasthani dance. They bought me bangles and made me not-too-spicy chicken because I’m an American non-veg. They showed me their slate mine where they employ 150 workers and pay the women 50 rupees a day to move the rocks on their heads in the sun. I visited their family palace where they have a ten year old child servant who can’t read or write and doesn’t go to school that they don’t pay. We watched Kaun Banega Crorepati, the Indian version of Who Wants to Be a Millionaire.

Things

2007-03-29T04:59:00.000-07:00

The powers that be (aka the crazy head of the microfinance department at cecoedecon) aren’t letting me to go the field to do the survey for my self-help group impact assessment until tomorrow. I am sulky. I have absolutely nothing to do. I am going to passive-aggressively retaliate by writing about my past few weeks for the next two hours.

Things

2007-03-08T08:40:00.000-08:00

...more elephants

People, Places, and Things

2007-03-06T08:31:00.000-08:00

Thursday night we drank rum and ate sweets for erin's 21st birthday/last night with Triptiji and Mamiji celebration. We hugged, we kissed, we talked about how it sucked that things shook out the way they did and we didn't spend as much time together as we should have. It was cute all around, and the next morning they left for Bombay, which means we didn't have the chance to fuck things up.

As a sidenote, I hate the smugness people get when they hear the city called Bombay instead of Mumbai. Bombay is what the Indians call it damnit. And they should know.

Friday night was Erin's surprise party. I've had a substantial amount of surprise party energy in reserve ever since I missed Kristin's 21st due to this silly country, so I went all out. A bunch of "here i bought you this coke for your birthday!" diversions, combined with her sitting alone at our house all day trying to work on a paper while I dashed around Old City trying to find the perfect piece of blue pottery, threw her off track and made her feel generally unloved and miserable. The one-two punch of SURPRISE! dinner followed by everyone creeping away at the end into the hotel room I had rented and decorated earlier that day with everything she loved for SURPRISE! number two kicked ass. And the delicious eggfree cake shaped like a guitar made her vegan musically gifted heart melt.

Many cigarettes, joints with the 34 year old israeli jewelers and glasses of white mischief vodka and appy fizz later, we woke up at the hotel rooms andwent to the Elephant Festival in Old City. And yeah, ok, it was somewhat of a tourist trap. And yeah, alright, so they played games like tourist tug of war (10 goris vs one elephant...guess who won?) and elephant polo. The elephants themselves were still gorgeous.

We hopped on a rickshaw and ended up on the rooftop of our friend's house for a potluck dinner of everything american that is amazing.

Spaghetti with homemade sauce...frosted flakes and fruit loops with milk...ice cream...peanut butter with three different flavors of jelly. Oh my god. So delicious.

I found a kid to scare...

...til he started to scare back.

Outside were Holi bonfires.

And the scrambling kids lighting them.

Many cigarettes, joints with the 34 year old israeli jewelers and glasses of white mischief vodka and appy fizz later, we woke up at the hotel rooms at 8am on Sunday morning to play with colors in honor of the second day of Holi. We roamed Raja Park, shooting teenagers with water guns containing our paint+ water mixture, knocking over the paint buckets of kids who tried to mess with us, and otherwise having one of hte most ridiculous times of my life.

We played until we looked like this:

And our hands looked like this:

All and all it was the best weekend I've had in India.

Things

2007-02-27T00:00:00.002-08:00

Top two bhang induced thoughts

1. While staring up at the stars in the desert 60 miles outside Jaisalmier “I’m going insane im going insane im going insane. Wait…ok…calm down…I am not actually going insane…I’m just to trick myself that I’m going insane…ok…whoo…I’m ok…wait…if I’m trying to trick myself into thinking I’m insane then I am TOTALLY going insane….i’m going insane im going insane im going insane"

2. While sitting in the Third Eye café drinking one fourth of one lassi and talking to another MSIDer. “I am predicting every word she says. I am like a god. I know EVERYTHING…” *peers at bird under table* “and I know that bird might be a spy!”

Things

2007-02-26T23:58:00.000-08:00

What if we could live backwards? Start at 100 and work to zero. We would look around at our lives and feel content because we had to and wonder how we got there but never worry, no worries, because it was already done even though it had just begun. We’d prepare for death and suddenly experience life. We'd feel life pulsate through our tired veins pumping life-sustaining red liquid through our bodies, our skin healing over cuts, our, bones straightening, our life strengthening. Our children would appear and we’d wonder why they were not always there and we’d smile as they said they’d be with us always knowing and not knowing that it was not true. We’d work backwards and watch our accomplishments become goals and our failed dreams become hopes and we’d do things we knew did not matter because we had seen what became of them but we’d keep doing them and try not to care. We would love our children and kiss their foreheads and watch as they became smaller and smaller until they disappeared, disconnecting us forever form the greater fabric of life. And we’d miss them, and we'd feel like we'd lost a part of ourselves, no way to live on after we're gone, no point to life but life. So we’d push all our vibrant life energy into everything. We’d do anything to feel something as our thoughts peeled off like flower petals and floated away in a velvet sea. Nothing would get old because everything was always getting newer brighter more beautiful color feelings experience everything. We’d want to stay at that one point forever and we’d know we couldn’t but we’d try, try, try and be happy that we’d try it was as a we and not as an I. And we’d greedily drink from the cup of life that kept getting fuller and fuller and then suddenly was not a cup at all but nothing and we’d cry and miss it and then not understand what we were missing as all that living became nothing more than a flickering memory behind closed eyelids. And then we’d lose even that and worry about our grades and our friends and all the things that we no longer knew didn’t matter. And we’d get smaller and simpler until we were six and then five and life would pop and roar with newness, joy and sadness would spring spontaneously from every ounce of our being. And the feeling of crying without thoughts and wanting without logic and then warmth without living and then nothing without self. And our matter would join together as part of the pulsating vibrating mass of the world.

Things

2007-02-12T00:24:00.001-08:00

Waiting thirty minutes or so for the water to heat…filling your bucket to the brim…scooping up the first ladle and pouring it slowly over you…experiencing the shift from scalding heat to pleasant warmth as your skin adjusts…letting the steam rise up from the bucket and envelop you…breathing in the warm saturated air…feeling cleansed and rejuvenated…I’m really starting to appreciate the simple pleasure of bucket baths.

Things

2007-02-12T00:22:00.000-08:00

My body is betraying me, and I am taking it as a personal affront. I’ve eaten only sanctioned foods. I doubt I have swallowed a single mouthful of tap water. I take my pills like a good little girl. Despite that, I’ve been plagued by headaches, exhaustion, completely random bouts of burning up and freezing. Gigantic bruises blossom on my arms and legs whenever I tap a solid surface. I am currently on the dénouement of my second semi-crippling fever in as many weeks, huddled under blankets after dragging myself to an internet café in the rain only to have the power cut out halfway through an email about ad estimates.

Ritu, one of the program administrators, told me at the hospital that she thinks being sick is partially a state of mind. As if you can will yourself to be better and constant maladies are signs of some kind of psychological weakness.

Screw her.

People

2007-02-12T00:19:00.000-08:00

And then they decided to colonize our minds. So they made us learn English and taught us manners and etiquette.”
- Quote by Shri Rambir Sinh during discussion on British colonization in a crazy beautiful haveli in Shekhawati

- Me on rooftop of crazy beautiful haveli in Shekhawati

Places

2007-02-12T00:09:00.000-08:00

Welcome to Explorer-land, the imaginary fourth Disney kingdom conveniently located in the Desert Resort Hotel in the Indian village of Shekhawati. We offer you individual little huts that have the same amenities of a typical room but four times the explorer cred. Take a few steps off the beaten path to your room and, my stars, you’ve discovered a little playground! Explore a bit more and, why look, you’ve located a magical looking refreshing stream! Walk up the mysterious staircase and you’ll have your own private viewing area to watch the stars. Feel free to snap pictures of our authentic Indians as they wear their vibrant colors and sweep the floor with branches! You’ll get all the emotional sensations of an actual adventure, with none of the challenges!

Things

2007-02-05T22:31:00.000-08:00

I never was especially interested in the Take Back The Night vigils that occur periodically at my school. I never felt like I needed to take back the night because I thought I already had it. I’ve been nervous at times (particularly during those late night half mile walks from the bus stop in Arlington), but I’ve always felt more or less safe, and that feeling has never been challenged by a bad thing actually happening to me.

So walking around alone after dark in India, especially Ranthambore, has been a new sensation for me. It’s scary. Not just scary in the rational this is unsafe kind of way. Scary in the oh-my-god-I’m-the-only-woman-on-the-street-and-every-man-knows-it kind of way. You feel like you don’t belong. Like if anything bad happened to you it would be your fault, you would have been asking for it. It’s a fear based on who you are as much as where you are, and it’s given me newfound empathy for the people who don’t believe that the hours after dark belong to them.

Things

2007-02-05T22:21:00.000-08:00

Scorecard of Sarah Vs Ranthambore monkeys

Battle the first: Sarah vs monkey who wants a bag of old banana peels

Synopsis of battle: Sarah ties bag of banana peels onto side of bus with intent to throw them out later. Monkey spots bag. Monkey leaps onto bus. Monkey grabs bag. Sarah swallows back shriek. Sarah fumbles for camera. Monkey escapes with bag.

Winner: Monkey

Score: Monkey 1, Sarah 0

Battle the second: Sarah vs monkey who wanted a bag of cereal

Synopsis of battle: Sarah clutches small plastic bag of cereal. Monkey sees small plastic bag, approaches. Sarah is hungry, does not want to give up bag. Monkey glares menacingly. Sarah swallows back squeal. Drops bag. Monkey eats cereal.

Winner: Monkey

Score: Monkey 2, Sarah 0

Battle the third: Sarah vs baby monkey that looked kind of like an alien

Synopsis of battle: Sarah wants to take picture of cute little monkey family chilling in temple. Sarah pulls out camera. Baby monkey that looks kind of like an alien sees Sarah. Goes to edge of temple and makes shrieking noise. Sarah stops taking pictures and backs away.

Winner; Monkey

Score: Monkey 3, Sarah 0

Battle the fourth: Sarah vs monkey who wanted to sit

Synopsis of battle: Sarah sits on some steps and opens up her Hindi book. Monkey wants to sit on steps. Monkey stares at Sarah. Sarah stares at monkey. Monkey pees on temple steps. Sarah leaves.

Winner: Monkey

Score: Monkey 4, Sarah 0

Battle the fifth: Sarah vs every monkey

Sarah is a human and gets to pick the final score. Monkey is a monkey and doesn't.

Winner: Sarah

Score: Monkey 4, Sarah 5

People

2007-02-05T22:20:00.000-08:00

Archkanar, the younger maid, has some kind of bone disease and has went back to Bengal to be with her family. She was probably my closest friend here after Erin. We made faces at each other and play catch with objects around my room. I tried to teach her english and she taught me a few words in Hindi. She sometimes got in trouble when she snuck away from her work so we could spend time together. We couldn't really communicate with words but I think we cared about each other. I will miss her.

Friendship - language = emotion.

People

2007-02-05T22:18:00.000-08:00

It’s really amazingly sad how little prolonged contact I have had with people who have been through real problems. I thought that going to UNC would give me the opportunity to befriend people who grew up differently. That didn't really happen. Everyone was rigidly defined based on thinly disguised socio-economic categories. Out-of-State. In-State. Morehead. Robertson. Honors Program. I ended up surrounded with people who confirmed my conceptions of upper middle class life and problems and taught me precious little about the reality that the rest of America experiences.

University of Minnesota is a state school the way I imagined state schools would be. Several people on this trip are the first ones of their families to go to college. One girl is a Mong refugee who was drugged with opium as a baby so her family could flee the country. Another girl lived with her proselytizing missionary parents in Mexico for several years and was brainwashed by home schooling until 3^rd grade to believe only religious dogma. Others lived in trailer parks, have parents on welfare, mental illnesses, other vibrant terrible things that helped shape who they are. Hearing their stories literally blows my mind. I need resist the urge to glorify what they’ve seen and done. It probably was not glorious for them.

Places

2007-02-05T22:17:00.000-08:00

There is a temple dedicated to the goddess Lakshmi near my house. It is an expanse of white and incredibly beautiful. Although the temple is Hindu, it feels completely nondenominational. You can imprint nearly any religious values you hold onto the smooth white surfaces. I welcomed the sense of peace and connectedness I felt as I walked barefoot through the temple with the other worshipers. When I focused inward, I could even feel the sluggish awakening of some kind of inner spirituality as it tentatively tested the walls of rationality, reason, skepticism, and atheism that enclosed it from all sides.

Things

2007-01-31T22:32:00.000-08:00

I’m sitting on my roommate’s bed right now. We just finished practicing Hindi, and now we’re watching the rain and listening to music. It's nice.

People

2007-01-31T22:31:00.000-08:00

Observing the people at the antique car rally gave me the slight sensation of watching a play. The characters all seemed like shoddy imitations of wealthy Americans, each one more eager than the next to show their classy tastes. The people at the party at City Palace were a little different. They didn’t need to pretend to be on top, because they actually are. Government officials, major executives, fashion designers, the former royal family, other assorted badasses, etc.

In America, I instinctively want to condemn the rich along with the upper middle class as shallow, selfish, spoiled, and so on. I’m still not entirely sure, but it seems like maybe such a categorization is less fair for their Indian counterparts. These people were not born with trust funds. The remnants of British rule provided them with no established path to success. They were entrepreneurs who treaded their own path and reached their current position through education, work, and creativity. Especially the women. There were no women in power in India 30 years ago…there couldn’t have been…making their very existence is a testament to their determination. If I was an Indian woman twenty years ago I would want to be following that path.

I don’t know. Maybe they exploited the Indian poor in order to become the Indian rich. Maybe it was their caste power and familial wealth that enabled them to get where they are. Maybe the path to success is irrelevant because who they are now is still unacceptable. I’m not entirely sure what I think of them. Or even if there is a universal “them” at all. I need to learn more, observe more, interact more, think more, and by then hopefully know more.

People

2007-01-31T22:28:00.000-08:00

We talked about divorce at dinner tonight. Mumiji said that she couldn’t understand it, that she was married to her husband for 40 years, that he died twenty years ago, and that not a second goes by without her thinking of him. She cried. It was so beautiful and sad. I want to love like that when I’m married.

I miss you kid.

Things

2007-01-31T22:26:00.000-08:00

While walking through Jaipur today, I came across some small Republic Day celebration and decided to take a closer look. I stepped into the courtyard and staked out a seemingly hidden position in the back next to a tree. One person casually turned and noticed me. Then another. Then another. Then a wave of them. Oy. Several women waved at me to sit in one of the empty chairs.

I tried to pick an inconspicuous one in the back, only to have two young men immediately approach me and tell me I needed to move. Thinking the jig was up and I was getting booted out, I stood up and prepared to leave. To my surprise, they started leading me forward instead, explaining that I was supposed to go to the front. Kya? Kyaaaa? I nervously tried to escape, but they assured me everything was fine.

Over my nervous protests, they emphatically explained that I had to go up. I weighed my options. I could embarrass myself by making a scene and stubbornly refusing to go up. I could embarrass myself by making a mad dash for the exits. Or I could embarrass myself by going to the front of the stage and having everyone titter, chuckle and guffaw.

In the name of cultural immersion, I decided to brave the bemused stares of the swarms of Indians and head up to the front row. There was indeed much staring and a good deal of chortling, but I survived. Once I sank into one of the cushy front seats everything was fine. The woman who sent her messenger boys to fetch me thanked me for coming and explained that she wanted to make sure I got the full cultural experience (I think). The show, a combination of traditional dances and Hindi speeches, was neat. I did my best to join in at the right time for all the seemingly spontaneous clapping sessions that punctured the show, and think I did a reasonably good job.

All and all it was good times. But it showed me that my usual strategy of invisibility is not going to work in Jaipur. Being white and a woman in India is about as subtle as a jewel encrusted belt that says BLING…and only half as stylish.

Things

2007-01-31T22:23:00.000-08:00

I have been out of commission for the past four days with a very bad case of silly-weak-American-in-a-foreign-land syndrome. In addition to all the usual trappings of traveler’s sickness, I had two glorious nights of fevers. Being delirious was interesting enough, as I unsuccessfully tried to fight off the waves of confusion that drowned out lucidity before succumbing to fever dreams. That cold feeling though- that you can’t escape because it’s emanating from inside you- that was bad.

They ended up shipping me to the Suni Hospital for an overnight glucose IV to counteract my uberdehydration. Listening to the doctor disdainfully diagnose my condition as fatigue before running off to treat real people with real illnesses was pretty embarrassing. Calling the director of my program to pick me up the night I got back after I snuck to an internet café and subsequently realized I had neither the strength nor mental capacity to find my house was downright mortifying.

On the upside, this current period of oscillating between sickness and health has given me the luxury of an excess of free time, which I have been using to write these thoughts and experiences. It’s not as much fun as having new experiences, but it’s almost as valuable. Memories are such slippery things. You can’t always access them later. Sometimes, they disappear into the folds of your mind, and only come out again if something sets them off. The thought of memories, for instance, always causes me to think about that time we found baby rabbits in our backyard after the neighbor’s bastard dog had killed their mother, and fed them with eyedroppers and gave them to The Grove. That memory is a keeper, because it’s forever linked to my thoughts of oft-forgotten memories.

The tangled web of love and pain and competition and embarrassment and manipulation and bitterness and hate that was my life as a high school debater has been compressed, squeezed, blocked out, and otherwise twisted beyond recognition. It’s usually little more than a blurry haze. But I still have that book, where each debater wrote a page at the end of camp. And the entries, or even the thought of the entries, sets off a zillion different firecracker memories of mattmaliawhopretendedtolosehisglassesintheraincuzhethoughtitwouldberomanticnickandjoshzloofwhosaidhebrokeupwithhisgirlfriendcuzoncehemetmeherealizedshewasntthatcoolmeatthekarmelsutrastoreandmestealinghisscarfbeforeweweredatingconniesmokingwiththelifeguardwhoknewiwaswearingabarnotaswimsuitkatandicrackedoutwritingourbiodiversityfilerejowhosaidhedneverforgetaboutmemikemaffewhoboughtthatvalentinesdaytiefrisbeeatcatholicfootballattheswingtheandrewshelpingmecleanmyroomandfindingthebrushisleptonfortwomonthsmaggieahnthinkingthewayiflowedwascutemethinkingjoanwasprettydebatingdanallenandtameemniceestteameverbensolowandbaseballthemostamazinggameofmylifeandmattwallaceandbaseballbeforehedecidedhehatedmeandhadthechancesarahwillbreakmyheart100%awaymessagescaroandhercrazypalaceinmiamimakadathehotlyingbrazillianfilesalloverthefloorwithnataliethePRESSureisAHNirenedesigningmywallformybirthdayandhuggingmeawkwardlywhenigotoutoftheshoweronlineconversationswithamilliondifferentpeoplefromfiftydifferentstatesaboutthesamefiveorsixthingsbutitwasalwaysinterestinganditalwaysmattered and god. So many people who mattered so much to me once. Even if they don’t matter anymore, they shouldn’t be forgotten.

I think I had a point that was related to India. But it has drowned in that stream of consciousness.

People

2007-01-31T22:22:00.000-08:00

The antique car rally ended in the palace gardens. Healthy, wealthy light skinned people bathed in the sunlight, went clink-clink with their wine glasses, and drank the blood of the proletariat. I have been trying my hardest not to instinctively condemn the elite of India, but it’s difficult when they seem so stereotypical. My roommate Erin and I strayed from the palace grounds. We crossed the invisible barrier between opulence and poverty and were suddenly in a land of little yellow plants and little people. Children streamed out of their huts and gestured excitedly at us, chattering away in Hindi. We tried to talk to them with our halted guidebook style communication while they touched our faces and our clothes. They mostly just giggled at us with that kind of uninhibited delight that only lasts for a while before it hardens to cynicism and fear.

Things

2007-01-31T22:20:00.002-08:00

Listening to the translated poetry at the Jaipur Literature Festival reminds me of how bizarre I find the idea of translating texts. So much of the meaning and imagery evoked from prose is released by the specific words the author chooses. How can some third party possibly capture whatever beauty or pain the author is trying to express? I suppose they manage, as reading a translated version of Homer’s Iliad certainly feels authentic enough. But maybe Homer’s concept of Achilles’ horse was more magnificent than splendid. Perhaps Priam was meant to be prudent, not wise. I wonder how many of those subtle yet important (to me at least, and probably also Homer) get lost in translation.

Places

2007-01-31T22:20:00.001-08:00

The streets of Jaipur, especially near the Walled City, are fascinating. Cars, camels, elephants, rickshaws, and bicycles are all going their merry way down the same roads. It’s a physical manifestation of a country trying to modernize while remaining deeply connected to traditions. It’s bizarre, but it somehow makes sense.

Driving down those streets (or crossing them) is an experience. Signs are more guidelines than actual rules. Stoplights are nonexistent. Sidewalks are dirt and sand heaps. Honking your horn every four or five seconds to let the world know where you are isn’t just common, it’s mandatory. Our guidebook gives the three rules of survival for the road.

The one who is the biggest has the right of way. The big trucks, overloaded, pay no need to you coming into your lane, nor should you expect them to.
The one who has the least to lose has the right of way. That is the reason why a Mercedes or an Opel Astra gives way to a battered old Ambassador, and a Rickshaw gives way to no one. Pedestrian gives way to all.
The cow always has the right of way.

The cow rule is especially clutch. Bovines abound in Jaipur. Everywhere you look you see one (or ten) being worthless, soaking up some sun, eating whatever looks tasty nearby, leisurely swishing at the flies that have congregated around. They’re definitely living the good life. So underserved. If I listed every animal based on how deserving I feel they are they of worship, the cow would probably be sandwiched between the panda bear and the chicken. Much cooler are the hyperactive little monkeys that chill in the trees. I swear I spotted one of them reading a newspaper the other day. And another one, clearly distraught over the unfair human bias in the media, tearing that same newspaper up.

People

2007-01-31T22:14:00.000-08:00

If I use the term quite loosely, then meeting the other 16 or so people on MSID India trip was ok. It’s not them, it’s me. Meeting new people- the kind of new people that I will be around for an extended period of time at least- has become progressively more difficult for me. Needing to impress, sticking to socially acceptable conversation topics, trying to act friendly but not TOO friendly, showing off your best anecdotes…the whole process just doesn’t feel very genuine. Which is all well and good, but that wellspring of semi-sadistic enjoyment I used to derive from fake interactions seems to have dried up as well. Blast. During that critical first impression stage, I was unable to muster up very realistic seeming interest in everyone else’s tales of travels and constipation, and almost completely incapable of chiming in with my own canned stories. Due in large part to this self sabotage, I found everyone uninteresting and simple (which probably isn’t accurate), and probably came off as unfriendly and strange (which probably is).

For the five hour car ride to from Delhi to Jaipur, I planted myself in the supremely antisocial front-seat-next-to-driver-who-speaks-little-english location and proceeded to alternate between reading my book, peering out the window, and listening to and subsequently disregarding everything everyone said in the back seats. I started to toy with the idea of dropping the program, using some of the money to travel around India for a month or so and the rest of the money to bribe a host family to take me in and a microcredit organization to let me work for them for free. Then I discovered that one of the girls on the trip had Belle and Sebastian on her ipod.

I’ve given a lot of preachy speeches about how much I don’t understand/grudgingly accept/dislike/despise people who use music to define themselves and others. I have probably given an equal number of speeches about how I have the absence of music taste and enjoy listening to it while not feeling any deeper level. Well yeah, screw that. She Wants Me was auditory cocaine, minus the unpleasant come down. Instant gratification, a feeling of connectedness with everyone around me, excitement, happiness, life. Everything was good again. It was incredible. Whispers of those same sounds and emotions are skimming over me now as I drift to sleep.

Places

2007-01-31T22:13:00.000-08:00

Old Delhi is alive. It’s a city brimming with exotic smells and noises and sights and feelings. Taken in all at once, it’s almost a sensory overload. The first rickshaw that almost runs you over is startling. The first person who grabs at you for being white and a woman is aggravating. The first small boy who sticks out his stump of an arm to ask for a rupee is horrifying. After a while, your body deadens and your mind hardens to make everything easier to deal with.

I feel like that little boy might be seared into my memory. Not what he looked like. I probably couldn’t even describe him if I tried. My eyes seemed to almost involuntarily slide away from the image, unable to accept it as reality. But the feeling I felt when I saw him- a blend of pity and revulsion with a dash of fear and a sprinkling of guilt- that is locked in. I didn’t give him a rupee.