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.