Okay.
So.
Gosh, this will take a long time and be super-sporadic.
Here goes!
In chronological order, from two weeks ago...
A day before I left for Sunderbans, at Apne Aap, my girls and I were like "psssshhhh we don't feel like learning anything today." So we ran upstairs to the little kids' classroom on the roof, turned on the radio, and had a dance party. It was fantastic. They were all "dance, di, dance!". For a brief moment, the thought "wait, I can't dance, I don't know how to dance" crossed my mind. And then I realized that my body has been crafted to dance to Indian music. Everything in Indian dance makes so much more sense to my muscles. The arm movements (kinda like you're spinning a balloon), the hips, the smoothness of it all - gosh. As opposed to the overt sexuality in Western dance, Indian dance is more subtle sensuality. It's beautiful rather than awkward and provocative. And all my girls were so excited about dancing with me, and we all sang, and then the Ring Ring Ringa song came on - the one they taught me a month ago, when I traded them for Sufjan Stevens. I firmly believe that part of my soul resides in the Ring Ring Ringa song. We danced in a circle, each girl had her chance to start a foot / arm pattern that we all copied, they stopped to teach me when I had difficulty picking something up. And though my mind was like "what?" my body was like "shut up mind, I know how to do this." ...then I French braided my hair to keep it back and my girls freaked out. Hair thrown at me from everywhere. I don't remember the Hindi word for "braid," but I heard it about a zillion times. So then our dance party turned into a hair braiding party. It was like a fifth grade sleepover.
New topic. Sorry for the jumpjumpjump, but there's a lot I want to write.
I prayed and thought a lot last week about this passage:
"Why do you look at the speck of sawdust in your brother's eye and pay no attention to the plank in your own eye? How can you say to your brother, 'Brother, let me take the speck out of your eye,' when you yourself fail to see the plank in your own eye? You hypocrite, first take the plank out of your eye, and then you will see clearly to remove the speck from your brother's eye." - Luke 6:41-42
First off, the image of a plank in my eye is funny. What would I look like walking around with a plank in my eye? And how ridiculous would it look if I tried to get a speck out of Josefin's eye with a plank in my eye? I'd probably jab her in the face. And there's no way I'd be able to see clearly.
I've been thinking about this from the perspective of giving advice. If you know me, you know that I don't really hesitate in advice-giving. I completely ignore the whole "don't give advice until you're asked" idea. But then again, I often am in no place to give advice. There are planks in my eyes. Last week, I made a list of my major planks, and I'm trying to figure out how to get them out of my eyes. To extend the ridiculously easy-to-extend metaphor, I've learned that removing planks involves a good mirror. Thankfully, going to Adoration as often as possible is helpful.
I should explain Adoration. Literally, it's a bunch of volunteers and sisters sitting in a room praying, with a consecrated wafer in a little golden stand on a table at the front of the room. If you walk in and don't know what's going on, it looks like a lot of people staring at a cookie. I purposefully started going to Adoration because it didn't make any sense to me. Cookie. Gold stand. Saying the Rosary, plus silent prayer halfway through the hour. What?
And when I got there, I realized why Adoration is super. This might sound strange, but the spiritual density in that room is absurd. It's ridiculous. It's overwhelming. It felt like walking into a room in which you know God is sitting. I almost fell over. Praying in that environment is mind-blowing. I don't know why. I can't explain it. And I really don't understand the whole God-in-a-wafer thing. But I do know that Adoration, for me, has become a for-sure way to make sure I'm in focused prayer for at least an hour a day. I've started going to Adoration at Kalighat, which is even more amazing. Five sisters, five/six volunteers...oh man. It's wonderful. I don't think I've ever had more focused prayer (scheduled prayer time? whoa.) in my life.
In response to questions, yeah, I pierced my nose. Safely. I sterilized the needle. It's completely healed. My girls think it's great. I like it. Mmmkay, that's all about that.
At Kalighat two weeks ago, there was a 20/30 maybe year old woman. Newly arrived. Stunningly beautiful. Big brown eyes. Could be a model. She doesn't speak. I spoke with her, but she didn't respond verbally. Every time I walked near her, she caught my gaze and followed me with her eyes. So I bent down, placed my hand in hers and asked "gan?" (song). She barely squeezed my hand. I sang Come Thou Fount. She looked a little happier, not that she ever seems to have any facial expression besides entranced. She's gorgeous. I asked another woman there what was wrong with her, and she shrugged. She said that the woman had just arrived a few days before, so the only thing they knew was that she had terrible FGM, enough that she needed a catheter. I don't want to talk about it. Look it up.
Sunderbans. Wow. Gorgeous. Jungle. We were only there for two days - we all took the weekend off from our Momma T assignments, which was good because I didn't have to miss Apne Aap at all. Our group was Matias (Chile), Jed (Colorado OMG he went to Brown and knows Talia Stein!), Josefin (Sweden), and Daniel (Cuba / Miami / Seattle). We woke up super-early, and took a train / auto / boat / auto / boat combination to get there.
I had a slightly heartbreaking experience at the train station. There were beggar kids all over the place, because there are a ton of beggars at train stations in India. This one girl, holding a baby, started "auntie, auntie, canna"ing me. Which means "auntie, auntie, food." There were two pieces of bread in my bag, so I shrugged and figured sure, why not? I didn't need those two pieces of bread. So I dug through my bag, found the bread, and handed one piece to her and one to the baby, who looked old enough to chew. And...the girl looked at the bread, looked up at me, looked down at the bread, looked up at me, and said "canna, canna?" And I said, "hai, eta tomar canna" - "yes, it's your food." And she just kept asking. All the while, the baby tore the bread into little pieces and dropped it on the floor. We walked away. A few minutes later, the girl found me again, and still asked me for food - still holding a torn up piece of bread, which crumbled on the floor as she asked for food.
I don't understand.
Anyway, train to Canning. Auto to shore. Giant ferry canoe to somewhere. Auto to somewhere. The auto had two rows of seats, facing each other - one backwards, one forwards. I was sitting in the seat facing forwards, on the right side. So, when we almost got hit by a giant bus, I was the one who saw it coming. By almost, I mean the auto driver nearly hit it head on, and then swerved to the left at the last moment. We two-wheeled it on the left side for about five seconds, all threw ourselves to the right, and then stopped to get Daniel's bag, which had fallen out. Daniel probably should have gotten badly injured - it would have made sense for him to get a foot caught up and tangled in the wheels. But nope. We were all shaken (not stirred) but fine. Super.
Then another boat, and we were in Gosaba, where we found a pink guest house with bucket showers and giant beds with mosquito nets, bartered the rooms down to 200 each, and set out adventuring. I. Adore. Gosaba. Nearly no one there speaks English. Fortunately, Jed speaks a lot of Bangla, so we were able to communicate. We drank sugarcane juice and ate street fruit. Jed and I walked over to the shore, where we discovered the grossest, most absolutely superb mud I've ever seen. Our feet sunk nearly to our knees every time we stepped. Naturally, I decided that meant we should roll up our pants and walk the thirty meters or so to shore. GROSS. But fantastic. And three kids joined us, and we all went "ew ew ew" and it was great. I have videos.
Then Jed and I walked to the village-y section of Gosaba. Where everyone on the tiny island lives. We wandered at random, walked past goats, chickens, cows, and green green green. Eventually, kids started following us, so we spoke Bangla with them. After some time, a woman stepped out of her house and called to us. We followed. She invited us in for chai, and pulled chairs out so we could sit on her porch. There ended up being about ten women, three men, and a half dozen children - and us. Speaking. In Bangla. We talked about everything we could communicate, joked about how Jed knew onek Bangla and I knew khub choto. Very little. Aaaaaaaaaaaaaah wonderful.
In the morning - BOAT. Gorgeous. We went on a 500-rupee-a-person boat cruise around Sunderbans. We didn't see any tigers. But we saw monkeys and birds and a crocodile and deer and a funny-looking pig. Our tour guide was awesome. He didn't speak English, but that didn't matter 'cause we had Jed. He let me drive the boat. Jed had made aloo mattar and roti and brought it with him to Gosaba, so we had a picnic on the boat. Oh gosh it was wonderful.
Then four-hour bus ride back to Kolkata. Smelled like eggs.
On the way back down Sudder Street, I suddenly felt like saying hello to one of the beggar women - usually I don't greet them, because they'll follow me asking for money. I started to speak at the exact same time she did, and we simultaneously said "namaste, di" (me) and "how are you, sister" (her). For the record, "di" means "older sister." It was beautiful.
Fast forward. Kalighat the next day. The woman I mentioned earlier had been moved to a bed waaay at the end of the room, and had a namecard (Neda) and a sign posted next to her bed that said "please do not touch without gloves." And had what looked like sudden, massive scabies. Again, I asked another volunteer what was wrong with her. And she said, "oh, she just has HIV." Oooookay then. So I grabbed some gloves and sang to her for a long, long time. At one point, a sister walked past me, stopped, and I showed her my hands. She nodded and kept walking. Bhalo. Good.
Wow, this is taking a long panda time. And I'm not even close to caught up.
Last Wednesday, I left Apne Aap early (Muslim holiday, no girls) and went in search for my girls' slum. After an hour of wandering around Park Circus, I found it. Turns out 39 Tiljala road is nowhere near 36 or 41. Tik ache (it's okay). It was fun to find. I got to speak a LOT of Bangla. Their slum isn't a tarp-city like the one next to it - rather, it's a giant cement building in which they all live together. I didn't walk in, but it was nice to know where it is and what it looks like.
Thursday, Josefin and I went to the tarp-slum next to the Park Circus bridge. I could write for pages about this, and will, but not right now. We brought cookies, paper, crayons, a ball, and sweets, all hidden in Josefin's backpack, with the intent to find some kids (chelemeye kothay?) and play with them. We found a bunch of kids among the tarps, gathered them together, and I handed out cookies - ekta tumi, ekta biscuit (one you, one cookie). The kids were ecstatic. They started running away, bringing back other kids and pushing hands toward me. Only a few kids asked for more than one cookie. Maybe it was because I started saying "ekta tumi, ekta biscuit" early on. There was one kid who kept pushing his friends hands toward me, asking for cookies, and then only after all the other kids had cookies did he extend his own. And he was a little kid, not an older one who might feel obliged to take care of everyone else. Some mothers asked for biscuits for their children who were at school, so I said "ekhane ney, biscuit ney." Not here, no biscuit.
After hanging out with the kids for awhile, we moved on. Left the tarp slum, and wandered into the area of garbage-pickers next to the train tracks. There are hundreds of tarps set up next to the tracks, just like next to the bridge. I assumed it would be the same situation - nice kids, who just want to be kid-like. ...nope. Within minutes, kids latched on to me, a little too close to be comfortable. It was hot out. So I figured that ten kids or so was a good group to colour, and reached into Josefin's bag (which I was carrying) for paper. Within seconds, I was completely swarmed. Imagine a mosh pit of dirty children (and women) with me at the center. And this was before I even removed the paper and crayons. And it didn't matter how much I yelled "thamo (stop)" or "shanti (settle / peace)" or even "bas (enough)". They kept pushing in on me. Thank God I'm not claustrophobic. This went on for about twenty minutes. Nonstop. I couldn't get them off of me. And they were laughing, screaming, reaching, tearing the whole time - the children and the women. There was one man who tried to order everyone, but it didn't work. I thought maybe if I started passing out paper, they'd go away, so I pulled out one sheet - which got torn from my hands instantly. Twenty hands all grabbing at the same paper at the same time means no one gets it, not even counting the thirty or so who were too far back to reach. Another sheet. Same result. Another. Another. Finally, I gave up and tried to push them away. Fail. The kids / women ripped the entire pack from my hands. Oh well. We had more paper in the bag. The kids were all screaming for pens. I was still being pressed in on, squished, sugarcane through a juicer. I pulled out a few crayons. Hands. All crayons smashed. This would not work. I started pushing through, trying to get away. Thamo, thamo, thamo, and the kids yelled ney, ney, ney. Stop. No. There was one girl who kept grabbing my shoulders to pull me back. The others just ripped at my clothes. For once, I'm glad I bought such high-quality Indian clothing. It wouldn't tear. Pull pull pull pull...and I eventually broke free, only to be chased and resurrounded a few moments later. I yelled "just go" to Josefin over the crowd. She started walking away. If this sounds overly dramatic or chaotic - it was. If it doesn't, then I haven't described it well enough. We eventually ran back to the tarp-slum. The whole process took about a half hour. Josefin hadn't been as swarmed, thank God. I'm glad I had the bag.
We went back to the first group, regathered the kids, and gave them white paper and crayons. One each. They drew and were happy. I taught some older kids to write their names in Bangla and English. Happy happy. One woman yelled at us for not bringing them more food. The other women shrugged and smiled at us. The kids were gleeful.
Why the stark contrast? They're both groups of kids. Living in the same condition, in two slightly different places. Why does one group have kids who bring their friends over for one cookie each, and the other have kids who rip paper and form mosh pits? What's the difference between these two groups of children?
Also, I don't understand why I wasn't bothered by this experience. Josefin was deeply affected, and I...well, it didn't surprise me. The kids at Apne Aap mosh pit me all the time. Somehow, events like this don't bother me, but the girl in the train station who doesn't eat the bread I give her - that bothers me. The man on the street with the infected leg wound, who refuses treatment because the wound means he's a more effective beggar - that bothers me. Thirty kids flash mobbing me for coloured paper? Nah.
Gosh, I still have more to write.
The song Worlds Apart, by Jars of Clay, has pretty much been my theme lately. I swiped Peter's guitar and play it all the time.
I finished a journal a few days ago. Thanks to Domtar for the new one. :-)
I should mention the weather. Apparently it's been 90/95 degrees here every day. I checked the weather online for those numbers. It's been hot. I walk a lot. Strangely, at the end of the day, my clothing smells like sugar. I think it's because of all the chai I drink.
Apne Aap show. Ohhhhh man. When I started working for Apne Aap two months ago, Sraboni told me that she wanted me to teach a drama class on Friday afternoons. The women didn't show up for five weeks straight, so we started the class a few weeks ago. No one speaks English. 30/40-year-old-women, who live in the slums with a bunch of children. The first rehearsal, we played Pass the Clap and Boom Swish, to get them comfortable working together and being LOUD. The next rehearsal, I sat down with them and, through two layers of translation, asked them about their frustrations and hopes. One woman in the group can write Bengali, and Zareen can understand spoken Bengali. So we had a woman write down what everyone said, read it to Zareen, and Zareen translated it to me in English so I could write it down. That was tedious, but reeeeally awesome. Last Friday, at rehearsal, I tried to ask the women what they wanted the show to look like, the format, what they wanted to make sure was communicated, etc. And they told me NOTHING. Again and again, they said "Ani writes the show, we perform it" (in Bangla and Hindi). What?! I don't live their lives. I don't speak their language. But they trust me to be their voices? Okay. After pushing them for more information, emotion, ideas, anything, I talked with Sraboni, who said the same thing. Write the show.
So I wrote it.
I'm not going to post it on here. It's too long. They wanted it to be a half hour / hour long show. It has tabla, a Greek chorus, masks, a dance-fight. Oh, and it's in Hindi. I wrote it in simple English, and two Apne Aap teachers and I have been working on translating it every day. Saboushni speaks fluent Hindi, a little Bangla, and a little English, Mr. Computer Sir (my girls' name for him) speaks fluent Bangla, moderate English, and moderate Hindi, and I read and write English and speak a little Bangla. Together, we can slowly translate my English into transliterated Hindi. We don't need it written in Hindi characters, because the women can't read. They'll be memorizing the show aurally, which means that I need to learn to pronounce my entire show in Hindi.
We'll be performing it on the street at the beginning of April. I'll bring a camera. :-)
Okay, I think that's it.
No it's not! Jeff and I decided mine and Josefin's room needed a window, so we watercoloured one on the wall. It's pretty.
Time to go get chai and teach.
Love and many words,
Stephanie
