Trip to Trivandrum

This past weekend, all of the volunteers gathered in Trivananthapuram, otherwise known as Trivandrum by us foreigners, to learn about the plight of the fisher families in Kerala. The experience with them was informative, but, believe it or not, I gained more insight from our time at the beach.

After waking up at 4:30am and spending the day trying to learn about the issues surrounding fishing in Kerala (how trolling has ruined the fishes natural habitats and patterns, how large fishing companies are depleating the number of fish in the once-abundant seas, etc), our group headed out to Kovala beach. Before leaving, I had put on my bathing suit, shorts and a tee shirt. After almost three months of wearing churidar day in and day out, I felt ridiculously uncovered. In our first week in Kerala, I had worn this exact outfit to the beach with no qualms. Now I found myself tugging at my shorts, pulling them as low as possible, trying to cover my pasty legs. "I feel scandalous," I told the group sadly. "The worst part is," someone replied, "I feel scandalized."

When we arrived at the beach, we found ourselves surrounded by American and European tourists in itty bitty bikinis. While I had planned on wearing my shorts and shirt into the water, I decided that wearing just my bathing suit would be okay; swimming in full clothes just isn't as much fun. The only problem was that I had to take off my shorts and shirt to do this, and I already felt very uncovered. I took a deep breath, quickly tugged off my shorts and shirt and ran into the water, hoping that the embarrassment would pass when I was under the water.

My uber-modesty shocked me. It is almost impossible to explain how naked I felt in shorts and a tee shirt, let alone just a bathing suit. I felt like I was missing several articles of clothing. Like everyone could see parts of my body that they shouldn't be seeing. Parts of my body that I've been comfortable showing for 22 years.

Fortunately, after about 5 minutes in the water, I felt liberated. I felt comfortable in my bathing suit again. And it felt great.

Back on the sand, however, men walked around and oogled at anyone not in a churidar or saree, covered from neck to toe. Several men had cameras and were taking pictures of the women in bikinis while they weren't looking. It was disgusting. Infuriating. My liberated body was revolted by the idea that these men were looking at myself and other women so one-dimensionally and even stealing images of our bodies from us. I would stare at these me, giving them looks of death to try to drive them away. I felt exploited. And I couldn't stop them.

The next day, at the train station, a certain man was staring at me. Now, us volunteers are used to being stared at all the time, since we are oddities in India. Usually making eye contact ends the staring. But this time, eye contact and giving evil looks did not stop the staring. Adding to my experience the day before, I couldn't handle the staring anymore. After warning the group, I looked right at the man (who was still staring at me); I shoved my finger in my nose, wiggled it around, pulled it out and stuck it in my mouth.

And I felt re-liberated.

Morning Brain Food

Almost every morning, before heading to breakfast, I get a few words of wisdom from my downstairs neighbor, Maya-ammachee. Maya-ammachee was a freedom fighter in her younger years, and was once imprisoned with Gandhi for being such. She speaks English with great ease, forming complex thoughts with a clarity that makes them comprehensible. The combination of all these things makes Maya-ammachee pretty extraordinary.

Maya-ammachee believes that all people worship the same God. She has recently become interested in Buddhism. “I do not have many attachments to the world anymore,” she tells me. “Except I could never give up ice cream or chocolate.” She finds beauty in the slithering of snakes and the “knowing” eyes of lizards, and she lives in peace with the neighborhood kittens who like to sleep on her lounge chair. She has no shame in reading the children’s section of the newspaper in public and has no problem with asking Americans how they feel about Bush within the first 20 seconds of meeting them. After hearing about a 100 year old woman who is still working, Maya-ammachee has decided that, at 91 years of age, she could be doing the same. And she would, ideally, like to work with mentally challenged children.

So, after walking down the stairs of my apartment every morning, I turn slightly to the right to see if Maya-ammachee is there. We’ll discuss current politics (do I think that Hillary Clinton has a chance to become president? what do I think about the death penalty?), or the books we are reading (my current reading list comes directly from what I see Maya-ammachee reading) or the storm last night or what the Buddha meant by non-attachment. And even if we just talk about the weather, I always end up walking away feeling like I have been in a great presence.

It’s great to start your day so inspired.

Pen Pals

Before I arrived at Mandiram, the girls had just received pen pals in the US. They showed me letters written in bubly, American script, some typed on computers, and almost all with decorative flower doodles. I helped them to read through the funny lettering, and then the letters were tucked away. I assumed that responses had been written, as I had seen some, but I wasn't sure.

A few days ago, I rememberd these letters and asked the girls about them. Some had replied; most had not. It wasn't that they weren't interested, just that their English was, understandably, not at a letter-writing level. The girls then took my hand, sat me down at a desk, and placed the unanswered letters in front of me. "You write?" they asked. Timidly, I uncapped my pen and looked down at the first letter.

Somol worked as the interpreter and reader. "My favorite color is green," she would read, "What is yours?" Then, loudly, she would call in Malayalam, "Shinu, what is your favorite color?" And Shinu would answer, Somol would explain in English, and I would write, "My favorite color is pink." I was the official writer and grammar corrector. But, unofficially, I became a cultural interpreter.

Many of the girls' pen pals wrote things like, "I would like to learn more about your culture," or "What does Kerala look like?" or even "Do you like living in India?" Thes sorts of questions and statements confused the girls. "What do you want your pen pal to know about India?" I would ask, and they would shrug their shoulders. It's like I asked them to tell me something about the air they breathed. The air is there; India is there. It's just there. It's everyday. What is there to know?

So, I ended up taking on the role of cultural interpreter. It began when one letter innocently asked, "What are your favorite foods?" After the interpreter interpreted, we arrived at this girl's favorite foods, poota, chapati and vegetable curry. And I knew I would have to explain: poota (made from rice flour, very crumbly and eated with bananna and sugar at breakfast ) and chapati (like a tortilla). The American pen pal would not have understood otherwise. My explanations continued through the shrugged shoulder responses. My eyes can still see what the pen pals want to know. The girls woldn't think to write about how women here wear sarees or how there are palm trees everywhere. But this is, I think, what the pen pals wanted to know.

It's funny how these seemingly unimportant details are passed over on each end, and yet are so desired. What is culture? It's the air we breathe. Int he US, it's scented with friend fries and pine needles, host to planes, soap bubbles and lightning bugs. In India, it's scented with burning trash and jasmine, host to mosquitoes, florescent lights and bright flashes of sarees. We usually don't notice this. But it's there, and it's important.

One of the American girls wrote that she would like to visit India one day. In that letter, I saw a glimpse of myself - or rather, my August self, my before-India self. What could I tell the girl? What would I have liked to tell myself? "What should I say?" I asked Somol. Somol shrugged her shoulders, then said, "Tell her to come." This time, I didn't do any cultural interpretation.

Can you keep a secret?

Okay, I’m trusting you with three very precious secrets. Shhh… don’t tell!

One – Nancy, the wife of one of the employees here at Mandiram, is pregnant! Reji and Nancy were just married in June, and are already pregnant with their first child! The live in Mandiram (Reji needs to be around 24/7 to keep things running) so this is big news. The residents here don’t know yet, and it’s supposed to be a big secret (that I almost let slip last week, since I didn’t know that no one was supposed to know!). Nancy has been having some trouble – feeling sick and so on – but I think the couple is super excited, despite it. They won’t know the sex of the baby until it’s born because the procedures to find out a fetus’ sex have been outlawed (there was a high ratio of female fetuses being aborted, so the procedure was made illegal). So before I leave India, I might get to see a brand spankin new baby!

Two – Beena, the head nurse here, got a marriage proposal! She has to send in photos of herself to the prospective groom (pictures which I took), and then they’ll probably meet each other, spend some time together, and see what they think of each other. Quite a different process from the US! Beena said that this was her third proposal, but the two times before, the groom’s family had demanded too much dowry money and her family was unable to provide it. I’ve been trying to keep an open mind about the way marriage works in India. Because arranged marriage is just the way things are here, I often find myself shocked by how lightly it’s treated. Still, I get excited when I hear news like Beena’s. Would I be excited if someone I’d never met thought that he might want to marry me, and asked for pictures to see if I was pretty enough, then asked my parents for money in exchange for taking me off their shoulders? No. I wouldn’t. Even without the dowry situation, I wouldn’t be excited about it. But Beena is excited. And somehow, I’m excited for Beena. Is this a contradiction? I’m not sure.

Three – I played in the rain! Not exactly National Enquirer material, but it was pretty scandalous here. During lunch yesterday, it began to rain. Somol, the oldest girl at the orphanage, suddenly shouted “Tuni! Tuni!” Which I think means laundry, or clothes. She, Anju and I ran back to the orphanage and up onto the roof, which was covered with fresh, previously-drying-and-now-getting-rained-on, laundry. We slipped and slidded across the terrace, grabbing the clothes and throwing them into the stairwell. By the time we finished, we were soaked. So, I took the opportunity to play in the rain. It was great, and I think I, and everyone who saw me, laughed for a good long time.

A New Building

Leya’s birthday turned out to be a bit overwhelming for Leya-kutty. When she came into the dining hall and everyone was wishing her happy birthday, she was happy. But when she realized that everyone was continuing to stare at her and that she was expected to blow out three candles, she cried. Leya-kutty is an expert at fake crying, but this was a real cry with real tears and real fear. Poor thing. When asked, hours later, about her lack of performance at lunch, though, she was all smiles and full of snappy comebacks. So, despite the tears, it was a good birthday for Leya-kutty.

Yesterday, a new building opened up at Mandiram. About 20 residents who were living in an older building are now in the process of moving into the new one. Aside from the drama that comes with moving – it seems that someone is always found to be hoarding soaps, and the other women (who are probably also hoarding soap) like to gossip about how many bars she had, and so on – the newly moved residents seem happy as clams. I went to visit Traciyammachee and Anamayammachee in their new room, and when I walked it, they were like new people. Despite the rain outside, their room was bright and sunny. Their belongings were neatly stored away and they were chatting happily on their beds. Traciyammachee put my ponytailed hair in a bun (a grandma hairstyle here) and Anamayammachee told me in English about all the going-ons in the new building. The best story was that she had to show one woman where to get water, then where the bathroom was, then where the sink was… and as Anamayammachee was telling the story, the other women kept interrupting her to remind her to tell the best part – that the same woman’s teeth fell out into the sink (and possibly went down the drain)! Ah, the humor of the elderly.

Last night’s dinner was a bit stressful for me. It is common for people here to talk about me, in front of me, in Malayalam. And that’s okay, because a lot of the people here don’t speak English. And at dinner, sometimes the staff (who I’m supposed to sit with) talk about me. So last night, as usual, they were talking while looking at me, and saying America a lot – general signs that someone is talking about me. I asked one of them, who speaks some English, what they were saying. He said they were talking about how the residents had moved into the new building. Now, I can’t know what they were saying, since they were talking in Malayalam; maybe they were talking about the new building. But I’m pretty sure they were talking about me. And I was infuriated that someone would lie to me about it. Why not just tell me? Were they saying bad things? At any rate, I’m going to have to come up with a method to get around (or over) this. And I think it will involve not eating at their table as much.

Birthdays all around!

So, while you all might have been celebrating Halloween in America, I have been celebrating an abundance of birthdays here in India!

The first was this past Saturday - it was the birthday of the wife (Betty Kochamma) of our program coordinator (Thomas John Achen). All five volunteers traveled to Aluva to celebrate at their house. We basically just spent the weekend eating and talking between mouthfuls. Betty Kochamma is a fantastic cook, and even though it was her birthday, she spent a lot of time in the kitchen, preparing some delicious dishes. Thomas John Achen helped, of course. We offered our services, but since we don't really know anything about cooking Indian food, our talents were more useful in washing dishes than cooking them. Anyway, we ate A LOT. Saturday morning, there was cake for breakfast. We all gathered around the table, sang Happy Brithday to Kochamma, and then ate cake for breakfast. Achen reasoned to us that there was no point waiting to celebrate with the cake later, and that the celebration should begin in the morning. We had no objections. Lunch was rice with pumpkin curry, some veggies and some meat (which was apparently very good), with this amazing rice and goop concoction for dessert. Dinner was apum (kind of like a flying saucer shaped pancake) and fish molly (like curry) and a veggie-cheese bake (my first cheese since arriving in India). Achen gave Kochamma a saree for her birthday, and we crafted a song for her that we sang for her at dinner. It was a fabulous weekend. And I'm hoping to bring the tradition of birthday cake in the morning back to the US.

Today is Leya-kutty's birthday (kutty means little one; Leya's real name is Leya, but everyone calls her Leya-kutty). Leya-kutty is the youngest resident of Mandiram - she's turning 3 today. The celebration is sure to be huge. Leya is just about the cutest thing on earth, and everyone here adores her. And she knows it, and she milks it for all it's worth. She's a sweet, sweet, silly girl who loves to sing and is probably the strongest 3 year old I've ever met. Everytime someone mentioned that her birthday was coming up, Leya-kutty would break into this huge, adorable smile, and get a little shy. Now that today is her birthday, I can't wait to see how she's reacting to everything. Probably eating up all the attention with a spoon and loving it all.

Lastly, today is also Kerala's birthday. It's 50 years old today! I think that celebrations may be a bit muted, since the bus drivers are on strike, but it is an important day here nonetheless.

So, I may have not had any Halloween celebrations, but I think all of these birthdays have more than made up for it!