UN DAY

UN day was the last day of school before Divali break. My class of 13 represented 5 countries—you can imagine what a school of 981 represented. The day started off with my students arriving in their native costumes. The kids from India and Korea wore gorgeous elaborate dress. The kids from Denmark, England and US were left adrift in the sea of color and tradition. The richness of the Korean and Indian heritage was stunning. So interesting to see people so proud of their culture. We had an all school assembly when school began. It began with a “parade of flags.” One of the teachers with a great radio voice announced the flags as children carried in the flags from their home country to the accompaniment of the school band. It was stirring, and yet unsettling to me.
Everyone clapped for each country—but cheered wildly for their own. The songs and speeches were about the unity and connectedness of each other—but somehow the flags seemed to divide us. I felt a hint of “Mine is better than yours.” Other teachers didn’t agree with me, and so it was just my interpretation. The rest of the program consisted of songs. One about children’s rights, but the ESL class, my class sang a song of Freedom. I had joined my first choir, and we sang, “Come young citizens of the world—we are one. We are one.” Singing with a group in harmony was a great thrill for me and I sang it to every child in the audience. Hopeful. In the afternoon everyone had shed their costumes, and we had a feast of nations in our classroom for lunch. Mothers went all out bringing specialty foods for the children to eat. Indeed a feast. It was interesting to me that 2 mothers wanted me to taste their foods first—“Eat this! I made it.” It gave me a little more understanding to their child. Oh what a dream the UN is—if only we could live it a little more fully. I am hopeful with our new president who says he will talk to our “enemies.” How else will we understand each other. I wore my peace t-shirt that Tim sent me. That is my country. Every country.

Later that evening a local woman visited me, as she does every Friday. We sat on my couch. I have a little table in the living room, with a picture of Jesus, Buddha, the Mother, and Ganeesha on it. “Do you love Jesus?” she asked me.

“Yes, I do.”
“Me too,” she answered. And I love Si Babba, and Krishna, too.”
I showed her that Si Babba lives in my kitchen in the form of a poster. I sang “Oh Jesus I love you, and I love Buddha too, Rama, Krishna, Guru Dev, Tao de Ching, and Mahommed,” for her. She loved it, and I taught it to her, and we sang and danced in my living room laughing together. “Why do some people say that there is just one way to love you God and come to you—we are all a part of you. . .”

The cable guy.

As soon as I come home from my bike ride from school, I shower and put on a sarong. I was in my room when the doorbell rang, and I saw a man waving to me on the front porch. I waved back not recognizing him without my glasses, but didn’t hesitate to open the door. After all, I have a security guard. He had already removed his shoes, and stepped past me. “Cable, Madame.”

“I don’t have cable,” I answered, following him into my own house. “I don’t even have a TV.”

“No, no. Of course. Upstairs. There’s a problem upstairs. Just take a look in back.”

He was a young man and smaller than me. I showed him through the kitchen unlocked the back porch and he stepped outside. I waited absently as he looked upstairs and drew lines in the air of imaginary wires. “Just take a look inside.” He stepped past me again, and I relocked the door to find him in my bedroom. “Here,” he said, “I’ll just run the wire from this window to this one.” He shook the bars that guard all of my windows. “Are these strong?” He asked.

“I don’t want any cables in my house.” I responded sternly. “I didn’t come to India to watch TV.”

“Nice art. Do you have children?”

This line of talk always makes me smile as I think of my 4 wonderful kids. “Oh, yes. . .” and as I started to blab on about them.

“And the Mister? Is he here with you?”

“No, he is staying in the US until after the election, when we elect Mr. Obama.” I started to think something was a little fishy.

He looked under my bed.

“Madame!” he said. “It is very dirty under here! I will just clean this for you.”

I laughed at him. “OK. It’s time for you to go.”

His phone rang and he babbled on into the phone. HE covered the mouthpiece with his hand, and said, “My boss—1 kilometer away.” He finished his call.

“I mean it now, you have to go. No cable.”
“No problem, Madame. Just one small kiss.”
“One small kiss! Get out of here. Come on—right now.”
As I pushed him away, he leaned over and kissed my shoulder. I couldn’t help but laugh—it was beyond absurd! He was remarkably strong. I gave him a good shove, still thinking it was funny.
“Oh! Madame! Sorry, sorry! Just a small affection! You see I love all foreigners! Please just one kiss!”
“OUT! OUT! OUT!”
He made another lunge for my delectable 56 year old saggy shoulders. “You’re so beautiful, Madame! I cannot help myself. Just a small kiss,” he said reaching for me.

“If you don’t get out, I’ll call Permal!” Isaid and gave him a good push out the door I had managed to open. He stuck his foot in the door. I looked into his eager young face.

“Madame! One kiss?” he pleaded, and I banged the door against his foot and slammed the door and locked it.

“I’ll be back tomorrow!” he called through the door just before he dashed out the gate and down the street.

I went outside and told Permal never to let him in again. “Bad man!” I gestured.
I called up to Jerry, upstairs. No cable problems.

trash

One of the first impressions of Chennai is the extreme amount of trash everywhere. I live in an upscale neighborhood and there is no trash pick-up so everyone just throws it in empty lots. There is trash galore in the fishing village. People sweep their yards and in front of their houses—but there is no where to put it—so they put it on the beach. Plastic bags are a plague—but less than 1/3 the cost of paper, and sturdier. India has a disorganized system of trash pickers. They begin by 6 a.m. and have different specialties. Some search for plastic, some for paper, some rags, and some glass. You see them picking through the trash lots with big bags to their head and a pointed stick stirring the mess. Children are often the workers. They sell the trash to recyclers for less than a dollar a day. Some NGO (non government officials) have organized some of them to cut out the middle man, but we are still talking pennies. Some areas have dumpsters, but where to put it? There was a scheme to burn it at a wet land, but it has caused so much air pollution and infected the waters of neighboring villages. The population of Chennai has doubled to 9 million people and they just can’t keep up. The idea that trash is a problem is a new one, apparently. The rag pickers are part of the culture. There is the added difficulty of the cows, dogs, and goats that roam the streets. They depend on the waste. Things have changed over night here—except the habits. It was not long ago that people bought food on banana leaves which they threw into the streets and the cows ate. Very little came in packaging. Now plastic packaging is common, and the old habits haven’t changed. Everything still goes into the streets. I separate my trash and set out plastic bottles, food for the animals, and they collect the newspapers. My guard keeps them, and turns them in for ½ the cost of the original subscription. Every night when I come home, the food and plastic are gone. I take the bits, and odds and ends to school with me. What they do with it all, I have no idea.

Deplorable. Desperate. But, when you really think about it, it is a low priority for most people here. There is still not clean water to drink, rare sewage systems. In the villages it runs in trenches down the side of the streets. This to me and to them is a far higher priority. Americans are aghast at the trast as are Europeans, but the Indians take it in stride. They didn’t give up with TV blaring slogans of “Don’t be a litter bug,” and later, “Give a hoot—don’t pollute!” Those ditties don’t play in the conscious of people here.

It must be said that the people here are fastidiously clean. Their clothing, no matte how tatty, are clean and usually pressed. People are proud of their hair, and keep it clean and brushed. Their houses and even huts are clean swept and their yards or stoops are swept with fresh blessing made of rice flour daily. It is the government that must be too overwhelmed to do anything. I read an editorial that suggested organizing the rag pickers, and paying them reasonable wages for their services and elevating their status—but that was just an idea, not an action.

I had an interesting conversation with a construction engineer who is overseeing the building of our school. He said that this is ”Misplaced impatience—“ hence the incessant horn blowing and desire to jump into the the 21^nd century while many people still live in the 20^th—or even 19^th.

I have arranged for a dumpster to arrive at our trash lot. I have dreams of several—some for paper, plastic, glass. I dream of a neighborhood clean-up followed by a block party, but. . .

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Today I traveled with 3 other friends by bus to a nearby village called Mahaballahpurum. We left Chennai at 8:00 a.m. and rode on the express bus an hour and a half. When we got off we were met by a very friendly auto-ricshaw driver—Mamaurm, who named his vichicle “Smiley” with pictures of Si Baba, his guru, on it to protect us. The attractions in this village are temples carved out of single boulders. They are now taken over by the Indian Government and managed as historic sites. This set of temples was carved around 500-650 a.d. They don’t think that they were used as worship sites, but perhaps to honor a king, although not a lot is known. There are Hindu references of the Gods. It remains a mystery why the people making them abandoned them—several in the stages of development. They know that they are carved from the top down, so not to disturb their work. The carving is fine and intricate, with fine details still in the faces. The rock is granite, one of the hardest rocks in the area, and difficult to work with.

When we went to the first site there was a monkey that someone had given a pepsi. He deftly opened the bottle and drank it down to everyone’s humor. Later down the path another mother monkey with baby hanging on passed me by, but chased a woman carrying a Fanta orange bottle—she was persistent and the woman abandoned it to the aggressive animal.

The magnitude of this feat was more than impressive. There were stairs carved into the curved rocks to lead up to the top where there were vistas of the ocean and looking far across the land. The driver waited for us while we climbed and marveled before he drove us to the next set of buildings. The first one was a lighthouse, which was used continually by building fires on top in the nights to warn sailors and bring the fishermen home. It was replaced in 1920 by a more modern one, which is still used.

There were 5 sites in all, a tremendous amount of work. Inside of several of them are detailed friezes of scenes of love and battle. Ancient and current favorite themes. There was a perfect well carved out of rock—a perfect 10’ hole. Thinking of the work and strife that made them is humbling and painful to consider. By the shore temple a man and parrot told my fortune. It confirmed my loving family and devotion to finding a path of truth and integrity—it encouraged me on. Everywhere people selling wares—of course many carvers of intricate small and large granite and marble carvings. I bought 2 perfect moon stones to send to Sylvia to make into jewelry.

The sun was bright, and hot. I wore my bathing suit under my pants, and am turning the color of the rocks. We were taken to a roof top restaurant that served lime soda and fresh fish. We ate and rested and talked. Wonderful strong women. Easy to travel with and fun to share the moment with.
After short shopping we boarded the rickety bus back to Chennai. Hot and tired and happy.

Last Saturday, (9/13/08) I began my classes in ESL (English as Second Language). 10 out of my 14 students speak a different language at home, so I was very excited that the school is providing this class, paying for it and the graduate credits, providing lunch and breakfast and even paying us to attend! The teachers are great—two teachers on staff I work with teach the class and it makes sense and helps provide strategies and encouragement. The class goes from 9-12. At noon I set of on “Rosebud,” my trusty steed and headed to a neighborhood call Besant Nagar. I had a sketchy idea of how to get there, and I think took a long round about way past homes shops and street scenes. I stopped at small shops and a very strange art gallery where no one was there. It was so hot—the hottest time of day to be on a bike, and I passed an opened gate leading into a shaded and over grown area. I saw a guard sitting under a tree and rode over to him. The sign on the building said Montessori school, and it had a big courtyard and garden, but obviously no kids played there. “Sari shop, Madame,” he informed me. I went into a small entry way where they had dusty fabrics on shelves. The soft pounding drew me further in and with permission entered the weaving shop. Ancient looking looms with complicated stringing hung with stones tied to them. The people loved me taking the photos and soon everyone had to stop for tea to view them. They invited me to sit with them and I spent over an hour there. They showed me the dyes from plants, and how they stamp the material. I bought some small items and when I return to buy more will take them the photos.

I found my way to the beach, where there is a giant famous catholic church. They had a big lighting display of Mary, 20 feet high lit with Christmas lights. It is right next to a large Hindu temple. I wished that there was a mosque there too. The religions seem to live in harmony here, a fact that the southern Indians take pride in. This is no small thing these days—so much fighting and destruction up north. Outside of the church was very festive with garish pictures of Jesus, God and Mary rivaling Shiva and Vishnu for sale.

I found material for sale for 75cents a yard and bought several pieces—now to find a tailor to sew it for me. The bike is a marvelous tool for me. It gives me independence and takes me to all kinds of new places. People greet me and laugh at the sight of me. One of the teachers said I look like the Wicked Witch in The Wizard of Oz. I feel more like Glenda, and often like Dorothy—this sure ain’t Kansas.

The next day my friend Barbara and I got up and left our homes at 6:00 a.m. We walked and then took a shared auto to the train station where we caught a train out of this area to the Central Train Station. The train station is a huge building just a year old, and it was empty—like a huge parking garage with nothing in it. There are large cement pillars, and there was something horrid on each one. AAHHH!! I hated to look, fearing it was crap or puke, but on every one? It started at about waist high, and I realized it was beetle nut spit—still disgusting but not nearly as bad as it could be. The ticket agent sold us our ticket and then escorted us to the train which came in moments. He rode along with us, as his shift was done and explained how we had to get off, walk across a abridge through the station, to another one to catch another train heading to Ponneri. We did. The people on the train were curious about us, and several people talked to us, and one showed us carefully worn photos of his farm out of the city. Everyone wanting to be helpful People got on one station to sell, “sweets” and other goodies. No one ever took our tickets or checked, but everyone had tickets.

We got off and walded a long way through the outskirts of a village into the main hub, where we caught a bus to PuliKat—our destination.

Arriving in the city by the sea the smell of fish was certainly apparent. WE walked through it all down to the waters edge where we could walk out on spit of land. “I need a boat!” I called to everyone and no one in particular. Sure enough within minutes a man came up to us and indicated that we could hire him to take us out to the island and the peninsula of land that formed the saltwater lake. No hesitation. The motor is mounted on a long pole, and he steers with the other end of it. We headed out through the shallow waters where people were catching small 3-4 inch fish in nets. WE found them later laid out in the sand to dry—“Chickens,” the man answered simply. They grind them up with powder and feed them to chickens at a factory. He took us to a stretch of beach longer than we could see. The wind was gentle, and so were the waves. NO TRASH!!! I have never seen a more pristine beach or beautiful water. I swam and floated until I realized my face was feeling very tight from the sun. We boated some more and watched the fishermen and painted storks. Later in the season this is a great place for migrating birds. I must return.

The return trip proved just as interesting. The puja-man wanted us to take his picture in front of his little temple. Barbara and I got into one train car with all men, when we realized that the train was segregated. People squenched together to make room for us. We arrived back in Chennai sunburned and tired—and happy.

Pondicherry, Auroville, Ganeesha, and a family festival

9/4/08--Kottivakum--my neighborhood

Some enchanted evening. Some women who have been here a year invited me to come over to dinner with them. Caroll’s apartment was airy with an American kitchen and good karma. We had a splendid meal, and I left on my bike to come home in the dark. I followed the loud music, and found a makeshift stage with an audience of about 100—children dancing in the dirt, women on one side, men on the other. In honor of Ganeesha I think. People doubled over with laughter at my appearance—I rode on past little shrines with people singing and chanting. When I turned into my neighborhood I saw in the streetlight a long table set up at the corner lot where the people live in the “little house.” The table was metal and could seat about 50. “Auntie! Auntie! Come my sister!” I was beaconed to join in the festivities. At first I thought it was a wedding. The young girl came out decked in jewels and a beautiful red sari—smiling and hugging each othe, I got out my camera. “OH! PHOTO!” she gasped! “Yes! Yes! Now come and eat!” I was seated next to the mother and served briani on a banana leaf topped with onions and garlic and spices. A large glass of water was poured for me—taboo, but who is to argue? It was a mountain of food, and I mixed it with my fingers and dug in. Delicious—the spices blending perfectly with the sharp edge of the onion. I had just eaten though. I ate slowly, wondering what to do with the rest? Finally, I pulled out my camera, which diverted the attention, and I stood up for the extended photo session. The girl was Asrani’s sister—14. My heart ached. “Where is your husband?”

“No, no, Uncle.” Snap. More with the baby. “Super beautiful was the cry when I replayed the pictures.” Everyone smiling—beaming. Finally Debbie Baby said in good English, “No Husband! No wedding! Birthday!” A sigh of relief from me. More photos—shot like mug shots in the dark. “You are my very special friend,” Asrani said as she hugged me good bye. I wondered at my good fortune to be invited twice for dinner in one night, and being served food by people with so little to have 2 night in a row. Ah, India.

I had a case of the blues over my birthday. I suppose it the accustomed ritual with friends and family that I missed so much. Earlier in the year we had graphed our birthdays in the classroom, and the kids asked mine and we added it to the graph. We have birthday circles for the children honoring them, giving them wishes from the heart. My birthday was a celebrated holiday in our classroom. The children made many surprises for me—little books, a big card. Esther (the teaching assistant) gave me a beautiful full skirt that’s green and bright yellow with sequins. Several children gave me small gifts from home. The kids told all of the other teachers it was my birthday and how old I am. A parent brought in a big cake and juice for all of us. I felt very loved and appreciated. That was Thursday.

Friday, right after school Barbara, another new teacher and I caught a very full bus to Pondicherry to spend the week end. We sat next to a young man who lives in Texas, but was born in “Pondy.” He talked to us the whole way down. He had met his wife, who is from Chennai, in Utah. He told us about how upsetting it was to their families that they found each other, and that it wasn’t arranged. To make matters stickier, they are from different castes. IT took two years for them to convince their parents that this was a good idea. He explained that the Brahmin caste is considered a higher caste, but that they are the families which the priests come from, and now they are a poorer lot. Both of his parents teach at the University here—He didn’t say what her parents do in Chennai. He was so poised and friendly and the trip was over too quickly. We went back to the Park Guest House, where I had stayed the week before. We were met by a very small man who told us his name was, “Bond. James Bond.” He was very cryptic about signing us in. The next morning the old woman was back at the desk, next to a young woman. Last week she was very sour, but today she was very friendly. She recognized me and when I told her that I was having a lovely time, she responded, “Lovely people have lovely times.” Barbara and I set off and went to the Ashram of Aurobindo and the Mother. It was a beautiful spot, built around a big tree with a tank under it filled with arranged flowers. Flowers every where, and the people sat and meditated, hugged and touched the tree and prayed around the tank. I think it is so interesting how enlightened people are so revered to the point of worshipped and prayed to. I think Eckard Tolle and Thich Nat Han are enlightened people, and teach very much in keeping with Aurobindi and the Mother, but I can’t imagine praying to them, making temples and worshipping them. It is an interesting notion. There was a great book store where his poetry and writings are published in over 30 languages. I bought several small booklets.

We left the Ashram and went a few blocks over to the Elephant Temple, where an elephant lives and blesses people. They sell grass and fruit and the people feed the elephant. He is not tethered, but stays there all the time. His head is painted beautifully and he looks you in the eye with his soulful ones. He places his trunk over your head when you bow to him. I fed him coconuts and grass and we caught a rickshaw to the settlement of Auroville.

Auroville is 40 years old now. Aurobindo and the Mother took a barren spot of land and have planted over a million trees. It is a multinational community working on sustainability. They have many different schemes going. Paper making, art work, dance, cheese, health, and engineering. They use a lot of solar power. They do a lot of outreach to the neighboring villages. They recently got the bid to clean up and restore the Adyar River Estuary and bird sanctuary. The information center has a video about its history and then you can walk out to the Dome. Apparently, it has the world’s biggest crystal in it. You can only go in with written request and an appointment. We walked through beautiful young forests and an astounding stand of banyan trees. It was an impressive moment. No trash, and everything is so well kept up. They have a set of stores that sell clothing, musical instruments, and jewelry, soap, candles. There was a café where we had a wonderful luncheon. The goods sold there are like nothing I have seen anywhere else. Very classy and tasteful. Everyone in the community is considered a teacher, learner, artist and researcher. They produce beautiful stuff at European prices.

We stayed for a couple of hours and then put-putted back into Pondy where Barbara and I wandered crowded streets in the Tamil Nadu neighborhood and bought clothing for very little. Looking, shopping was an experience in itself. We found the Grand Bazaar, an inside fish market where hundreds of women clean and sell fish, shrimp, and all seafood imaginable. I wish these pictures could be scratch and sniff. The next layer in was fruit, and if you could stand to stay inside and wander further you found men selling spices from piles of colorful smells. We ate on the familiar rooftop and drank cold lime soda—tired from our walking.

In the morning we swam in the ocean—rough and warm, a sensory delight. We even saw other teachers from Chennai—small country. After a quick tour through the city, we were shopped out and headed back to the city for a fund raising dinner a group was hosting to raise money for children affected by AIDS. It is a group home for 10 kids. It was my first big party of almost all Indians and they loved the entertainment and laughed and laughed. I left after eating on an early shift, and they were still going strong. Traveling here is exhausting somehow. I think it is the sensory overload of the simplest moments.

When I walked up to my house I noticed men climbing on a bamboo ladder and working on the mess of wires down the street—since then, no internet. How funny to be so dependent on something that wasn’t even available a short time ago. . . I am really missing people now. Hungry for any glimpse of home. (That’s a hint.)

Tonight I came home a long way on my bike, meandering different streets leisurely. I found the nicest surprise when I came home. Permeal, the guard, had dinner for me! Delicious food, some sort of dumplings, some savory, some sweet, egg pancakes, and sweet rice, spicy garbonzo beans. His wife made it for me, and he beamed when he gave it to me. So unbelievably generous and kind. We talk to each other a lot now, he in Tamil, I in English, and somehow we seem to understand comfortably. We drink cold lime water together everyday, and I have been sharing my dinner with him, and now he with me. What a world I live in.

Today is a day in honor of Ganeesha. The town is crazy with festivities which began at 4:30 a.m.