The first week we arrived in India, we wrote down a list of group rules. One of them was "remember your roots." Seeds is where my roots are. Help them grow. Click on the box below.
Thursday, November 26
Help Seeds of Peace!
Last night, we were eating our favorite Assi Ghat apple pie when we heard an announcement for a candlelight vigil in honor of the memory of the terrorist attacks in Mumbai last November 26. Chhaya and I went down and lit candles with the crowd. I prayed for the lives that had been lost, and prayed that nothing of its magnitude would ever happen again. I thought about how proud I was to be a member of Seeds of Peace, which has always been an unwavering voice of reason through the most difficult times of terror.
The first week we arrived in India, we wrote down a list of group rules. One of them was "remember your roots." Seeds is where my roots are. Help them grow. Click on the box below.
The first week we arrived in India, we wrote down a list of group rules. One of them was "remember your roots." Seeds is where my roots are. Help them grow. Click on the box below.
Tuesday, November 24
Overheard anthropomorphism
Saumya: Oh Didi, the moon is walking!
Priyanka: Noo, Saumya, the clouds are walking, na?
Priyanka: Noo, Saumya, the clouds are walking, na?
Monday, November 23
I caved
Last night I was at my family's sari shop, and the shopkeeper told me I will not have experienced Banaras without trying paan. I told him at some point I would, just to make him happy, but then he ran out and returned a few minutes later with paan for Genevieve and me. It was actually the prettiest paan I've ever seen, decorated with silver leaf and rose petals. It tasted very bizarre, with sweet exotic spices I can't describe. While I tried to control the gob of leaves stuck in my left cheek, he held the lehenga I'd just bought up to me, and we both looked at my reflection in the mirror.
"You now, Hindustaani," he said.
"You now, Hindustaani," he said.
Friday, November 20
This place
I wish I could capture all the little wonderful moments of my days (because every day, no matter how difficult, has them), bundle them up and send them back to my friends and family at home. Life here is so beautiful.
Yesterday, on my walk to Hindi class early in the morning, I first began to feel the chill of winter. I've been laughing at my homestay sister, who bundles up with wool jackets and a scarf when it's 65 degrees outside, but it actually is starting to get pretty cold. The wind blew hard and I almost lost my dupatta. Cycling past, a rickshaw driver with no warm clothes, and holes in his pants torn from days of constant contact with his bikeseat, sang an upbeat song that made me smile.
Later in the day, a monkey ran into our apartment, ignoring Lizzie horrified shrieks of "Out, get OUT! THERE IS A MONKEY IN HERE AND - OUT!!!"
By the time Joe and I ran out of the kitchen, where we were making grilled cheese, it had grabbed an orange, and run back out the door to enjoy its lunch on the highest part of our roof.
Last night was the last night of Guria's concert series, Pearls of Love, part of our campaign to end human trafficking. Even one of the little girls in a tattered dress who sells postcards for five rupees each on the ghats tossed some coins into my donations cloth.
And on the way home, I asked my rickshaw driver to stop at the dobie, or washerman, by Assi Ghat to pick up my laundry. My clothes weren't ready, but his wife invited me into their house to meet her daughter's six-day-old baby. He was so tiny, and swaddled in a gray blanket. His mother had lined his eyes with smudged khol, a traditional Indian way to ward off the evil eye. She asked him to say "Namaste", but I understood when he only stared up at me. I hope I gave him a good first impression of a Westerner.
Yesterday, on my walk to Hindi class early in the morning, I first began to feel the chill of winter. I've been laughing at my homestay sister, who bundles up with wool jackets and a scarf when it's 65 degrees outside, but it actually is starting to get pretty cold. The wind blew hard and I almost lost my dupatta. Cycling past, a rickshaw driver with no warm clothes, and holes in his pants torn from days of constant contact with his bikeseat, sang an upbeat song that made me smile.
Later in the day, a monkey ran into our apartment, ignoring Lizzie horrified shrieks of "Out, get OUT! THERE IS A MONKEY IN HERE AND - OUT!!!"
By the time Joe and I ran out of the kitchen, where we were making grilled cheese, it had grabbed an orange, and run back out the door to enjoy its lunch on the highest part of our roof.
Last night was the last night of Guria's concert series, Pearls of Love, part of our campaign to end human trafficking. Even one of the little girls in a tattered dress who sells postcards for five rupees each on the ghats tossed some coins into my donations cloth.
And on the way home, I asked my rickshaw driver to stop at the dobie, or washerman, by Assi Ghat to pick up my laundry. My clothes weren't ready, but his wife invited me into their house to meet her daughter's six-day-old baby. He was so tiny, and swaddled in a gray blanket. His mother had lined his eyes with smudged khol, a traditional Indian way to ward off the evil eye. She asked him to say "Namaste", but I understood when he only stared up at me. I hope I gave him a good first impression of a Westerner.
Thursday, November 19
Wednesday, November 11
Aaj ka quote.
Andrew: I want to watch that Youtube video where you can see a chicken laying an egg.
Shaina: Or you could watch Animal Planet. You can see a chicken laying an egg. Or a horse laying a horse.
Joe: I don’t want to see a horse laying a horse. I want to see a horse laying an alligator. That’d be impressive.
Shaina: Or you could watch Animal Planet. You can see a chicken laying an egg. Or a horse laying a horse.
Joe: I don’t want to see a horse laying a horse. I want to see a horse laying an alligator. That’d be impressive.
Reading list! Suggestions?
I’ve been doing a ton of reading since I came to India. There’s a great bookstore right on Assi Ghat, where I can get almost any book I want. The problem is, since there’s so much selection, sometimes it’s impossible to choose – more than once I’ve found myself sitting on the floor in there for hours, not knowing which book to pick.
This is what I’ve read so far.
Deception Point by Dan Brown
--> The writing isn’t amazing, but Brown knows something about suspense. Lizzie was teasing me for reading him until she started reading DP recently. Totally hooked.
God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater by Kurt Vonnegut
--> I LOVE KURT VONNEGUT. It wasn’t nearly as good as Slaughterhouse Five, but it was still brilliant.
Are You Experienced? by William Sutcliffe
--> Possibly the worst published writing I’ve ever read. But hilarious, sometimes because the writing’s so bad, but also because it captures hippies in India very well.
Gone with the Wind by Margaret Mitchell
--> Could not put it down. BYPies were constantly getting updates on the state of my crush on Rhett Butler.
Freakonomics by Steven D. Levitt & Stephen J. Dubner
--> SO GOOD. Everything blew my mind. What a genius book.
Life of Pi by Yann Martel
--> Definitely my favorite of the books I’ve read so far here. Hilarious, meaningful, so well done.
The Romantics by Pankaj Mishra
--> If you want to know what life is like in the exact neighborhood I’m staying in, read this book. I couldn’t believe how accurate the description of the environment was. Too bad the story was pretty boring.
The Mysteries of Sherlock Holmes by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
--> Love… love.
Interpreter of Maladies by Jhumpa Lahiri
--> I think my expectations were too high because it had won a Pulitzer for fiction. It was really good, though.
Okay. I can’t remember any more that I’ve read. There are some I’d like to go back to. I had to stop reading Inheritance of Loss (Kiran Desai) in the middle, because it was part of a library in Kanda, and we had to leave. I also got distracted from reading Gandhi’s autobiography, which I do eventually want to finish. But I really need suggestions. Right now I’m reading Marquez’ Love in the Time of Cholera, which is great. What should I read next!?
In other news, the Guria concert series, Pearls of Love, is going well. Tonight a new group of marginalized artists are coming, so I’m excited to see their acts. After the show tonight, Joe, his homestay brother, Sourabh, and I are going to see the latest 459374 hour music vide- I mean, Bollywood movie, Ajab Prem Ki Ghazab Kahani. We saw Blue last month. It’ll be interesting to see if Katrina Kaif is as good without her chin stud.
This is what I’ve read so far.
Deception Point by Dan Brown
--> The writing isn’t amazing, but Brown knows something about suspense. Lizzie was teasing me for reading him until she started reading DP recently. Totally hooked.
God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater by Kurt Vonnegut
--> I LOVE KURT VONNEGUT. It wasn’t nearly as good as Slaughterhouse Five, but it was still brilliant.
Are You Experienced? by William Sutcliffe
--> Possibly the worst published writing I’ve ever read. But hilarious, sometimes because the writing’s so bad, but also because it captures hippies in India very well.
Gone with the Wind by Margaret Mitchell
--> Could not put it down. BYPies were constantly getting updates on the state of my crush on Rhett Butler.
Freakonomics by Steven D. Levitt & Stephen J. Dubner
--> SO GOOD. Everything blew my mind. What a genius book.
Life of Pi by Yann Martel
--> Definitely my favorite of the books I’ve read so far here. Hilarious, meaningful, so well done.
The Romantics by Pankaj Mishra
--> If you want to know what life is like in the exact neighborhood I’m staying in, read this book. I couldn’t believe how accurate the description of the environment was. Too bad the story was pretty boring.
The Mysteries of Sherlock Holmes by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
--> Love… love.
Interpreter of Maladies by Jhumpa Lahiri
--> I think my expectations were too high because it had won a Pulitzer for fiction. It was really good, though.
Okay. I can’t remember any more that I’ve read. There are some I’d like to go back to. I had to stop reading Inheritance of Loss (Kiran Desai) in the middle, because it was part of a library in Kanda, and we had to leave. I also got distracted from reading Gandhi’s autobiography, which I do eventually want to finish. But I really need suggestions. Right now I’m reading Marquez’ Love in the Time of Cholera, which is great. What should I read next!?
In other news, the Guria concert series, Pearls of Love, is going well. Tonight a new group of marginalized artists are coming, so I’m excited to see their acts. After the show tonight, Joe, his homestay brother, Sourabh, and I are going to see the latest 459374 hour music vide- I mean, Bollywood movie, Ajab Prem Ki Ghazab Kahani. We saw Blue last month. It’ll be interesting to see if Katrina Kaif is as good without her chin stud.
Tuesday, November 10
Wednesday, November 4
Counting to 100
The tiny girl had slid into the rickshaw next to me, accompanied by her Burka-clad mother. She wore a frilly pink frock, with iridescent plastic flowers lining its sleeves. She stared up at me, big-eyed and open-mouthed, while her mother asked in slow, thickly accented English whether I was a foreigner. "Hain," I replied, as my rickshaw driver, Shushi, grinned at me in his rear-view mirror. He thinks it's funny when I speak Hindi.
"And... where you belong?" she asked.
"Here." I wanted to say, but I knew what she was asking. "America."
She nodded.
Her daughter, who'd been wiggling around, clung to my knee with her small hand. She began to count. I didn't realize what she was saying until she got to 63. "Sissty fo, sissty fie, sissty siss.."
She stopped when she got to "wahhn HUNRET", and I got the funny feeling I'd found Gautham's soul mate.
"And... where you belong?" she asked.
"Here." I wanted to say, but I knew what she was asking. "America."
She nodded.
Her daughter, who'd been wiggling around, clung to my knee with her small hand. She began to count. I didn't realize what she was saying until she got to 63. "Sissty fo, sissty fie, sissty siss.."
She stopped when she got to "wahhn HUNRET", and I got the funny feeling I'd found Gautham's soul mate.
Monday, November 2
Once u-paan a time, in Banaras...
For the first several days after our arrival in Banaras, I was convinced that all the city’s men were dying. I kept my horrifying discovery to myself, hoping I was imagining the hundreds of men I’d seen spitting up thick mouthfuls of crimson blood on the streets. I had to be careful when walking past open windows, for at any given moment, someone might stick his head out and hack up some more bright liquid. No one, it seemed, could control these bursts of bodily malfunction. Rickshaw wallas, while pedaling us down the road, would try to aim their spit on the road, but flecks of red would inevitably hit the base of my churidar pants. What could possibly cause such a widespread epidemic? Was it the custom in this area to inflict a mortal wound on the men upon marriage, so that for the rest of their life they died ever so slowly, spitting up blood all the while?
It came as a relief, then, to have paan explained to me. The men weren’t suffering from some strange ailment, but rather indulging in a popular Banarsi drug*. Kind of like chewing tobacco, paan is full of betel nuts and tobacco. As a result, Benarsi men often have a thick red coating on their teeth – when you can see their teeth at all. Most men, it seems, are always chewing paan, making it incredibly difficult to hold a conversation.
During our time in India, we’ve discovered that Indians have an almost fully functional street sign language. (A single kind of head nod means “yes,” “no,” “maybe,” “why,” “where,” “stop,” “go,” and “what?” Similar questions may be asked through the use of a hand twist. As I said, almost fully functional.) In Banaras, try having a conversation with a paan chewer, and the necessity of a mouth-free language becomes clear.
“Hamlog Godolia ja rahe hain.” We’re going to Godolia. “Kitne?” How much?
The rickshaw walla, lower lip completely stuffed with the red gunk, looks at us. Uh oh. Can’t do this one with his hands. He throws back his head as if he’s about to sneeze – but really, he’s just trying to speak and hold it all in at the same time.
“Puhua!” he attempts. I feel like a dentist’s assistant trying to make conversation with a man while I simultaneously clean his teeth.
“Kya?” What?
“Punhua!” he tries again. He scrapes a little of the stuff to the side of his mouth. “Panra.”
“Oh, pandera!” Fifteen. “Tiik hai.”
Joe said that maybe the reason men here need arranged marriages is that no one would otherwise marry a man with a mouthful of paan. There could well be some truth to that, though I’d hope that on the day of his wedding, no man in his right mind would chew paan. But if it happened anywhere, it would happen in Banaras. Amid a crowd of joyous family members, a happy couple is joined in matrimony. The beautiful bride looks resplendent in her festive capsicum-red sari. The groom tilts his head back to accept his marriage vows, and the onlookers nod approvingly at the way his teeth perfectly match the bride’s outfit – a sure sign of their everlasting compatibility.
*Joe disagrees. Upon hearing this line, he corrected, “Crack is a drug. Paan is a lifestyle.”
It came as a relief, then, to have paan explained to me. The men weren’t suffering from some strange ailment, but rather indulging in a popular Banarsi drug*. Kind of like chewing tobacco, paan is full of betel nuts and tobacco. As a result, Benarsi men often have a thick red coating on their teeth – when you can see their teeth at all. Most men, it seems, are always chewing paan, making it incredibly difficult to hold a conversation.
During our time in India, we’ve discovered that Indians have an almost fully functional street sign language. (A single kind of head nod means “yes,” “no,” “maybe,” “why,” “where,” “stop,” “go,” and “what?” Similar questions may be asked through the use of a hand twist. As I said, almost fully functional.) In Banaras, try having a conversation with a paan chewer, and the necessity of a mouth-free language becomes clear.
“Hamlog Godolia ja rahe hain.” We’re going to Godolia. “Kitne?” How much?
The rickshaw walla, lower lip completely stuffed with the red gunk, looks at us. Uh oh. Can’t do this one with his hands. He throws back his head as if he’s about to sneeze – but really, he’s just trying to speak and hold it all in at the same time.
“Puhua!” he attempts. I feel like a dentist’s assistant trying to make conversation with a man while I simultaneously clean his teeth.
“Kya?” What?
“Punhua!” he tries again. He scrapes a little of the stuff to the side of his mouth. “Panra.”
“Oh, pandera!” Fifteen. “Tiik hai.”
Joe said that maybe the reason men here need arranged marriages is that no one would otherwise marry a man with a mouthful of paan. There could well be some truth to that, though I’d hope that on the day of his wedding, no man in his right mind would chew paan. But if it happened anywhere, it would happen in Banaras. Amid a crowd of joyous family members, a happy couple is joined in matrimony. The beautiful bride looks resplendent in her festive capsicum-red sari. The groom tilts his head back to accept his marriage vows, and the onlookers nod approvingly at the way his teeth perfectly match the bride’s outfit – a sure sign of their everlasting compatibility.
*Joe disagrees. Upon hearing this line, he corrected, “Crack is a drug. Paan is a lifestyle.”
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