Our Future.

Our future. Walking through the streets of India, it’s something I consider often. The future: mine and theirs. In three months I’ll be sitting on a plane headed towards the USA; towards further education, anxious friends, and a college campus and community that’s provided me with more blessings than I can ever account for. This first trip to India will be a life changing memory. There will be beautiful moments bathed in recollection, a mixture of nostalgia and a longing to return: fleeting sensations of the mouth-watering smells of coals roasting corn and masala, the soft tinkling cow bells floating on sun-kissed breezes, the pull of five-year-old hands that tug on fingers trying to keep up with the street-kids’ desire for chocolate. There will be others, of starving dogs that await death in gutters, of children sitting, naked and unnoticed, behind their brick-carrying mothers, of beggars, crippled and tattered, searching for change. These memories will bring back my tears. But they will be just that: memories.

For the ones who must remain, this is reality; an inescapable daily tragedy. What does the future hold for the children pulling at my leg in search of a spare rupee or plate of food? What will become of the sweeper, shoveling soggy chapatis in a well-worn sari and dusty pink jacket, whose sad eyes haunt me as I walk to class each morning? Where will the HIV+ patients I interview turn for help when first-line treatments eventually fail? What hope is there for the sex-workers whose children I’ve held when age or disease force their retirement? And their children? And their children’s children?

This morning, lost and confused among the crowds of Pune’s largest bus stop, I was unsure. Unsure of what to say to the young girl asking for the change I didn’t have. Unsure, watching youngsters leaf through trash as they choked on the smell of vegetables rotting in shit and urine, of what my part is in all this madness. Unsure about the safety of the families squatting under the faded blue tarps that mark the boundaries of a slum arising from dumping grounds a few feet away from where I stood. Unsure of how to find Sunita in the crowds of people who stopped to stare at the confusing juxtaposition of braided blonde hair, fair skin, and Indian attire. Unsure about my decision to trust the young man whose smile disarmed me when, after a jumbled mix of Marathi crossed my phone line, took my hand and began to lead me through the thickening crowds. Unsure, after he’d introduced himself as Ganesh and delivered me safely to Sunita, of how to apologize for the initial pang of fear he didn’t know I’d felt. Unsure of how to thank him, thank the world for the blessings I have, the opportunities I keep being given. Unsure...

An hour later, jarred by the dusty bus ride that brought me further and further into poverty that cripples the village I visited, I felt a question I’d nearly forgotten begin to overwhelm me. What am I doing? I am one person. How arrogant must I be to believe I have any power to help overcome this mess? What makes me think I can become part of a solution, change the lives of people whose problems I can never fully appreciate? I was so lost in the misery surrounding me that I almost didn’t notice a lady holding fast to the side of our rickshaw. “Please,” she smiled in recognition at Sunita, “please help.” I didn’t need to understand the conversation to understand her plea. “Take my friend,” she asked, gesturing to a woman whose eyes were overshadowed by the white film of blindness. “Take her home, it’s too far to walk.” Sunita got the directions as I slid over to make room. We were off again. A little more hope, a little more stamina. And then my life was changed.



Neehar is a rehabilitation home for the children of sex-workers. Many of you may remember it from my Donations for Education campaign (thank you once again to all of you who sent donations of supplies, money, and good will!). The second I stooped to walk through the low-hanging gate separating the centre from the rest of the village I was tackled by a dozen fascinated youngsters. Their joy was infectious. They climbed on my shoulders, pulled me from room to room, laughed at my Marathi attempts (that later turned into an hour long English/Marathi exchange), and posed for an endless stream of pictures following my two minute demonstration on how to use the camera I turned over to them for the day. The older kids sat captivated when I helped them practice their English and, with the assistance of their teacher, told them stories of Minnesota winters and South Carolina summers. Descriptions of snow were a definite hit. I’ve never seen eyes so big! Next time I’m taking pictures to pass around.


All of these children have been voluntarily turned over to Neehar. Though they want to keep their kids, the mothers know that they cannot provide them with food, clothing, clean air to breathe, room to play, a mat to sleep on, and an education that will ensure them a better future. So they visit monthly and watch as a truly remarkable story is written. Each girl and boy have obstacles to overcome. They have plenty of excuses to cry for pity and throw up their hands in defeat. But they don’t. Instead they laugh and play, throw themselves wholeheartedly into their studies, and care for each other like one giant family. “All are sisters and brothers didi (older sister)!” Lakshmi announced, wrapping me in a bear hug that was quickly joined by everyone near enough to see. And there I was, awestruck in the middle of a beautiful embrace.

Later, with two little boys in my lap, another two running their hands through my strange colored hair and three of the older girls fighting to capture yapping puppies on film in the twilight, it was hard to contain my tears of joy, hope. They are our future. These delightful children are overcoming their meager beginnings, tearing down the stigma they’ve been unfairly assigned, and taking the whole world with them. In a few years they’ll graduate from university. A few more will see them settle into decent jobs, fully integrated into the society that tried to disown them. And a few years after that they’ll have their own families, be able to take in their mothers and free them from the chains of prostitution. Twenty-five years after its birth, multiple success stories testify to the strength of Neehar’s model. The cycle is being broken, the world is being changed.



Fourteen feet pound the ground, fourteen hands rap on the windows of the car. “Come again soon didi! Come again soon!” It all starts here.

Sending love from Pune.

Language

Have you ever thought about the divisive nature of language? The more Marathi I learn, the more I’m beginning to realize how much language has to do with class (and caste) here. Most of the lower class/caste people I’ve associated with, ie. rickshaw drivers, vegetable wallas, street sweepers, maids, drivers, servants, some shopkeepers etc. speak only Marathi. Poorer students attend Marathi-medium schools. NGOs working in the slums, villages and tribal areas function in Marathi. 

As you move up the social strata, English proficiency also increases. Police know enough to get by, the shopkeepers who deal in pharmaceuticals know a bit more, affluent students attend English-medium schools, college students at the more reputable universities in Pune are forced to learn it if they didn’t know it before, and professors are fluent. A handful of the wealthiest people I’ve encountered communicate only in English. They cannot write confidently in the devanagari script and their children aren’t comfortable having a conversation in their mother tongue. The sad truth: English has become the language of “advancement,” of the elite. 

Yesterday I attended a banquet for 75 Malhotra Weikfield Foundation scholarship recipients. The scholarship makes it possible for talented students from disadvantaged backgrounds to attend universities in and around Pune. I was shocked when the friend I went with, a professor of law and mentor to three of the recipients, explained that very few of the professors who serve as mentors speak fluent Marathi. Some come from outside Maharashtra, while others mostly communicate in English, the common language of the educated elite, and over time have lost their fluency. This presents a challenge for many of the students who come from rural backgrounds armed only with the English they’ve learned through sub-standard second-language classes. 

After the scholarships awards were distributed and each student recognized, I got the chance to talk with two of Marzia’s students and their parents. Raju has been using the Foundation’s funds to study organic chemistry for the past three years. He speaks English fluently and carries himself with the cocky confidence of someone who has overcome a great deal to jostle his way onto the fast-track to becoming part of an upper-strata of society. He’s going into pharmaceuticals to create new drugs and cure untreatable diseases he proclaimed happily. Later, using Marzia as an interpreter, a conversation with his father gave me a little more insight into just what he’s faced to get to where he is. Confined to their small village, Raju’s father spent many nights of his childhood lying awake wondering when and where his next meal would come from. When his son was born he determined that, no matter what sacrifices the family had to make, he would be educated and attend university. Though they might have gone without meals or new clothes, Raju went to school. Twenty-one years later, his father had tears in his eyes as he watched his son joke and shove the friends gathered around him. 

Ramdel has yet to acquire Raju’s confidence or linguistic abilities. He was charmingly timid, and seemed overwhelmed by his newfound “fortune” of educational opportunities. I was instantly drawn to his humble nature and could easily identify with the position he was in, completely awestruck by the miracle of scholarships that will allow him to continue higher education. I’ve been there too. I smiled and gently encouraged him as he hung his head and lowered his gaze from mine when he couldn’t find the English words to describe his ambitions. A few fragments of broken Marathi on my part broke the ice. I think he realized that I too was struggling with a strange and complicated language, and he hesitantly began to open up a bit more. Eventually, between talking to him and his father, I discovered that they had both made a five-hour journey from their village to accept his first Malhotra scholarship. He is also hoping to study organic chemistry at a university somewhere outside Pune. They were delighted to learn that I am particularly interested in visiting villages and experiencing rural Indian life, both to better understand Indian culture (and what’s being lost in the rush to globalize) and to spread HIV awareness. Before biding him farewell I managed to get his email. I can’t wait to see where he goes over the next few years. 

- -

A few other things... I’ve been struggling with my assumptions about rickshaw drivers. So many of them try to take advantage of me, the strange foreigner with little knowledge of the city and even less of the local language. A few have even proved dangerous, whether it be with verbal harassment or pushing the line on physical/sexual assault. All of these experiences have caused me to expect bad experiences each time I step into a rickshaw, but every now and then my assumptions get proven very, very wrong. The other night I had to come home at 9:30 - prime time for sketchy experiences. To my surprise, not only did my driver know English, Marathi, Hindi, and five other Indian languages, he’d also traveled out of the country on multiple occasions and taught computer engineering at one of the colleges in Pune. I was astounded and, both grateful for the safe and uneventful ride home and the incredible conversation I’d had, tried to tip him a few extra rupees. “Nai!” he exclaimed adamantly, shoving the change into my hand along with his business card. Never had I had someone refuse money, here or in the US. It was also my first time being invited into the life of a “common” person on the street - he wanted me to visit his class. What an eye opener.

Today I had a few unpleasant rides and was not looking forward to trying to get from Aund to Kothrud in Ganesh Festival traffic. When I finally managed to flag down a rickshaw, the driver was equally (un)thrilled with the prospect of fighting his way across town and demanded I pay extra. I was in a hurry and surprised to find someone willing to travel the distance, so I eventually agreed. Once we were off he said a few fragmented phrases in English, which prompted me to ask, “English bol?” He chuckled. “Me English 40%. You Marathi 100%?”
“Nai nai!” I responded with a laugh. “Me Marathi 10%!” We continued conversing like that, he in broken English and me in far worse Marathi, for a good part of the 45-minute ride. And yet again, my expectations were turned upside down. All the more reason for me to work harder to fight the fast developing assumptions that take over each time I step out to flag down a ride...


*** All the names of the students have been changed since I never got their permission to write about them. :)

From Ajanta to Ellora to Maitri to Pune

The past week has passed in a blur of life-changing moments. I’ve secured an internship with Maitri and subsequently begun work on a fundraising project for flood victims in the northern Indian town of Leh, visited the ancient masterpieces of Daulatabad and the Ajanta and Ellora caves, and managed to get my cell phone to call my grandfather and one of my closest amigos halfway around the globe. I wish I could even partially capture how blessed I feel, but I know as well as you that it’s impossible. So, I’ll give a few brief descriptions and hope that, sometime in the future, we can sit and talk late into the night of life and all the amazing opportunities it brings.

Last Tuesday I went on a bit of an escapade trying to find an NGO based in Pune. The rickshaw driver didn’t speak English, my Marathi was way less than functional, and the little slip of pink paper Shruti had scribbled an address onto was doing little to assist either of us in locating the destination I had in mind. After driving in circles for a good twenty minutes we were both lost, confused, and had begun to resort to broad smiles, head nods and exaggerated hand gestures to communicate. Luckily I’d been fortunate enough to find one of the few drivers in the city who was more concerned with delivering me safely than quickly (not that I blame them for wanting to work fast - they have to earn money to feed their families, and with the pitiful amount they are paid they don’t have much of an option but to boot the unfortunate individual who has no idea where they are going), and he stopped multiple times to get pointed in one direction or another by people standing along the street. Eventually I landed at the doorstep of Maitri armed with an embarrassingly small amount of information on the NGO whose manager, Vinita, will be guiding my HIV research. It didn’t take much prodding, however, before I was being briefed on their programs working in various remote tribal areas to eradicate childhood malnutrition, provide basic education, contribute to functioning healthcare systems, empower citizens to advocate for themselves, and to assist in disaster relief efforts throughout the country. As Vinita learned of my interest in HIV-related work we even began to discuss the possibility of reviving the HIV programs they’d recently cut from their workload. By the end of two hours I’d been offered (and gladly accepted) an internship with the organization, put in charge of setting up the US branch of fundraising to support their relief efforts for flood victims in Leh (stay tuned for more info!), and departed with promises to begin work and attend meetings the following day. 

The next evening, standing in darkness and being soaked to the bone by unrelenting rainfall, I learned what Maitri is really all about. Halfway through our meeting a young man, probably not much older than me, made his way across the park and joined our small circle of dedicated activists. His overwhelming excitement made me forget the chill of the night as he effortlessly sucked me into the world he’d recently experienced. He was so eager to tell his story he couldn’t possibly get the words out fast enough, but any details that were lost in the jumble were made up for by his ecstatic hand gestures and smile that threatened to wrap clear around his glowing face. 

Everything was told in marathi so this account might not be completely accurate, but here’s what I could piece together from his story: Two weeks ago he went, under the supervision of Maitri, to visit a remote tribal area. He wasn’t interested in much more than seeing what the lives of these people were like, but within hours of arriving he realized that he was here for much more than mere observation. The community’s water source, located between two hills, was being flooded by monsoon rains. Rising water levels were forcing people and animals alike to walk through the water flowing into their well, contaminating it in the process. There was only one solution - a bridge needed to be built immediately. And so thats what he did. In ten days. Realizing the task was impossible to complete alone, he went from house to house and literally pulled people from their beds to come and help. Even the children pitched in after being bribed with sweets. They worked all day. At night he stood guard to prevent the animals from trampling whatever progress had been made. There was no light, no electricity, no running water, no cell phone service, and no transportation save a single ambulance. But by the end of his stay he’d used the little engineering knowledge he had from college coursework coupled with incredible amounts of determination and dedication to solve one of the most pressing sanitation problems the community faced. Now they have clean water, and his life’s been changed forever. He says he’s going back to build more bridges, save more lives. Just goes to show that one person’s efforts can push the world a little bit closer to perfection. Welcome to the Maitri family. 



Bright and early Thursday morning ACM staff rounded up all the students and packed us into a bus for the six-hour journey to Aurangabad. I’d planned to sleep on the drive, but the countryside proved far too fascinating. I saw so many strange and wonderful things: goats, sheep, and cows competing with cars and rickshaws for space on the road, children running to school, roasting corn and chapatis, shopkeepers opening their doors for the morning rush. Other sights were vivid reminders of the inequality that’s so painfully obvious here: naked, dusty children looking longingly after the ones running to class, men surrounded by mud and trash as they used buckets of cold water to bathe on the roadside, women picking through trash for food or anything that might be sold... And, as was to become a frequent experience throughout the trip, at every toll booth all the men came out of their stations to stare, point and laugh at the group of Americans.

Finally we reached Daulatabad (previously Devgiri), a fort built in 12th century A.D. by the Yadava King of Bhillama V. It remained one of the principle strongholds in the region after the conquest of Devgiri in 1296 A.D. and, in 1327 A.D. Sultan Mohammed-bin-Tughlak decided to move his capital from Delhi to Devgiri and renamed it Daultabad (“The City of Fortune”). The defense system at the fort could only have been constructed by military geniuses. It was combined psychology with practicality to create a structure that was virtually impregnable. Only 7 of the 50+ doors were functional, the rest opened into passageways that dead-ended in deadly drop-offs or impassable walls. In addition, there were ingeniously built mazes with a complex arrangement of entryways, deep rock-cut moats and trenches that could only be crossed at a single point. While marveling at the incredible structure, we were also able to see the the Chanad Minar and Royal Palaces located on the mountainside above the fort that was once a favored summer residence of the Mughal emperors.

The rest of the weekend was spent exploring the region’s main attraction: the Ajanta and Ellora caves. It was an incredible experience. Seeing and touching 2000 year old paintings, meditating in the caves where Buddhist monks searched for nirvana 1500 years ago, walking through temples that took 6 generations to carve into the mountainside...

Ellora is composed of 34 “caves” that were carved into the face of the mountain between the 5th and 10th century to form Buddhist, Hindu and Jain monasteries. Ajanta was carved even earlier, between the 2nd century B.C. and 8th century A.D., and contains paintings and sculptures that have become well known masterpieces of Buddhist art. It’s obvious why both have made the World Heritage Site list. It’s impossible to describe the mixture of feelings that overwhelmed me while I walked through these places; comprehending something so magnificent is almost beyond my reach. I think with time what I’ve experienced will really begin to sink in, but for now I can just marvel at the awe-inspiring beauty of human capabilities. How the British ever thought these people were “uncivilized” and “unsophisticated” is beyond me...

I’ll try to write more soon! For now I must be off to my first Bollywood dance class and another life-altering Maitri meeting after that.