The land of the free, and the home of mange-free, pocket sized, leashed dogs

I’m sitting in a coffee shop, with a half-finished cafe au lait, crumbs of a carmel-brown croissant in a chic porcelain dish, and my new iPhone on the table in front of me. Some unknown 80s tune, ambient and good ole American, resounds from an anonymous speaker, nestled somewhere in the ceiling. The pictures lining the walls, the signs — all in impeccable English, not Hindi, or a broken Hinglish pidgin. Rarified, gentrified air wafts through the shop. No smog, no trace of masala in the air. Soon, I’ll go up and pay. In dollars. Not rupees.

I have been back in America now for a little bit more than a week. Everything still feels a bit surreal, a bit dreamlike, but the strangeness is beginning to slowly fade. A lot of contrasts are quite striking. The people are bigger: some fatter, but in general, just more nourished. Every dog I see is bite-sized and leashed. Traffic laws are obeyed, and it’s not okay to not wear a seatbelt. There are no cows sauntering in the streets, only cows sitting in carnivorous stomachs. There are a ton of Indian people, but not all of them speak Hindi (though I did surprise a couple from New Delhi when I was at the gym with a “To aap log kahaan se hain?” — the shock value of my Hindustani is almost comic).

I’m no longer drinking chai everyday (though it is something that I do plan on introducing to my family, sooner or later), but instead happily slurp Americanos and cafe au laits. I said goodbye to a lot of the Indian people I love when I left Banaras, but leaving India entailed a mountainously more radical change than shifting locale from Banaras to Delhi, or even Banaras to Ladakh. I am no longer on such a regimented schedule. I can do what I want when I want, which is liberating but also strange. I don’t have my six wonderful groupmates, nor my leaders, as part of my daily schedule. I have my room again. I have my own bed again. I have my old friends. I have my family. Things here seem beautifully similar to the way they were before I left. Talking to my family, and my friends that really matter, it feels like I am picking up the conversation right where I left off — no gaps or stilted conversation. I think that is a remarkable thing about human interaction, friendship, love. Even if there has been a long time apart, if there was a real connection at one point, even though it may have atrophied a bit as months or years passed, it can be revived, renewed, polished with ease.

I know I am going to miss India. I’ve already felt slight pangs of nostalgia: when I went to an Indian restaurant near my house with my mom and brother, I had some chaana and roti, and though the spices were starkly different from those I’ve become used to, they were similar enough to evoke memories of the Pandey kitchen. There are so many wonderful things about America, things that I pined for, especially in moments of extreme difficulty or melancholy, in India. But there are so many things so unique to the Subcontinent and developing countries, things so charming, that I know I cannot find here. India is warm: sweltering, and welcoming. It probably is partially because I am from the brusque, MYOB (mind ya’ooown business) northeast, but people here feel less warm, in contrast to those in India. It’s so normal here not to acknowledge the people you walk past in the streets, to not have the slightest clue who your neighbors are, to simply be anonymous. Some complaints I have heard about visiting China, such a heavily populated rising power, which has so many close parallels with India, is that it is so easy to feel small and unrecognized. Even though India and China are constantly compared, painted as similar, developing nations, they differ in the sense that in India — especially in Varanasi — I never felt anonymous. Maybe it’s because I was clearly a videshi — a foreigner — but I would never leave my homestay without being greeted with an emphatic “Namaste!” or “Namaskar!” or a headbob and a friendly wink, within the first few minutes. In India, you invite strangers into your home for chai, sweets, and chat. In the USA, at least in my neck of the woods, you barely know your neighbors.

I will be back. I don’t know when, but it won’t be too long from now. India, Banaras, the Pandeys, Will, Ada, Hannah, Mackenzie, Tyler, Allen, Debi-ji, Kristin, Emily, my 7th grade class, Nita-ma’am, Virendra-ji, Salman-ji and so many other incredible people, know that you have all affected me so profoundly and that without each and everyone of you, my year could not have been nearly as incredible.

In the meanwhile, I will enjoy America for what it is. I am so proud to be American, but my country is in no way perfect. Just as India can learn much from America, about human rights, medicine, ousting government corruption, etc, America has a lot that it could learn from India.

Maybe I will revive this blog someday, perhaps for my next visit, or extended stay, to the Subcontinent. But at least for a bit, it’ll be put to rest. If you’re reading this, thanks for following my year. It was much easier to make myself write this knowing that at least some people were reading my posts.

I’m excited for time to pass, just as time passes — sometimes slowly, sometimes a bit too swiftly — because I feel that the things I have learned will become more apparent, and that I will, even more deeply, understand how valuable my experience was. I feel like I have only scratched the surface.

Phir milenge, blogosphere, aur India: bahut, bahut dhanyavaad- jaldee milenge!

Nick

Cobalt skies, magical lakes, meditation and mountains

Here I am in Leh, Ladakh, nestled in the north-north-east of India. The internet in Leh is spotty and slow, but I wanted to check in and talk a bit about what the past few weeks have looked like.

Ladakh is a stark contrast to Banaras. The air here is clean. Everywhere you look could work as a picture on a travel agency’s advertisement — “The sublime Himalayas.” And for the first time in over seventh months, I’ve been able to hear my breath. It’s not drowned out by barking dogs, car horns, or hawking street vendors.

One of the biggest, most jarring differences is that Ladakhi’s tend not to use the typical Indian honorific suffix, “ji,” but instead tack on “lay” to connote respect. Also, no more “Namaste!” or “Namaskar!” but a typically emphatic (and slightly cutesy) greeting, “Juley!!!”

When I say that Ladakh is a contrast, I am not trying to shame Banaras in any sense. I love Banaras. I love the people with whom I forged relationships there. I love the service I did there. The fact of the matter is that after an extended period of time, Banaras is exhausting. It isa city that requires your full attention and effort at all times, and so after seven months of such intensity, coming here is certainly a relative respite (relative — here, we’ve done a lot of cooking of our own food on camping stoves, sleeping in tents, going days sans showering, etc) before returning home.

The Ladakhi landscape is dry and harsh, but perhaps the most stunning I have ever encountered in my life. If I imagine hard enough, I can trick myself into thinking I’m on the moon — jagged, craggy rocks, covering the bases of mountains that rise up, up, up, turning into snowtopped peaks that reach into cobalt blue skies.

A few weeks ago, we ventured up to over 14,000 feet, to Pangong Lake, one of the highest lakes in the world. The lake’s hues — deep blue, seafoam, turquoise — changed by the hour, depending on the way in which the sun struck the water. A third of the lake is in India, while two thirds stretch into Chinese-occupied-Tibet. The focus of our time at the lake, where we stayed in frigid tents and drank lots of hot water (the concept of chilled water being pleasant here is pretty foreign), was working at a local Ladakhi school, where we gave the building a nice coat of firetruck red, and where we taught a bit of English and introduced some fun mnemonic games.

The little Ladakhi children were adorable, with cheeks as red as the paint we used to coat the building. Because Ladakh is part of the largely Muslim state Jammu & Kashmir, the kids are instructed in Urdu in place of Hindi,  and even though verbally the languages are very mutually intelligible, I was happy that, when I was giving some of the class 5 students an English lesson, I was able to write in a script that they were able to decipher. Back at Nirman (wow, “Back at Nirman” — already in the past!), when I would take Kishan and Brijesh out of their other classes for extra English attention, I would sometimes have to write in Devanagari to get them to understand; so I guess that’s part of the reason why I reflexively began writing in Devanagari when one of the Ladakhi 5th graders became puzzled. But his puzzlement grew exponentially, because the kids are all taught a completely different script; the words of Hindi, connected by thick black bars, were as alien to him as they were to me eight months ago, as I struggled to sound out “ch-a-ya …. chai!” back at Landour Language School. So I crossed it out and wrote the swooping, sweeping, scrolling lines of Urdu and the words were a bit less confusing to them.

One of the days at the lake, we went on a day long hike to the neighboring village. One of the old women in the village (she was actually in her mid 50s, but living in such rough terrains really makes one age fast) served us the Ladakh staple, butter tea, which ended up tasting more like salty, fatty water. At the village, far in the distance, I caught a glimpse of mountains on the Tibetan side of the lake. Hell, though, we were, and still are, in India, so if we are operating on the Hindu principle of darshan — blessing, auspices via sight — I have been to Tibet, no? Maybe another day.

I was musing about how I had always thought of Tibet as someplace magical that I would one day like to visit. Signing up for Bridge Year India, I had little to no idea how incredibly similar Ladakh would be to how I envisioned Tibet. The Buddhist culture here is in many ways more poignant than that of modern day Tibet’s, because Ladakh has the religious sanctuary granted by India secular constitution, whereas Tibetan culture is stifled and repressed by the Chinese government. So, in a sense, I am getting the opportunity to see the pure, unadulterated Buddhist, Tibetan culture that is going to soon be, at least at this rate, eradicated a few hundreds kilometers away from here in “China.”

Ladakh is a reminder of how diverse India is. More or less everyone here speaks Urdu/Hindi, but their first language is Ladakhi. Ladakhi culture and North Indian culture are so vastly different. A few weeks ago, we hiked up to a monastery, where Guru Rinpoche, the Indian man who was responsible for bringing Buddhism to Ladakh and Tibet, supposedly meditated for years. After the tiring hike, we were all pretty fatigued, but thankfully a monk welcomed us with chai and biscuits. Post-consumption, our co-leader, Kristin, offered the monk some rupees, but he graciously declined; only after insistence did he agree and take the money. If this situation were to have occurred in Northern India, the monk would probably have taken immediately, without second thought. In Ladakh, it would be rude to accept something on the first offer, very similar to the customs that permeate East Asia.

Today, we just returned from a meditation retreat at Khasphang Monastery, one of the more influential religious centers in the region. The retreat consisted of morning yoga, cooking our own food, and hour long meditations, in which we practiced very simple, and effective, practices: focusing solely on the breathing coming in and out of your nose; scanning your body, from top to bottom, paying minute attention to every sensation. We also had a day of noble silence, in which we ventured out independently into the vast, mountainous landscape surrounding the monastery for the entire day. All in all, the retreat was calming, sobering, and incredibly conducive to some valuable introspection (though I am so glad to be back in Leh, for some much needed showers!).

The day after tomorrow, we begin our six day trek through the Himalayas. And after that, we  drive over the world’s highest motorable pass to Nubra Valley, where we’ll have a 5-day workshop focused on preparing ourselves to go back home. After that, two days in Delhi, and then the plane back to America! I am so looking forward to seeing all of you back home, and to having a wonderful, hopefully relaxing summer, but I’m still here in Ladakh and am trying to get everything I can out of the time that I am so lucky to have here.

Right before I left for India, my little brother said that this trip isn’t so long if you think of it as “18 two-week vacations.” My last two week vacation’s almost here.

Bittersweet, like an unripe mango

Bittersweet, like an unripe mango.

The middle of April is an interesting time for Banaras fruit stands. The glowing, juicy oranges have shriveled and darkened. The once radiant, yellow bananas have turned sludge green and now have peels reminiscent of rubber. But there is a new contender. The mango. However, at this point, all the best tropical fruits, native to this neck of the Gangetic plains, are in a strange intermediate stage where no particular fruit shines. The mango is on the upswing, but at this moment, the ideally golden, mouthwatering color is dotted with patches of green. It is unripe. Tasty, but sour. Bittersweet.

These days, as I get ready to leave Banaras, my life feels like an unripe mango. Grab the fruit. Take out your knife. Slice it down the sides, and dig in. Here is a sweet, yellow chunk: I am getting closer to seeing my family and friends back in America.  I think of escaping the heat, which has recently climbed to, and remained at, around 105 degrees Fahrenheit, and it feels like I have bit into the juiciest part of the fruit. I picture Ladakh – the lofty, snowy peaks; the vast, breathtakingly barren moonscape; the pure air; the soon-to come yoga sessions on the shores of a sky blue lake, renowned as one of the highest-altitude-lakes in the world – and I have hit the fruity jackpot.

But I remember what day it is, and how little time is actually left, and the mango starts to turn greener. I think of walking down the ghaats for the last time; of taking a final circuit through the lush local university; of bestowing my trusty bike, which has braved the dusty, rough Banaras roads with me for the past seven months, upon someone else. And then I think of the human connections I have made, and the green gets even more intense. Are yaar! This mango really needed to stay on the tree for longer.

This community has been so welcoming, generous, and warm. Do you know what the strongest thing in India is? Yeah, I am sure the national animal, the tiger, dukes pretty well. And yes, Ganga-ji’s bacteria are also pretty darn vicious and scrappy. But neither is the strongest. It is the India family structure.

It is clear in the language. It shows what the priority is here. According to a book I read recently, Dreaming in Hindi, there are words in English, like “privacy,” which apparently do not translate in any comparable way to any of the subcontinent’s many tongues. Expecting someone to learn the Hindi familial terms by heart would, in my opinion, rivals giving someone who is learning to speak English, a dictionary and commanding them to memorize all the words that begin with the letter “A”.  In Hindi, there is a specific word for your maternal grandmother. Or your spouse’s brother. Or your mother’s sister’s son.  I have gathered that “in-laws,” or “cousin,” is just not sufficient. That would not be specific enough. Not personal enough.

The family I have become part of transcends my host family. Sure, I have Mata-ji, Bao-ji, Shiv, Anandi, and Amma-ji, who now responds emphatically to my “High-five kuriye!”s, who are all wonderful in different ways. But the community I feel part of here extends from the door of my Assi ghaat abode to Virendra-ji’s classroom and Salman-ji’s office. To my own classroom at the village school, and to the homes into which I have been invited by my kind students. To Cozy Corner, run by Kaashi, who knows what kind of dosa I want as soon as I walk in. To the Betawar teacher’s office, where Abha ma’am, Vinay sir, Harshita ma’am and all the other great teachers at Nirman chat.

The community that I am leaving behind also includes the people I know on a less personal level. They are faces I see every day that help to give Banaras its inimitable flavor. Ashok, the man with his pet monkey, Julie, who lives on Assi ghat. The didi at Nirman whom I do not know so well by name, but rather by her wide, toothless smile and singsongy “Namaste, bhiya!” The numerous buffalo herders, who unceasingly stop traffic, with their blundering, heavy-footed, friendly behemoths.   My Banarasi family, that I know will be nearly impossible to leave behind, consists of all different characters: from the people I love as part of my mental portrait of Banaras, to the people – my host family and students – that I have come to actually love.

When I think of the immediate future, of boarding my last sleeper train of Bridge Year, headed from Banaras to New Delhi, my mango is darn bitter. I might just go complain to the fruit walla on the corner of Lanka. But when I think farther into the future, of coming back and visiting, my mango’s golden. The truth is that I cannot not come back. Banaras is part of me now.

Whenever I eat a delicious, ripe mango, my hands end up drenched in sticky juice. But, especially when a sink is not readily available, the stickiness is an ephemeral memento of how good the mango was. At the moment, my skin is coated in one hundred layers of dust from the Banaras streets. My nails are still dyed purple from Holi. And my speech and mannerisms are stained with the signature Indian headbob (does it mean yes, no, maybe, or all three?!), and staccato, reflexive “Haan!”s and “Theek hai!”s. These marks and habits will fade with time, but that does not mean that Banaras and its impression on me will fade along with them. Banaras’ impression will be everlasting.

I know that I will remember Banaras and all of its awe-inspiring places, and most importantly, all the people I have met, who I know have impacted me, and whom I have hopefully impacted in some way. And whom I have come to love. This is how I will leave the mango juice on my hands.

Why would I ever want to wash myself of Banaras?

Holi — mera nayaa manpasand

I haven’t written a blog post in a while. A lot of great things have happened recently. My Hindi/Urdu has gotten to a point where I am very confident in my speaking ability; I feel incredibly close to my students, my group members, my homestay; we visited Kolkata; and we had a huge, festive, colorful Holi celebration.

Holi is a festival with a slogan “Budhaana mano, Holi hai!” which loosely translates to “Accept the mischief! It’s Holi!”  On Holi, people parade the streets throughout the morning, leaving their inhibitions with them the minute the step out of the door. Meaning that if you are a girl and want to leave the house, your inquiries will not even be entertained. But if you are a guy and are interested in stepping outside of the house, be prepared to be possibly ransacked by group of wondering teenage boys, caked in color, and possibly stripped naked. In light of this, our group, the Dragons group (twelve other students who are here on a semester long program), the Little Stars hostel girls and a mess of other awesome people from our Banaras community crowded onto the roof of my homestay to throw buckets of wet colors, to shoot streams with water guns, to bombards each other and passerbys below with waterballoons filled with vivid colors – pinks, blues, reds, greens, and the ubiquitous Banaras-on-Holi purples.

I began celebrating Holi a bit early. A bunch of us, the night before, on the eve of “Holika Dahan,” where massive pyres of foliage and trash are burned in commemoration of the story of Holi, threw water balloons and dropped water on passerbys from my homestay’s roof. But know that we are not hooligans. At least not especially so. Many people started Holi early, throwing colors. But we were relatively kind and stuck to water. We accidentally chucked a water balloon at our beloved neighborhood dhobi, or washerman, family, and they originally freaked out and responded with shouts and “Aare! Yah kya hai?!”s but after realizing that it was in fact only water and not color, they flashed smiles and greeted me the next day with their normal smiles and a kind “Holi Mubarak ho!” meaning “Happy Holi!” Throwing water balloons on unsuspecting passerbys made me feel like a carefree little ten year old. Nostalgically mischievous.

Then, the next day, donning pristine white kurtas and saaris, we ventured once again to my roof, but this time the weaponry was color. After nearly three and a half hours of play, I could barely tell one person from another. Color in the eyes stings and color in the mouth you wretch, but the damage was simply incidental. It was all incredibly worth it. It’s sappy, but Holi made me feel so happy to be where I am, to be with my wonderful new friends and the Banarsi community.

Immediately post-color-throwing was more uniquely fun. Holi is guaranteed to be exciting: how could color-throwing not be? But scrubbing color out of your hair and skin is conventionally not the most entertaining thing in the world. But it was. We had a communal shower on the roof, cleaning ourselves in a stream of water raining down from my host family’s water tank, while scrubbing ourselves and commiserating in how “This won’t come off!” meanwhile dancing to Bollywood and being overall happy, excited fools. Our hair and skin, dyed a myriad of colors — red, pink, purple, blue — are proof of how exciting Holi was, and of how futile are efforts were to get the colors off our skin.

Holi goes in the opposite direction of most holidays, in that Holi is haywire from the start, without any build up, and ends abruptly around 1 p.m.  After, the scary roaming gangs of young guys turn relatively benevolent and people start to emerge from their homes, filling the deserted Banaras streets. For the rest of the day, with dry color, or gulal, on hand, people visit the homes of friends and family in the community, touching feet for respect and dabbing bright tikkas on everyone you know.

Holi is a carefree, let-loose holiday that ends with respect and comradery: early in the day, it’s custom for kids to insult adults and other people who would normally warrant respect. You’re supposed to air your grievances. It’s the beginning of the new Hindu year, so you’re not supposed to harbor bad blood to the next year. And even if you don’t harbor bad blood, you have a free pass to talk crap. I’m not quite Indian, so I didn’t partake, but the kids who shout profanities are the same ones, later in the day, touching your feet in deference and rubbing gulal on your forehead.

I have less than three weeks left in Banaras. On April 17^th, around 4:30 p.m., my group and I will stuff our humongous backpacks, filled with treasures we’ve collected from our time here, into the back of a car, drive to the train station, and say goodbye to Banaras, hopping on a train to Delhi, which will be followed by a plane ride up to the vast, barren, moonlike mountains of Ladakh. I don’t want to think too much about leaving, but I unfortunately have to: I have final exams to make for my students, I have gifts I want to make and get for people with whom I’ve forged relationships here, I have to prepare for my final ISP presentation (Urdu poetry reading, anyone?), and I have to make my final peace with Banaras. It has been an incredible, breathtaking ride. To think that all that Banaras was in my mind seven months ago was a looming, unknown, mysterious concept is a wake-up call of how quickly time flies when you’re learning, laughing, and living life how it should be lived.

My experience learning Urdu

Three mornings a week, I venture to the Muslim quarter for Urdu class. To get to my guru, Salman-ji’s home, at around 7:15 in the morning, I bike past the local mall, IP Vijya, which houses the theatre that I frequent to get my fill of Bollywood; past the svaadisht — delicious — Kerala Cafe, which has secured a place in my mind as the best purveyor of chole-bhature (a native Punjabi dish) in Banaras; past BABA Black Sheep, a vendor of some of the finest cashmere scarves in Uttar Pradesh, and then a few meters later, my surroundings start to become more starkly Islamic.

The more familiar Hindi signs, written in Devanagari, which is always discernible by the severe straight lines that make each word one, start to transform into the swirls and light dots of Urdu. Instead of being surrounded by signs advertising the best shaakahari khaana — vegetarian food — around, I see chickens packed into wooden boxes, while butchers, the sleep having just fled from their eyes, sharpen their knives and cleavers. Men, after a bright and early morning prayer, flood the streets in their ornately embroidered white kurtas; their foreheads are bare, devoid of fire-orange Hindu tikkas, but their heads are covered with topis, or woven caps. Women do not don the essential dupatta; instead, most are in full parda, dressed in enveloping black burqas. And instead of hearing “Namaste bhai!”s and “Pranaam!”s as I whiz along on my bike, I hear reverent “As-salaamu alaykum!”s.

I lock my bike to a water pipe jutting out of Salman-ji’s home, because “this is still Banaras,” enter his home, which doubles as a mini-publisher’s office, take off my shoes, and greet my guru with an emphatic head bob and an “Adab!” which loosely translates to “respect,” and class begins. The focus of my classes is reading and writing. I already get a good amount of speaking practice of Hindustani (Hindi and Urdu) just from living here and from Hindi class, so I am more than happy to spend most of my time decoding and writing the right-to-left lines of Urdu, that look like they’ve been written with the talon of a bird dipped in ink.

I would call Urdu Hindi’s fraternal twin. There are an incredible number of similarities between the two languages, but there are definite nuances. Urdu, which is the national language of Pakistan, spoken by most of India’s Muslims, and recognized by India as one of its many official languages, uses essentially the same initially-confusing grammar of Hindi. Most of the verbs are the same too. The primary differences arise in the nouns, adjectives, and most obviously, the script: Hindi uses a writing system called Devanagari, while Urdu uses Nastaliq, a script that is markedly similar to Arabic, differing only in some letters. Thus, written Urdu is beautiful, rhythmic, scrolling, like fine tendrils, just like the complex arabesque designs that help make the Taj Mahal so unquestionably breathtaking.

Spoken Urdu is also generally regarded as euphonious. Bollywood songs use many Urdu words that are, in fact, not understood by laypeople, solely because they are mellifluous and musical. It is important to emphasize how Urdu and Hindi are still close family members: Hindi uses a myriad of “Urdu loanwords,” and vice versa. Less educated native Hindi speakers are less likely to understand more specialized Urdu words: for example, the other day when I was informed by a coworker that one of my students had hit a cricket ball into another child’s eye, I used an Urdu word “ittifaaqan,” meaning accidentally, to ask my student if he did indeed hurt his peer by mistake, but all I got was a blank look. But the more educated totally understand more complex Urdu words, and often sprinkle them into their everyday speech.

Learning Urdu has been more than simply another linguistic venture. It has been a rich cultural one as well. When I was deciding what to do for my Individual Study Project (or ISP), I was deciding primarily between Urdu and Sanskrit. Some people I asked advised me to learn Sanskrit, saying things along the lines of “You’re in India, Hindu India, so you should learn Sanskrit.” If Latin is the archaic language of Roman Catholicism, then Sanskrit is that of Hinduism, as most of Hinduism’s integral texts are written in Sanskrit.

While ruminating on advice I got from other people, I thought back to something I heard from the Dalai Lama back when we heard him speak in September. He extolled India for its immense religious diversity and how, for the most part, it as a country remains united and peaceful. India is not just Hindu. Hinduism is an integral part of the culture, but so are Islam, Sikhism, Buddhism, and so many other religions. Nine months is unfortunately not enough time to delve as deeply as I would like into learning about all of India’s different religions, but I had to start somewhere, so I chose Urdu, and I have been learning it for about two months, and I do not feel the slightest pang of regret.

Urdu is also an incredibly sophisticated literary language, which is one of the biggest things that appealed to me when deciding what to choose as my ISP. The ghazal, which is an Islamic form of poetry supposedly with very strict rules of rhyme scheme and whatnot, has been looming on the horizon for me as I’ve continued to work through my book of “Literary Urdu” with Salman-ji. Hearing comments that Urdu poetry is “heartwrenching,” “powerful,” and “bahut sundar – amazingly beautiful” from past Urdu-learners and local Banarsis has made me ecstatic to continue to progress in Urdu, and to hopefully, if I’m lucky, be able to read some of the great ghazals before I leave India.

Salman-ji is an incredibly accomplished Urdu teacher, who is always friendly inside and out of the classroom. The other night, a big Sufi festival for an Iraqi baba was happening in his neighborhood, and Salman-ji, his older son, and some of my friends from my group and I ventured to a local joint, with steaming tandoori chicken, skewered on kebabs, lining the outside perimeter of the shop, tantalizing passerbys.  The food was spicy and scrumptious, and Salman-ji and his son were gracious as always. As I devoured orange chicken tikka, with the pleasant din from the festival outside bouncing off the restaurant’s walls, I reflected on how vast, important, and culturally-rich Islam is in India, and how fascinating it is to explore: both the food one finds in Islamic neighborhoods, which is an omnivore’s solace in a largely vegetarian India, and the beautiful language that is Urdu.

Salman-ji

A man at a recent visit to a Sufi shrine

Sufi shrine

Inside of my Urdu book

Bodh Gaya

A banyan tree, under which, more than two thousand years ago, Gautama attained enlightenment. Where his consciousness melded with that of the collective, losing, releasing, letting go of the self, allowing desire and attachment to disappear, to dissipate like smoke rising from sandalwood incense.

A few weeks ago, we visited Bodh Gaya, an incredibly small town located in the state of Bihar, famous for housing the thousand-year old banyan tree under which the Buddha attained enlightenment. A book I read, The White Tiger, chides Bihar as “the darkness,” where illiteracy, Maoism and sex trafficking run rampant. It is somewhat ironic that Bodh Gaya, where Gautama Buddha attained enlightenment, where he, within himself, extinguished the darkness, is in “the darkness,” at least according to the book’s author, Aravind Adiga.

I got to stand in the shade of the grand Banyan tree. In Tibetan Buddhism, kora is a word that refers to the daily rite in which Buddhists circumambulate stupas, or sacred structures that contain belongings or physical remnants of a past bodhisattva, or enlightened one.  Along with a massive crowed of Tibetan Buddhists  all mumbling prayers, hands tightly grasping prayer beads, I circumambulated the grand stupa, which houses many of the Buddha’s ancient relics.

The entire main temple complex is tranquil. It is replete with people meditating. Mostly Tibetans, but also Indians and foreigners. The Tibetan prayers being muttered and the chiming bells are rhythmic and create a warm, humming yet calming din. The atmosphere of the main complex cannot be captured fully in words. Devotees prostrating themselves before the tree and the stupa, the monks lecturing disciples in Tibetan, the thousands of people circumambulating the whole complex, the symphony of prayer and bells, the myriads of people with their eyes closed, turning them inward, reflecting, meditating– it is something best felt firsthand.

For all that is beautiful about Bodh Gaya, there are equally grim things that create balance. A stark contrast struck me upon exiting the main temple grounds. Inside: pure, sacred, holy, thousands of devotees chanting, prostrating themselves — heads to the ground — spinning their prayer wheels for good karma. Outside: some of the most deformed beggars I’ve encountered so far in India. Many of them reminded me of the kids forcefully made blind from the movie Slumdog Millionaire. Double amputees. People’s twig thin limbs twisted into pretzels. Charred-and-scarred-over people, hands out to take rupees. I doubt that all of the beggars were made deformed by those that run the beggar mafias, but I would guess that a good chunk, if not most of them, were indeed intentionally mutilated. Apparently the outside of the temple attracts so many beggars because of the charity of the monks and the general nature of people that tend to flock to such important Buddhist sites. The monks are kind. So the beggar mafias ship their “workers” in from outside villages to fill their clinkclinkclinking tins, with holes in the bottom that lead to the pockets of the depraved people who orchestrate the whole business.

Many countries with significant Buddhist populations have also built temples throughout Bodh Gaya. It was fascinating to see the vast range of architectural styles of the temples, ranging from the bright, shiny, ornate Bhutanese and Thai temples, to the more simple, minimalistic, sleek-hard-wood-and-screens Japanese temple. There was also an 80-foot statue of the Buddha, surrounded by smaller depictions of his disciples. I took Art History my senior year, and it is funny to think that when we were doing a unit on non-Western  art, studying gigantic statues of Buddha, learning about the structural elements of Buddhist temples, I would never have imagined myself  getting to see them in person so soon.

Buddhism is so vast and there is so much about it that I do not know. But what I do know, from what I knew before Bridge Year, and from what I’ve learned on this trip, from visiting sites like Bodh Gaya and from hearing the Dalai Lama speak, has made me respect and admire Buddhism immensely: for it’s emphasis on compassion, interconnectedness, understanding our transience as humans, and the present. All things that I try to keep in mind.

We are going to Sarnath, where the Buddha first taught, this coming Monday. It will be the Tibetan New Year. I am always excited to learn more about Buddhism, but I am also excited to write more on my blog about what I’ve been doing for my Independent Study Project, which is Urdu, and my recent experiences at the celebrations in the Islamic neighborhoods of Banaras for the Prophet Mohammed’s birthday. The many religions of India are almost always fascinating, and excitingly/overwhelmingly vast; which adverb I choose to use really depends on my mood at the time.

 

The main stupa

My 2nd Group Update for the BYP Site

Hey all,

This is more or less what my next group update will look like on the Princeton BYP site. I’ve been meaning to write about our recent trip trip to Bodh Gaya (which I enjoyed immensely), but that’s for another day:

I’ve heard the adage, “Where does the time go?” more times throughout my life than there are wandering dogs, cows, water buffalos, monkeys and pigs here in Banaras (and trust me, there are a ton), but I have yet to discover an answer. Just five months ago, I was still in America, waiting for Bridge Year orientation to arrive, running around packing and making visits to the travel doctor, excited to meet my group members and my group leaders, to set foot into mysterious India, of which my ideas were only nebulous.  And today, I’m in India, and have been for nearly five months. It is paagal – ridiculous – to look at the calendar, and see how much time has passed: how much we’ve done, and scarily, how little time is left.

It amazes me to think that such a short time ago, I didn’t know the six other people with whom I’m sharing my experience, my wonderful instructors, my one-of-a-kind host family, and the enveloping, vibrant Nirman community. I remember my first days teaching at Nirman’s village school, located in a small settlement, Betawar, on the outskirts of Banaras: how awkward and stilted my interactions with my new students and coteachers were. Who’s this gora? Why is he here?

A lot has changed since then. The students and teachers from both the city school and village school, who were once complete strangers to me, are now my friends. I love chatting with the didis in the kitchen at Betawar, and with the librarians at the city school. Not only my students, but kids from other grades greet me with earnest, high-pitched “Namaste!”s. (There is one first grader, Ankit, possibly the most adorable child in the world, who hollers “Nick-sir!” when he sees me and does cartwheel after cartwheel.) I even managed to lead a Saturday staff meeting, in Hindi, and have a bunch of my coworkers participate. Unlike my first few days at work, I now feel ensconced and a part of the spirited Nirman community.

I  realize that one of the largest reasons I don’t want my time to end in Banaras is because I want to finish my time here feeling that I have imparted something special to my students, that I’ve made an unequivocally positive difference in their lives. I’ve spent nearly four months with them, taught them a myriad of chapters and subjects, always trying to bring my best self into the classroom. But I have no way to quantitatively measure if I’ve done something truly good. Sure, improved test scores are quantitative, but that’s not what I want to gauge. I wonder if I’ve successfully imparted things to my students that they would never have learned had I not been their teacher, if they had never been taught by someone with a lifetime of different experiences, someone who didn’t know village life or Banaras such a short time ago, but only the fine detail of city life and New Jersey.

Some of my favorite moments in class are when my students inquire about America, comparing what I tell them to their own experiences. The other day, one of my 7^th graders, Vidhan, said something along the lines of “Nick-sir, is it true that outside of India, people don’t have arranged marriage?” When I responded that “No, most people don’t have arranged marriages,” much of the class (in particular the kids who live in the village) shot me perplexed looks, followed by giggles about the outlandish idea of “love marriage” (the Indian term for a non-arranged wedding) being the norm.

I’ve encountered a bunch of other times where the differences between my students’ culture and my own have come to the forefront. I remember a particular instance where I put to use a common technique of my old 7^th grade teacher. In Mike Mooney’s 7^th grade class, if kids were hitting each other, pushing, shoving, touching, he would bellow something like “If I didn’t know better, I’d think that you two were in love.” Once, when my kids were out of control, when Aditya kept hitting Gulnaz, I commented, “Aditya, you know when you pick on someone, it’s usually because you love the person.” This would have been normal back in America, but here, it was somewhat of a faux pas, clear from the blank stares on my students’ faces.

These are mundane happenings at my worksite. They are learning experiences for me, I know, and hopefully learning experiences for my students as well, lessons that transcend traditional subjects – instead of only studying the Word of the Day, performing skits on chapters from Bridge to Terabithia, and listening to lectures on the Mughals, I hope my kids are uniquely benefitting from having me, some strange creature from the other side of the world, in their classroom. There’s no formula or algorithm to definitively know if I’ve made a positive difference, but when my kids implore me to tell them anecdotes from life in America, when Anubhav and Insha say “Nick-sir, you’re a good teacher!” or when Priyanshu effusively tells me “That’s really interesting!” I try to have faith.

Just as I want to know if I’ve helped effect change in my students, I wonder everyday how I’ve changed since Bridge Year has begun. I’ve gone from trekking up misty hills, riding camels over mountainous sand dunes, sauntering up a hill to a sandy fort on the back of an elephant, to sitting and reflecting under the Banyan tree where the Buddha attained enlightenment. And most importantly, I’ve set up shop here in Banaras, and have become part of a loving,maasti-filled Hindustani community – from my gurus, to my host family, to the warm, enveloping Nirman community. I often ask myself “How have you changed? Have you grown?” In Bodh Gaya, Debi lead us in an exercise where we reflected on what we have learned so far on Bridge Year. After picking my brain, I saw more clearly how formative these five or so months have been.

I’ve learned seemingly small things: eating with my hands is koi bat nahim. The signature Indian head bob is now second nature. I’ve learned how to “waterfall” from bottles proficiently. And veering to the left side of roads and alleyways is a habit etched into the inner recesses of my cerebrum. (Driving when I get back home is going to be tough …)

I like to think I’ve learned bigger things too: I’ve learned Hindi. I am a Ganga’s width or ten away from becoming fluent, but I’ve progressed a lot from day one. I’ve learned to be a better teacher. I’ve learned how to be away from home, that I’m an adult, and that ultimately I’m the only one responsible for my own well-being. And, in a way reading alone could never accomplish, I’ve begun to learn how big the world is, how vast, varied and eclectic mankind is. There are so many different ways that people manage to live: some spend their lives like you and me – passing their days in school or at work — while others drag their forcefully amputated stumps along the rugged concrete, beseeching passerbys for a rupee or two. Humans are adaptive and resilient.

I hope the second half of my year here teaches me as much, if not more, than what I’ve taken from my experience so far. The most drastic changes and lessons, I’m guessing, won’t surface in my consciousness until my Bridge Year is long over, but I’m confident that I’m learning every day. Just as my students learn “apathetic” and “flourish” as their Words of the Day, I’m determined to get something new out of each and every day I have left, to try and squeeze the pulp and rind out of Banaras, the fruit that is wonderfully bittersweet.

Rajasthan and a Happy New Year

Ten or so days away from Banaras, and I’m back. By train and bus, we hopped from Jodhpur, to Jaisalmer, to Jaipur, and all three were beautiful — gems in the dazzling Maharaja’s crown that is Rajasthan.

An integral part of India’s transportation system is the train. Having taken around five or so overnight trains so far, I’ve come to conclude that riding the trains in India, despite the occasional wailing baby or pushy chai vendor, is unequivocally fun. A few months ago, I discovered that the Lonely Planet Guide for India had said that riding the rails is one of the most interesting things to do here; calling myself skeptical at that point would have been an understatement. They’re rugged (the degree of which largely depends on which train class you’re saddled with), but without fail, each overnight ride has introduced me to a myriad of jovial, enthusiastic, often off-kilter people from around India and the world.

For instance, on our journey from Banaras to Jodhpur, after devouring handfuls of trail mix, I needed water, but some dubious, narrow worm-like brown particles were floating in my water bottle. So I asked a neighbor when he thought the pani-walla would be coming, or if he knew where I could go to buy some. It turns out that he was some sort of official in the transportation sector of the Indian government. He adopted me as his “American beta,” or son, and insisted I consider him my “Hindustani pita-ji,” or father. After showering me with bottles of free water, he professed his worryingly intense distaste for China, and his adoration of America – he claimed that in his past life, he was undoubtedly American. He was quite a character.

Our first stop was Jodhpur.  Once the home of the Rathore dynasty, the crowning jewel of the city is the grand Mehrangarh Fort. It sits atop a massive hill, surrounded by a tall, defensive wall. Today, the fort is a museum that lends its visitors views of massive, intricate palatial chambers; deadly weaponry – daggers, swords, spears – all finely carved works of art in their own right; and best of all, a sweeping panorama of Jodhpur and its craggy, barren surroundings. Jodhpur is referred to as the “Blue City.” Blue being an incredibly Brahmanic color, and also the color of Lord Shiva’s flesh, thousands of residents of Jodhpur have painted their homes a deep blue. Standing in the fort, gazing at the thousands of homes painted azure, the city creates a breathtaking contrast with the more sedate, sandy hues of the desert. Additionally in Mehrangarh, we discovered how many centuries ago, when dynasties like the Rathores were in power, Hindu women remained in purdah. Before, I had thought of purdah as something practiced only by Muslim women. The fort, now turned museum, displayed howdahs, or elephant saddles, that kept women completely hidden, and the fort was filled with windows that allowed women to peer down into courtyards and palatial pavilions, but protected them from the eyes of any men.

Jaisalmer is architecturally astounding. Just like Jodhpur, there is a gigantic fort that crowns the city. But the fort, and all the alleys it contains, are not the only astounding parts of Jaisalmer. The residential neighborhoods, inhabited by average middle and lower class families, are too. The workmanship and complex details are stunning: the houses are sculpted for kings, but average Jaisalmerians have the pleasure of living in the ornate works of art. Jaisalmer, instead of clashing with the landscape, blends in with the desert, most buildings made of rough sandstone.

Perhaps the most exciting part of our time in Rajasthan was our camel safari. We spent two nights on the sand dunes, sleeping under the stars. My camel, a massive beast, his neck and head as thick as the trunk of a redwood, was named Johnny Number One. I don’t know if he particularly liked me, but of him I was a fan. One of the Rajasthani camel handlers said that Johnny is his favorite. I could understand why; Johnny purses his lips in the most regal manner and towers over a good chunk of the other camels.

Sleeping in the desert is incredible. The desert breeze caresses your face, foreshadowing a chilly night. The dark, abyss-like sky of the desert arrives, and then the stars reveal themselves. A luminous moon keeps some of the stars hidden, but when you wake up in the middle of the night, tucked away in your sleeping bag, the moon has fled over the horizon, and a starry night sky shines up above, with shooting stars gracing the darkness every few minutes, and Jupiter shining brilliantly.

I spent Christmas Eve on an overnight bus from Jaisalmer to Jaipur. Our Christmas Eve meal was at a dhaba, or road side diner, where we enjoyed extra greasy paneer, subzi, and roti. Christmas Day was spent in Jaipur. Jaipur is a big city. Compared to Jaipur, Jaisalmer could be considered a desert hamlet. But being in a big city, a place where one would expect globalization to have come into play more dramatically, it was surprising how I felt like one would have been able to go the whole day without knowing it was Christmas. Every now and then, there was a lone Santa’s hat, and we did pass some sort of church dressed in Christmas lights, but beyond that, it could very well have been any other day in India. Regardless, I tried to spread the Christmas cheer. Donning a Santa’s hat and a red and green flannel, from the back of an auto rickshaw, I greeted passerbys with enthusiastic “Christmas Mubarak Ho!”s.

Our last day in Rajasthan culminated in the riding of animals infinitely more majestic than the camel (sorry, Johnny Number One) – elephants! With the Amber Fort in the background (Rajasthan is rightfully considered the land of forts and palaces), with craggy, undulating peaks in the distance, I rode an elephant! Could it have been any more picturesque? Riding an elephant up the hill to the fort, sauntering through the Hindu, Rajput fort, built in the geometric Mughal style, was a great way to end our journey through Rajasthan.

I think it was very valuable having time off to see more of India. Getting out of Banaras helps to remind you how India can be unequivocally gorgeous. Not that Banaras is not beautiful itself; it just does not fit the conventional, purely aesthetic sense of beauty. I think Banaras’ beauty stems from how so many insane, chaotic things manage to coexist: in all seriousness, I think that the contradictions and irony that inundate Banaras add to its charm. Regardless, seeing places like Rajasthan; seeing the ancient, ornate palaces; the mountainous sand dunes, built and detailed by the talented, prolific artist that is the wind, helps one realize how diverse India’s beauty is. On one end, there’s the objective, conventional kind of beauty in places like Mussoorie or Jaisalmer. And then there’s the atypical beauty that you find in places you would never expect – a serendipity of sorts.

And now I’m back in Banaras for the New Year, excited to get back into my routine, and for all of the great things 2013 holds in store for me and my group.. It’s also time for me to choose an ISP, or Independent Study Project. Right now, my possibilities are ranging from Urdu or Sanskrit, to Stick Fighting.

Last night we had a more legitimate Christmas celebration, where we stuffed ourselves silly and exchanged gifts. Heralding in the New Year was a reminder of just how much of my Bridge Year has already elapsed. There are only five months left on Bridge Year: some days it feels like “Only five months?! I need more time!” and others, the five months feel like somewhat of an eternity.

Happy 2013!

Nick

Some poor camel who pales in comparison to the mighty Johnny Number One

Jaisalmerian Tapestries

The Infamous German Bakery

The Blue City

Goats are wearing sweaters, an indicator of the “cold” weather that has arrived in Banaras. I put cold in quotes because the weather that has most Banarsis bundled in layers and layers would, at home, be celebrated as something like the beginning of spring, or would be a normal mid-fall day. The morning and night do get pretty nippy, though. But now, our group has a running half-joke, half-observation that many Indians seem to attribute any and every type of sickness to the cold , and so if you’re not wearing a sweater or jacket (even if it’s the middle of the day, the sun is shining, and it’s around 65 degrees), and one of your of Indian bhais or behens sese you, you should be prepared for caveats about what will befall if you don’t “Aur kupudey puhuno,” or “Wear more clothes!”

I probably will not have access to the internet on Christmas, as we’re set to depart for the dunes of Rajasthan this afternoon. Our voyage to Jaipur, Jodhpur, and Jaisalmer — which straddles the India-Pakistan border — is our main side trip (other than our final month in Ladakh). Instead of opening advent calendars and decorating the tree, my days leading up to Christmas will be spent on camels, sleeping in the desert. In some ways, our experience could be considered in the Christmas spirit: we’re just trying to imitate the three kings. This breath of fresh air from Banaras is much needed, and I’m hoping that after our time away, I will return well-rested (I may be a fool to even consider this, taking into account how much of our time will be spent on trains), having missed my homestay family, my students, and Varanasi.

To everyone: have an incredible Holiday!

Khajuraho, and some snippets from the past few weeks

I haven’t blogged for quite a while: for those of you who are following my year, thank you for continuing to read my posts, despite my recent lull. There have been a bunch of things happening these past few weeks, as festival season has come to a close.

A little more than a week ago, we left Banaras for the first time since our arrival. We boarded an overnight train, our destination the state of Madhya Pradesh. We went to the grand, astonishingly well-preserved temple complexes at Khajuraho. People joke that the temples at Khajuraho are the only “x-rated” UNESCO world heritage site: large parts of each temple depict explicit carnal scenes. Our guide relayed to us how the tantric society that thrived in that part of India from the 9^th to 12^th century, under the Chandela kings, is thought to have been polyamorous, and to have glorified the erotic. In this sect of Hinduism, there supposedly are two ways to attain liberation, or moksha, from the  cycle of rebirth and death: to be ascetic and extremely devout, to be a textbook “good Hindu,” or to indulge your desires fully, almost in excess, which is where the extreme erotic comes in. The temples are especially interesting when juxtaposed with Banaras, and India as a whole; the temple is all about sexual freedom and expression, while India today is in many ways suffocatingly conservative and sexually repressed.

The whole trip, though very short, was a nice respite from the chaos and ubiquitous, potent culture that is Varanasi. It was strange breathing clean air, having greenery in plain sight, being able to escape the cacophony of blaring car horns. I was originally not sure how I would have felt returning to Banaras, but I think I like a lot of people and places too much to have been upset. Annoyances – dirty dogs, pollution coughs, car horns – are one thing. Deep rooted appreciation – maybe a growing love of the city, even? – is another, something stronger.

Our journey back to Banaras fit like a just-for-you tailored kurta into the program component of “rugged travel.” After a three hour drive in a comfy car, we find out our train is delayed. Originally, for six or so hours. But later we find out it’s been delayed further, that it will be around twelve hours late. We try to hop into sleeper class on multiple trains stopping through Banaras, but they are all jam packed, all the beds filled, aisles crammed with baggage, and areas connecting each car replete with wandering Sadhus. Sleeper class is the lowest, cheapest class on Indian trains. There is no air conditioning or heating, so depending on what time of year you are traveling, you should be sure to come prepared with either many layers of warm clothes, or with a darn effective fan. (Luckily it’s wintertime, so we got away with the former.) You may reserve a seat or bed, but people trying to hitch a free ride, who manage to get on the train before you, often take your spot, forcing you to force your way onto what is rightfully yours, or to deal with sitting in the aisle, which spans perhaps three and a half, four, feet. And the windows are barred; while peering out at the passing scenery, if you’re feeling particularly imaginative, it’s easy to imagine yourself as some sort of prisoner.

For a while that day, my group and I were immensely irritated: nearly every inconvenience that could happen that day did happen. We stayed up all night, five of us packed into a space meant for one. For us, the sleeper train was in no way conducive to sleep. (How painfully ironic, eh?) We were dirty, hungry, and sick of being in transit. But I cannot neglect to mention the fact that we had fun. A bunch of fun. We befriended our neighbors, laughed the night away, our nine-plus hour train ride, in that characteristic delirium of intense exhaustion. It was a pure Indian experience, the type of thing that you would not find back in the States. That day, November 26,  was also my 18th birthday. It was not the type of 18th birthday celebration one would typically expect. How many people can say that their eighteen birthday was spent on a packed sleeper train, not sleeping a wink, with five people condensed into a spot for one, and yet somehow really, really enjoy themselves?  Not too many, I’d surmise.

And here are some snippets from the past few weeks:

Banaras is getting colder. It’s not a New Jersey winter by any means, but the air is chillier, and in the morning, weaving my bike through autos and cows to get to the program house for breakfast, the wind can sometimes bite if I’ve forgotten my windbreaker. It’s kind of counterintuitive. Before I found out I was going on Bridge Year and began reading people’s experiences from past years, when I thought India, I thought hot. Sweltering, sultry, humid. And in some respects this has been true. Our days in Delhi in September were sweltering, and I anticipate our last few months in Banaras to be even more so, but now, every night I sleep tucked away in my down sleeping bag, with long pyjamas, sometimes even with a scarf and hat. It seems like heating is a huge rarity in India. And air conditioning too, but I’m sure I’ll be doing more musing/observing/complaining about that come March and April.

In addition to my own, Tyler and Debi-ji have also celebrated birthdays in the past few weeks. We’ve done well giving each other gifts and cards. Birthdays are always fun, including here in India, even though birthdays tend not to be as big a thing for Indians. For example, when I asked our lovely cook, Anapurna-ji, when her birthday is, she thought it over for a few moments and declared that she would have to get back to me. She still has yet to tell me.

I’ve begun to realize that being a teacher is very hard. There are some days where I feel like I’m doing great: my students are learning and having fun, my lesson plan has worked effectively, I’m enjoying myself immensely. And other days where I feel horridly ineffective, that I’m unable to get through to my students, that they’re bored and not learning. The job is both hair-pullingly frustrating and very rewarding. I hate yelling at my students! But sometimes it’s necessary. I now understand what my middle school teachers must’ve felt like, as I blabbed away and jumped off the walls, commiserating with my friends.

A few weeks ago, there was a grand pooja, or worship, along the ghats. We took another boat ride on the Ganga, this time getting on the river while the sky was still a deep, royal purple. When the sun finally revealed itself, the ghats began buzzing, chants coming from the mouth of every mother, dressed in her nicest sari, the sounds melding into one vibrato, harmonious hum. It was called Chhaat Puja, and is a day where mothers pay homage to their sons, praying for success and a healthy life. Only to their sons, though. I asked my host mother if she would participate in the puja. She said no. “Why should I only worship my son? Don’t I love my daughter, too?” I’d say that, unfortunately, there aren’t enough people in India who think like my host mother, at least in terms of women’s rights.

Namaste. Ugli bar ko milenge!

3 a.m. train delirium

our friends

one of the less carnal carvings