Lillian’s Blog

i wrote this back in february, after visiting a refugee settlement in a mining area near jodhpur.
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one hundred million breathtaking heartbreaking suffocating liberating invigorating exhausting captivating terrifying things. india. this is india embedding itself in my consciousness.

quickening steps along sunseared dust. jagged hunks of creamy pink sandstone and twisted bits of tiny scorched roots. the merciful rustle of a lukewarm breeze, the unnervingly human cry of a distant goat. grateful for the breathing of my billowing red and white cotton punjabi suit, the synthetic red scarf trailing behind the carefully placed steps of my camel leather sandals. scowling into the screaming sun, the tiny valley between my eyebrows deepening against the harshest of lights, reflected off the yellowbrown sand and soft pink stone all around. the faces of three sunblackened most somber of men greeting us at the end of the dusty road.

we have arrived at bheel basti refugee settlement on the fringes of the thar desert, several kilometers outside of jodhpur. in periodic surges since the first india-pakistan war in 1965, some 200,000 hindus from pakistan’s sindh province are estimated to have fled from religious persecution across the border to india. before partition in 1947, many of these were poor, low-caste agricultural laborers hailing from the western rajasthan area of modern-day india who migrated seasonally to find work, becoming trapped on the wrong side of the pakistan border when india fractured into two very different nations. within the smattering of shoddily pieced together huts before us, set amidst the monstrous sawtooth government sandstone mines, are the scant belongings and collective lives of 150 refugee families. the deliberate man walking a few steps ahead of us has dedicated his life to forming a movement aimed at fighting for the rights of this and 600 other similar communities along the india-pakistan border. this particular settlement was strategically placed in the heart of the sandstone mines, the only place that these refugees, all agriculturalists according to their caste tradition, were able to work given the restricted movement of refugees in the indian state. the work is tremendously demanding, long days under a desert sun chipping and hauling massive blocks of stone out of a quarry by hand. for those who have never known anything but the rhythmic ebb and flow of sowing, cultivating, and harvesting, it is particularly grueling, but these men and women must remain within the very limited physical area in which the government has granted them refugee status - this barren mining area outside of jodhpur, where, conveniently for government pockets, agricultural activities are not an option.

as we approach, the three men awaiting us join their flat palms together under their chins in greeting. “namaste,” we echo in muted tones, our hands joined in greeting. “come,” our host says with a flick of the hand as he begins down the path. our entourage grows quickly with bonethin white-clad men, some wearing dust streaked turbans against the scorch of the sun, already unforgiving at 10 o’clock on a february morning. a few haggard acacias provide the landscape’s only shade. wide-eyed dust smudged toddlers peek out from behind lopsided sandstone walls as we pass. we’re led down a straight dirt path to an open area where tarps and blankets have been laid out on the pebble-strewn ground. by now our group has grown to myself, my co-worker alex, our host, one of his female office associates, and about 30 refugee men. i slip out of my sandals and take a seat, cross-legged, between alex and the associate. the sun is glaring so hard in my eyes i immediately begin catching the tears rolling out of their corners. the men quickly take their seats, squeezed together facing us on the tarps, staring but not directly into my eyes; while they are clearly as interested in us as we are in them, blatant and prolonged eye contact between men and women is perceived as a provocative and dangerous gesture. i adjust my knee-length tunic over my baggy, cuff-ankled trousers, pulling the U of my sheer scarf down over my chest to be sure i project adequate conservatism, stealing stealthy glances at the creased and weary faces all around. i cast a look back over my right shoulder at the path behind us. the drop-flecked silver spheres of steel water pots lope by, balanced atop the heads of female shapes, elegantly swathed in the vibrant reds and yellows of their rajasthani saris, sheer shawls pulled down from the hair to cover their entire faces in the presence of unknown men. a couple of thigh high barefooted children totter alongside, balancing their own full mini pots on their already top-heavy frames. behind the gauzy veils, any possible interest on the women’s faces is beyond my discernment. their steady heads continue pointing directly ahead as they advance along the path toward their huts. the children gape at the foreigners seated in the heart of their territory, afterwards tottering double time to catch up with their unfaltering mothers. i turn my attention back to the gathering of stonyfaced men before me.

“accha,” (”well,”) begins our host, addressing the crowd in marwari (a language of rajasthan), greeting them all and providing what i gather is a brief summary of our organization, the foundation for sustainable development, and possibly an explanation of what we’re doing sitting on their tarp. we smile sheepishly and pretend to know what’s going on. when silence falls, i use the opportunity to awkwardly introduce myself in one of my stock hindi phrases, “namaste. mera naam lilli hai.” a few hands come together in greeting along with low scattered murmurs. marwari conversation ensues between our host and certain members of the group, the words resounding with a feeling of grievance. i continually jerk my hands in tiny, subtle motions to repel the army of flies that have descended upon us. a man approaches with a small tray, offering four glasses of water balanced atop it. i consider taking one before the memory of my experience with giardia in kenya flickers in my mind. i politely decline. our host stops the conversation with the men to ask if we have any questions for them. “how long have they been living in this settlement?” i posed quietly. he translates and answers back, “most of them have been here for about ten years.” a group of about 6 women suddenly appears at the edge of the tarp in a blinding collage of color, veils pulled lower than ever over their mysterious faces. a voice drifts out from under one of them, addressing our host. he listens before translating, “the women also want to join the group.” we all shift to make room as they arrange themselves in one corner of the tarp, segregated from the men. we’re given the opportunity to ask the women questions. my eyes skip along the veiled faces and draped saris, resting finally on a point between two laborworn bodies where a tiny dirt-streaked face peeks out from under a matted head of black hair. the toddler sinks further behind his mother when my eyes meet his. a sensation so indelible, a question so sudden. “what do they want for their children?” silence among the women for several seconds after our host translates the question. a few low murmurs and consulting between the bowed heads. finally a thin figure draped in a brilliant yellow sari in the front of the group turns to us and releases a few bold words from under the veil. our host translates: “education and employment.” he stands up, followed by a wave of group members doing the same. he motions to us to follow. “come.”

straightening our legs and replacing our shoes, we fall in step behind him and the group of men who arrange themselves about him, magnetized. it is clear that this man has the respect of this community as he listens to their hushed, urgent words, his brow knitted, nodding solemnly. our steps lead us around a crumbling sandstone wall and up a slight incline, allowing a truncated view of the stony countryside. rising out of the dust ahead are three and a half semi-walls, arranged to form a square perhaps 15 feet to a side and reaching no higher than 5 feet on any side, flat slabs of sandstone precariously balanced one atop the other, seemingly slipping apart before our eyes. gnarled branches serve as posts at several points around the square walled-in area, suspending a pitiful weathered scrap of a tarp, sagging with ripped shreds dangling down in several places. the semiopaque plastic sheet casts a ragged trapezoidal shadow over about three quarters of the 250 square feet within the makeshift walls. as we approach, the bulging eyes of 40 or more children, seated on the rocky dust floors of their learning institute, turn to meet us. standing in a sun-drenched corner of the little enclosure, a haggard-looking teacher in a well-worn emerald green sari stops speaking to examine us wearily. a few tattered posters stamped with letters and numbers cling noncommittally to the jagged walls. squeezed together in their little dustbox school, swathed in a hodgepodge of light blue cloth, an attempt at uniformity, the children stare, some smiling shyly at the foreign faces peering into their corner of existence. my heart sinks even as i catch my breath. how could something be so heartbreaking and awe-inspiring at the same time?

“up until recently, these children had no school at all,” our host explains. “it was only through intense rallying and pressure put on the local government that they were allotted a government teacher.” we come to learn that the melange of students make up grades one through five, ranging in age from about five to twelve. all sitting cross-legged, quiet, soaking up whatever knowledge they can possibly glean from the words of a single exhausted teacher. i wonder at her position, laden with the responsibility of educating these tiny wide-eyed people, born into an outcast society with the sandstone mines as their playground, this one wretched sliver of schooling their only chance of getting a step out of this hell. “the government promised to build a real school, but they haven’t,” our host says simply, walking again.

a cluster of mud-and-sandstone huts rest feebly on a rise above the classroom. two musky goats, milking bags tied around their waists, bleat irritatedly as we trod by. the group pauses in front of one tiny mud construction, windowless and about 6 feet to a side. i examine it, sweat beading on my upper lip in the heat, wondering if this little structure might be a pit latrine or a storage place. “what is this?” alex asks. “a home. a whole family sleeps in there,” our host replies. and with that, the tour continues.

back down the path, around the corners of walls and huts, a maze that grows heavier with each new piece that rises up in front of us. shuffling along with my eyes on the ground, discerning tiny 5-inch footprints impressed in the sand below, marred by the occasional splotch of water, a precious drop escaped from someone’s vessel, already mostly soaked up by the thirsty sand. on our left a water tower looms high, strangely incongruous with the impoverished setting. a thick black pipe runs down it and along the ground like a tail, stretching off into the dusty landscape as far as the eye can see. we follow alongside it for a few hundred feet before reaching a point where a small milky pool spreads from beneath it, two inexpert pipes with makeshift taps protruding abruptly from the side of the larger, sturdier parent pipe. “there is no water in this settlement. so the people have simply punctured the pipeline running into jodhpur. see,” our host indicates as a small girl steps deliberately past us, unselfconsciously skipping down the steep little embankment in a long flowing skirt, bowing down to place her steel pot below one of the meager taps. the ringing of water against metal fills all of our ears as we stand, a group of two dozen people, absurdly staring as this child completes her utterly mundane task. as the pot fills, a veiled woman with a woven grass ring atop her head joins the little girl at the tap, filling her own vessel as we continue to stare. neither seems to mind as alex takes out his camera and begins snapping.

back at our original meeting point, the tarps have been moved so that three or four people can benefit from the patchwork shade of the area’s only acacia tree. we sit. i accept a glass of hot chai. and people begin to speak.

so much to hear. so much to see on the faces of such hard, heartbroken people. one man lost seven members of his family, including a 5-year-old child, blown apart by india’s border patrol as they were fleeing across the border. another’s father died as a result of injuries inflicted by border officials as they pleaded for visas while crossing into india. one silver-bearded man became paralyzed in a mining accident and lost his wife and his livelihood in one fell blow. several men suffer from severe tuberculosis and silicosis, common for those who spend all day inhaling the fine razor powder of stone kicked up in the mines. most of these families have had to sacrifice huge sums of money to government officials at one point or another to secure a visa, renew a passport, or simply avoid a hassle. though these men are luckier than some; most of them, after a decade or more, have at last been granted indian citizenship, which allows them to access government-subsidized wheat and other staple foods. even so, they’re still ostracized as foreigners and abused as members of hinduism’s lowest caste.

these men and women are skilled. they speak the local dialect. they want to be able to do the work they’re trained to do, not slave away in government mines for a daily pittance. in a moment of excitement during our protracted discussion, several men rush to their homes to collect samples of high-quality embroidery and weaving work they and their wives have created. they want a market, but those who are lucky enough to find a middle man to buy and sell their products are exploited to the fullest, often receiving pennies for a full day’s work on a product which will eventually sell for 300 times as much. how can these creators be linked directly to a free market?

listening to their voices flying, leaning into their words, my eyes growing bigger as the ideas balloon into the atmosphere, i suddenly hit a ceiling. i feel like there’s a solution there, just there, just on the other side of…the sandstone mines. where is the market? how do we link these people, with their adroit hands and their steely wills, to the fat-pocketed consumers of the west? why are we shopping at wal-mart and supporting the large-scale destruction of ancient culture and basic human rights in china when there are literally millions of skilled people wasting away on the asian subcontinent, begging for an opportunity to work while their children sit patiently on the dirt floor of a makeshift classroom? where is the missing link to this seemingly simple chain?

i don’t know. i know virtually nothing about markets and exports and market linkages. but i know that someone knows. i’m begging for ideas. tell me your ideas. there are so many livelihood projects just waiting to take off, silk and leather and embroidery and cotton. colorful, beautiful things, but most importantly the hands and minds that create them. a huge workforce waiting for designs, eager to make whatever the west can dream in return for fair wages that won’t be snatched out of their hands by greedy middlemen. they have the ability. they just need a chance. a chance to make a life where before there was none, climb up out of these dusty hovels, out of the TB-ridden depths of the mines, up into a world where their children can sit in a real classroom and their pregnant wives will have access to healthcare, a world where water is a resource of the environment, not a precious commodity to be stealthily stolen for survival. they’re not asking for charity, not asking for money or a free ride. just a chance, a window. how can we show them that window?

i thrust a dusty arm onto the splinter of greasy wood jutting out from the ticket shack, jerking my head in the direction of an ancient coach bus nestled in a line of near-identical forlorn-looking cousins.  “yehwallah jaisalmer ka bas hai?”  my hindi is pathetic, but the thin fiveoclockshadowed man sitting behind the grimy metal grate throws me a gracious nod.  yep, it’s going to jaisalmer.  “ek single seat chaahiye,” i say, pulling out my weatherworn wallet from the dusty messenger bag slung across my hip.  he nods again easily, free of the burden of enthusiasm, and scratches out a number onto the topmost carboncopy in his ticket book.  “ek sau pachas.”  i hand over the 150 and take my ticket, stepping over an ominous puddle of murky liquid simmering in the dust between me and the bus.

i can see through the cracked windshield that the aisles are already packed full with bag-laden chattering bodies.  i wonder how much the seat number written on my ticket is going to be worth.  i push my way through the throng crowded about the door and haul myself up the steps, my black backpack clinging dubiously to my shoulders.  “’scuse me, ’scuse me,” i mutter in english, having thus far not found a suitable equivalent in hindi, as i elbow my way past 2, 4, 10, 16 people standing in the aisle, hovering protectively over their gym sacks, boxes, tin containers, trunks, children stacked along the walkway.  my backpack gets into a scuffle with a few people as i squeeze my way through.  i squint through the crowd, searching in vain for any sign of my seat number, that little detail that few indian buses deem fit to adorn themselves with.  when they do appear, they’re on the back of the seat that they match, so out of necessity you have to pass your seat before you know that you’ve reached it.

i eventually arrive at the back of seat 14, the number just barely visible through a winter’s cloak of grime, oil, and heavy wear imposed upon the plastic it graces.  i take a step back, almost knocking a man over.  he seems unperturbed.  a man with an impressive shock of heavily oiled wavy hair is reclined in 14, his eyes closed, his mouth slightly ajar as he dozes and dreams of the cozy seat 14 voyage to jaisalmer.  i poke his arm.  “yeh mera seat hai,” i say simply, only slightly apologetically, as i point to the flimsy chickenscratch ticket clutched in my left hand.  he blinks twice and stands up, yawning, crabshuffles his way out of the little seat niche, picking up the well-worn duffel bag nestled in the seat beside him as an afterthought.  he squeezes his way into the aisle with everyone else, easycomeeasygo, buses weren’t made to be comfortable.  at least not in india.

chucking my backpack to the floor, i fall into the pre-warmed seat, a bead of sweat scampering like an illicit thought from my neck down into my shirt.  not that it matters, because i’m already soaked.  i shoo away a trio of tenacious flies that have found a happy focal point since my arrival.

as i wrestle with the stubborn sliding glass window, desperate for a breath of air, a smile spreads across my sticky face.  i hear the driver’s door slam shut, and the engine hacks up a hearty rumble as it turns over.  i’m happy to be on this bus.  it’s 5 o’clock on thursday afternoon and the air is thick with, among other things, the anticipation of my first 3-day weekend in india.

around 4:25 i’d been sitting at my computer in my apartment, finishing up some details for the upcoming september internships, and the thought had hit me like a rogue wave on a peaceful beach.  it’s a holiday weekend, i have to do something!  i’d jumped up, thrown a pair of jeans and a couple shirts in my bag, hairbrush, toothbrush, book, underwear, let’s go.  slamming shut the waterlogged windows of my poorly planned apartment, throwing the lock on the door, cursing and opening it again to scurry across the kitchen and turn the dial of the battered gas cylinder, turning on my heel and back out the door again, flying down the 3 stories of slippery marble stairs, out the front gate, and down the block to the main traffic-thundering road ahead.  i flagged down the first sputtering black-and-yellow autorickshaw that came choking along.  “jaisalmer jana hai,” i said to the driver, who looked past me as if to say to some sympathetic listener behind me, “this mad white lady thinks i can drive her all the way to jaisalmer.”  i clarified: “jaisalmer ka bus stand jana hai, kahan hai?”  he looked relieved, realizing that i was only interested in the bus stand for jaisalmer, which he informed me was located at bombay motor circle, a 15-rupee ride up the road.  i tossed my backpack in and glanced at my watch.  4:50.  “challo, jaldi!”  i breathed, and he kicked the podlike little contraption into gear.  i’d arrived at the bus stand just in the nick of time to grab my 150-rupee single seat and squirm my way into my present sweaty space.  i’m going to jaisalmer.  the golden city.  land of camels and sandcastles.  yeehaw.

by the time the bus musters up enough energy to rouse itself from its resting place, the battered walls of the coach seem ready to burst with the teeming mass of bodies inside.  each single seat contains at least 2 people, and every sleeper compartment above is packed with no less than 5 crosslegged figures.  a standardly bonethin young man inexplicably swathed in longsleeved plaid flannel is perched firmly on my seat’s armrest.  he leans in closer and closer until i shoot him a glare which sends him retreating back up a couple inches away.  i can’t really tell how many people are in this bus, since the aisles now resemble a mosh pit and leave not so much as a sliver of space through which to peer, but i estimate that there can be no less than 150 contented jaisalmer-bound souls surrounding me on four sides (above being one of them).  whatever, i think, slipping off 50 rupees worth of sandal, propping my left foot up on my backpack, pressing my sweaty back to the sweaty seat behind me, and inhaling deeply from the exhaust-laden jodhpur highway air, i’m going to jaisalmer.

and go we did.  flew, we did.  thanks to the driver’s predictably homicidal road tactics, within three hours we had reached the pit stop.  three boyish men clutching little rectangular paper boxes swarmed around the windows.  “icecreamicecreamicecream.”  it took no more than the flicker of a glance to bring them to my window.  i plucked a chocosicle box from one of their outstretched hands and examined the picture.  i knew better than to be fooled by the alluring photograph of the creamy fudge-centered chocolate-almond-coated treat thereupon, but ice cream did sound pretty good in the evening heat.  “kitna?” i asked, feeling in the pocket of my bag for a 10-rupee note.  “thees rupiyee,” the bold entrepreneur ventured.  “are’ baia!”  i exclaimed, shoving the ice cream back into his hand.  thirty rupees, what do i look like?  “thik hai thik hai, bees!”  twenty, his competitor, still hovering alongside, offered.  i continued to stare disinterestedly ahead.  “dus!” the first guy came down to ten.  i was just about to turn my head slowly their way when he finally arrived at the real price, “panch!”  i handed him a 5-rupee coin and took back the ice cream box, popping open the end to reveal an ashen brownish brick perched on a stick, huddled forlornly inside its little box home, self-conscious of its nakedness and not having enough confidence in its own deliciousness to even brave an attempt at seduction.  5 rupees, what did i expect?  i pulled it out by the cracked stick, barely having time to take a first tentative bite before the entire hunk, melting like a polar ice cap, began sliding down towards my vulnerable fingers, awakening my sticky phobia.  i started taking giant bites off the top, the sides, desperately trying in my panic to inhale the impending stickiness rocketing towards my hand.  the chocosicle appeared, by taste, to be composed of a block of frozen tap water cut with a sprinkle of milk powder and dolled up with a paperthin layer of brown candle wax.  but i was constrained to eat it as quickly as was humanly possible for fear that any hesitation would result in a chernobyl-style meltdown onto my grimy, but otherwise sticky-free hands.

just as i slurped up the last tasteless bit, though, the bus engine cut off.  so we’re stopping here after all.  i tossed the stick back in the box, got up and joined the river of people streaming out into the dusty evening air.  i looked around for something to wash down the flavor of candle, which turned out to be a doughy little disk that was frying in a shallow woklike pan by the side of the road.  as i approached, the man behind the pool of bubbling oil picked up a piece that had been sufficiently cooled in a neighboring pan and courted by flirtatious flies, wrapping it in a square of old newspaper, handing it over to me wordlessly and accepting my 10 rupees with his other hand.  seeing nothing better to do with the 10-minute bus break, i climbed back in the coach and sat looking out the window, nibbling away at my greasy roadside dinner and pondering the irritable-looking brahma bull making the rounds through the vendor carts down below.

two bump-riddled hours later, dozing to the snareheavy sounds of okkervil river, i felt the bus screech to a halt.  a guy waving a hotel flyer materialized outside my window, “madam, madam!”, to which i gave my standard tout response, “nahi thank you.”  i closed my eyes again just as the image of the flyer clutched in his hand registered in my brain.  hotel golden city…hey!  that’s where i’m going!  “oh baia!  actually, yeh mera hotel hai,” i called after him.  he produced a crumpled piece of folded-up notebook paper which he held upside down a few inches in front of my eyes, MANOR written in large blockprintblueballpoint letters thereupon.  “yeh aapka naam hai?”  he asked hopefully.  nope, not my name.  “nahi hai, lekin anyway mein aa rahi hu,” i said, scooping up my backpack and tumbling my way down the aisle of the bus which by now had begun chortling its way slowly forward.  “ekminutekminutekminut!” i trilled out to the driver, who slammed on the brakes, bringing my whole body hurtling forward almost into the windshield, and out onto the dark roadside i spilled, grinning broadly at the bewildered representative of hotel golden city who still clutched the upside-down MANOR sign as if it would explain the presence of this dusty, smiling, decidedly non-MANOR girl standing in front of him.  “dusra tourist bus me tha?”  he asked wearily.  i shook my head, no, i’m the only tourist you’re going to get tonight.  i tossed my bag into the back of the open jeep, hoisted myself inside, and off we went.

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two days later i’m squinting against the pungent odor of the massive heaving animal sneering me down and gritting its gnarly teeth a few feet away, wondering if this was such a good idea after all.  i’m eyeing another camel standing a bit down the rocky scrub-streaked hill, and noticing that his bugspeckled belly doesn’t reach any lower than the top of my head.  those spindly legs are deceptively long.  i turn to the narrow young man beside me, grunting as he tightens the strap holding a filthy woolen blanket against the back of the camel that in theory i should be boarding in a moment.  “toooooh…kabi-kabi log fall karte hain?”, i ask with an air of forced casualness, forgetting the hindi word for “fall.”  “oh yes!”, he grins back at me in english, “people are sometimes falling.”  he pauses and raises his voice slightly.  “and korean people, all the time they are falling.”  the dainty south korean girl a stone’s throw away looks duly nervous as she examines the snarling beast beside her.  i like this guy already.  “mein lillian hu,” i say, extending my hand.  “i’m sunny,” he says, taking it in his with a vigorous shake.

a few hours along the path we’re bounding, bouncing, bumbling our way across the desert, the sun collapsing down onto our heads, our guides laughing and cajoling one another along the path, occasionally turning back around to my scarf-wrapped head to pose another bemused hindi question, “kitna bhai hai?” “do,” i say, jiggling along, i have two brothers.  “kahaan se hain?” “me amerika se hu.”  “kya umr hai?”  “pachees.”  i’m twenty-five.  “shaadi ho gaya?”  “nahi,” i say, i’m not married, though i realize later that i probably shouldn’t have, since the next two days will be riddled with hints and anecdotes from our guides about their friends and brothers who have married foreign chicks to get visas for western countries.

we siesta in the heat of the day.  a couple of generously-leaved squat green trees shield us from the rioting sunlight as we munch on fried onion pakoras and boiled vegetables with thick sandy rotis.  my lower back, which i managed to throw out somewhere between waking up this morning and hoisting myself atop my camel, is screaming a sharded solo.  ouch, i lower myself down onto the plastic tarp in the sand.  a dung beetle scuttles industriously by, having noticed the troop of highly efficient dung factories grazing behind us in the scrub.  i close my eyes for a moment, then open them again.  something is strange.  i close them again.  wow.  i open them to the leaves above.  it’s silence.  actual, pure white, deafening gorgeous silence.  the first i’ve heard in 6 months.  i can almost feel tears coming to my eyes as i doze off.

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by late afternoon we’ve reached the dunes, great sweeping stretches of sunsoaked sand and little else.  the sun sets, a full moon rises, and i meander off alone into the desert.

the moonlight is slathered, decadent and creamy, across the soaring dunes all around.  padding my way along a solitary ridge, rising gently towards that miraculously reflective disc above.  craving the light it gives.  i feel suddenly satisfied, and let my body tumble heavily down against the crest, my feet dangling over the plunging edge.  selfishly solitary, haloed by a slick silvery melancholy.  a peaceful blue.

i lift my eyes to the icy dune ahead, immortalized in moonlight.  light a cigarette.  sigh the pregnant sigh of over-introspection.  lake, like, look, lock.  these silly english words all sound the same.  lick, lack, luck.  luca.  i sink my fingers into the velvety soft sand, the warmth just below the surface betraying the memory of day.  the thar desert, such a harsh place cushioned by such soft, delicate carpeting.  the finest sand in the world.  i scoop up a huge peppery handful, pushing my fingers together with all my strength to retain it.  it slips away like a glance, the familiar cliche about the sands of time irresistibly invoked.  i roll the dying ember of my cigarette between my sand specked fingertips, releasing a tiny orange star into the dark dull space between my bare feet.  i sigh again and wonder where three years have gone.

a breeze comes skirting along the dunes to my right, breathing a delicate arc of granules up and over the ridge, a shower of sparks under the moon’s glow.  i follow its trajectory out over the valley, my eye falling on the face of the massive dune opposite me.   a slithering ridge dissects it along the right side, casting an elusive ribbony shadow which clings to its flank.  this place where absolute dissolves into all these slippery shades of in between.

to the left of the ridge someone has left a trail of footprints ascending in a zigzag pattern that resembles the snout of some massive prehistoric fish, the shadow of each individual depression brought out by the moon’s presumptuous glare.  my mind flutters, capriciously following a vein of imagination that pulls me to prehistoric times, this desert underwater, these powdery parched dunes skirted along by shrimp and snails in place of scarabs, cowering under great lithe reptilian beasts slipping by in the murk, casting heartstopping shadows of what will be, what could be, what if…

a melody drifts through the sandsparked air, the vibration of meandering voices, a child and a man harmonizing together.  the thumping of some dull cavernous drum.     i snap back to reality, the dull luminescence of all this limitless sand beneath me. i turn my head slightly away from the wind in order to hear the music better.  laughing, drumming, singing, casual voices intertwined in chips of conversation scattered through the darkness.

another indifferent gust of wind sweeps up the soft slope behind me, feathering pieces of dirty hair out in neutral squiggles about my head as four lumbering silhouettes pierce the bright peak of the dune ahead.  patches of italian come clattering across the blank space between us.  why am i being so anti-social?

i rouse myself from my sandy reverie and slip my way back down the ridge.  there’s a fire, and faces, and voices, and tinkling deserty laughter.  i squeeze my way into the uncircular circle, digging my toes into the sand and stretching a smile across my face.  “che, siete italiani?  piacere…sono lillian…”

until i can actually start managing this site, the south pacific and africa blogs can be found here:

http://www.travelpod.com/members/lmlangf

this city is a lake.

no, i haven’t eaten any strange little mushrooms i found growing along the side of the road.  this desert city has really become a lake.

i’m crosslegged, sticky with sweat, my sheer chiffonlike magenta sari clinging to my skin like it’s the last lifeboat launching off a fast-sinking ship.  i have it hiked up around my knees, exposing my shins in a rather un-indian-ladylike fashion, seated on the plush covered mattress which rests on the floor of our office (a feature which every office should have).  my grimy greyish mac is open in front of me, a half-completed hindi worksheet staring back at me from the screen.  i knit my eyebrows, scanning my mind for the word for “bucket” (”…baalti!”), not even entirely sure what business i have producing a hindi worksheet for others given that my own hindi is embarrassing at best.  a plump black ant emerges from under the command key and makes a mad dash across the touchpad, a noble but ultimately futile attempt at escape from my vengeful thumb, which comes down on it just as it’s almost cleared the mouse button.  these despicable ants are omnipresent in this office, seemingly unorganized but appearing in perplexingly equal distribution across the floor, on the mattress, and now, under my sari.  and they’re not the sweet little innocent ones that are only after sugar, either.  every 15 minutes or so i’m reminded of this fact by a sharp stabbing sensation on my toe, ankle, or somewhere along the length of my legs.  i loathe them with a passion bordering on mania.

i sigh and shift positions, stretching out my right leg just in time to catch an alarmingly cool cross-breeze that comes streaking across the feverish room.  i allow myself one split second of enjoyment before hoisting myself up off the mattress to peep out the open window.  as i suspected, a brownish-greyish haze has covered half the sky that’s visible from the narrow space ahead.  it’s 7 o’clock in the evening, and prime time for a sandstorm to come rolling through.  au revoir, hindi worksheet.  i’m getting out of here before i don’t have the choice of leaving anymore.  walking the 15 minutes home through a raging wall of sand isn’t exactly my favorite activity to partake in while carrying a thousand-dollar piece of sensitive electronic equipment on my body.  my laptop looks up at me in relieved gratitude as i begin packing up.  padding to the back room in my bare feet, i snatch the chai pot off the hot plate, knocking the residue of afternoon tea leaves into the sink before filling it with a little water and chucking it on the marble counter.  dishwashing doesn’t take priority over avoiding total sandstorm immersion.  i gather up my papers in a hurry, scores of handwritten documents from this morning, when the power was out for 3 hours and my computer battery was dead (20 months of life in the developing world still haven’t taught me to plan ahead), toss them into a folder, grab my laptop, swing my kenyan sling bag cross-wise over my be-saried chest, slip into the black strappy sandals which are already falling apart 6 days after their purchase, and fly out the door.

saris aren’t exactly marathon wear, mind you (although during my daily 6 AM jog, i do frequently see indian women in saris and sneakers doing their panting power walk rounds).  i shuffle along as quickly as the long stretch of tie-dyed cloth will allow me, half-jogging in a scissorlike fashion, making a small detour across the road to avoid the death glare trajectory of a massive grey bull evidently in the midst of angry hour, stepping gingerly over a heap of trash which has spilled over from (or perhaps was never actually deposited into) a big green garbage receptacle, swerving to avoid yet another set of licenseless preteens on a motorcycle which is clearly driving them.  i weave my way across several backstreets, passing in front of my former gym, “superbodies,” where the aerobics instructor would drudge in each morning 43 minutes late, cheerful as an african honey badger roused from a peaceful afternoon nap, flop down on a step in front of the eager class, flip on some bollywood film music which in no way was conducive to rhythmic, coordinated motions, and proceed to shriek out to the class what made-up aerobics move we should be performing, all the while remaining firmly seated in front, scowling and pointing out the errors of certain individuals from time to time without over rousing herself from her throne of black doom.  i stopped going there after the fourth class, but to be fair that was partially due to the illness i had acquired that eventually required a hospital visit.  even so, the sweet memory of that glowering face in front of me at 7:43 each morning did little to entice me to return.  there goes my $12 monthly membership fee.

 just as i’m scissoring past the ever-present group of scrawny indian dudes trying desperately as always to appear beefy by leaning against their motorcycles in front of the gym, i feel the first drop.  ah.  so that’s the kind of storm this is going to be.  my laptop, clinging nervously to my side, is not relieved.  i look down and try to sympathize.  i’m doing the sari-scissor-shuffle just as fast as i possibly can! drip, drop, splat.  the sweat has soaked through my sari blouse and my face has gone from dewy to slick in the muggy heat.  but i’m on the home stretch.  around the corner where a few months back some construction worker deposited a giant mound of dirt in the middle of the road for no apparent reason and left it there, forcing everyone to drive a new road into existence across someone’s lawn; past the home and proud hand-painted sign of DR. (MRS.) VIJAY LAXMI SHARMA, COMPUTERISED HOMEOPATHIC TREATMENT; past the latest in emerging sandstone mansions, with its small village of slight-bodied brown-skinned construction workers living within, toiling away 14 hours a day, 7 days a week; and at last my apartment building springs into view, all four stories of hideous blue-and-red striped glory of it.  all the mansions here have giant ornate gold and silver letters stuck to their otherwise beautifully crafted facades proclaiming the owner’s name, which i suppose is like the show-off equivalent of having a big gold grill installed in your mouth, but in a country where dental work is so cheap that no amount of oral modification could possibly convince anyone that you’re rich.  certain buildings, though, have a nickname instead of the owner’s name, and that which my landlord has chosen for the pride of all his tenants, who by the way are all, without exception, female college students, is “prem bhavan,” or “love palace.”  did i mention that all my neighbors already think i’m a russian prostitute?  i get the feeling, as i approach my circus-tent-like building for the thousandth time and shudder for the thousandth time at that glaring silver sign, that my apartment block’s name isn’t helping my image.

 by now the drops are falling at steady intervals, and it is with immense relief (on the mac’s part) that i bound through the front gate and into the open stairwell, edging as always past the moped that’s perpetually parked in the middle of the entrance, up four flights of stairs, carefully holding up the front pleats of my sari so as not to take a face dive into pure marble pain, arriving at last to the door of my apartment, which is very classily adorned with a life-size brightly colored decal of a highly stylized indian woman engaged in joyful dance.  as always, fumbling for my keys, i take a bemused moment to ponder where one would even begin to look for such a thing.  oh yeah, in india, and once found, i slip the key in the padlock and unbolt the slide, entering, kicking off my shoes at the door, and tossing down my laptop just as the bottom drops out of the imposing mantle of clouds outside.

 after just a few moments, though, the thick drops of rain abate into a mild drizzle, having swept through my neighborhood just long enough to blanket the dusty roads in moisture and chill the 104-degree air by a couple degrees.  now in my home gear, a loose cotton tank top and a brown elephant-print sarong, i peer suspiciously out the window into the falling dusk, expecting evidence of some new impending weather disaster.  but looking out into the dwindling day, the sky seems suddenly light, a beam of sunlight breaking through some white fluffy clouds to the west.  from my 4th-story vantage point, i can see that traffic on the large 4-lane road a block away is buzzing along at its typical chaotic pace, reckless autorickshaws veering around motorcycles piled high with 5-member families, bubbly new  marutis flying by at an autobahn-appropriate speed with their teeth-grindingly shrill horns steadily compressed in unending cacophony, two-story sleeper buses blaring their creatively programmed melodic horns while narrowly missing vendors shuffling along behind their ware-piled wooden carts.  everything seems to be back to normal.  it seems like a good time to head over to paratha house to grab some food.

 three minutes and another costume change later (now adorned in a public-appropriate pair of trousers and a long kurta (tunic) and scarf, i slip into my rubber market flip-flops, put the padlock on my front door, assure the frozen dancing-lady that i’ll be right back, and bound down the stairs.  just 150 meters away, across the same main road of which my balcony affords such clear view, is smita’s and my favorite dining establishment, paratha house.  as always, the 8′x10′ space constituting the dining area is packed with hungry customers clustered around two slim flimsy tables and a smattering of aluminum chairs.  mr. singh, standing as every day behind the small glass case in a long maroon tunic, greets me with a broad smile, exposing a row of perfectly white teeth parted like curtains by a modest gap in the front.  his plump face is wound tightly underneath an immaculately tied navy blue turban which compressed the edges of his eyebrows slightly and accentuates the size of his deep-set glassy brown eyes.  his beard is as reassuringly perfectly trimmed and groomed as every day, not a single black hair out of place.  he is a perfect portrait of sikhdom, standing tall behind the counter from morning til late night with an ever-present smile of welcoming.  sikhism isn’t the dominating faith here in jodhpur, but a fairly large number of the businessmen i come into contact with on a daily basis are indeed sikhs, each as dignified, poised, and yet as warm as friendly as mr. singh, here.

to be honest, i’ve never met a sikh i didn’t immediately like.  back in november, traveling by motorcycle through punjab with a friend, we stopped at a little roadside eatery for a bite.  exhausted from the 6 hours of riding through dusty, hill-punctuated terrain, scraping the sand and grit from the corners of our bloodshot eyes, we tumbled into a couple of plastic chairs at one of the tables off to the side of the small building.  our backs were to the road, and off to the left the sun was a blazing orange orb setting over a ridiculously picturesque field of emerald green.  we sank into silence, absorbed by this unusually peaceful scene of indian beauty and abundance.  naturally, it couldn’t last.  a husky voice suddenly called to us from a few tables away.  “hello!”  we tried to ignore it.  “hello! come join us!”  i warily turned my head towards the source of the intrusion.  three sikh men were seated around a table, three ill-matching glasses and a bottle of whisky set between them, wagging their heads in synchronized invitation as the outspoken one waved us over with rigorous insistence.  we politely refused a couple times before at last giving in to the imposing hospitality of the trio, hoisting our tired bodies from the plastic chairs and transplanting ourselves over to their table.

they won us over immediately.  within about thirty seconds, several plates of piping hot food and a couple of cold beers had appeared in front of us, which one of our jovial turbaned shiny-faced new friends insisted on spiking with an extra shot of whisky (for good measure).  within another 5 minutes, we’d been invited, or rather forced to promise, that we would be staying with the family of another man, whose wife and 2 kids were awaiting him back in amritsar, the sikh capital of india, where we were also heading.  although the whisky-touting gentleman was clearly the conversational ringleader, each of the three was exceptionally learned and was extremely interested to hear our views on india, punjab, our education and careers, and the politics of our own nations.  we passed a long time chatting with them, eating, drinking (not too much…), and soaking up the unconventionally wholesome atmosphere.  in the end, back on the road in the evening dust and rolling into amritsar, the city of the sikh’s stunningly beautiful golden temple, we decided not to take our newfound friend up on the offer to stay at his house.  but the slightly hazy memory of that afternoon of sikh hospitality in punjab has stuck with me.

 i’ve been fascinated by sikh history ever since reading salman rushdie’s midnight’s children while trucking across the desert plains of namibia (an unlikely match) back in september.  two months later, the afternoon following our encounter with the overwhelmingly hospitable sikh trio, i found myself  cross-legged, head-covered, and necessarily bare-footed (men and women alike have to cover their heads and check their shoes before entering) at the edge of the marble ghat (step)-lined lake enveloping the blindingly beautiful gold-leafed temple in amritsar.  staring at the intricately-embellished explosion of gold under the blazing indian sun, i tried to mentally wipe away the thousands of pilgrims and visitors who now milled about its splendor in amazed delight.  ignoring the slow fluid motions of a cloud of plump languorous goldfish skirting along the edges of the shallow stepped lake, i tried to imagine this peaceful place of pious devotion back in early june 1984, occupied by sikh militants in a dangerous stand-off with the indian government.  after a series of failed negotiations with the radicals, then-prime minister indira gandhi had finally set “operation bluestar” into motion, a military invasion of the temple, the holiest of sikh sites, to flush them out.  while the indian army still claims that the total number of civilian (including militants as well as innocent men, women, and children) lives lost were 492; independent observers placed the figure closer to 5000 (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Operation_Bluestar).  whatever the exact death toll, this unfortunate strategic move cost mrs. gandhi her life at the hands of her sikh bodyguards on october 31, 1984, after which several days of retaliatory anti-sikh rioting in delhi and bombay saw the brutal murders of thousands of innocent sikhs.  william dalrymple’s brilliant 1994 book city of djinns provides an excellent, though horrifying, account of the barbarous bloodletting in delhi in those days following mrs. gandhi’s assassination, as told by the sikh survivors themselves.

“namaste, baia,” (”hello, brother”), i say this evening as i approach the counter of peaceful-looking mr. singh’s paratha house, “aj kaunse sabzi hai?” (”which vegetables are there today?”).  he takes the half-step from the far right side of the counter where he is currently standing to the far left side where the containers of vegetables are kept warm, lifting each metal cover and stirring the simmering dish inside with a little flourish of the metal serving spoon as he announces each vegetable in indulgent hindi (he speaks excellent english), “chola (chickpeas)…mattar paneer (unfermented cheese with green peas)…kathal (curried jackfruit)…and rajma (red beans).”  it all looks frightfully tasty.  my stomach rumbles a little as i place my regular order for the 50-rupee ($1.25) “executive thali,” consisting of 2 vegetables, raita (yogurt with chopped raw vegetables and spices), 2 roti and a handful of rice.  just as the word “thali” is leaving my lips, though, the single flourescent light above flickers out, the black dust-streaked fan ceases to turn, and consequently the little green pineapple windchime above the counter falls into silence.  the cramped tiny cube of eating space is instantaneously transformed into a dark, stuffy little cave smelling of frying onions and bodies following a full day of 108-degree heat.  turning around to face the front glass wall, i’m shocked to see that not only has it commenced raining again, but that within the 3 minutes since i entered the shop, the sky has become drenched in inky black and the suddenly materialized sheets of rain are blowing horizontally across the sky.  a flash of lightning fills our little observation space with a second’s worth of cool white light, sending a frisson of excitement through the clutch of bodies pressed within.  as we watch, a medium-sized limb snaps off a sturdy-looking tree outside the door and comes crashing to the ground, narrowly missing someone’s honda two-wheeler parked outside.

unable to take the clammy proximity any more, i sidestep several young working men, their laminated name tags hung around their necks, expensive trendy cell phones clutched in their hands, to reach the door and squeeze myself through it onto the small porch.   i arrange myself into place next to a classically beautiful woman in her late 20s whose startled 3-year old is clinging with manifest alarm to her mother’s sari-clad leg.  the mother fixes me with an interested look as i attempt to wedge myself into the 13-square inch space to her left which is neither out under the driving rain nor under the dozen or so tiny waterfalls which are now coursing at full speed through the holes in the awning.  “andar bahut garam hai,” (”it’s really hot inside,”) i attempt in explanation, motioning to the tight-packed cluster of bodies pressed together inside the shop, which with its full glass facade is beginning to resemble a fish tank.  “ah, you speak hindi!”, she replies in english, delighted yet, as is typical, unwilling to sacrifice her own opportunity to show off her linguistic skills.  she introduces me in perfect english to her sister-in-law and daughter, both of whom smile widely and wave at me enthusiastically from 3 feet away.  behind us, the grease-smudged glass door swings open and two immaculately trendy 20-something young indian men in matching modern-indian-man uniforms of dark blue jeans, black collared shirts, black leather belts, and black leather shoes come tumbling out into the storm like a couple of downy soft puppies let loose from their leashes in the park.  the young mother and i watch with bemused smiles tacked on our damp faces as the pair proceeds to frolic in the pouring rain.  once outside and soaked to the bone, though, they’re not too sure what to do with themselves, so they run out in the road and stand in the median waving their arms for the benefit of no one, as far as i can tell - the roads are deserted.  still smiling with a hint of diversion, i turn to the woman with a little gesture of my arm and say, “pagal hai, na?” (”they’re mad, huh?”).  she looks back at me with a wistful sigh and says in english, “i wish i could do that.” a deafening crack of thunder sends her toddler, who had by now ventured a few steps away, flying back to her anchoring point against her mother’s right leg.

…………

in spite of the unfulfilled longing of this sari-clad middle-class mother to abandon her dignified poise and run amok in the thunderstorm, it is all too clear that she’s got it better than most of her female compatriots.  women’s empowerment is as tricky an issue in india as it is in other developing nations where women have long been the less-privileged sex, and an issue that is all the more complicated by the rigidly oppressive caste system.  in spite of increasing reports in the outside world that the complete dissolution of the caste system is imminent in india, from within the borders it’s clear just how absurd this supposition really is.  in one of our first meetings with host organization UNNATI (www.unnati.org), which works on social inclusion and dalit (”untouchable”) rights among other topics, the organization supervisor briefed us on the state of dalit rights in rural areas of rajasthan and neighboring gujurat.  “in one case that we were working on,” he began, pausing to take a sip of his tea, “a 19-year-old just-married dalit girl was raped by 3 teachers from a nearby primary school.  only after three days, with counseling and support, was she able to report what had happened.” (the stigma surrounding rape cases and the difficulty in prosecuting rapists here causes many victims to think twice, and thrice, before speaking up).  “in the first court proceeding, she won and the rapists were each given 10-12 year sentences plus a 50,000 rupee fine ($1250).  they immediately appealed and came to the victim’s father and offered him 8 lakh rupees ($20,000) to drop the case.  he refused.”  listening to this account, we nodded in affirmation, relieved and encouraged up to this point by the proceedings. “but in the end, they simply bribed the prosecuting attorney with 5 lakhs ($12,500) and he removed the medical exam from the files.  the case was dismissed on lack of evidence.”  several more stories similar to this one followed, all centered around discrimination against dalits and subsequent lack of legal action (he reported that the prosecution rate for dalit-related cases is a mere 4%), and particularly the plight of dalit women throughout.  this NGO works to bring these cases to light, assists with legal fees, and takes a community-based approach in the fight for justice when the court system fails.

the rights of harijan (”untouchable”) women are also being addressed in a very different style by another much smaller, homegrown non-profit organization working in jodhpur.  sambhali trust was founded just 2 years ago by a young local man, govind singh rathore, who was appalled by the treatment of harijan women living in jodhpur slum areas.  the efforts of his organization now revolve around empowering these women through vocational training (their sewing initiative is producing beautiful handbags, clothing, scarves, and other cloth items), basic academic classes (most were unable to afford any schooling), and the creation of an atmosphere which builds confidence and trust between them, a luxury which few are afforded in their homes.  i could go on for ages about this initiative, which through its sewing project is on its way to self-sustainability, but the organization itself maintains an amazing website which provides a comprehensive and very clearly-laid out synopsis of its activities: www.sambhali-trust.org.  govindji also keeps up a blog of the organization’s activities, which lately have included some very interesting high-profile meetings with important local government officials: www.durag-niwas.blogspot.com.  a few of these news clippings are features on FSD, our work here in jodhpur, and our “interest in indian culture” (as concluded by the journalist by the fact that we all appeared in saris for our meeting).  the latest entry (as of now, may 31) was written by an FSD intern who’s working there now and provides her very interesting impressions of the organization so far.

………….

 back in front of the paratha house in the unusual may thunderstorm, the rain appears to be thinning out.  i imagine by this time that my food will be ready, so i squeeze back behind the daydreaming indian housewife and her child and back into the sticky little space inside.  mr. singh is just spooning out the last bit of my mattar paneer into a little foil container and places it into the plastic bag which holds the rest of my promising executive thali.  i hand over my slightly damp, lavender 50-rupee note and take the bag with a smile.   i step back out the door, smug and happy with my dinner in hand and the rain at least temporarily quelled, only to note with apprehensive amazement that the big four-lane road in front of the little shop has been transformed into the nile’s only slightly lesser sibling.  it is solid water, and not like a thin slick layer rushing across the asphalt, but a veritable body of water that appears deep enough to harbor the hull of a 40-foot sailboat.  a little whimpering sound is subconsciously generated in the back of my throat.  i carefully pick my way across the hard-packed dirt embankment in front of the shop down to the edge of the abyss.  what i am observing in this moment with a growing sense of dread is a liquid manifestation of everything that is unwholesome and insalubrious in this world, a chunky minestrone of every indian roadside ingredient that’s ever been counted on a list of things that should never make intimate contact with human epidermis, including but far from limited to: organic and chemical detritus of every imaginable form and level of toxicity, blatant samples of human feces, bloated dog carcasses, dirty blood-streaked syringes, heavily used and discarded feminine products, and of course enough animal effluent to put every pig factory farm in america to shame.  okay, so i’m not actually watching all these items float by in the sludge in this very moment, but based on the fact that i have personally seen each of these things on the side of this same road sometime over the course of the past 7 days, i feel comfortable assuming that they’re all part of the simmering stew at this point.  the love mansion’s comfortingly hideous facade is just on the other side of this river of doom, teasing me in its nearness.  in the twilight, it’s impossible to tell how deep it really is.  my dinner feels deliciously heavy in the bag clutched in my left hand.  if ever there was a time to bite the bullet, this is it.  i can always burn these pants.

 with a cringe, i gingerly place my flip-flopped right foot down into the grease-streaked fluid.  i’m encouraged not only by the fact that my skin doesn’t instantly burn off upon contact with it, but that the level of it only reaches to the bottom of my ankle.  emboldened, i take a big step forward with my left foot, shocked (a good indicator of my level of inflated optimism at this point) and repulsed by the sensation of the unnervingly warm liquid shooting up to mid-shin, and even more so by just how squishy the bed of this waste river is, my rubber flip-flop sinking with alarming ease into a level of muck the composition of which i force from my mind with the velocity of a crash-test dummy being ejected from a crumpling vehicle.  the third step with my right foot, though, is the fatal blow to my hopes of living a long and cancer-free life - by now i’m standing stock still in a lake of indian roadside discharge which fully reaches my knees, waiting in shocked alarm for a suddenly-appearing wall of vehicular traffic to pass before being able to dislodge myself from what i am suddenly sure is the most unsavory bath ever taken by anyone, ever.  tim robbins in the shawshank redemption notwithstanding.

at last the untimely surge of traffic passes, and with some difficulty i unearth my feet from the subaqueous sludge to which they are now cemented.  over the median, across the other side of the 4-lane road (mercifully not as flooded as its counterpart), and onto my street.  i break into a full run, “chariots of fire” booming through my conscious mind as i bound towards my apartment gate.  up the stairs, into the apartment, hurling my dinner on the granite-topped kitchen counter and throwing myself under the shower.  i spend the next 17 minutes or so in the dark (the electricity still hasn’t come back on), repeatedly soaking and washing out my thankfully not too absorbent pants and scrubbing off the top 4 layers of skin on my legs.

mr. singh’s dinner was even more delicious than usual.  and now this city is a lake.

i’m taking some time.

i’m sitting here under the frenetically spinning fans of my perpetually too-warm apartment, taking deep dusty breaths in the sandstorm-ravaged air, trying to force just a little more oxygen into the lungs which have been squeezed too tightly in an abdomen which is crunched by the amazing dinner i just had.

i’m taking some time for paneer tikka masala and tandoori rotis and plain yogurt straight from my fingers off a red plastic plate, a dinner perhaps as delicious as each day’s dinner, but one which i’m actually taking a moment to relish.  i’m taking some time to close my eyes and savor it, feeling the paneer squish between my teeth, letting the rich array of spices permeate all my taste buds, gathering up all the sensory pleasure and routing it directly, unadulterated, to that tiny forgotten section of my brain where the chemicals governing satisfaction have long, too long, lain dormant.

i’m taking some time for lychees, one of those unintentional purchases which are so blessedly common along busy indian market streets at 7 o’clock in the evening, that dusky hour when all the vendors are out in their most aggressive salesmanship, nudging their rickety wooden carts piled high with multicolored produce ever further out into the middle of the road to ensure that unwitting potential customers will be forced to stop and consider buying.  just so, amidst a flurry of other errands, i was physically stopped by someone’s cart, almost brushing past him before eyeing the small mountain of the oblong little fruits piled atop.  lychees are my new love affair, spiky and forbidding on the outside, miserably shackled to their dry, scratchy bundles of stems, but so tantalizingly juicy and sweet and pure once you get past that rough exterior.  i’m sitting on the cot-cum-couch in my living room a couple hours later with a bundle of them, lovingly cutting through those ugly barbed facades with a fingernail, peeling away the world-weary calloused exterior before squeezing out the eyeball-like fruit (a trait which would be alarming were the eyeball itself not so unbelievably delicious) into my mouth, nibbling the flesh off the disproportionately large dark brown pit before spitting it into the little black-and-white espresso mug which previously housed my yogurt.

i’m taking some time for ginger lemon honey, my old love affair, that unabashedly contradictory miracle of beverages which will always remain an inextricable part of my memories from my first trip to india last fall, and in particular with many an amazing conversation with my accidental chicagoan friend josephine.  gingerlemonhoney, the flavor of a cold windy night in rishikesh, wondering why christmas lights were blazing all around us in the garden of a guest house high above the rushing blue of the river ganges.  it only just occurred to me last night, as i was sweating in the unusually humid air of a jodhpuri may evening while waiting to buy a bottle of water at a little grocery stand near my apartment, that i could actually manufacture this marvelous concoction in the sanctity of my own home.  so now i’m taking some time, standing in bare feet on the smooth white marble of my kitchen, carefully skinning and julienning the plump 3-rupee hunk of ginger root, dropping it carefully into the rapidly boiling water on my silver gas stove, neatly bisecting two knoblike lychee-sized greenyellow lemons and squeezing them in, pouring a little honey into the bottom of a mod-looking lime green ceramic mug, just a little more - a little more - and catching the excess drop with my finger, which goes promptly in my mouth.  now i’m back on the makeshift couch, my back against the dusty white wall, legs tucked up under me, smiling to myself as i sip at this stupendous phenomenon of a culinary invention - an item which is at once hot, sweet, sour, spicy, and drinkable - easily falling into the realm of modern world wonders.

  i’m taking some time to read a book for sheer pleasure, something that i haven’t done in about 6 months, since the last time i was in india, tucked safely away in one or another train racing across the subcontinent.  eat, pray, love.  it’s a new york times bestseller, which is how i know it’s for sheer pleasure.  and it is absolutely intoxicating.  i’m laughing out loud, and then laughing more out loud about the fact that i’m laughing out loud about something.  i’m taking some time to be taken back to italy, back to rome, back to a life there that was as different from my life here in india as i am a different person than i was then, over 4 long years ago.  it is a sensation that is both beautiful and heartbreaking, but in a way that makes me feel positive, and whole, and grateful for so many things in spite of where life has taken me in that time.  i’m taking time to translate whole english passages into italian, seduced by the memory of a life lived in such a stunning language, passages which i speak out loud and accent with all the normal hand gestures and facial expressions and laughing at the absurdity of it, just for the pleasure of sinking back into that girl, that place, that time that was.

i’m taking some time not to think about now.  to forget, if just for a little while, about all the stress and anxiety and simple occupation that has kept me pinned firmly to my consciousness for the past few weeks.  the almost four months since my arrival in india have been marked by a frantic racing, a pushing ahead, the constant sensation of always being just a half step behind, only able to keep up, never able to quite get a grip on the present. each new occurrence more energy-consuming than the last, with the thought of tomorrow looming larger and larger in my mind.  for the first time in all my travels,  i’m experiencing fairly persistent health problems, and i can feel my physical presence wavering, stumbling, recovering, and collapsing again almost faster than i can pull it back up again through days and nights with highs well up into the 100s.  so i’m taking some time to take it easy, to remind myself that i don’t need to have all the answers, that nothing will fall apart if i take all day today, sunday, technically but not frequently practically my day off, and do nothing but read and eat lychees and lie half-naked under my living room fan while the hot dust-streaked breeze slips across between the open windows of my 4th-story apartment.

  i’m taking some time to be alone in a nation of over 1 billion people, to remove myself from the constant shadow of curious eyes, innocent though they may be.  some time to remind myself that there is still a place to withdraw to, a place of sanctuary and peace which is not necessarily a physical location.  i’m taking some time to remind myself that i am this place, and that no matter what sandstorm is raging outside, i know where i’ve been, what i’ve come through, who i am, and it’s not too too far from who i want to be.

……

it would be idiotic to attempt a comprehensive survey of the pieces of india that i’ve gathered over the last 4 months.  everyone in the world knows that the complexity and overstimulation of india is incapturable and, perhaps for this very reason, overly yet persistently inadequately documented.

here’s what i can say about india that’s obvious but time-stoppingly true: it’s teaching me so, so many things.  every day is a startling new lesson in culture, patience, language, understanding, and, not least of all, humility.  by now i’ve certainly crossed the threshold from the realm of traveler into that of resident, a move which is akin to leaving the anticipation of an interesting, cluttered, inviting, and naked-lightbulb-lit doorstep of a giant eccentric-looking mansion and entering into total darkness within.  this entrance has yielded all kinds of interesting, bizarre, frustrating, and often rewarding new surprises, but i’m forever bumping into odd-shaped little objects in the darkness, skinning my shin and cursing out loud, starting in panic as something creaks or whispers behind me, shuddering at the feeling of something hairy darting across my bare foot.  every so often, though, a little candle flickers in the darkness and fills me with warmth, gratitude, and happiness to be part of this place.

today i’m paying my rent for the 3rd month in my apartment, a beautifully-designed if shoddily-constructed marble-floored 4th story space that i am in love with.  it’s teaching me the value of living space.  last night, flipping out the light, opening wide all the 5 windows on adjacent walls in the little square bedroom, stretching myself out on the light-blue solo sheet spread across my single simple bed, i almost whispered a prayer of gratitude for the miracle that is a cross-breeze in the middle of an un-air-conditioned desert night.  in spite of my exhaustion, i propped myself up against the wall of my consciousness, smiling and taking deep breaths through my nose, contorting my body into a comfortable stretch, and appreciating more than anything the beauty of finally removing the pressure and heat from the physique after a long sweaty day.

  among the more dramatic shifts in mentality i’ve experienced over the past 4 months is the complete re-examination of what is meant by “culture shock.”  such a vague ridiculous term.  what does it take for an individual to become stunned, incapacitated, astonished, perhaps even traumatized by total immersion into a very different culture?  as always, the folly of confidence had me blindsided upon arrival in india.  having already lived and worked on 3 continents, settling into life on the 4th hardly seemed like an overwhelming assignment.  ah, yes.  if only i had allowed just a glimmer of reason in my consciousness to shine through and shout, “india is neither america, nor italy, nor kenya, you idiot!”  eventually this realization, simple yet elusive as it seemed to be, did break through, around the usual time when life in a new place shifts from that of a traveler to that of a resident.  and against all expectations, it truly shocked me.

  culture shock for me manifests itself in certain small, seemingly banal moments of everyday life.  all those little things about this new place that were initially novel, amusing, or even charming - the moaning, constant call of the sabziwallah (vegetable vendor - see below), making his rounds through the neighborhood, pushing his cart along dutifully as every morning…the veering homicidal antics of the autorickshaw drivers negotiating their way through tight sewer-lined alleyways…the screeching of traffic stopping for a self-assured, attitude-laden cow who has decided arbitrarily to lie down in the middle of the highway - these things suddenly start to lose their entertainment value, the glimmer fades, they even start to become irritating, like little obstacles that have been thrown up in the middle of a busy day simply, it seems, to make your work more difficult.  the things that were initially irritating - the unabashed staring by every single person who catches sight of your freakishly light complexion on the street…the stacks of 3 teenage boys pressed together on a single motorcycle veering within inches of you to scream “HELLO GORI!” (”hello white girl!”) in your ear…the impossibility of getting a broken lock or a hole in the wall fixed within 6 weeks of having reported the problem, if ever - these things now become almost unbearable.  at the height of a bout of culture shock, leaving my house is like stepping out into a battle zone, a battle where i’m fighting only against myself with anxiety and incomprehension, wearing my weary body down further each time i note with irritation another person staring with a laser-beam intensity that seems to have been switched from “stun” to “kill,” another rickshaw driver who appears intent on running down some innocent family of four, another set of teenage boys who seem to have no other purpose in life than cruising round in their happy threesome seeking out single foreign women to harass.

but that’s just the culture shock talking.  and without fail, at some unexpected point, it always abates.

things i love about life in india:  the juicewallah, at whose description i will eventually duly arrive, but not without first pointing out another love of mine - the hindi term “wallah,” a generic term meant to mean “the one who/that/which…” that can be applied to almost anything, i.e. doodwallah (”dood” = milk, so the milkman), lalwallah (”lal” = red, so the red one), sabziwallah (”sabzi” = vegetable, so the vegetable vendor), and so forth.  so the juicewallah, or rather my favorite juicewallah, stands behind a counter from early morning til late night in a space approximately the size of a vertical coffin about 2 blocks from my apartment building.  he has the slight shadow of a unibrow between his smiling eyes and a face so frankly open and likeable that i knew immediately, the first time i shuffled up the stone steps to his little juice niche 2 months back, that he would be indeed become my favorite juicewallah.  four cylindrical jars stand proudly on the built-up wooden display in front of his standing space, displaying the fresh fruits and vegetables of the day.  when i first started frequenting his stand, i was greeted each day by the fleshy orange-white outsides of little peeled clementines jumbled up together in jar 1, the glistening taut green spheres of hundreds of grapes in jar 2, the big bulbous pale yellow forms of peeled mousambi (sweet limes) in jar 3, and usually the beady little wine colored seeds of pomegranate squeezed tartly together in jar 4.  with the changing of the season, those four old friends have slowly been replaced by new favorites - the oblong naked freckled bodies of pineapples in one jar, another holding the mellow pink seed-studded slices of watermelon (the juice of which, i was shocked the first time to discover, is typically served with salt and pepper).  a typical day is hardly complete without a trip to the juicewallah, who always greets me with a friendly smile as he picks up his blender in anticipation of my order.  lately i’m on a pomegranate kick.  he keeps a giant sack of pomegranate seeds (the harvesting of which i am absolutely certain was done under less-than-hygienic conditions, but it’s worth it) in the giant deep freezer behind him (forming one wall of his coffin), which he scoops out with scientific accuracy using his bare hands, the hair on the backs of which could form an impressive toupee.  he tosses them in the blender, runs a few watts of electricity through the sucker, then slocks the whole thing into a slightly cloudy-looking grease-smudged glass that’s been waiting there on the counter just for me.  the result is a freezing cold milky pink beverage that could very well have been thrust down onto the earth by the gods themselves, and i have to remove the straw and drink in little sips from the glass in order to keep myself from downing it in one giant slurp.  after all, it’s the most expensive thing on the menu at 30 rupees ($.75) for a large glass, the same price as my daily lunch of parathas (stuffed chapati-like things) and yogurt.  the juicewallah will even make my juice to-go on request, tossing it into a plastic cup covered with cellophane and a rubber band and then chucked into a polyethylene bag filled with crushed ice, which remains frozen for approximately 1.8 seconds in the desert heat as i hustle to make it home.

  something else i love about india: the secondhand sari vendors in the clock tower market of the old city.  sometimes on sundays smita and i indulge ourselves by jumping in an autorickshaw and making our way to the crazy, chaotic, psychedelic city center in the afternoon heat, beelining our way through the fruit and vegetable stands, the little displays of pots and pans and buckets, the slick young guys touting bootleg bollywood DVDs, straight to the half-dozen or so staid-looking women sitting with their legs pretzeled up around them behind neatly-stacked rows of secondhand saris laid out on a blanket.  they always keep their poker faces on when they see us coming, but usually the initial realization (”it’s them!”) that flickers in their eyes as we approach is hard to miss.  we must be their best customers.  for our part, we always saunter up casually, greeting them with even-toned “namastes,” nonchalantly eyeing their wares with an all-too-calculated air of indifference, carefully restraining ourselves from jumping at the first gorgeous silk piece that catches our eye.  slowly laying my hand down on a divine cerulean silk piece, unfolding just the outer layer to expose the paloo, the long specially-ornamented piece that dangles down over the left shoulder, i carelessly ask, “yeh kitna hai?” (”how much is this one?”).  “ek sau rupee” (”a hundred rupees”), comes her usual reply.  as per our normal routine with these same women, smita makes a little clucking sound and i pretend to forget all about the blue one.  with faux boredom i point instead to a butter yellow fold near the back.  “aur yehwallah?” (”and that one?” - good example of how “wallah” becomes a daily vocabulary star).  “ek sau rupee.”  another cluck from smita.  i start craning my neck in a display of exaggerated interest in her neighboring competitors’ saris.  “thik hai, assi,” (”okay, eighty,”) she chirps.  “nahi, assi donon,” (”no, eighty for both,”) smita chimes in.  eventually after some good-natured clucking from both sides, we agree on a hundred for both, which makes this sari sale exactly the same as the last 13 times that smita and i have come here, in which we almost without fail buy whatever sari we end up buying for 50 rupees ($1.25).  still, the routine of the whole exchange is an important part of the overall process, and none of us would dream of changing it (”hello ladies, i know that you must be having a very busy day here in the clock tower market, and i myself have a lot of sitting here calling out to potential customers to do, and i would be loth to waste either my or your time, so i’m just going to go ahead and quote you 50 rupees for these saris instead of either one of us bothering with the hassle of the negotiation.  what do you think?”).  it’s just not india.  nor would i want it to be.

we buy these saris for a variety of different reasons.  some are just intoxicatingly beautiful silk of colors so rich you cannot believe that they can possibly be captured on a fabric so delicate, pinks and blues and yellows and greens, with intricate silver handwoven brocade that calls to mind the corridors and passageways of eternal mazes of flowers.  others look like they would make pretty sweet apartment curtains, although to date i’ve only been bothered to sit down and hand-sew one set of them (a sky blue adorned with flowers and peacocks, which isn’t nearly as tacky as it sounds, and flutters nicely under the fan in my living room).  others, usually nice cotton ones still in good condition (no rips, holes, or bloodstains - i’m not kidding), we actually wear (after a thorough hand-washing up on my sunny balcony, of course).  since lately i’ve fallen into the habit of wearing saris like they’re going out of style (which believe me, they are definitely not), i’m always up for another nice light one that will swath me through another mindnumbingly hot desert day.

  if we’re planning on wearing whatever we buy, though, the purchase of the sari itself is only half the battle.  as i discovered the first time i was trying to buy a new sari 3 hours before the wedding i was planning on wearing it to, sari-wearing is not such a flippant event.  for those who are not regular sari-wearers, i shall explain.  the sari is actually a 3-piece deal.  the sari itself is a length of fabric somewhere around 6 meters long, with the 6th meter constituting the paloo i described earlier.  after buying a new sari, one must purchase a fall, a length of fabric about 5 inches wide and 4 feet long and of the same color as the sari, to be sewn into the opposite end as the paloo, weighting the bottom of the sari so that it doesn’t fly up while walking.  underneath the sari, aside from the regular undergarments one would wear under any outfit, there is also a petticoat, a long cotton skirt with a drawstring waist that matches the color of the sari, and finally a blouse, the little short-sleeved shirt that closes shut with a series of hooks down the front and reaches just below the bustline, exposing the entire midriff and lower back.  the blouse is also the same color as the sari, if not made from the same material (more expensive new saris come with the blouse material included so that you get a perfect match).  the sari is wrapped around the waist once, tucked into the petticoat all the way round, pleated 8 or 12 times with the ends of the pleats tucked into the waistband, and the remaining piece is wrapped up around the waist and thrown over the shoulder, often with a pin in the blouse to keep the paloo in place.

  it’s easy enough to find a ready-made petticoat which will match the sari, but the blouse is a whole different story.  first you have to find a matching center that has an array of colored fabrics that you can choose from for a color which will match the sari.  then you buy that material and take it somewhere else to a tailor (neither sari shops nor matching centers actually have tailors).  here you drop it off, describe the type of blouse that you want (deep-necked, belted, shorter sleeves, etc…a vast variety of options that mean a difference of perhaps one or two inches of fabric in the overall design of a blouse), he takes your measurements, and then you wait anywhere from a week to a month until the tailor feels like giving it to you, which is never, ever, don’t even dream it, on the day that he originally told you it would be, but generally after your 3rd or 4th exasperated visit to pick it up.  let it be testament to my ignorance of indian culture that the first time i was picking up a set of blouses from my tailor, i actually had the audacity to ask on my 4th disappointing visit to the tailor’s shop (over a week after they were supposed to be ready) if he was going to give me a discount for the delay.  smita, standing next to me, looked mortified.  the tailor, a stout little man in his 50s with a greying swatch of hair and a no-nonsense crease between his eyes, stared at me blankly for about a quarter second, sniffed, and then went right back to cutting the length of fabric that was in front of him.  nowadays, like any other sane woman residing in india who is in need of a sari blouse, i wait until at least 4 days after the date when the blouse is supposed to be ready for pick-up, and then only if i have other business in the tailor’s neighborhood do i swing by and ask if it’s ready, so that when i’m told with remorseless certainty that it is not, i don’t feel too bad about having gone out of my way.  luckily my favorite tailor is situated right next to a place that serves amazing sweet lassis (that mindblowingly delicious yogurt drink that is one of india’s many culinary miracles) in squat little terracotta cups that i get to take home, so it’s never a big loss when the blouses aren’t ready.  i think the routine itself is what i love about this aspect of india.  i really do love it.  and as a result i have a gratifying collection of little terracotta cups accumulating in my apartment (right next to an ever-growing pile of second-hand saris).

  another classic indian love is the chai.  yes, everyone loves the chai.  few travelers to india get away without becoming smitten by the taste, the custom, and the very culture that is indian chai.  i love the utter accessibility of it, the universality of it, the way that anyone, and i mean anyone, will stop what they’re doing right this second for a tiny cup of strong, sweet, spiced chai.  i wouldn’t doubt that there’s a chaiwallah who makes his mid-morning and afternoon rounds through operating rooms in major indian hospitals, peddling as always with that unique only-in-india dying-man’s last sound call of “CHAIIIIII!”, refreshing the dry lips and dull minds of the exhausted doctors as they roll up their bloody sleeves and pause in the middle of a grueling 11-hour open heart surgery for a spot of chai.  it’s just that good.  there’s something else about the chai that i love, although i suppose it’s more a part of indian culture than anything.  i love how it’s impossible to enter someone’s house, for any length of time, without being offered a cup of chai and usually a delectable array of accompanying snacks in little glass bowls (which, if i’m lucky, often include rasgulla, spongy little spheres of paneer that have been soaked in rosewater sugar syrup - they are violently delicious).  even as your insistent protests of having to make your next appointment or having just five minutes ago taken chai are flying at your eager host, she or he is on his way to the kitchen, or at least calling out to a servant to put the chai on the stove.  like many things, this aspect of indian culture initially seemed like an impediment to productivity (”how will i ever make all these appointments if i have to take chai at every stop?”).  not one that i was unfamiliar with, since kenyans have adopted the same custom, but nevertheless an extra small chunk of time that would have to be carved out for each house or office visit i made.  man, talk about a cultural adjustment that required very little sacrifice on my part whatsoever.  it’s all i can do now to stop myself making extra house visits just to get at some more chai.  i’m getting ever more suspicious that this chai is laced with something less than wholesome and highly chemically addictive.  and aside from the obvious deliciousness of the chai and snacks themselves, that extra little sliver of time can make a great deal of difference in the ultimate relationship between myself and host, or at least in my understanding of it.

  a tiny cup of chai in hand is like a magic talisman that allows one to sink a little deeper into this place that is at once so irritating and captivating.  and so, hoping to be able to hold this power over my own unsuspecting house guests, i giddily rushed to the corner shop and purchased my own christening batch of tea leaves, spices, powdered milk, and sugar for my initiation into indian domestic life.  my first opportunity to bedazzle a group of house guests with my effortless chaimaking abilities came in late april, during the orientation of our first group of interns.  i had bought the milk from a local doodwallah (nice, right?) just about an hour before, and it was sitting in the little styrofoam box in my kitchen that i like to pretend actually keeps things cool in the 4th-story space that more closely resembles an oven (at around 115F each day) than a living space, an especially optimistic belief since i never bother purchasing ice to put in it.  after all 7 people had filed into my apartment, i carefully poured the milk into the pot on the lit gas burner, breathless with excitement, and waited for my moment of chaimaking fame to arrive in all its blinding glory.  the milk started to look a little funny.  i ignored it.  smita walked over, looked in the pot, and declared, “there’s something wrong with the milk.”  i took another look.  the formerly innocent-looking white chunks floating on the surface had grown into rather uninnocent looking giant gobs of gooey disgustingness.  “no there’s not!”,  i insisted, “it always does that!”  (yes, i literally said those words.  that’s how bad the denial was).  smita looked at me sympathetically, but firmly, and turned off the gas stove.  our friend and host organization founder govind rushed over to see what all the commotion was about.  “not to worry!”, he exclaimed, “we can make paneer!”  i glared at him with dubious melancholy.  he ignored it.  “do you have a scarf?”  so instead of enjoying world-class chai that day, we did, in fact, make unfermented cheese with the help of a scarf.  which no one ate.

since then my chaimaking skills have indeed improved, but the number of unexpected guests who drop into my place for a stunningly delicious hot cup hasn’t exactly skyrocketed.  more often than not, it’s smita who falls victim to my merciless chai-touting - “just come in!  for one second!  i’ll make you chai!”  i shout down the stairs, where she’s in her own apartment, trying to get ready for work.  she usually delays it for as long as she can, then eventually trucks up the stairs with a sigh, smiling as she kicks off her shoes and enters, responding to my tenacious offers with the typical indian response, “well, only if you’re already making some…”

so many things to love about india.  so many things.  it’s shocking.