Individualism

This past month has been one filled with putting myself together. (It's the only way to make a work of Art). So, in light of that, I apologize for not have posted more frequently.

I have been struggling with creating a Life philosophy for myself. Being self-critical and self-aware, it's important to me that all of my major actions come from an unchangeable part, inside of me. All threads of action should come from the same core of fabric---so I've been reading and writing a lot: deciding what that fabric is. What it is innately and what I can take out of it and what I can add to it.

This struggle for clarity and consistency in my perception of myself has been an ongoing one. However, it has recently come to light because I read Ayn Rand's The Fountainhead.

Here is my journal entry upon finishing the book:

Alright, I know it has been a few days since I last wrote. But, I have a great excuse: I finished The Fountainhead. And, I'm a Republican. No, just kidding. (I don't really even know exactly where all the political parties stand on every topic and in relation to each other).

So The Fountainhead was very um...what's the word...changing or something. The book is about the sanctity of one's Self---how in the face of History and Nature, common men feel dwarfed into socialist mentality. That is, individuals frequently mold themselves to the pressures and desires of the Masses---it's easier that way. It's so difficult to consistently be creative and not want to be wanted and desired by others. However Rand asserts that any dependence on other men for Happiness is a slight to one's Self. (I want cheese really badly right now.)

As hesistant as I am to totally indulge in Individualism, I can't help but recognize how much sense it makes. We come into the world with only our mind and body. Why would we NOT hone these two assets to the absolute height of what they could be. Why NOT spend every waking moment dedicated to making oneself as great as he can be. Live for your own Happiness: because that is the only true motivation.

I moved to India on humanitarian principles. I came because:

a. it sounded pretty cool; "I spent a few weeks in a village bathing from a bucket." and secondly because:

b. I felt like the dedication of myself to helping others would be a good use of my time when I had no specific direction. I felt the guilt of privilege---knowing that I had been given so much---and that I should take time to give back. I also felt that in "doing something" (in this case, for others) would ignite something within me.

The protagonist in The Fountainhead says, "Peter, before you can do things for people, you have to be the kind of man who can get things done."

So, I don't have any skills. I can't get things done. What is a quest to help myself through helping others if I can't delude myself into thinking that I'm truly helping.

This is the full excerpt from which the aforementioned quote comes from in The Fountainhead. Howard Roark (an architect; protagonist) explaining why he loves his work so much and why he spend so much time doing it:

"But first, I want you to think and tell me what made me give years to this work. Money? Fame? Charity? Altruism?" Keating shook his head slowly "All right. You're beginning to understand. So whatever we do, don't let's talk about the poor people in the slums. They have nothing to do with it, though I wouldn't envy anyone the job of trying to explain that to fools. You see, I'm never concerned with my clients, only with their architectural requirements. I consider these as part of my buildings theme and problem, as my building's material----just as I consider bricks and steel. Bricks and steel are not my motive. Neither are the clients. Both are only the means of my work. Peter, before you can do things for people, you must be the kind of man who can get things done. But to get things done, you must love the doing, not the secondary consequences. The work, not the people. Your own action, not any possible object of your charity. I'll be glad if people who need [the low-cost housing] find a better manner of living in a house I designed. But that's not the motive of my work. Nor my reason. Nor my reward."

All of this really got me to thinking. Yes, it's possible that a couple of kids' lives were marginally enriched because of my presense in their village (their presense in my life was MUCH more enriching I'm sure). And yes, if I dress a couple of wounds at the health clinic I work at currently---I'm sure my being there makes a tiny tiny tiny bit of difference. Really, what is the beach but a trillion little pieces of sand put together?

But why deal with grains of sand---if you're capable of handling handfulls?

That is, would it be more productive for me to focus the energy I'm expending here on making myself a better server? What is it inside of us that prevents us from realizing our potentials?

Another important quote; It doesn't really matter much who the characters are; but, this is a conversation between Gail Wynand (the ruthless capitalist "most powerful man in the world" guy) and Dominique Francon (the heartless bitch idealist). They're talking about things the common man is afflicted by: things like the acceptance of mediocrity. They're on a ship.

"She said:
"May I name another vicious bromide you've never felt?"
"Which one?"
"You've never felt how small you were when looking at the ocean."
He laughed. "Never. Nor looking at the planets. Nor at mountain peaks. Nor at the Grand Canyon. Why should I? When I look at the ocean, I feel the greatness of man. I think of man's magnificent capacity that created this ship to conquer all that senseless space. When I look at mountain peaks, I think of tunnels and dynamite. When I look at the planets, I think of airplanes."
"Yes. And that particular sense of sacred rapture men say they experience in contemplating nature---I've never received it from nature, only from..." She stopped.
"From what?"
"Buildings," she whispered. "Skyscrapers."
"Why didn't you want to say that?"
"I...don't know."
"I would give the greatest sunset in the world for one sight of New York's skyline. Particularly when one can't see the details. Just the shapes. The shapes and the thought that made them. The sky over New York and the will of man made visible. What other religion do we need? And then people tell me about pilgrimages to some dank pesthole in a jungle where they go to do homage to a crumbling temple, to a leering stone monster with a pot belly, created by some leprous savage. Is it beauty and genius they want to see? Do they seek a sense of the sublime? Let them come to New York, stand on the shore of the Hudson, look and kneel. When I see the city from my window---no, I don't feel how small I am---but I feel that if a war came to threaten this, I would like to throw myself into space, over the city, and protect these buildings with my body."
"Gail, I don't know whether I'm listening to you or myself."
"Did you hear yourself just now?"
"She smiled. "Actually not. But I won't take it back, Gail."
"Thank you---Dominique." His voice was soft and amused. "But we weren't talking about you or me. We were talking about other people." He leaned with both forearms on the rail, he spoke watching the sparks in the water. "It's interesting to speculate on the reasons that make men so anxious to debase themselves. As in that idea of feeling small before nature. It's not a bromide, it's practically an institution. Have you noticed how self-righteous a man sounds when he tells you about it? Look, he seems to say, I'm so glad to be a pygmy, that's how virtuous I am. Have you heard with what delight people quote some great celebrity who's proclaimed that he's not so great when he looks at Niagara Falls? It's as if they were smacking their lips in sheer glee that their best is dust before the brute force of an earthquake. As if they were sprawling on all fours, rubbing their foreheads in the mud to the majesty of a hurricane. But that's not the spirit that leashed fire, steam, electricity, that crossed oceans in sailing sloops, that built airplanes and dams...and skyscrapers. What is it they fear? What is it they hate so much, those who love to crawl? And why?"
"When I find the answer to that," she said, "I'll make my peace with the world."

What is it they fear? What is it they hate so much, those who love to crawl? And why?"

Wow.

We're so self-effacing in the face of Nature, History, and guilt of privelege. But who cares about all of that? Seriously. Nothing great was ever achieved because some guy said, "I'm alright."

Mozart didn't say, "I'm only one composer. I'm nobody next to the thousands in the past who did this before me. I'm only good at this because my dad started me on piano when I was two. I would have never been good unless my dad did that."

He said, "There's a right way to compose. I'm going to do it. I don't care if you agree or not." And then he did it. It's not even significant that Mozart changed the world and the evolution of Music. That's totally superfluous. The fact that he didn't succumb to his peers---and had the self-respect to believe wholeheartedly in his own vision---THAT is what is significant.

Anyhow, I've really been affected by all of this. In realizing this obligation we have to our Selves: I've made my trip to India conflicting with my understanding of my life. I've learned that most of the people who "volunteer" are just martyrs or people who are trying to nurture an ailing resume. That is, I came here on the principle of helping others---and I'm realizing that I can do a thousand-fold more for these same people, if I invested more time in myself.

And that's what ALL of this is about. Self-respect. Why do we shy from spending time on making ourselves the greatest we could be? What are we so scared of?

---

Currently I'm in Ahmedabad in Gujarat. After my project ended in Rajasthan, I spent a week in Jaipur---mostly in a bed because I was ill. I then took a train to Vadodara (my family's hometown). There, I read voraciously for a week---and then thought it was time to find another project.

I moved to my uncle's place in Ahmedabad and started working in a health-clinic in a slum. The working conditions are terrible; but it's interesting nonetheless.

The most interesting thing that has happened has been my visit to the tailors. I'm a small-framed guy so it's difficult for me to find clothes that fit me well in America. Knowing this, I went to Mood and bought amazing fabrics to have several suits and shirts made.

I went to a store called Jade Blue and was immediately offered bottled water. I was then asked what I wanted. "I want to have several custom suits made."

"This way, sir." I was taken to the second floor---where three walls were covered in literally thousands of bolts of fabric. I sat down at the counter, where I was asked if I wanted any refreshments or snacks---I declined. I haven't even bought anything yet. I haven't even seen anything to buy yet.

Two salesmen asked me what I wanted. I showed them pictures of suits I wanted made and they responded with unbelievable amounts of accomodation. "Yes, we can do this any way you want." "Sure, we will accept fabric that you've brought." "Would you like us to give you a back massage and buy you dinner?"

Ok, they didn't provide the last one---but it felt like they did.

So I've had my first fitting---and everything looks alright. The suit is a copy of this Paul Smith (I'll have several made; but the first one is black Italian lightweight wool---and imagine a vest (which I got just in case---I don't think I'll be wearing it)). The only major differences are---the closure on the pant will go straight up (no small fabric wrap), and, the length of the jacket will be shortened a little to accomodate my short torso. (Also, I feel like a jacket that's too long ends up being too formal---and I'd like to be able to casually wear these suits.)

I'll report back when all of my clothes are made.

Mangoes and Cheese

So, generally, I'm overflowing with clever and quaint Carrie-Bradshaw-anecdotes when I sit down to type my Blog. Well, in my head they're like Carrie Bradshaw. Though, today, as a great deal of time has passed since my last post, I'm struggling to find one outstanding significant event to write about.

The last two weeks in Nimdi were great. I hesitate typing the word "great" because it's such a weak adjective. Everything is great. But, how else can I summarize it? It was more extremes: extremely rainy weather, extremely tired, extremely craving cheese, extremely aware of the finite nature of my stay.

And due to that last extreme, I filled my days with as much as I could and filled my stomach with all of the bland village food it could handle. On one outing I visited a nearby dam, which was the pop-sui/homo-cide setting of the locals. Apparently, in the last year, seven people had been killed or killed themselves by jumping in the dam. Though, that aside, views of the Indian countryside are so comforting. Not comforting like "oh the soothing trees and grass and fields are therapeutic to my soul." Comforting like "this looks exactly like the Indian countryside I would have imagined." Something about substantiations of your imagination that are really comforting. Or gratifying.

Sitting on the dam, the group of boys I was with started to go through my wallet. (One might wonder how they got my wallet. Simply, they took it out of my pocket.)

In Nimdi, there's no concept of private or personal. These people have so little that more-or-less everything is communal. Other than a toothbrush and one pair of clothes, everything is shared. So when people (and I deliberately say people and not kids) want to see something, they just take it. This is a particularly jarring gesture; especially when the thing they're grabbing is your camera. They can't really break an iPod or a book. But my camera---definitely breakable.

So, with my wallet peeking out of the opening of my pocket, Kamlendra (an exceptionally annoying twenty year old who repeatedly demands that I aid him in aquiring an American Visa) grabbed it. He went through the rupee bills. He took out the Bank Card and my health insurance card. A MetroCard for the New York City subway. And then he came across a picture.

I cringed. Oh God. How am I going to explain this?

The picture was one of my friend Carrie. (Not Bradshaw. Another one.) And this wasn't a photo of Carrie at her graduation party, or her 23rd birthday party. No, this was a glamour shot of Carrie taken when she was about 13 years old. Last summer, rummaging through our common friend Elly's room, I was fortunate enough to become the owner of this treasure.

The smokey lens filter. The shoulder-length feathered sienna hair. The bangs. The hand-sewn sequin and rhinestone blazer---boasting a design based on the early-nineties' penchant for repeated triangles and rectangles. Carrie's left hand grabbing her left lapel as if to say, "Do you see this jacket? Do you know who I am?" Her right earing, (the left being covered by a sweep of locks) an echo of the high-fashion jacket; two giant adjacent triangles: both lined with pewter and filled with fabulous (and I mean fabulous) clear rhinestones (though most would mistake them for flawless classic cut diamonds). The airbrushed foundation and the #25 Mystery lip colour (that's color with a u). And the eyes---the eyes outlined in a distinguished black mascara. The eyes which tell us this is no ordinary girl. This is no normal thirteen year old. She is mature. She is, yes, glamourous.

Kamlendra immediately started to laugh. The kind of laugh that says, "You're embarassed because I found a picture of your girlfriend and I'm going to make fun of you and harass you until you tell me all of the details."

"No! No, you don't understand. She's like my sister," I insisted.

"How old is she?"

"She's like 24."

"When was this picture taken?"

"Oh I don't know. When she was 12 or 13. At least 10 years ago."

[Expressions of disbelief and incredulousness.]

"Impossible! It can't be! This girl is at least 21!"

"Many girls do this in America. When they turn 13, they go to a professional photographer and get dressed up to take a bunch of pictures. It's for fun," I explained. "Her name is Carrie."

[Laughter.]

"What?" I asked, confused.

I failed to notice that Carrie's name, phonetically pronounced kai-ree, means "ripe mango" in Hindi.

Suffice to say that news of "Niral's ripe American mango" traveled around the village with astonishing speed. It wasn't long before kids were frequently taunting me with mangoes: juggling them, tossing them in my direction, asking me what the difference between American and Indian mangoes is.

___

Classes for the last two weeks took place during the kids' regular school hours. Nishant and I dropped the primary section and taught two 1.5 hour blocks during school: one for 6th, 7th, and 8th class students, and one for 9th and 10th class students. With the latter, we focused on basic tenses and important pronouns and verbs (the bare essentials for English sentence formation). However, with the 6th, 7th, and 8th class students, we ditched our cirriculum (due to lack of interest in their part) and taught interesting things like "How a cell phone with GSM technology works" or "World Music" (where I played different genres of music from my iPod on borrowed speakers).

On my last day, the kids organized a cultural show where they performed traditional Rajasthani songs and dances. They also presented Nishant and I with gifts and words of thanks. It was a nice bookend to the time we invested in the school.

That night was tough. Knowing that we were leaving the follwing morning resulted in a long list of places and people to visit. When we returned back to our host family, I had a crowd of kids and adults alike wanting to hang out.

I had promised my neighbor that I would draw a mehandi (henna) design on her palm. So, as I talked to Nishant and the other assorted people in my room, I shaped dots and lines and curves from the open-ended tip of a mud-filled cone. Now, not to brag, but I got pretty good with the mehandi---and one by one, people started asking me to do their palms. Which is fine. But like, it takes at least half-an-hour to do a single palm with any kind of attention to detail.

Finally, after doing five people's mehandi (not counting the initials I painted on biceps and forearms in the minutes between palms), Rukmanji (my host mother) put her palm in my hand. It was 1 in the morning. Great. So I started painting: squeezing the mud into crescents and crosshatched paiselys.

Forty-five minutes later I finished. I started to say the "a" and "l" of the word "Alright." Alright, time to go to bed. Rukmanji turned her hand over indicating that she wanted me to paint the other side. Fine. You wake up at 5 in the morning to fetch fire-wood and wash the floors. Fine, if you want your mehandi painted, then I can stay awake a little longer to do it. Fine. You probably never get/got the chance to enjoy yourself---if you're enjoying this, then I can prolong it. What's "tired" anyway? Just a state of mind! Mehandi is fun! C'mon!

Twenty minutes later I finished. I started to say the "o" of the word "Okay." Okay, I'll need to put toothpaste on my eyelids if I'm planning on staying awake longer. Rukmanji gave me her other palm and said, "hathi!" (Elephant in Hindi). What to do? I can't say no to my host mother. But an ELEPHANT? Are you kidding me? I wouldn't paint an elephant if I didn't have to put toothpaste on my eyelids. But Fine. If she's having fun (and if the constant juvenile giggling and laughter is any indication, she is) then I can [pretend to] put toothpaste on my eyelids.

But I would NEVER paint an elephant.

Thirty minutes later I completed her other palm. She looked at her hands and said, "Bahut aichi hai." (Is very good!) She laughed (almost maniacally) and grabbed the cone from my hand and started to draw little dots in the few empty spaces I left. NO! What are you DOING? I left the empty spots for a reason! Why?!

It occured to me at that moment how much fun she was having. And though it had raced through my mind a few minutes before, I didn't quite grasp the concept. She really NEVER enjoys herself---her days are filled with numbing repetition of menial labor. She gathers wood and water. She cooks. She raises her children. She cleans. She sews. She launders clothes. Every day.

I smiled and stared. Nothing but a little girl painting mehandi with no rhyme or reason. A little 37 year old girl wildly squeezing mud onto her hands with a philosophy of "empty space means possible enjoyment lost."

We are desire driven animals. We are selfish. Even people whose actions may seem selfless are driven by the emotion they feel upon completing their selfless actions. And this is most apparent in people whose time is consumed by survival (i.e. collecting water and caring for youth).

It's difficult to articulate this. But this realization every individual's emotion driven psyche leads to an important question of life philosophy. Here's what I wrote in my journal about it:

People are so selfish. By nature. People just want more of everything. It's true anywhere you go. Here, EVERYONE, wants a piece of us. Everyone wants a piece of chocolate. If I've given them one, they want more. Everyone wants to see pictures: pictures of themselves. Rukmanji couldn't put my obvious need for sleep at 2:30 in the morning above her desire for more mehandi on her hands. (Really how is any of this different than of people in the United States?)

They can't control themselves. Everyone wants what they don't have. Always. Even the man, who seemingly has everything, wants something else. Our oppulent society breeds people who have most of their material needs (so we start wanting more---emotional experiences that might be considered valuable---love, volunteerism, spiritual enlightenment). I suppose that's where things get really sticky---because a tangible/material goal can be bought---it is certain. However, we can't design our emotional evolutions.

So, what? Is it best to limit our wants to the tangible? Or strive to erradicate"want"? Is that the point of life or enlightenment or something? Part of me (the aspiring Buddist) says that's exactly right. But another part of me says "Why fight what's natural? Listen to your body. Listen to your mind." Maybe we really are our own best doctors. So does that mean we accept our greedy natures? Or do we ignore our "wants"? I really don't know.

And of course, there's a difference between erradicating and ignoring [desires]. And, I don't know if either word is correct. I don't think there should be any effort involved in the "not wanting." You can't want to not want too much. Or at all. I'm confused.

Enjoy by indulging in sensual pleasures moderately?

Or discipline yourself to transcend desire for sensual pleasures?

I dunno. The first seems so "common-man" and the second sounds too Buddhist-wannabe/trying-to-hard.

And could I really give up constant indulgence in cheese?

What's the point of art if sensual pleasure is to be transcended? Unless the art fulfills some spiritual/emotional void.

Is tired really tired or a state of mind? I don't know. I'm too tired to think about it. So, for tonight, I'll give into my desire for the sensual pleasure of climbing into a
bed.

Sensually,
Niral

___

We left Nimdi the following morning. We led a literal parade of children on the route from our house, through the village, to the bus stand. But not without, first, making a stop at the school to say goodbye to our kids.

I can't say that it was heartbreaking. Because my heart didn't break. (As much as I might have wanted it to.)

But I can say it was surprising. To see the watery eyes and to hear the sobbing. Is our leaving really affecting you this much? Should I be reacting more? No. How I react is how I react. There's no questioning the unquestionable.

One girl gave me a small envelope made of notebook paper and tape. It said "I forget me not." Well, at least they learned English...

We walked away from the school. Hundreds of kids waving goodbye. Dozens crying. Wow it's over.

A cargo bus from town was going to Bhindar, where we would have our farewell ceremony. We would hitch a ride. I jumped into the passenger seat, throwing my backpack in first. I turned and looked out the open window. There were the faces that filled my days for five weeks. Ashok and Jitu. Piyush and Vinay. "Bye sir."

Bye.

And that was it.

Whatever restlessness I felt before I came to India. It was gone. I had lost myself somewhere in the past couple of years. And somewhere in the past five weeks, 10,000 miles away from where I was lost: I found myself again.

And the best part: none of this was magical. This wasn't some lame self-proclaimed spiritual journey through the hidden mystical countryside of India. It was a person who got caught up in self-indulgence. A person whose idle mind got the best of him.

That person moved away from his life. Gained perspective. Got better.

And that was it.

Why

This week was rough. It seems that everything I write starts with a sentence that references the heat.

It is so hot.

So, I suppose, as with anything, the middle is the hardest. This week I've been having feelings of boredom, feelings that I'm not really providing a service that's truly needed, feelings of apathy in the classroom. This is summer break for most Indian kids and many of our students were just visiting family in Nimdi. Most schools start on July 1st, so we lost about a third of our students (and will lose more after this weekend).

My advanced section went from fifteen to five. That's particularly irritating because I made fifteen copies of dozens of vocabulary lists and stories---and now that will all go to waste.

On Wednesday morning, I woke up and went to our bathing room (which is really a tiny room measuring no more than 6 feet in height, 3 feet in width, and 3 feet in length). I collected my toiltetries and placed them on a stack consisting of my towel, a clean shirt, clean shorts, and clean underwear. I walked to the "bathing room". Once inside, I leaned down to put my toiletries on the floor and my 16.9oz Aveda Gel Cleanser (a beautiful green glass bottle) rolled off my stack of clothes and shattered on the stone floor.

(I have an obsession with products. I know it's ridiculous to carry a giant class bottle of gel cleanser while traveling through India---but I'm unnecessarily crazy about taking good care of my skin and hair.)

So I stared at the pile of shattered glass. And 14 fluid ounces of liquid soap.

Why?

Why?

Why?

Wait...

WHY?

I put down what was in my hands and I immediately resigned to the fact that I was going to have to clean up this mess. I I walked back to my room and got some garbage bags and started cleaning up the translucent green shards. Naturally (natural because Murphy's Law should be renamed Niral's Law), my doubled plastic bag tore and I had to get several new ones.

My host mother noticed me crouching in front of the bathing room and quickly shooed me away. She was worried I would hurt myself with the glass and wanted to make sure no one would slip on the soap. So she took a jadu (a small broom made of thin sticks) and swept the stone floor until most of the soap residue had disappeared. The only evidence that remained was a molehill of suds by the drain.

I went returned to the bathing room (which now smelled really pungent and sharp from the excessive soap spillage). I brushed my teeth. I washed my hair. And then I did something I haven't done in years. I washed my face with normal soap. NORMAL SOAP. I'm going to have terrible skin forever. When I go to the dermatologist in twenty years he's going to be like a botany expert studying tree-rings. He'll say, "Wow, you were doing really well until...hmm...let's see here...until you were about 22 or 23. Woah. What happened here? You would have perfect skin now if you didn't mess it all up by using normal soap."

After my bath I had some chai (which smelled a little funny to me). I went to my first section. Absolutely terrible---the kids were totally unmanageable and I had no energy to deal with them. Nishant and I returned home for our lunch and I was force fed okra, cucumbers, chach (whey with water and salt), and chopati. As soon as I ate, I could sense that something was wrong with my body.

I returned to school and sat through most of the intermediate section feeling a little light-headed. At 12:30pm I was feeling sick---no question. I laid down and tried to take a brief nap. But, I started to feeling a compounding nausea---which resulted in me running out to the field adjacent to our school and throwing up.

(I'll save you the suspense. I had some kind of food poisoning.)

As in most cases of food poisoning, the body's response is to expel all things in the digestive tract---as all of it could be the carrier for the pathogen/parasite. So, naturally (natural because biology is natural) I started to feel pressure in my bowels. Being about a kilometer away from home, I knew I only had one option.

Poop in a field.

POOP IN A FIELD. That's fine. Pooping in a field is completely fine. It's just like---really? Has it come to this?

So I found a tree. I dropped my shorts. And I pooped in a field. (Actually, I've written an extensive journal entry about this---but I'll spare this blog the details).

Feeling a little better---having thrown up AND pooped in a field, I went back to the school and asked Nishant if he could handle the advanced section alone. He said he'd be fine---so I walked back home (in 115 degree heat). I wanted to go to bed, but it was way too hot. So, I just read A Million Little Pieces by James Frey with about fifty of my little fly friends. Terrible.

I could tell that my body was trying to smoke whatever I had out of me. I had a headache---the kind of headache that you only get from having a high fever. So I took some Ibuprofen with water.

Within fifteen minutes I vomited the rest of what was in my stomach in a projectile manner. But just as before, I felt great.

Read. Refuse Food and Water. Read. Too hot to read. Read. Sleep. Too hot to sleep. Read. Refuse Food and Water. Refuse Food and Water.

Finally, I was feeling too dehydrated to NOT drink water---so in the smallest servings, I started drinking water. Word of my illness spread through the village quickly. Consequently, my entire afternoon was highlighted by visits from my students. Which is sweet in theory. But it's not so sweet when they decide to stay for hours and talk and laugh and go through my things.

I can deal with that crap when I'm healthy---but not when I can't keep food down. I'll throw up on you bitch.

Evening came, and it started to rain. OF COURSE IT'S RAINING. In villages in India, when it rains, power companies cut all energy to prevent short circuiting and electric fires. Great. No ceiling fan. No light. Hundreds of insects. I'm so happy. No really. I'm SO happy.

I decided that a little fresh air and a phone call would serve me well. I went on the rooftop and got in touch with Suzanne. It was raining lightly and the sky was completely gray with clouds. The water on my neck felt good. The breeze felt good. Talking on the phone felt good.

Suzanne and I talked and talked. And I started to feel a little nauseous but didn't think anything of it. And in the middle of Suzanne's story of her trip to Chicago (which I was laughing at) I started to projectile vomit water (because that's all I had in my stomach). I'm not an easily phased person so I just let Suzanne talk and just briefly mentioned that I was throwing up. Suzanne continued telling her story. I continued laughing. I continued throwing up.

From a neighboring rooftop, one of my students saw me laughing, gagging, throwing up, and laughing again. She thought that something was wrong with me---so she screamed for my host family. Within seconds, my entire host family was on the roof watching me crouch in a corner talking on the phone with a smile on my face, laughing, gagging, throwing up, and laughing more.
So, it's not a question if they think I'm crazy. (Well I am crazy.)

The rest of the week was filled with rest and not too much teaching. My stomach is still weak. But I'm getting better.

As far as why I got sick. The elderly women in the village KNOW that I'm sick because I haven't prayed to Bhud Bauji (Holy Ghost Spirit). Outside of our school, there is a small shrine with a stone in it---apparently legend says that this stone, when buried under hundreds of stones, always finds its way to the top. Obviously, I think this is ridiculous so I don't acknowledge it. So apparently, Bhud Bauji is angry with me and has sent a spirit to inhabit my body.

Obviously ridiculous to me. Obviously why I got sick to them.

I was offered different treatments like sooey (or an injection). An INJECTION?! What kind of village is this? What's the syringe made of? A hollow stick? Hate it. Also, my host mother offered to call the witch doctor and have him treat me. I said "No thanks. Maybe if I'm still sick tomorrow."

Why I think I got sick? I think when my host mother was cleaning the bathroom floor with the jadu---she got some soap water on my toothbrush. Even in America, I clean the head of my toothbrush before I use it---so nothing was different when I brushed my teeth that morning. But I think maybe a couple rubs with my thumb under running water didn't cut it this time. I think that the dirt off that floor is enough to get anyone sick.

Anyhow, what got me really thinking was my glass bottle and why it broke. This is what I wrote in my journal:

It's so true that people say "things happen for a reason" to make themselves feel better. My glass bottle shattered by chance because I dropped it by mistake. I HIGHLY doubt there was any subconscious workings involved. I go to thinking in the shower---soap is soap. Why do I pay so much for face wash? I mean preventative Kiehls makes sense to me. But face wash? I thought this event would make me realize that expensive face wash was not necessary for my
survival.

But then, I though more, and realized this is just our mental justification for bad things happening. If such-and-such never happened then we wouldn't be in [our current situation]. WELL OBVIOUSLY. I think it's best to stay away from the fate argument...

but...as I write this I'm torn---I want to believe that our lives are guided by events. Maybe the glass bottle DID break for a reason---to tear me from my material attachments. Or maybe, it didn't happen for any reason at all---

And MAYBE I needed an excuse to go/believe in a direction I'm naturally (natural because it's in-my-wiring) magnetized towards.

Fate or no fate? I think it's hard to say. But TRULY not believing in any kind shape form of fate is so empty. I know that I don't believe in every second of every day being predestined. But so many things are out of our hands (in this case literally...).

I think maybe our lives are guided by events---it's our choice to do or take what we want with/from them. Maybe every situation is an opportunity to learn from or change yourself.

Why do we always need a reason? Why do we always have to ask why?

Why do we always have to ask why? I don't really even know why we ask the why. But I know the why rarely matters.

OH SIR

Living in Rajasthani heat is really taxing. It's about 110 degrees everyday and the nights aren't much cooler. Generally, there is no electricity during the days (what they refer to as "power cuts"); so that means no functioniong ceiling fan.

But I have to say, this has been absolutely wonderful so far. The teaching is frustrating in that, it's very difficult (or impossible) to teach a foreign language without any standardized materials. Most kids don't have anything more than a pencil and a notebooks---and the kids with books have so many different kinds: no one title. I've tried to jump that hurdle by creating a phonetics guide along with a bunch of vocabulary lists and diagrams. I get them photocopied while I'm here in Udaipur. It's pretty steep---1 rupee a page, so like, 2 cents a page in America. I feel like that's not so much cheaper.


There is this one boy in Neemdi, his name is Piyush. (Left) He is truly, the MOST adorable boy in the world. He's probably about five years old and has a sweet treble voice. And he follows in the tradition of people I like more because they've taken a liking to me. He's constantly clinging to my leg and hanging off the window bars during my other sections. When his section ends at 9:30am he always hugs my leg and says, "Mein na jayunga." (I won't go.) That makes me want to eat him. Or roll him down a hill. Or whatever people do with unlawfully cute things.

In my middle batch there is this girl named Sonu (on the right in the picture below, with friend Divya who is referred to as the peacock). If Rachel Dratch were a 12 year old Indian girl: she would be Sonu. When she started coming to school, she was very shy. So shy, that everytime I would look at her she would start to giggle. And (not in a mean way) Sonu just has a humorous face---so a giggling Sonu is, well, very humorous. When I'd reference Sonu or even reference something near Sonu, she would start giggling like shy 12 year old girls do. And her trademark would be covering her mouth---with everything. When she smiles or laughs out of shyness, she covers her mouth with her hands, her scarf, her pen, her book, the carpet, a window shutter, the girl next to her---I mean EVERYTHING. It has been so ridiculous that I burst out laughing in the middle of my lessons.

I had started to draw a picture of Sonu on the blackboard---one that depicted her eyes peeking over an open book. And when I did this, Sonu got extremely serious and screamed "NO SIR!".

I can't really explain how she screamed. But suffice to say, my ears literally hurt after she was done. Screaming like I've never heard before. Screaming that could shatter glass. I have fortunately captured MPEG video of this.

Since this incident Sonu has hidden her mouth with a well-pump, a pack of cards, a cow, and a bag of rice. She has also thrown rocks at me. Not pebbles. Big rocks.

So, village life has been wonderful and great and super. No problems.

I have unfortunately had some problems with the managing team of our organization. When we were in orientation I was stopped by some of the "executives" (as they're called) and told things like: "Niral, you don't have sincere eyes. You have to have bright eyes when you speak to people."

Really?

REALLY?

Are you kidding me? I made up bright eyes. I am the professor who forged the path to a Bright Eyes major in most universities. If bright eyes were a person, it would be me. Like seriously, I don't know anything about Microbiology or Art History (what I've studied) but I know a LOT about bright eyes.

The executives have a lot of resentment towards me because I'm an NRI. (Non Residential Indian, Non Returning Indian, Not Really Indian, etc.)

I didn't really think much about it at first but it escalated to a point where I was target of a lot of undeserved scrutiny and criticism. Tell me I'm not teaching well, but DON'T TELL ME I DON'T HAVE BRIGHT EYES.

It hurts on some level to think that they don't accept me as Indian. There used to be a part of me that felt foreign in America---which is understandable. And, naturally, there is a part of me now that feels foreign in India. However, I don't really have the feeling "I don't fit in anywhere." Quite contrarily, I'm feeling very much affirmed of my American identity. Haha, I don't know if that's a good thing that I'm feeling like MORE of an American while I'm abroad.

Anyhow, I again and in a rush to get back home to Neemdi from Udaipur. Until next week.

Neemdi

Where to start?

I don't know where I left off.

About a week ago, I moved to a small village called Neemdi outside of Udaipur in India. Through an organization called The Learning Foundation of India, I've been given the opportunity to teach English and basic computer literacy to underprivilaged kids.

After the orientation for the project in Jaipur, we took an over-night bus to a small city called Bhindar (our base of operations and a relative centerpoint of the villages served). After an extremely drawn out reception ceremony (including speeches by teachers and headmasters that lasted two hours), we headed out to the villages.

I have been paired with a boy named Nishant from Haryana. He and I were the first to be dropped off---in front of the exact school you would imagine an Indian village having. There we were "greeted" by our contact person in the village, Laxmiji. Laxmiji explained to us that there was some trouble and that the host family that had agreed to house us would no longer be able to do so.

...

So we sat in the school for an hour in 110 degree weather. Someone suggested that we sleep in the school. Where would we shower and use the restroom? There is a barber shop 100 meters down the road.

...

To my disappointment, Nishant was overwhelmingly agreeable. And of course, I couldn't say anything or I'd be the "disagreeable American." So, I started to counsel myself. It's fine. It's only a month. What doesn't kill you makes you stronger. At least you won't have to travel far to get to school. It'll be great actually! It'll be like fending for yourself in nature.

But, my distaste for the sleeping-in-the-school idea must have been radiating from my expression because they started offering to "search the town for a better solution." Great...

So, we walked away from the school, on the one main road in Neemdi. And, we entered the first building on the right. "This is a vacant building. No one lives here. There's no front door but don't worry, it's a safe village." Uh-huh. We passed a couple of rooms with some dirt floors and very modest plumbing (including a hole in the floor). "This is the bathroom and shower. If you'd like we can put a curtain up." Uh-huh. We walked up a flight of narrow stairs and we were on the flat roof of the vacant house. "You can sleep up here. Do you think you'll need a bed? Or will the floor do?" Uh-huh.

Nishant said, "This is fine."

This is fine? I mean. It's FINE. But there's no food and there's no door on the bathroom. I started to counsel. No, it's FINE. It'll be like the Boxcar Children or something. We'll struggle and come out on top! What an experience!

"Is this fine with you Niral?"

"No, this is great," I said. Again, my distaste must have been seething from my pores because we continued to "search for other options." But then, a young boy came running and whispered something to Laxmiji. Laxmiji said, "Another host family has decided to take you in."

Great. Now the village hates us because no one wanted us. And now one family has taken us in but they're going to hate us because the rest of the village hates them because they took us in. Great.

We walked deeper into the village passing a beautiful tree at the convergence of two roads. The tree was surrounded by a raised circular white stone bench covered with old Brahmin men (I guess talking about philosophy or something...). Just as you'd expect in a village.

After a few minutes we came to a small, but very nice house. We were ushered into a small set of doors right next to the main door. "This will be your room." Ok. This looks okay.

The room is about 12X10---just about enough room for two twin sized cots and our luggage. The walls are covered in fading milky blue plaster. Pictures of Sarasvati and Krishna are randomly pasted on the wall---gaudy clocks and mismatched wall hangings are everywhere. Very odd. YES. There is a ceiling fan!

We were immediately given chai and crackers and Nishant started to speak to the 12 gawking children piled in our doorway. My new host brother Punit (12) started to ask questions about me (in Hindi to Nishant). "Where are you from?" "How long are you here for?" Pretty standard stuff.

I then made the mistake of taking my digital camera out. I took a picture of the kids---and was then literally attacked by all of them trying to see the LCD screen. I also met my two host sisters, Niramla (8) and Sheetal (3). And, my host parents Ramratanji and Radharukmanji.

Everyone was very accomodating and finally after a long talk and dinner we went to bed.

---

The next morning (Saturday) we started classes. Not because we were prepared or really excited to start teaching---but moreso to create the image that we we were there to work. As I had mentioned there was some bickering about our arrival, so we wanted to prove we were ambassadors of good will.

Our first class was great fun. Shapes and colors. "Always speak in full sentences." Totally BSed off the top of my head. But I started to get an idea of the level of English in the village.

That level is nothing. Often I'll ask "How old are you?" And I'll get "I'm fine," in response.

After a week though, our teaching schedule has finally been settled. 8-9:30 we teach primary school kids (basically, we play games and sing songs like Head-Shoulders-Knees-and-Toes). 10:30-12:30 we teach 11-15 year olds. These kids don't have the tenacity to really learn English formally but they're mostly intelligent. So, with these kids we focus on spoken English and removing the fear of speaking. Finally 1-3 we teach 15+ (except for one very smart 13 year old girl). These are the "advanced" English students. But really, they're not so much "advanced" in English---just more "advanced" in age. Regardless, I'm teaching them legitimate grammar, parts of speech, and phonetics.

I hate drawing lines at sex and propogating the gender binary---but I'll do it anyway. I've noticed in the primary section that boys are more raucous and confident. Girls are shy and not as responsive. This is also true in the middle section. However, in the advanced section, the girls are a pleasure to work with. They're all wonderfully mannered, always prepared, and very smart. The boys, on the otherhand seem to have lost their confidence with age and are pretty much stupid.

Anyhow, this week has been a wonderful experience. And, I'm so happy that I'm here. I'm writing from a hotel in Udaipur where I'm staying for the weekend. But, my bus back to Neemdi is in half an hour so I have to go right now.

I'll be back in Udaipur next weekend. So until then.

Gotta Move

I guess I said make a mess.

I have literally two minutes to update: so, quick runthrough of what's going on.

I was bored in Vadodara. I decided to do something new. I found a program teaching English and computer literacy to underprivileged children in Rajasthan.

I ran away. (Well I told everyone.) My cell phone doesn't work here. I have like fifty dollars. No credit card. I'm in orientation for the program currently. My bus ride was 17 hours long. Are you kidding? I could fly to India from America in that much time.

Ok, so I'm here for six weeks. I'll try to figure out my phone situation soon. And I'll try to post more soon!

But, I have to say I'm really excited. And, the realization that you can still have an adventure: even in today's techologized world is an AMAZING one to have.

Ok bye.

Con Foos Ed

The rainy season of India has begun. The moonsoons have certainly come. I'm sitting in a cyber cafe right off one of the major roads in Baroda---which has literally turned into a small murky river.

This has been quite an eventful week. If I can say one definitive thing about India it's that the food here is amazing. The home cooking of the family I'm staying with is simply delicious. And, though I've yet to try it, the modified vegetarian menu of McDonalds looks GREAT. I'm dying to try the "Veg Pizza Puff": I guess it's somewhat analagous to a Hot Pocket.

I think I'm here to help. Strangely, there are too many and no opportunities at the same time.

The Heart Clinic at which I'm supposed to be interning is not really the best vehicle for me to serve. That is, the Baroda Heart Clinic (BHC) is essentially a healthcare institution for the well-off in India. After spending a week at the hospital, I've realized there is very little for me to do there. Without some kind of healthcare degree (M.D., nutrition, etc.), I am virtually useless. I can't even be the waterboy---because God knows, if India isn't short on anything, it's manpower.

So this past week, I've been finding my footing. Where to go? What to do? Where to apply? I've submitted about eight applications to several teaching programs based in eastern India. One of those, has already accepted me. The problem is: the program starts in three days.

I decided on the plane ride here that I wanted to make a mess. Take risks. Deal with the consequences. Learn. Take another risk.

I suppose I could just join this program. That would mean leaving Vadodara for some small village in Rajasthan (the state north of Gujarat) in a couple of days. It would also mean leaving home-cooked meals and my own bedroom. But this is what I wanted! I wanted to live in a village and now I can! So, I am, in fact, very excited and hope this possibility materializes.