Documentary

I've included the link for a short documentary I made while abroad. It was all shot on a 90s era handycam and edited with iMovie, as neither Hollywood nor Bollywood were exactly calling out, but enjoy!

A Woman's Work

Rainforests and Deserts, Monkeys and Donkeys

The semester has ended. Saris were worn with tears and smiles, nervous laughter as the future seemed a little too imminent for comfort. Plane tickets printed from 5 rupee corner stalls and last minute dosas eaten with a vengeance alongside Kingfisher Strongs.

When I leave here things will change once again. Begin to forget the names of the others on my program, slowly push the Indian clothing farther back into my closet. But it happened, and its reality cannot be diminished. It has been so much more than I could have ever expected. This experience has made me laugh and cry, vomit and pull the threadbare covers way over my head to block out everything around me. I have danced alone on the dance floor and sang with thousands of people, screamed with excitement and sprinted from a desire to reach my destination faster. But it will start to fade, becoming more reminiscent of a dream than a memory.

So I have captured some of it here, more for me than for you, in an attempt to preserve these past couple of months for a little longer.

This semester I have about seen it all. From neon turbaned farmers to bikini-clad men. Cheered Pitbull on from a scantily guarded backstage and spoke with the President of Bhutan from his honeymoon motor brigade. Shared overfilled rickshaws with immigrant families and drove through the city with four adults on a motorcycle. Painted red for Ganapati and unknowingly tainted even whiter by bleaching soap. ‘Like a Prayer’ belted karaoke and sobs through a Bollywood film. Feet adorned in bedazzled heels and caked with feces encrusted mud. Danced on top of bars and danced Dandiya with the best of them. Survived many near-deaths while crossing “pedestrian” crossings and crashed to the dried mud on a scooter. Seen dead bodies floating and polio-stricken men crawling. Breathed in burning flesh and opium-flavored incense. Ran from security guards through stairwells and attended a German ‘Merry Christmas Party’. Shared bottles of Petron with Bollywood elite and sipped powdered tea from cracked cups in the slum. Swam in a mosaic tiled pool and the excrement filled Ganges river. Modeled for a hair and makeup salon and partied with the British Cricket Team. Replaced cutlery with my fingers and substituted coffee for chaha.

Dove fully clothed into the Indian Ocean at sunrise and played cricket on the beach in Mumbai. Apartment building underground clubs and endless buffet lunches. Underwent every body ailment possible and lived to see another day. Paddle boated in Mahabaleshwar and canoed in Varanasi. Stared at and then stared right back. Took hundreds of photos and was featured in hundreds more. Danced in Conga lines with middle-aged Indian women and gave up paying to get blessed. Drank chai with famous filmmakers and filmed my own documentary. Peed in a hole festering with critters and began only taking my showers at the gym. Overnight buses and overnight trains. Explored Colaba with the Google Privacy Team and got my fortune told from a rotting old man. Rickshaw rides of shame and holy temple visits. Saris unraveling at the Marriott and days relaxed into Ali Baba pants. Ate desserts with tin foil wrapped on top and swallowed what tasted like rat poison in an embrace of Eastern medicine. Used Hindi as a form of police bribery and sang along to a Jim Morrison cover band. I have wandered and I have found.

These past couple of months I have truly lived. And one of my greatest fears is that when I return everything will seem bland in comparison. The smells and the sights will return to merely pleasant, and I will be left in the midst waiting for something to stir up within me once again, left staring at blank white walls wondering where all the color went. 

c.u.l.t.u.r.e.

After a grueling SuperCardio session with India’s own Russell Simmons, complete with short shorts and a screaming voice, H and I settle into comfy pleather sofas at Costa Coffee, ordering Caramel Cappuccinos and warm blueberry muffins.

Shortly after setting up shop we are joined by two students to our left. Fatima, an Iranian, and Mohammad, a Saudi Arabian, both completing their masters in India. A conversation of cross-cultural understanding, travel, and acceptance ensues. Trying to understand the United States, as both of them realize they will probably never gain the coveted visa access to the States, Mohammad asks, “So what is the culture of the United States?”

H and I respond with the token phrases of “melting pot”, “land of immigrants”, “diversity”, “capitalism”, but he is not satisfied.

“I know how to communicate with others from the Middle East because of a shared Arabic culture, so what is American culture?” We cannot answer cohesively.  It quickly becomes apparent that neither H nor I can actually describe where it is that we come from. We have accepted the United States as a conglomerate, never truly questioning what it is about its culture that makes it a nation, an identity.

Yes, the United States is massive and encompasses many different cultures, religions, languages, belief systems, but what is it at its base that makes it America? What do I, as a white, Presbyterian, moderate, female, with ancestors riding in on the Mayflower, share with a black, Muslim, conservative, male, with ancestors speaking French, that leads us both to claim “American” as our nationality?

Maybe it is the inherent desire for individual success, the power placed in human initiative and drive, the honor associated with hard work. The American Dream, the ability for social mobility, the space endowed for critical thought and cringe-resulting questions. The idea that nights with no sleep pay off, that running will get you somewhere other than where you began. Freedom to exist as you wish to exist, while under a protection that enables you to exist.

It includes gluttonous spending, credit-driven consumerism, placated ignorance, lazy self-indulgence. Surgery rather than accepting the reality of age, anti-depressants to numb pain. Christmases focused on presents, businesses run on shredded files, dreams of nothing more than comfort.

There are parts of this culture that I do not like and there are parts intrinsic to my very being. I am still working through understanding what this all means, so that the next time some one asks me what it means to be an American I can answer them directly, succinctly, and truthfully. For how will people from different cultures ever understand each other, if they do not even understand where they come from?

Flash

On our way to an expat party in Koregaon Park -- skinny jeans, Western tops, hair and makeup patiently done. Restless to begin the night and failing to find vacant rickshaws, we opt to climb in the trunk area of a six-seater rickshaw that is already brimming with a family of eleven. Bump bumping on wooden planks in the back, heads hitting the canvas roof covering. Weighed down from existing beyond full capacity. A man in front of us, who is sitting on the lap of an older man, shares an old Bollywood music video saved on his aged cellphone. An undulating female soprano providing the background music to our late night ride through town. The rickshaw pulls up to the Swargate bus station, and the family gets out, pulling suitcases out of hidden crevices, helping more people descend than we knew were in the rickshaw to begin with. Waving goodbyes and wishing good lucks, we climb over the trunk divider and settle onto the cushioned back seat bench. Onward to a costumed night of expat shenanigans!  

And So It Begins To End

Back alley black market electronics stores, with owners calling for “Uncle” and patrons waiting eagerly in the shadows. Slim young men in flared jean bell bottoms and fuzzy lime green sweater vests, screaming static energy. Texts involving “hey ;)” and “!!!!”, “LUV YA!!!” and “y rn’t u txting me bck????”. 15 rupee cold coffees, side of ice cream please. Convincing the rickshaw drivers to let us drive, in exchange for speaking English to their friends on old cell phones. Welcomed into homes and offices for my filming, always accompanied with cups of chai and large smiles. Post office buckets of glue to seal letters. Bollywood and Zumba dance classes taught to packed rooms of the uncoordinated but highly motivated. Rows and rows of carbon copied earrings. Haggled prices and threadbare sheets. Fresh fig, pomegranate, papaya, lychee off the street corner. The fat man and his fat wife and their fat dog living on the sidewalk down the street. The security guard outside the motorcycle store with the perfectly groomed handlebar moustache and sly grin. Electronic Titanic and Christmas songs whenever cars are put in reverse. Slippery tile sidewalks that have never made sense, but are more inclined towards promoting ice skating than walking. Talking film and philosophy over hot cups of coffee and languid stares. Eight small children in perfectly pressed uniforms climbing out of a single rickshaw upon reaching school. Dancing the night away at an ex-pat party. An entire city shut down by bandits on motorcycles pledging their allegiance to a political party. Bouncing along with four grown adults on a motorcycle. Street side masala corn, no butter. Small Ganesh idols with heads that wobble. Fireworks set off at all hours of the night. Wide-eyed appreciation and narrow-eyed disdain.

I am going to really miss this country. With 18 days left of this program, the end is seeming far too near. Crazy, dysfunctional, beautiful, rigid, exciting, lazy, foul, vibrant, India has undeniably sunk its teeth into me, and I am not yet sure how I will emerge.

Who Said Third Time's the Charm?

Welcome to Goa, for the second time.

Begin your journey with flights cancelled and connections pulled, moving on to beachside ‘Sex on the Beach’ and ‘Between the Sheets’, freshly cut pineapple and papaya and your increasingly aggressive “No” to the sellers of Goan crafts. Meander over to a fruitfully landscaped restaurant to listen to a live band playing ‘Hotel California’, and pick the street side stores clean of any clothing you might potentially see yourself actually wearing upon return to the States. Saunter to a night out on the town filled with coconut Feni and Limca, Bollywood dancing and rushed conversations, that lasts well into the next morning’s sunrise.

Candolim Beach, Goa -- L. Glick

Awake to mango juice and fresh feta salad, followed by leisurely napping to the sounds of wind chimes chiming, infinity pool water approaching infinity, and the slow beating of a heart experiencing contentment. Jolted alive by the crashing of a scooter, recover with a hot, well-pressured shower and the pure happiness accompanied with the donning of a fresh robe post-bathing. Nestle on top the California King bed beneath the romantic mosquito net inspired canopy at the Yoga Magic Eco Retreat, and grow full belly full on a dinner complemented by cheap Indian wine. Join friends for a re-venture downtown to dance the night away with Australians, and Germans, and French, oh my!

Yoga Magic, Anjunta, Goa

Greet the final day with an incense-infused, early morning yoga and pranayama class filled with ohms and exhales and a finale of a big mug of fresh ginger and lemongrass tea. Stretch your stomach to consume all the muesli, curd, pomegranate, toast, and fresh pear jam your body can inhale, and then roll from your outdoor patio down into the island structured swimming pool. Climb feet-first into a beach taxi that will bring you to the acclaimed Aashyana Lakhanpal luxury villas and curl up on the beachside chaises under the hot Indian sun. Say good night to the sun on a cliff look-out while contemplating your future and upgrade to a bottle of vintage white wine served with your dinner on the outside terrace of the Portuguese inspired villa. 

Aashyana Lakhanpal, Candolim, Goa

Pack your bags to head back on the 22:15 flight to Pune, of course only after agreeing to pay the ticket collector who cancelled your initial flight tickets home.

The Group - Capetown Bar, Baga Beach

I Think It's Time to Breath

Following the trail of billowing saris up and over the trash-strewn, impossibly rocky hill and then through the winding labyrinth of streets, my video camera records the faces peering out from windows, the smiles and the laughter of those whom we pass. Those initial looks of confusion and then the breaking of a smile upon realizing the camera is pointed at them, filming their responses. The shrieks of laughter from a boy getting tickled by his mother, the purity of a young girl’s smile as she plays with a baby kitten. Everyone knows each other, calling out hellos as children play makeshift cricket and badminton in the alleys. While this area is technically classified as a “slum”, it is far from Western perceptions about what a slum actually entails. Instead of derelict huts and rotting corpses, this “slum” represents more of a community than most of the Pune I have experienced thus far.

I have come to this area to film for my documentary film project, following the women through the streets, armed with my video camera and rudimentary Hindi, allowing them to take me where they please. She brings me into her modest home, adorned with lavender walls and spotless floors, and sits me down on a last-limb folding chair situated next to an old wire birdcage. Serving me scalding coffee (from which my tongue still burns) and then watching as I try and take chug-approaching sips to match her Olympic drinking rate.

This finally feels real. We do not understand each other, but at the same time we do. Language barriers surpassed, connected by a shared feeling, a shared basic humanity. After I finish my coffee she leads me over to sit on the chair in front of their Bollywood playing flat screen. The others in the family sit on the floor in a semi-circle around the chair, alternating between looking at the screen and my face.

It might finally be happening. Maybe my face has been relaxed by Indian suns, my smile lit by Maharashtrian fires. No longer a Western imperialist, I feel more like Diane Sawyer, but significantly more grungy. I have accepted that I will not be fully immersed in the culture, that I will always be seen first by my race. But maybe I can capitalize on that. Use my novelty to spark relationships. My outsider status to instigate conversations.

For these past couple of weeks I had begun to truly despise parts of India, essentially following verbatim the “Steps of Home Sickness” manual we were handed at the beginning of the program. I hated the looks I got walking down the street, finally caving by wrapping my head and shoulders in a long scarf when leaving the house in an attempt to self-protect against leering glances. I was perpetually cringing, swallowing down hatred and believing I would never understand so there was no point to even try. Taking rickshaws instead of walking to get from one place to the other as fast as possible. Constant tunnel visioning to prevent the seeing of the unpleasant, scarf to face to prevent the breathing in of the pollution, the smell of burning trash.

But then the other weekend when we were in Mahabaleshwar, hill station of the strawberries, it slowly began shifting. We ventured to a small, isolated Shiva temple on the side of a cliff overlooking the cascading hills and deep blue lake below, very Lords of the Rings-esque. Standing in front of the old stone temple, facing the cliff below, lifting my hands above my head, arching my back into the sun in a perfect post card posture. And breathing, really breathing in and out. Breathing in all the good and releasing the bad. It began to click. All that India has to offer, to teach, it was merely waiting for me to release my faulty expectations and actually act upon the pure basis of experience.

While I have less than a month to act on these new ideas, I have nothing to lose by trying.

We Have Fun, Right?

For one week this semester, we were given the freedom to travel anywhere in India -- planning our own trips, attempting to discover the country on our own. Obviously, we booked a travel agent ASAP and devised a route that would offer us the perfect mix of rugged, photo-worthy adventure and hot shower comfort. To keep this from encroaching into the Travelocity review realm, I will try to only highlight some of my most memorable experiences, the memories I will most likely remember in the years to come, when all other memories of this semester have faded.

To begin, we had an early flight out from Pune to Delhi, and then a layover until our flight from Delhi to Varanasi. Delhi airport was amazing, beautiful, clean. I could have easily spent a day or two hiding inside, as I love spending time in airports to begin with. The airport was filled with Western tourists -- usually falling in to one of three subgroups: the middle-aged, recently divorced women inspired by “Eat, Pray, Love”, ready to discover themselves alongside Julia Roberts in the land of color and sound; the business men and women incessantly typing out messages on whirring Blackberrys, looking at India as a means to add a few more 0s to their paychecks; and the ones who smell a little too herbal, with their heads in clouds of Mary Jane and their dreams centered on the 'Namaste'. Looking around was the first time I have begun to feel that India is slowly changing me. I felt a confidence as I walked through the airport, knowing I had experience in this mysterious country, that I could navigate nameless streets and eat sticky rice and soup with only my right hand.

Arriving in Varanasi, was almost like arriving inside a postcard, but a postcard that reeks. Varanasi is filthy while at the same time beautiful. Piles of garbage are set burning on the sides of the streets (the smell we now refer to as "IT") and men and women with leprosy sit with their mangled hands outstretched for donations. Frying oil bubbles and matted hair, freshly painted temples and crumbling shanty towns. Hundreds of religious pilgrims gathered at the Ganges Ghats (bathing stairs) early in the morning for sunrise rituals, and at night there was music and prayers once again. Known as India's religious center, Varanasi was filled with little and large idols, prayers and songs. 

While sitting beside the river to watch the sun work its way up into the sky, there was a group of old women in front of us getting their hair razored off. Kneeling expectantly, they would wait as a young man would come up to each of them, grab their withered gray hair, knife it off, and then proceed to get rid of all remaining tufts and strands until the women were left bald. An exclamation of faith? The martyrdom of sexuality?

On our way to dinner one night, L and I got stuck up to our knees in Ganges river mud. Unable to pull ourselves out without toppling over and slowly sinking farther and farther down, we called desperately for help. To the amusement of a growing crowd, Z was able to pull me out but L had to be rescued by a local who proceeded to climb up the side of the building to gain leverage to haul her out.  But lo and behold, her flip flop was still a foot or two deep in the mud. Refusing to leave behind one half of her precious Rainbows, she demanded that the man retrieve the missing shoe (verbatim – “I am not leaving without my Rainbow!”). Desperate to attempt to wash some of the mud off of our jean-clad legs, we accepted the offer to climb aboard the wooden boat of the local rescuer and dangle our legs from the side into the even filthier, human ash-infused water. Living life in the moment? Check.

Post-Mud Sinkage.

Headed on to the overnight train to Agra. Highlights include a large, Sikh man, complete with a turban and velour track suit, popping into our cabin, making himself at home with one hand on Z’s upper thigh, and inviting in his fellow friends to try and talk to us in English. Very EuroTrip-esque (“mi scuse, mi scuse”).

Embracing the appropriate train ride crunchy attitude.

Arriving in Agra to the Taj Mahal and the Taj far exceeding all my expectations. It is massive and gorgeous, all built in tribute to the king’s deceased wife, setting the bar pretty high for all men to follow. We left with hundreds of photos and dreams of our own future palaces built out of love and ridiculous sums of money.

Future faces of Indian tourism.

Jaipur will be earmarked in my memory for its forts and palaces. Mirrored palace rooms and great stonewalls, monkeys attacking humans and prayers delivered on loud speakers. When I first was walking through the forts I could imagine the laughter and the dancing, the colorful saris flowing and platters of food being served. But then our guide described it as “a luxury prison”, and my perception changed entirely, the forts adopting a foreboding and ominous presence. These forts were built to house the wives and mistresses of the Raja, and no men were allowed inside the premises, save eunuchs. The women could not leave, could not be seen, ghosts of beauty hidden within stonewalls.

Driving on to Jodhpur through Rajasthan – the land of colorful turbans, with truckfulls of pinks, oranges, reds on the heads of wearied travelers. We drove past a run-down old fair area, filled with desert sands, a broken Ferris wheel, and little stalls with dusty Ganesh idols.

Of our travel destinations, Jodhpur was my favorite. Notable events include the King of Bhutan leaning out of his car procession (he was visiting India on his honeymoon) and speaking directly to us – “Enjoy your selves here”. Only if you insist…

I am also now in the holiday cards for half of the Indian population.

But most notable of all was the last night of travel week, spent on the rooftop of our hotel (Kiran Villas) with bottles of Kingfisher Strong, lit sticks of incense, and baskets of papadom. Speaking of the future, our aspirations and greatest fears, we gave in to the temptations of India and made resolute pacts to return. We were then joined by the owner of the hotel, a man with a genuine smile and classic Rajasthani moustache. Dressed in an athletic tracksuit and sneakers, he pulled up a chair and had us meditate with him. Closing our eyes we began with the simple “Ohm”, all together, voices harmonizing into a perfect pitch of peace. And then he taught us a meditation in which with your fingers you close your eyes and ears, forcing you to internalize your own sound. All together humming, I at first broke down and could not help but laugh at the absurdity of it all. And then I took a deep breath and allowed myself to succumb to the meditation, to India, to everything about the rooftop and everything beyond. After a few minutes, we removed our hands from our faces and took a deep breath to bring us back to the rooftop, back to reality. Referring to me as “Doylie”, as he was unable to pronounce my name, he went on to discuss with us the importance of breath, of life, and of doing away with temptations and indulgences, this of course happening all while the little table is covered with our empty beer bottles.

Titanic meets Jodhpur. 

Travel week is over, but all in all it was an amazing week filled with indescribable beauty, movie-worthy bonding moments, and an absurd amount of laughter, apart from the digestion difficulties experienced by the entire group.

Death, Varanasi

There is no beauty in death. Ugly, decaying, unholy. Death is death alone. 

Finally emerging from the winding labyrinth of Varanasi side streets we arrive at our little hotel, Sita Guest House, right along the Ganges River. We dump our bulging backbacks in our rooms and venture up the narrow staircase to the rooftop, wiping sweat from our foreheads and dirt from our leggings. The rooftop looks out on the garbage filled river, the holy river of India. Our eyes feast on the colors below, the pilgrims and the boats, the cows and the monkeys. And then we see him. Red plaid shirt, wide torso. Face down in thou holiest of rivers, floating along. Dead. Z is the last one on the roof and joins us at the balcony. He follows our eyes to the floating man and throws his hands to his head, recoiling in disgust. Swearing and stammering, he backs away from the balcony but then joins us once more. Staring out in silence at the man who once was.

Without warning our tour guide navigates us to the Burning Ghats. We follow him down a small alley and then there it is directly in front of us. Five burnings are happening at once. Young men walk back and forth bringing more wood for the fires. Back and forth, back and forth with more wood. A large box is opened and a dead man lies inside. Waiting to be burnt, crisped, singed, destroyed, sent up to the heavens? He wears a traditional outfit and there are flowers on his chest. His face is an inhuman gray. Our tour guide walks over to read from where this man has come, Bangalore. An older woman, presumably his wife, makes her way across the muddy hills and around the piles of garbage and shit and kneels down beside this man from Bangalore. And we watch. Stare as she rests her head against his, shaking from the weight of mourning. More wood back and forth. Six old men sit on a wooden bench and casually watch the happenings. Others just stand and stare like us. Mr. Bangalore is lifted up and placed on a freshly laid pile of wood. I bite my tongue to keep from vomiting and push my way back up through the small alley. 

Farther down the road are emaciated cows digging through the piles of trash, scavenging for anything to eat. Ribs protruding and eyes cast down, waiting to die. Holy cow, you do not look so holy anymore. On the side of the street lies a dead dog, eyes gauged out by other hungry creatures.

Tunnel visioned and heart racing. Click goes the lighter. 

Here in Varanasi death is everywhere. It bites at you, gnawing your ankles and making its way up deep into your once sheltered, but thankfully still beating, heart. 

In the West the sick are separated from the healthy, the dead far from the living. Death is hidden in deep wooden caskets, buried far beneath the earth, disguised in stage makeup, lost in the locked incinerator, warded off with penicillin, Botox, and carefully manicured self-delusions. 

But here, life and death are intertwined, both real and unflinchingly unforgiving. And I am terrified of this death. I can handle the death that is glorified, the one about which songs are composed and stories retold. But this death is different. It is in your face and it reeks. I am forced to white knuckle grab the thick flesh of my upper arm to prove to myself I am still alive among all that is not. Desperately feeling for the familiar warmth of life, digging nails deep to keep back the vomit. 

The body will rot, decay, it will mold. Bugs will crawl through and after a while there will be more dirt than body. Our bodies will inevitably fail us. So I keep telling myself that death lets us transcend our body's limitations. That dogs will finally see in color and humans understand that which bewilders us. 

But there is no beauty in death.

A Story, Set in Mumbai

Beginning.

Visit to Dharavi, Asia's largest slum. Tiled floors complemented by satellite televisions… Asia's largest slum? Approached by no beggars, only small school children with smiles and beginning English phrases. Piles of cotton set burning, smoke filling the cleaned alleyways with hack-inducing smog. Toilets built as add-ons to the shanty homes -- they are set apart from the house, on top of the river, so everything that comes out of the human goes down to the water.

Middle.

Invited to an after-party at the apartment of a Bollywood producer. Not the home in which he lives, merely his apartment where he throws parties. Pool table, chandeliers, countless bottles of Grey Goose, Macallan, Patron. DJ Sammy spins tracks in the leather-accented living room and actors mingle with painters and writers in the foyer. The host has to venture downstairs to pay off the police, twice. 

End. 

Curled up in the private van on the way back to Pune. Tap, tap on the windows. Girl of about 15 years old, pressing her face against the window with a young baby pressed against her chest. Tap, tap. She motions to her mouth, gesturing for food, lifting the baby up to the car window. She is quickly joined by many others, surrounding the car, eyes pleading, hands gesturing. Tap, tap on the windows.

The Tracks

To begin to understand the gross disparity between socio-economic classes in India, one needs to go only as far as the Pune Railway Station and walk besides the track, starting at the back of the train, cargo loading, and ending at the front, first-class AC. 

By mistake, or maybe as a way to mess with the oblivious Americans, our rickshaw driver drops us off at the back entrance to the station, the cargo loading zone for all trains heading into or out of Pune. At 6 in the morning the moon is still winning the relentless struggle with the sun, the darkness adding to the eery vibe of the day. N and I hesitantly walk in the direction the driver points us, a direction leading into a dark alley lined with rickshaws and motionless bodies, asleep on the wet gravel. Taking a deep breath, we assume our adventurous roles, lift our heads high, and power forward.

"Rickshaw?"

No.

"Where are you going? Mumbai? Rickshaw?"

No.

We see the outline of a train farther ahead of us, and with renewed assurance head deeper into the foreboding alley.

A man resolutely drags his debilitated body forward across the broken gravel on his hands and knees, legs mangled by polio. 

A mother frantically hurries past with her young daughter in tow. The barefoot daughter wears a tattered school uniform, hair messy and face darkened by soot.

We approach what looks to be the station. Cargo boxes are piled up, the puddled cement floor is strewn with bodies of the hundreds of slumbering. Naked babies intertwined with ragged fathers. Ripped saris and sodden underwear. 

Groups crowd around an old copper water fountain, waiting for their turn to wash their bodies with a couple splashes from the fountain's inconsistent dribble. Quick movements, they are ready to run towards the approaching train as soon as it comes, jumping on at the last second to obtain a precious ride to Mumbai.

The smell is foul, vile, disturbing on so many levels. It surrounds and envelops you, sending you into a little personal hell of scent. A mix between excrement, rotting flesh,  and molding hermit crabs, it is everywhere. 

Lying on the train tracks are little piles of shit as the toilets on the train are merely western toilet lids placed over holes that open up directly to the tracks below. 

Toto, we are definitely not in Kansas anymore. 

Side-step weaving around the piles of bodies we make our hesitant way through the station, and by station I mean outdoor tiled area next to a train track. As we walk through away from the cargo section the sights and sounds begin to change, the smells remain consistent. 

Gradually the puddles get smaller and the food stands pop up. Over time there are more people standing by their luggage than asleep atop newspapers on the ground. Men in slacks replace men in underwear, faces shine rather than fade beneath the dirt. 

But even as we get to the waiting zone for the First Class AC train, there is no way to pretend you are not in a developing country. At times like this I desperately miss the comforts of home. A sudden urge overtakes me to climb into bed, pull my down comforter up over my head, and force from my memory everything I have seen, smelled, touched, felt since arriving here. It is at these times that everything begins spinning, blending into one, chaotic and alien world. I cannot yet decide whether this is a weakness I am incapable of suppressing or a natural human instinct I will never be able to escape. Maybe it is both, maybe it is neither. 

Our train finally pulls into the station, and relieved we hoist up our backpacks and climb aboard, all too ready to exchange the smell of rotting excrement and the sight of naked slumbering babies for reclining seats and greasy made-to-order cheesy omelets.

Guru Goa

He gruffly picks up my hand and flexes the wrist backwards so my palm faces towards his round, hairy face. Unsatisfied he has me press my hand, fingers splayed, back onto the little wooden block between us. 

Press harder. I try.

Then again he grabs my wrist and bends it so my palm faces him, ready for scrutiny. He studies the reddened lines and crevices etched into a palm that is smooth to the touch, soft and tender skin alien to physical labor. No lifting, digging, trenching, washing for these college-educated hands.

Guru Shruti Prakash's fingernails are misshapen, the cuticles all but cover the nails. His hands are rough, mine go limp in his grasp.

I wish I could see what goes on in his mind as he gazes into the spiderweb of my palm. Is it a blank slate that he fills with pre-meditated phrases of prophecy and omnipotence? Or does there dance a swirling story of future mixed with past and present? 

Trying to give in to the moment, I resolutely look deep into his eyes, nodding as he foretells my future, understands my present, remembers for me my past. 

"You will have great success."

I perk up, lean closer, nod deeper. Maybe this Guru does know what he is talking about.

"17 makes for Saturn, 1 is 1 for Sun, 1991 makes 20 which is 2 as in Moon."

He loses me again, and my skepticism slowly ebbs away at all remaining faith. 

Replacing faith with distraction, I focus my attention on the mosquitos feasting on my legs and the sand still between my toes and the horns of rickshaws flying past and the sun slowly setting and the itchiness of the mat upon which we cross our legs and the thickness of his accent and his hands, rough, dirty, dark. 

We found this Guru, our Goa Guru, while walking along the main road trying to find an ATM to fuel our shopper's desires. Dressed in bathing suits still wet from the Indian Ocean and elephant-printed sarongs draped casually over our bodies, hair pulled back in salty ponytails and faces pink from the relentless sun, it is as if a spotlight shines upon our sunbrushed bodies. But we have become almost become immune to these clockwork stares. Even in Baga, one of the most popular beaches in Goa, we stand out. As Westerners we hurl ourselves towards the line of cultural insensitivity with our bare legs and shoulders and ankles and collar bones. But as girls raised in tee shirts and shorts, minuscule sun dresses and bikinis, there is only so long we can cover our bodies. 

(Rationalization for outfit choices in Goa: As you are white, you will be stared at no matter what you wear, so you might as well get nice and bronzed.)

A large sign advertised his services -- "Guru Shruti Prakash: NATURAL HEALING, SELF-REALIZATION & MYSTERIES EXPERIENCE CENTRE". Tempted by the desire to see into the future for only 70 rupees for five minutes, and fueled by sun-induced exhaustion and delusion, we turn at the sign and slide/slip down an overgrown weeded path into a long-neglected garden connected to the back of a run-down house. Giving final nods of support, I ring the doorbell.

Watching the time quickly pass, the rupees add up, and my self-realization just as stunted as before, I ask to end the session. Before leaving, my Guru allows me to pick a copper ring from a big wooden tray for him to bless for me. He begins the blessing rituals, filling a little goblet with water and pouring it lightly over the ring. He chants ineligible Hindi, pauses in the middle to ask for my name, and then finishes by placing the ring upon my finger. 

50/50 chance I am now married to an Indian Guru, but at least no dowry had to be paid in exchange for this Indian princess. How much more crunchy can I get?

Ode to the Woman

Preface:

Here in the Motherland we are celebrating the final day of a week-long festival in honor of all Hindu goddesses. So to take my part in the festivities, I am dedicating this to the Woman I have experienced so far in India. 

One of the things that continues to bewilder me about Indian society and culture is the dynamic between men and women. In comparison with the United States, in which the historical dichotomy between the two is pretty self-explanatory, things get pretty warped this side of the Indian Ocean. Since this is the semester I put aside to begin my epic quest to discover who I am, or make myself into who I dream to be, I think it is only appropriate to start by looking at other women around me.

If you are taking the time to read this, then please read it for what it is -- just my own thoughts. They are grossly generalized, and in no ways attempt to account for the entire Indian female population because that would be absurdly impossible. Finally, I am a 20 year old college student, I have never claimed to be totally PC. 

And this is not technically an ode, but I liked the way the title sounded.

Here it goes… 

The Woman is revered and ignored. Respected and beaten. Beautiful and ugly. Strong and silent. 

She wraps herself in a richly intricate sari of fuchsia and turquoise, draped open to expose the whole of her mid-section -- the folds and curves of her belly, hips, the small, or in some cases large, of her back. She is wrinkled, weathered, battered. She is regal, vibrant, strong. 

Her back is stooped from the years of carrying bushels of timber on her sculpted shoulders, metal containers of water balanced on her firm skull. Her head is held high and her eyes stretch into yours, confronting you, challenging you, accepting you.

Rotten teeth from a lifetime of neglect, deeply calloused soles and disjointed toes from the thousands of kilometers trekked. The Woman herds the cattle, the children, the Man. 

She laughs with pure delight and smiles without constraint. Her eyes light the skies when you amuse her and burn into you when there is nothing to be happy about. These eyes have seen it all, and will continue to see more. They remain open to that which surrounds her, but are ready to close when the sun dips low and the strays begin their roaming.

The Woman squats to the ground, butt hanging between her opened thighs, spitting phlegm onto the caked mud at her feet. She adorns her body with layers of jingling anklets, winged nose rings, sparkling earrings, elaborate bracelets, interlocking rings. 

She is labeled, marked, graced by a bindi between her eyes. She is integral to the Hindu rituals -- standing in support of her husband, reminding him of the lyrics to the songs when he falters. A master in the kitchen, she artfully mixes spices and sweets, serving all others first, and then waiting as her husband serves her.

Flinging her magenta scarf around her shoulders she braves the monsoon rains, clinging her purse close to her chest and plowing right through the slowly deepening puddles. No stranger to muddy feet, she slips off her sandals as she enters her apartment, then slowly washes the dirt from between her toes. 

The Woman stares out from her night black burka. Her eyes are alight with life and complemented by her fiery red heeled sandals and hot pink toenail polish. She walks with purpose through the nameless streets, an anonymous figure cloaked in black amidst the sea of colors.

In tight Levis jeans, a Hollister teeshirt, and Converse she meanders down the sidewalk, eyes barely lifting from the illuminated screen of her constantly vibrating Blackberry. She is immune to that which swirls by all around her, only half-heartedly lifting her self-bleached face when an auto-rickshaw slams his brakes in front of her.

The Woman splits a slice of warm, dark chocolate cake with the Man, making eyes across the table and slowly running her hands through her thick black mane, twirling the ends around her manicured fingers. She looks across at him through her mascara-coated eyelashes and straightforwardly challenges a claim he has made, altogether stumping him with her poise and wisdom.

She pours a glass of water from the copper pitcher and gazes out at her students and her classroom, urging them to question, to think, to understand. She picks up her misshapen piece of chalk and begins the afternoon class, ready to teach, ready to be heard.

Namaste, Let Me Liberate You

We roll into the tribal village five SUVs deep. We aptly call ours 'Big Red' because it is big, red, and a tank. To get to the village requires some serious off-roading as the roads consist of more rock than cement. Portable iPod speakers blast Jay-Z and Johnny Cash from the fold-down seats where the trunk space should be. We discuss glory stories from home and imagine the taste of a steak burger, complemented by fresh avocados, basil, and goat cheese. 

When we arrive we stumble out of the car, muscles contorted and cramped from the treacherous ride there. Armed with Ray-Ban aviators, scuffed Longchamps, and trusty digital cameras, we disembark into the world of an Indian tribal village.

The first heads peer out from behind the openings of the cow dung houses, followed by a seemingly silent alert that notifies everyone else in the village of the white man's arrival. What started with one curious child, quickly turns into the whole village, standing around, staring at us, laughing at us? With us?

Are we symbols of the benefits of capitalism? Representatives of everything Western? Smile broader. Laugh deeper. We are Western liberators, hear us roar.

Time to turn on the trusty digital cameras as we imagine taking the next National Geographic cover shot. The image of the beautiful young child in the desolate environment, eyes filled with hope and wisdom well beyond his/her years. With a big smile and little laugh to show our harmlessness, we inch closer to the children, slyly turning on our cameras, preparing for that money-making shot. 

So who is in the zoo? They stare at us while we stare at them. We do not know their language and they do not know ours. Their hunger is alien to us and our abundance alien to them. We are different in innumerable ways. But a smile is a smile, a laugh a laugh. 

Click the picture. Click a couple more. Step into a photo or two surrounded by the children for good measure. 

"Namaskar!"

*shy smile*

"Tumhara nam kya hai?"

*inaudible reply*

"Oh!! Mera nam Alison hai!"

*shy smile*

"Picture?"

*confusion*

*click*

Make eye contact with some of the women and then smile. Feel deep inside that in some way you are making a difference, giving them hope for the future, reassurance of the beauty in the world. Forget that the villagers have lived without you for centuries, and that they will continue to live without you as soon as you get back in the SUV and drive away. Instead, feel some innate confidence in your power to make a difference through simply being.

Maybe we will remember this day in another twenty years or so as we are mingling during a dinner party and the subject of India and poverty, or just poverty in general, comes up. We will recount our experience, embellish it with horns and whistles, give a smile that exudes deep knowledge of the outside world. 

Or maybe we will remember it when we come across the pictures we have taken. The slight smiles of the disheveled and dirty children with their bright eyes and high-pitched laughs. We will again wonder why none of them were in school, conjure up some more memories from that semester abroad, and then continue our flip through the photo stash.

It is time to get back in Big Red. Our imminent lunch feast is calling out to us, and we follow without even a sigh of protest. Chapati, paneer, dal, and rice run through our dreams, quickly replacing thoughts of poverty, inequity, dirt.

Turn the iPod speakers back on and choose an appropriate "leaving desolate tribal village" vibed song. 

Roll down the windows of Big Red for big waves, big smiles, last goodbyes. But wait a second, were there ever any real hellos?

Hinder me Hindi

"Me, India. You...?"

"United States."

"Huh?"

"America!"

"Oh! Obama!"

Day in the Life of a Casual Monday

1. Alarm goes off at 6:30am. Makes me reconsider the choice of study abroad programs.
2. Bucket shower in the bathroom, hot water extra hot this morning. Still feel like I'm in a music video while pouring the water over my body.
3. Attempt to dry off with a still damp towel -- fail. And by towel I mean a piece of woven cloth. 
4. Dress for success. Leggings and a new kurta, accessorized with some street stall gems, finished off with a stick-on bindi. 
5. Find light mold growing on my old pair of Rainbows -- fail, again. 
6. Scrub off the mold with nail polish remover. Resourcefulness is a virtue.
7. Cup of scalding, but delicious, chai with Natalie in our bedroom. 
8. Head out for the short walk to school. Disturbed that I'm no longer startled by seeing a naked child sleeping on the middle of the sidewalk. 
9. Breakfast at the center of veg puffs, hard-boiled eggs, yogurt, bananas, and peanut butter balls. And I thought I was going to lose weight in India...
10. Study for tomorrow's Hindi test. Mera nam Alison hai. Tumhara nam kya hai? 
11. Development Economics class with one of the best teachers I've ever had. Class almost got locked in the room today. I wouldn't have freaked if all the windows hadn't been surrounded by iron bars. Luckily I busted the doors open with some hidden strength. I like to think of myself as a hero from time to time. 
12. Lunch at Roopali. Tomato Uttappa. 
13. Almost got hit by a public bus, and then an auto-rickshaw, while crossing JM Road. 
14. Hour spent in Fab India buying new clothes. I need to stop using the exchange rate to justify every purchase I make. 
15. Wore my new scarf around my head to pretend to be an Indian princess, but people still spoke to me in English. Third fail of the day. 
16. Saw clips of a film in film class today on the 2002 massacre in Gujarat, India. In three days 3,000 Muslims were slaughtered, raped, and tortured by Hindus. I had never heard of it before. Crazy to find out how little I actually know about the world. 
17. 2-hour Bharatanatyam dance class today in a hidden studio -- run-down, no mirrors, stray dogs. I feel very old NYC dance world… except I'm in India. 
18. Had to sit half the class out because I thought I was going to throw up. India is single handedly ruining my digestive system. 
19. Late night rickshaw ride home = insufferable exhaust from all the cars and scooters + blaring horns + a feeling of unadulterated freedom as we speed through the bright streets and I realize I'm across the world
20. Late night dinner with the host family. I'm going to miss all the spices and a home-cooked dinner every night.
21. Debate whether a fire work show or civil war is occurring outside my window. 
22. Pretend to do some homework. 
23. Time for sleep. The concretesque, hard bed is growing on me. The light, woven "blanket" is still a little less than sufficient. 

Muse With Me

Time and again I romanticize the poor. I see beauty and nobility in families struggling to get by, integrity and humility in those who have never had the opportunity to venture outside their local villages. 

When I came to India I believed that the real India was the India of the slums. The India that toils away, back bent, face darkened by the ruthless sun, feet calloused from the thousands of kilometers trudged. My real India lay in the tears from gross inequality and the cries of oppression during the British rule. Like a classic scene out of an old Indian film, I found honor in simplicity, beauty in ignorance. 

I keep telling myself that all that is not true. It would be like limiting the definition of America to those who live in trailer parks or work on farms. Just as you cannot focus on the wealthy while ignoring the poor, you cannot romanticize the poor while belittling the wealthy. 

But as I sip chocolate espresso in the Chocolate Room, eat the Chicken Maharaja Mac at McDonalds, run on the treadmill in a sky terrace gym, and indulge in manicures and pedicures at a local salon, I cannot help but worry that nothing has changed since leaving the States. It seems like you can throw me across the world and plop me down in any city whatsoever, and I will manage to seek out all that resembles America and then formulate a simple routine around those discoveries. 

I wanted this semester to change me profoundly. I stacked up all my dreams and pegged them on this four-month period. Have I sprinted away from the real India and sought out the pre-packaged, limited warranty version? Or have I just acclimated quickly to this country and refuse to be surprised anymore? 

I am starting to fear that I cannot run from my American-bred, materialistic, capitalist self. Like a shadow, it follows me wherever the sun shines, which is literally everywhere. Except maybe for the North Pole, or Seattle.