Lack of Perception

We make a right off the main road leading out of Bhuj and drive toward the village.
The pavement fades to dirt.
I lean over to catch a glimpse of the clock.
Five fifty eight.
The sun has already gone down.
We are just about reaching the time of day when the burning desert heat surrenders to the cool, dry air that sweeps over the land like a slow, steady breath being released from above.
I roll down the window and get the chills. I smile as I realize how long it has been since I've had this pleasant sensation.

Meera, the driver, and director of Jamie's NGO, stops the car and asks a man on the side of the road where Bharman lives, in Kutchi (the local language). He points ahead and tells her to continue on a bit further. She thanks him, but the words are not absorbed. He has just spotted the two foreigners in the car and seems to have drifted into a trance. We slowly roll away, but his gaze remains on me until we are out of sight.

I do not feel exposed, as I still sometimes do on the streets of Mumbai. I feel as if we have entered a dream in which we are the only two people present. In it, we stand at a distance from one another, as neither of us wishes to intrude on the others space or step out of his/her own.
Our stare is unbreakable, yet shallow.
There is no shared past, no deeper meaning, merely curiosity.
As I face him, looking into his eyes, I imagine his curiosity is on a macro level, while mine is on a micro. I may be more familiar with his world, than he is with mine, but he is as much a stranger to me as I am to him. We are simply two individuals who have never seen each other before, and likely never will again...

The car stops as I'm jolted back to my surroundings and out of my"dream."

We walk to the center of the village where we are surrounded by small circular clay huts. Meera walks ahead and greets Bharman. His mother follows, clearly delighted for the arrival of visitors, and gives Meera a warm hug. She proceeds to Megan, Jamie and I and places her hand on each of our heads as we ever so slightly bow to meet her hand. We walk with them to the knotted rope cots (similar to hammocks on posts) and are asked to sit, as they stand next to us. More people come over to listen to the conversation Meera engages in with Bharman and his mother. I assume many of them are from the same family as they pass a baby around listening to Bharman explain to Meera why he likes life in the village more than the city. (She has kindly taken on the role of interviewer and translator for my sake as I am experiencing my first visit to a village.)

"In the village," he says, "time is free. You can be sure when you visit there will always be time to sit down, talk, drink chai...people will always have time for this. In the city you never know if people will be too busy to speak with you. People do not always have the time to relax and visit with you like we are doing now. That is why I enjoy living in the village."

I ask to hold the baby.
Meera translates my request to Kutchi.
I am suddenly distracted by the bright colors and intricate designs of the women's attire. Their tops remind me of extravagantly embroidered aprons with short sleeves and open backs which are connected by a few thin horizontal elastic bands.

"You can hold him," Meera says to me, "but he's not wearing a diaper so he may pee on you."
It wouldn't be the first time, I think to myself as I bob my head from side to side to accept the offer. I keep my eyes on the baby bouncing on my knee, as I start to feel the eyes of the baby's present guardians, ranging in age from around 9 to 65, focus on me. I am aware though that their attention does not come from distrust or hesitancy to hand off the baby to me. Once again, I see it as nothing more than mere curiosity of how this foreigner will handle the child, or perhaps how my "baby holding techniques" vary from theirs.

I notice that Bharman's mother has taken a seat on the edge of the cot as she continues conversing with Meera. She explains that even though it may not seem like it, some things have changed in the village over time. "Now I am sitting next to you and we are talking. It used to be that I would not be allowed to sit and speak with visitors. I would have to sit back there," she points behind the cot where a few older men are sitting, uninterested in what's going on in front of them. "Things change here, but very slowly. I wish I could wear the modern clothes like you! But we have learned to make our traditional clothes from the age of five and have been wearing them all our lives," she says as she pulls her shawl further over her forehead as not to expose her hair. (The four of us are dressed in salwar kameez - very light weight outfits consisting of loose fitting pants, a long tunic like top and shawl worn over the chest that many Indian girls and women wear.)

As we talk, and listen, the sky gets darker and and the evening breeze makes me shiver again. I am reminded that this India is so far from the India I know. The baby has fallen asleep in my lap. Bharman smiles, takes him from me and passes him to a young girl standing close by. She rocks him back and forth a few times, lays him down on the cot and gently leans over to kiss his head.

Meera laughs with the women and then explains how they were reminiscing about their first meeting when she came to the village years ago to help set up women's empowerment groups. "Do you girls want to know anything else about the village or what they do here?" she asks us.
I stare at her blankly.
Sitting on the cot I realize how much and how little I'm feeling in this moment.
I gaze at the covered arms of the women standing around us. Bangles cover wrists to biceps.
I have never felt so full of emotion, yet so completely empty at the same time.
I have nothing to say.
I am experiencing sensation, yet lost in my inability to reach perception.

Six Months Later...

My most recent fellowship assignment - "For your monthly report this month, we ask that you submit a letter to future AJWS fellows. The letter will serve to inform future fellows of the practical arrangements they should make prior to their departure as well as provide them with a snapshot of your experience in India."

Dear Future Fellows,

I can so clearly remember sitting on the floor of my room six months ago trying to stuff all I thought was necessary for the next ten months of my life into a suitcase at 3am, while my mom sat on my bed trying to make herself useful by reading aloud the “Dear Future Fellows,” letters in the Volunteer Handbook. She tried so hard to bring to life the advice and experiences of past fellows, with hopes that each word would somehow seep in and better prepare me for what was to come. As I listened, I took out the last sweater I had put in my suitcase (why did I put any in?!), added another pair of flip flops and tried to visualize my right hand as my only eating utensil, but besides that, none of it really penetrated. I felt so far removed from what I was hearing and for the life of me couldn’t connect to the words of those who had just experienced what I was about to.

I sit here at a desk in my NGO office, (as I look out at the monsoon rain that’s just started pouring down again) in utter disbelief that I am more than half way into my fellowship and am now being asked to write my own “Dear Future Fellows” letter. I could tell you what my office life is like, how I’ve been experiencing culture shock, what I wish I had packed (and not packed), how my time here has impacted my Jewish identity and other tips that you may or may not find useful. But the truth is I’m in the midst of my own unique experience that I’m still trying to figure out and find meaning in for myself. I don’t want to set expectations or put pictures in your head that may be completely unrepresentative of what your experience will look like. What I would like to do is share with you an excerpt from a letter I was asked to write to myself just before arriving at my placement 5 months ago. After rereading it at the mid-point retreat, I couldn’t help but think something from it may be relevant or helpful for future fellows to hear. So, although I’m not offering instructions or words of wisdom to you per se, I hope my advice for myself will at least urge you to think about your own unique journey that is about to begin.

“Don’t get too comfortable in routines. (Personally, professionally or socially) Challenge yourself to experience more, taste more, interact more, walk more, talk more, think more, write more, engage more and laugh more even when you’re not being pushed to, and especially when you’re not feeling motivated to. Do things because you care about them and want to contribute to change (in your NGO, community, India or yourself) not because you have to. If you feel yourself getting stuck in routines and drifting into “autopilot” take a step back and ask yourself why that is the case. There’s only so much you can do in your position, but there is exactly that – so much you can do! It’s never too late to make a change for yourself.

Stop mapping out your future and just let it happen! Don’t forget about the “unknown, unknowns” and how exciting it is to have them continuously popping up. You have so much time ahead of you with so many open doors in all directions. No matter what happens over the next 4 months, remember that no experience is a waste of time because you’ll never know which may lead to the next opportunity or realization about your future.

Remember why you chose to be here and remind yourself that you will never have this experience again. What an amazing opportunity you were given, and still have in front of you. It’s what YOU make of it! Take a deep breath and just let go. Anything that is bothering you or causing anxiety or stress probably doesn’t have to be, so do something about it! You will be so much happier and able to get, and give more if you can move on, laugh about it and focus on the positive things that are important to you.”

And to Think That I Saw It on Mahatma Gandhi Street

Just a typical morning walk from Khar Danda (where I live) to Pali Naka (where I work)...

9:04 – Leave my apartment, waiting till the last possible second to turn off the fans before braving the 100 degree heat. (no exaggeration)

9:06 – Pass by Little Bo-Peep Day Care as I hear a familiar song, “Hakuna Matata, what a wonderful phrase…” It's funny, everyone I speak to at home asks, "So, what's India like?!" because being half way (well all the way actually) across the world in a developing country must be as far from life at home as I could get...yet I'm standing here watching a three year old girl wrap her arms tightly around her mother and kiss her goodbye before running through the red and yellow gate to the sounds of the Lion King soundtrack coming from inside. No better way to express the moment than my roommate Talya’s favorite quote, “We are here to awaken from the illusion of our separateness.”

9:10 – Walk around the neighborhood cow in her usual spot on the sidewalk eating from the pile of garbage next to her. (Who am I kidding? There are about 15 neighborhood cows, but this one has definitely claimed this spot.)

9:17 – “Good Morning!” says the young man sitting behind the magazine stand smiling. It seems we have developed a little morning ritual; he waits for me to walk by, I wave and he glows with pride after getting to impress me with his English.

9:18 – Take out my handkerchief to wipe the beads of sweat rolling down my face that I can no longer ignore as I pass the woman who sits on this precise sidewalk square everyday. She must be at least 85 years old, wears an old, torn, yet extremely colorful sari and stares blankly at the road in front of her while slightly wiggling her one bottom tooth that is visible over her top lip when her mouth is closed.

9:25 – Walk passed the old man riding his bicycle who I cross paths with everyday between 9:23 and 9:28. It's a quiet one way street that he slowly pedals down while continuously squeezing his horn (I smile wondering if he just doesn’t realize there are no other vehicles on the road or he simply enjoys the high pitched sound of his horn.)

9:27 – A teenage boy walks towards me with a monkey on a leash. I stare a bit at this odd yet unsurprising pair. He gets closer and calls out, “Monkey dance? Monkey dance?” I shake my head no, although very curious what exactly a monkey dance would look like. He passes and we both continue on our way.

9:28 – Turn around to make sure the heat isn’t getting to me and I didn’t just imagine that whole scene. Nope. Boy and monkey on leash are still visible and lethargically strolling down the street.

9:30 - Reach the alley leading to the apartment building of my NGO office. I take a minute to cool off slightly, as drops of water coming from the laundry hanging above land on my head, before climbing the five flights up to apartment 503.

Honk Ok Please

After being in India for more than two months and observing the "rules of the road" in three different cities, I have developed an excellent business proposition. All automobiles sold in India should be manufactured so that upon starting the engine the horn is activated and continuously sounds unless the center of the steering wheel is pressed which would stop the horn from going off, but only until the driver's hand is lifted. It would simply be a more efficient system for this country!

I keep thinking about how exhausting it must be to have to constantly be pressing the horn while driving. Oh and let me clarify, it's not just that people enjoy playing along in the street orchestra, comprised of the many variations of the beep. (I've noticed there seems to be a direct relationship between the size of the vehicle and the noise it produces. The auto rickshaws though, are in a family of their own, each having a very unique sound that can occasionally be mistaken for a dying cow. I should mention that cows are lucky enough not to need horns because they are just about the only thing on the road people stop, or at lease swerve for.) Drivers are actually just following direction when sounding their horn. You see, every truck I have seen in India has the words, Honk Ok Please, Blow Horn Ok or Please Horn, written in huge letters on the back. I'm not sure if it's because the mirrors (if the truck has them) are not adequate in eliminating blind spots or for some other reason, but I'm pretty sure it is for safety purposes and not to just liven things up while sitting in traffic.

What I find to be even more unbelievable, and impressive, than the quantity of honking that goes on in this country, is the reaction people have to it. Maybe it's just because I spent the month before coming to India driving to work in New York City everyday, but I continue to be utterly awed everytime I'm on a road here. Not only is the constant honking normal and even requested, but in my experience it does not elicit any hostility or aggression from other drivers, bikers or pedestrians.

Let me try to explain. I was in a cab one afternoon and after about ten minutes of not moving an inch, (up to nine is considered fairly typical for Mumbai traffic, but ten is where the line is drawn) I poked my head out the window to see what the hold up was. Just ahead of us there had been an accident and both cars were now blocking the road. By this point, I think drivers in the vicinity had reached complete boredom because it almost sounded as if they were attempting to play little tunes with their horns. As we inched closer, I could no longer even see the damaged cars because of the growing crowd surrounding them. Anyone walking past (or drivers who were tired of playing their horn) came over to take a look and discuss the afternoon drama with the person standing next to them. From inside my cab, I observed the bazaar scene, stopped obsessing about being late to work and simply laughed. If I didn't know any better, I would have thought that no one sitting in the traffic jam had anywhere to be and therefore could sit back and relax until things started moving again.

I admit I'm still slightly irritated by the magnitude of honking and general mayhem you face when venturing out onto the roads, and have needlessly over reacted as a result, but I'm also realizing how much I have to learn from the drivers of this country. From time to time it makes the experience of being on the road, dare I say, refreshing.

Office Space

After coming up the five flights of stairs to my NGO's office, I take a minute to recover from the 100 stair climb ("exactly 100 stairs!" I was told by a colleague) before ringing the bell. Someone from one of the other NGO's we share the space with welcomes me in and is quickly back to work. I add my sandals to the large pile that has accumulated under the table in the kitchen. When I say kitchen, I don't mean that "officey" type of kitchen with only the bear essentials needed for heating lunch up. This is a fully stocked, very lived in looking kitchen that almost makes those who don't cook want to start.

I walk through the main room, that the other NGO works out of, to the small, but very warm space my new colleagues call home. The hard wood floors are very clean, as everyone walks around barefoot. An Ikea looking desk/storage unit sits on one side of the room and a simple desk and small bamboo table with matching chairs sits on the opposite. The third side is taken up by a large window with cushions and pillows surrounding a very low table that can only be used while sitting on the floor. Against the last wall is a small futon with a large red bulletin board above it. Bright orange curtains hang to the sides of the window and Christmas decorations that have not yet been taken down cover the walls. "It's not just a place to work," the director told me when we first met, "it's a nice place to relax, read even sleep. Maybe you do work better in some other environment and this will be a space for you to just come and hang out."

I walk to the office, sit under the fan and use the computer to check emails, get in touch with people I plan to visit and work on assignments for the fellowship orientation. Around lunch time I order "take out" from one of the many little restaurants in Bandra with whoever else is around. (Once I have my own place I will bring food to cook in the kitchen!) We sit on the cushions around the table and enjoy lunch while laughing about something or other. Some time in the mid afternoon I'm asked if I would like a cup of tea, as a pot is about to be made for the office.

No cubicles to disappear in, doors to slam shut or corner offices to hide behind, but somehow it seems to be one of the most productive, calm and supportive work environments I have observed. How strange...

Afternoon at a Cafe

I'm sitting at a cafe (one of the more western style ones in town) and I hear music coming from down the road. As it gets louder, I see it's coming from a small, decorated wagon being pulled by a cow. A man and woman are walking beside it and spot me sitting on the porch of the cafe. This is the moment I get "the eyes." Oh the eyes! The coaxing, pleading, desperate, (for lack of a better word) puppy dog eyes.

They approach the cafe porch and hold out something that looks like a receipt booklet. Clearly they want me to pay for something, but I don't know if it's a ride on the cow, a picture with the cow, a kiss from the cow or maybe a chance to milk the cow. I shake my head (as I've gotten used to doing after only a day in Bombay) trying to let them know that a look at their decorative, musical, cow pulling wagon is enough for me.

The cafe waiter comes out and I assume asks them to leave (they speak in Hindi). As the woman backs away, and he is now working on convincing the man to leave me alone, a child approaches me from behind, with the same receipt booklet in hand. I can't help but laugh. It almost seems as if the man was distracting the waiter so that the child could sneak around back to me. How long will this cycle continue?!

The waiter hears me laughing, turns around to find the child next to me begging and attempts to shew the youngest of the salesmen away. He smiles at me almost saying, "This is what I get for working at a cafe where many foreigners come to!"

New Years Day

I sit on the Bandra boardwalk, my first day in India, with my Culture Shock India in hand doing that thoughtless type of reading when you look at the words, but fail to process any of them. A small girl comes up to me, maybe four years old or so, and hops up on the bench I'm sitting on. "Ello ello! Food food?" she says to me as she cups her hands in front of my face. I continue staring down at the page desperately trying not to make eye contact.

I reassure myself, "this is what I'm supposed to be doing...right?" I hear the voices of all the westerns who repeatedly told me not to give to street children or even talk to them because it will just be harder to say no.

"Ello ello ello! Food?!" I can't help but smile as she scouts closer, practically straddling the side of my body with her tiny brown legs. I continue to look down, but see from the corner of my eye her dirty hair falling over her glowing eyes. She is adorable, which of course makes this so much harder for me. I try to tell myself not to be tricked, that it's all a well rehearsed act and she's simply doing an amazing job of playing the role. She is a slave to an evil man (maybe even her father) who has turned this innocent child into a manipulative con-artist. Her partner in crime will be here shortly to grab my bag as I'm distracted by her beauty.

But I can't get myself to believe any of it. I wish I could. It would be so much easier if I could stick to that story instead of seeing her as nothing more than a little girl looking for something to eat and maybe a little attention. She finally gives up and walks away barefoot. (I should mention that this does not seem to be uncommon in India because I have seen many people walking around town with no shoes on.)

I go down towards the water and find a place to sit on the rocky beach along with the rest of the Indians who came to enjoy the beautiful day. Many people glance at me as I walk by. I'm still trying to figure out if it's mere curiosity, to which I can smile and nod (well actually, the Indian equivalent to a nod is a bit of a head bob. I'm getting pretty good at it!), or something I should be a bit more cautious of.

I take out my book and continue reading about climate (if this is winter, it will be interesting to experience summer!) and cultural norms (it is acceptable, and not unusual for two men to hold hands as a sign of friendship while walking together). Suddenly I look up and notice my new friend has found me again. We go through the same routine of her repeating the two English words she seems to know and me smiling down at my book. She becomes interested in what I'm reading (not surprising by how hard I seem to be concentrating on the page) and suddenly she becomes a child, like any other I am instantly drawn to.

I look up at her and she smiles back at me. She points to a picture in the book. "Elephant," I say like I'm her English teacher doing a unit on animals. I flip through the book and find any other pictures I can share with her. She is very excited about the cricket game and looks at me with bright eyes as she points to the picture and says, "ball!"

I can't say my bag isn't clutched tight between my legs, but at the same time I feel relaxed. We seem to have passed the initial begging phase and are now able to simply interact and in some way enjoy each other's company.

After a few minutes, I notice a boy of about 12 or 13 has joined our little picture game. He stands back, almost letting me know that he doesn't want anything from me besides looking along with us. "Car, truck, bike!" he says as I flip the page. I turn around and he looks at me wide eyed and so proud that he could identify the pictures on the page before I had to my little student sitting next to me. As we look at more pictures, he slowly gets more comfortable and begins pointing to the images he can name.

I look to the right and see the Indian woman who was studying next to me is now observing this fairly odd, yet comical scene we have created. She smiles, we exchange a laugh and I'm called back to the game as the next page is turned for me.