Circling over Madurai I saw large rock forms with temples on the top of them. They looked like tables with toy houses from the air. Driving out of town the Western Ghats came closer and loomed larger. Lightening streaked and the colors of the sky provided dramatic backdrop. I arrived at the guest house where I would be staying. A beautiful, spacious house with tall ceilings and large rooms. The chair person of the school I was to visit was waiting for me, along with the principal. They stood when I entered, and immediately set off to the dining room. Over dinner he lectured me on Hindu religion—intense. There were servants who watched our every move in order to anticipate our needs—more water, finished with plate, more rice. . trying to be invisible. In the early early morning when I took a walk with the principal throughout their compound the servants walked behind us with flashlights to light our way. . .

I was invited by the Raja family to visit a private English Indian School in Rajapalayam, south of Madurai. The school serves children pre K-standard 10. Friday was an observation day. I was impressed with the facilities and the high academic standard of the school.

Children demonstrated a startling amount of memorization coupled with a working understanding of what they were doing. They had math lab time and performed plays around the English stories they read. Americans love to say that the Indians only do rote learning (because they are so much better in math than American kids) without understanding what they are doing. I watched very little children recite their math tables and vocab words—but they did know what they meant. I also saw that this was memorization practice. These kids, by the time they are in high school have great strategies for memorization. I think as a generalization, we as Americans are afraid to have kids memorize, or do hard work if they don’t want to. I watched children write sentences (in perfect handwriting in K) ten times. Here is another fascinating thing,folks. The kids don’t hate it. They are so grateful to have the opportunity to be in school, and have the books to write in. I watched their faces scuewed up in concentration, with their tongue sticking out the corner of their mouth as they work on their sentences in English. But guess what? These kids are bi-or tri lingual. Out under the banyan tree, they performed—oh did they perform! Plays or folktales, songs, poems, speeches, yoga, tae kwon do, dances—It was glorious fun. It was a very happy school—lucky kids going there.
One aspect appears to be missing in Indian schools, creative writing. It is a novel idea that young children should do creative writing rather than copying work or writing answers to questions. I presented a slide show and showed videos of the AISCH staff teaching creative writing from 1-10th grade as models. Thanks to another teacher here, I have learned a lot about tech, and actually enjoyed giving the presentation—

Saturday morning, In the secondary school Imet with each class and the students questioned her about world events and being an American—and of course, “What do you think of our school? Indian education?” Every child dressed the same, every school age girl in all of India wears her hair in long braids, circled up and tied with bows. The lack of need for individualism is really striking in a high school class—as well as the discipline and segregation of boys/girls. This is a co-ed school, but boys on one side of the room and girls on the other. No cooperative learning. Or group projects. Rarely discussions. I was dreading it, thinking I had nothing to say to them, but they had a lot to ask and it was exciting exchanging ideas. I found it helped me develop my own ideas as I talked with them. Ideas about individualization, unity, materialism, communalism, equality, freedom, opportunity, fate—my head was reeling. . .”How did you get to be so famous?” one boy asked me—crazy.
I ended the day sitting under the 700 year old baobab tree where Gandhi held talks and parakeets live.

I came home from dinner at a little diner with friends. Laughing and talking. When I arrived home Permal was lying in the driveway on a blanket wearing towels on his head and wrapped in wool shawls. It is times like this I am furious at my lack of understanding Tamil. It is 87 degrees out. He is telling me somehow that he has a fever and is cold. I give him a sweater that Tim left here and an extra blanket and make tea and tylenol. He is sitting on my living room floor singing his prayers now. He assures me that he will go to the Dr. tomorrow if he is not better. He makes little moaning sounds. No, no no no! He can’t possibly go home for fear of losing his job—crazy. He finishes his tea and crackers. It is about ½ hour since he took his Tylenol. He stopped making the little sounds. He goes out and I watch him make a bed on the floor of the little guard shack and curl up. Two people under the same sun—but our lives are so vastly different.

hope

I am surprised to find winter doldrums in this country—although, I suppose they are not in this country, but my own heart/mind. I always attributed this malaise to the weather in Minnesota, the grey days and long nights with inclement conditions for these old bones. It was this time last year that I entertained the idea of leaving—a time of unrest. Even as I write this at my desk with a breeze I am covered with a sheen of sweat and a coil of it roll down my throat. No, it’s not the weather. Perhaps it is because I have always either been a student or a teacher, and have the rhythm of school in my bones. But here I am with bougainvillea blooming outside my window and I have the blues. Perhaps it is because Sylvia, Lydia, and Tim have come and gone. . .Pat and Ned. . . and I see what I am missing. Perhaps it is because I no longer marvel at chartreuse and pink houses, but pass them like the taupe ones in Church hill farms. The faces I pass everyday on my scooter are familiar now, as are their habits, and mine. I am not astonished when I ride my bike.
So today I recognized this and actively sought beautiful moments on the way to work. I took a new route, and got tangled up in streets that don’t run parallel. Backtracking, and backtracking again I saw a small girl, maybe 6 years old with a very small scrawny plant outside of her very dilapidated palm house. She had dug a hole and was planting it amongst the trash. I stopped my bike and watched her pump a glass of water to feed it, and then she stood back and admired her work and clapped her hands. The plant had one white flower growing on it, and drooped its’ head, but held the promise of life. These moments are everywhere—scattered broadside by a generous hand if only one watches for them.