Life beyond chow mein at the school's big, fat annual program

Every year, Asha Deep School pulls off probably the biggest and fattest school program in Varanasi (Banaras) on one of the most popular ghats on the Ganges River. And I got to sit in the middle of it.

First act, a kattak dance, at Asha Deep School's annual day show on Assi Ghat

The school's program was a couple of days ago. Traditionally, every school in India (mostly the prestigious ones) have a show of their kids doing music, art, dance... translation.... BOOOORIIIIIING.

But Asha Deep's annual program is one of the most over-the-top shows in Banaras: fire, loud music, hilarious drama, fire, unicycles, juggling (did I mention FIRE?) right on Assi ghat. So it attracts at least a thousand people. (Am I exaggerating? I don't think so.) The kids are trained by a circus group from Europe called Performers Without Borders (PWB), which raises the cool factor of their annual day show by about a million compared to other schools. (Did I mention FIRE?)

The school's vice principle, Siddharth, was worried that the kids wouldn't be ready. He had run around and around the city just to get permission for the kids to do the program on the large new ghat area. Of course the day before the program, we saw that someone else had put up huge bamboo scaffolding on the new ghat area. Siddharth then pleaded with the police, but they said that since it was a government program that put up the scaffolding, they could not take it down. Ugh, for the first time the government decides to set up something early. Now, we had to scrunch the stage onto the the old ghat.

But this brought on another problem. The old ghat is the site of the nightly aarti (worship of the Ganges using fire). Our program was planned for 5 to 8PM. Aarti runs from 6:30 to 7:15PM. So, who got assigned to make a slideshow during our 45 minute aarti break?

Me.

So I thrust myself into making of a slideshow/video. The goal: A fast-paced, silent 40-minute video of Asha Deep's greatest moments that keeps the audience in their seats. The product? Uh... a barely 20-minute video of whatever photos and spliced up old videos we could find that at times made you dizzy since clips were shifting and spinning in overdrive. It was perfect... if the whole audience had ADD. (Side note: We ended up showing it twice, meaning stopping our program twice, because the aarti pundit did not show up on time!)

It was approaching 5PM and the dance guru had not yet arrived. Siddharth frustrated said, "We are starting. We are going to start without him," even though the guru and our dancing students were the first act. Surprisingly, even with the craziness that is Banaras, Asha Deep's annual program on the age old Assi Ghat facing the sacred Ganges River starts nearly on time. Let's not talk about ending on time, but starting... they're pretty good at that.

The sound was up, the kids were on stage, out of nowhere the dance guru was on the tabla (Indian drum) and we were starting. They opened the stage curtain (which is something that usually no outdoor performance in India has--an actual stage curtain)... so as I was saying... the stage curtain opened and there were our girls all in beautiful, bright, shining, colorful saris and flowers in their hair and the guru struck the tabla, the girls struck the stage floor with their bell-chiming feet and we were off.

It was one performance after another with hardly a breath in between. Each performance was neither too long, nor too short. One thing I like about the Asha Deep's annual day show is that they choose songs that make the audience's hips move... maybe a bit too much. Like, is it kosher for Radha (the cohort of Krishna) to move her "sexy body"? Hmm.

Since the first time I saw Asha Deep's annual day performance on Assi a couple year's ago, I recognized the brilliance of it. Usually, annual programs are within a school's walls, so that it is exclusively for school faculty, students and their hobnob.

However unlike these exclusive schools, Asha Deep's kids come from slums where their lives are constantly on display; so Asha Deep's program puts the kids back into their element, but this time not as poor kids on the street, but confident students in the coolest annual day show ever. This, I believe, was the brain child of Asha Deep's principal, Connie. These kids perform in front of hundreds of not only their family and friends, but tourists, ghat workers, their neighbors, foreigners, police, priests, etc. In front of everyone, they show what they can accomplish. And, it's impressive.

One of the small highlights for me was one of my classroom headaches--Suraj. Suraj is one of the most talkative students in school. He just can't stop talking. I suddenly got slotted to teach 8th grade English. (I'll talk more about it in another post.) Suraj is in 8th grade. Compared to the other students, Suraj's English isn't very good, so he's spewing out Hindi left and right during my "English" class.

I had to put my foot down with him. (OK, if you know me, putting my "foot down" actually means, like, not smiling or not letting the kids eat me for breakfast... maybe just nibble me for breakfast.) We did get through the lessons though.

After class I talked with Siddharth and the issue of Suraj came up. I mentioned that he's a bit of a handful. Siddharth chuckled a bit as if he was glad. I looked at him funny. He said, "You know, I let Suraj play around in class a bit when I teach. Suraj told me once that at home in the slum he has to manage the chow mein stall. At school he likes to play around because it's the only chance for him to act like a kid."

Ack! My heart hurt at that very moment.

It was Suraj's time to recite a poem on stage at the annual program. The hilarious and confident former students, Anil and Kaushal, announced the next act, calling Suraj "chow mein walla" (the chow mein man).

"Now Suraj will recite a poem," announced Anil.

"Suraj? The one who sells chow mein on the corner?" interjected Kaushal.

Suraj appeared from behind the curtain. Lights were on him. He recited a poem by Kaka Hathrasi. Here's my unofficial translation slathered with liberal-er than liberal poetic license:

Moving in a stopped train, eating choo-choo
Donation of rupees ten, a nice seat for you
Every stop this ritual offering to Lord Ticket T.
All hail, all praise to dishonesty!

Unemployment, starvation, inflation pours
Beaten, worn are these words, stop the noise
In this moment, what we need are people's blood and pleas
All hail, all praise to dishonesty!

The poem, of course, went on, but you get the idea. Since Suraj served every line with a side dish of sarcastic wit, the audience laughed after every stanza. Not too bad for a kid who serves Chinese food on the street.

Suraj on stage, reciting the poem

Suraj also played the "hero" of a play brilliantly put together by the vice principle, Siddharth. This skit was a topsy-turvy Bollywood drama where the "hero" and the "heroine's" roles were reversed. The girl "eve-teased" (cat called) the boy on the street. The mother of the girl went to meet the boy, asking him to walk around the room and show her his fingers and feet. (I thought this was an over-the-top gesture for the play, but according to my friend, yes, parents of the boy do at times ask the potential bride-to-be to show her hands and feet and walk around the room in real life!) The mother of the bride then demanded a dowry, later almost shutting down the wedding because the dowry wasn't enough. The girl arrived with her party of females dancing down the street to the boy's house.

As the wedding ceremony came to an end, the father of the boy told his son that he no longer belonged to his family; that the boy must not shame his home, but be faithful to the traditions. The boy then wailed, crying, telling his father that he would do what was necessary. The audience was already on the edge of their seats, chuckling and smiling from ear to ear. I noticed that mothers and women were particularly interested as they crowded forward, squatting down in the "blocked off" front area for a closer look. When the boy started crying, the whole audience burst out in laughter.

The boy ended up at the girl's house with his wife and mother-in-law constantly barking commands at him. In the end, it was Suraj on the floor with broom in hand, saying, "My life is now a living hell."

With all sincerity, Suraj then explained that this play was just for fun, but he asked the audience to imagine if it really was this way; and actually, how it is this way for many women in our society.

Not bad for a chow mein walla.

If there was one "mantra" of the night it was that Asha Deep School doesn't just teach kids how to be better students but how to be better people.

And this is the brilliance of the annual day show of Asha Deep.

It proves to their parents, neighbors, relatives and friends that these kids are not just poor, slum dwellers, but they do have a chance to be more.

And it shows the audience, that they themselves can be more, too.

Update: How to donate to Asha Deep in India, contact me to donate from the US or other countries


Related posts:
- Tips for working with the underpriviledged
- How to teach computers without computers
- Good morning, Sunshine

A dip in the Ganges. Did I die? Eh.

Let me tell you a secret about the Sangam. When you bathe there, you're not really bathing in the Sangam. Well, that's what my friend told me anyway. But I didn't mind.

It was 2am. I stripped down. And took my place among the thousands.

Note: This is the first blog post with my actual photo in it. Read to the bottom.

2am. India. The last day of the Kumba Mela, the largest gathering of humanity.

Last weekend, my friends and I finally took that trip to the Sangam, where three holy rivers converge in India. OK, basically we're talking about two rivers (the Ganges and Yamuna), since the third is apparently mythical. So when my friend told me that the actual convergence area was blocked off to the public, I wasn't too disappointed, since the "three" rivers are basically conceptual, so goes the Sangam.

The rivers converge in the city of Allahabad; a three-hour train ride from Banaras. (General class, remember?) The plan was:

• Arrive in Allahabad at 9pm. 
• Sleep at a hotel. 
• Take a dip in the Sangam at 4am. 
• Tour the city during the day.
• Go home in the evening.
• Throw away this list.

Ha ha ha. Actually, the last thing wasn't part the plan, but it might as well have been, since we ended up not doing anything according to the plan.

First of all, we arrived closer to 11pm. Since special examinations were going on, and oh since it was Shivratri (huge Hindu festival for river dipping), and oh since we arrived closer to 11pm (did I already mention that?), everyone and their mother wanted to stay in Allahabad, filling every single hotel. We walked around and around until beyond midnight, looking for a place to stay. After eating at a hole in the wall, we plopped down by the side of the road, observing the other fine saps looking for hotel rooms. We watched as cycle rickshaw drivers would tell these poor souls that they'd find them a room, fully knowing that every hotel was booked. They'd get to a hotel and say, "Booked? What to do? Ten rupees for the ride."

No hotel? No problem. We went to the Sangam early. 2am. Beat the crowd.

Beat the crowd? Sure. If "beat the crowd" means being accompanied by thousands of people.

Us. Beating the crowd.

We took a shared tempo (think of an auto rickshaw on steroids) to the Sangam. OK, I mean the "Sangam," since the drop off is 2 kilometers away from the Sangam and, as I said, you don't actually go to the Sangam. So we took the 2K midnight walk-a-thon accompanied by the throngs from nearby villages: Cohorts of sari-clad women, deftly balancing duffle bags on their heads. Families with babies. Some of the seemingly oldest people in the world, barefoot, who started walking toward the Sangam since the day before. For them, this 2K was but a hop, skip and where are my dentures?. We passed by large screens, projecting the history of the Kumbh Mela and the achievements of the government.

Wide-eyed tourists and dizzy hippies would imagine the walk to be like a trail of peace and chanting with the scent of vanilla incense wafting in the air.

Sorry.

The whole area was highly policed. Since it was the last official day of the Kumbh Mela and millions had thronged to the area for the past two months, oh and no port-a-potties, you can imagine what at times was wafting in the air.

As we got closer to the Sangam, you could hear something over the sound system. What? Om Jai Jagadish? Or the Gayatri Mantra? Nope. It was the constant blare of announcements. A woman in a loud, desperate, hardly discernible voice, shouting, "Anshu Tiwari's mother!! Anshu Tiwari's mother!! Come to the tower!! Your child is here!! Anshu Tiwari's mother!! Anshu Tiw..."

I would have almost preferred a dozen tone-deaf old guys, chanting the Hanuman chalisa... I emphasize almost.

Ah, finally. The river and our Sangam uh... proxy.

I said in the first post of this blog that I would someday get to the Sangam and I would die. Conceptually, of course. What I really meant by that I would only discover when I got there. OK actually, I'm still trying to discover it, and hopefully I will find it by the end of this blog post. Trust me, I'll find it.

So there we were. Me and my two Brahmin friends—one fish-eating, one non-fish-eating. (More about that in another post.) On the train, the non-fish-eating one asked me, "So what is your wish? If you take a bath in the Sangam on Shivratri, you will definitely get what you wish for."

I looked at him thick with skepticism.

I was about to ask him, "So if I wish for a million girlfriends, will I get that? How about a million dollars?" But I didn't. And I was too tired to be clever, so I just said, "I just want peace for everyone."

He looked at me knowingly. "You're like that [Bollywood] film, 'Oh My God!' You don't believe you have to go to temples and rivers. You believe that God is everywhere. That's okay."

He knew me too well. However, these days I'm not always sure if God is everywhere. That's another thought bubble for later.

OK, this story is getting lengthy, and I haven't even touched the water.

We meandered through the crowd (which was apparently not the crowd since thousands more would be added by 4am). Two of us stripped down among the wet saris, broken flower petals, women singing folk songs and soggy old people. The government had laid down hay on the banks and layers of sandbags. Actually, it was sandbags all the way until the fenced off area in the middle of the river. We never touched the actual river bed, so the water was never higher than chest level. This was a good thing, since one of my friends (fish-eating) can't swim.

Our feet scrunched on hay as we approached the water. I carefully guided my bare feet around smoking sticks of incense, poking out of the muddy edges of the river. Massive wobbly women and the elderly grabbed at me, trying to balance their way up or down the banks.

And we were in.

I was greeted by floating flowers and coconuts. My friend threw a spiky piece of fruit at me. He immediately took twenty frantic dips into the river. We were at one end of the fenced in area so you could look toward the other end and see the whole crowd.

It was cold, but not as cold as I expected. I was not clean, but not as dirty as I expected. It was a place of worship, but also a place of water play. It was a river, and I swam in it.

Eventually, I changed places with my other friend, taking pictures from far off, while keeping watch over our stuff.

As I took photos, I noticed how happy and energetic at 2am my friends were. For my fish-eating friend, he hadn't dipped in a river like that since he was a kid. He made up for it, taking multiple dips in a row. After years of knowing him, it was the first time I noticed that he actually wears the sacred thread reserved for Brahmin boys.

I noticed the wide expanse of people on the river bank. Each small group figuring out how exactly to undress, worship, bathe, watch your stuff, dry off, change clothes, collect the holy water into containers without falling in, chant, sing, take photos on your mobile phone without the police thinking you’re just taking photos of the women, listen for important announcements over the loud speaker just in case your child is lost and you didn't notice, and sneak past the police (like we did) into the restricted VIP area closer to the real Sangam.

I’m glad we went at 2am. While it was still dark. Before an even bigger crowd entered. Before the naked sadhus (holy men), tourists and VIPs took over.  The people who came to dip in the Sangam at 2am were not there for the circus of the final day of the Kumbh Mela.

The people that went at 2am were like us. They came, did what they needed to do, and left on the next bus. Some came because of cultural obligations. Some came to help their mothers and grandmothers. And most came because they had a wish, and this was one way to make sure it came true.

And I guess what I’m realizing now is that a part of you needs to fully die to believe that any wish will come true. Perhaps a part of me is jealous of my friend who believes so much in wishes, even if they seem unlikely.

But really, the power of the Sangam, the Kumbh Mela, the Ganges is not that people’s wishes come true, but that somehow people all come to the same place and wish together.

Like the convergence of rivers, the power is in their combined journeys.  And for that expanse of time, everyone’s story is the same: I am here because I am incomplete.

And if only we could realize that what makes us complete—is not exactly the water or wishing or bathing but—has, in that very moment, converged everywhere around us.

3am. Me. At the convergence.

Tips on Life in General (Class): Living below your means

India basically has five classes for trains: A1, A2, A3, Sleeper and General. Only occasionally have I used General class. And one of those times was two days ago.

My friend and I being General.

Years ago, most of my train trips were in Sleeper class; no air conditioning (AC), but at least you can lay down, most of the time. More recently, I have been using A3 (3-tier AC) class; comforts of AC and laying down... in a narrow space.

General class is like the train rides on the movie "Gandhi." You get a ticket but there are no reserved seats, so you may not get a chance even to sit--let alone lay--down. One time in General, I sat in the luggage rack, about the size of an airplane's overhead bin. I was so tired, and it was the only place to recline.

This time I was with some friends, experts on General class. Here's what I learned:

1. If you are at least two people, have one go on the usually long ticket line, while the other checks the train to see how crowded it is. If there are seats, then call on mobiles to give the go ahead for tickets.
2. Generally, General class train cars are on either end of the train. So if one is full, the other may not be.
3. In General class bench seats take 4 people, but you can easily fit five; six if you look mean enough.
4. For a safer, more comfortable ride, don't take General. Buy a different class ticket way, way in advance.

General class is not for the faint of heart, so why do I take it? In fact, why do I many times end up taking the route that is difficult and way below my means?

I was asking myself this while scrunched in General class, and then hours later at midnight, meandering around Allahabad, looking for a place to eat, finding a hole in the wall restaurant--more like a hole, within a hole, within--yet another--hole.

Other than the questionable food and water, the thing that struck me were the workers at the restaurant. One in particular washed dishes under the steps in a space so cramped that he crouched to a squat. He wasn't exactly a dwarf, just a very small man, so he fit into the spot easily--out of the way and out of sight, mostly. But I noticed him.

A man.

And the thought that came to mind was, "I don't think anyone should work that way... ever." I know it's a job, a source of income, but it is not a way to live.

I think that's why for so long I've tried to live life in General class as much as I could handle. I want to see and experience what is going on there, among the majority; the "general." Life under the stairs.

But why would I feel compelled to experience such a thing?

Is it out of guilt? Out of some masochistic pleasure from the pain? Out of a thirst for adventure, something new, something "other"?

I think if I'm honest with myself, what I find in the place that attracts me most are people--untitled and unpretentious. Sure some are rude and even conniving. I've met many like that. But life in General means that many artificial barriers are missing, you rub shoulders, and everyone is in the raw.

Maybe it was a sense of guilt or adventure that drew me there, but now I have friends there who don't hesitate to get me a General class ticket and who will eat with me in the hole in a hole in a hole.

That's the thing. I've been around the world, and people always ask me which place is the best. I realize now that it's not so much about "where" but "who." Because the best place for me is where there are friends.

And for me, that's how life is... in General.

The holy uncaring cow of peace

What I learned yesterday was that the remedy to stop the common bull fight in the middle of the road is to throw water on one of the bulls.

You know what I found out?

That doesn't really work.

India in general, but Banaras in particular, lives with animals, large and small, as part of her traffic landscape. Note Exhibit A (photo) below.

Large animals, part of the Indian traffic landscape. Yeah, deal with it.

A couple days ago in the middle of morning traffic two fat bulls, horn-locked, fought aggressively in one of the few gaps in the road divider of Lanka; one of the most congested areas--both in terms of traffic and particulate matter--in Banaras. I was riding my bicycle past the scene as men shouted and people ran for their lives.

One man had a small mug of water that he splashed onto the rump of one of the bulls to somehow magically calm them down but (surprise) to no avail.

Eventually, like in every episode of Animal Planet, one male succumbed and one was the victor, and the cow ran away unfazed.  But unlike the Discovery Channel, this was not in some jungle, this was in the middle of morning traffic.

Mostly, I enjoy the presence of animals in my everyday life. Unlike many, I have not been attacked nor mistakenly poked by any bulls or cows. It's probably due to sheer luck, but I like to think of myself as a "cow whisperer." My friends caution me as a crazy videshi (foreigner) when I approach cows or bulls to pet them.

I think what attracts me is that they are such large animals but very docile. Even in the middle of Lanka traffic honking horns at their tails, they sway at such noise as if walking through serene pastures. Once a friend and I saw a baby calf drinking its mother's milk from the udder in the middle of traffic. My friend said, "Isn't that the most beautiful thing in the world? A baby drinking from its mother's teats." I agreed, awkwardly.

While other animals react to our every move--dogs bark, birds fly off and monkeys scratch their rumps at the sight of us--cows seem the least bit concerned about our presence, as if we're not even there. And maybe that's why I dare to get close to them--I feel invisible.

Maybe I reach out to them because at times I feel they are the only ones at peace in this chaotic world of ours. Sometimes when I pet a cow, she does turn her large face toward me. Maybe they look at us and think, "You're the supreme species in this world, why do you run around and make so much noise? What do you have to worry about?"

Huh.

What do we have to worry about?

Good morning, Sunshine

This morning, opened the gate to the school and was greeted by this.

Good morning, Sunshine

No further comment, your honor.

How to teach computers without computers

I have worked as a graphic designer, designed my own websites, and have created graphs for scientific experiments, but this was all before I had ever taken a computer class. I have even taught a computer class having never taken a computer class. The only time I have taken a computer class was a little more than a year ago during my Master's, and that was taught without using any computers.

So I sympathized with the kids today when we started the computer class with no electricity.

Kids mesmerized by computer. Eh... just learning Word.

I realized how difficult it is to really teach computers in a place that has irregular power outages. Without a computer how would you explain the difference between "Save" and "Save As"? Teachers from Banaras, however, are used to this.

Sanjay, the regular teacher, lets his words do the teaching. He gives great elaborate Banarasi-type analogies, which have dubious relevance to the subject at hand, but puts the kids in stitches. For instance, he was explaining the difference between portrait and landscape, and how you don't put paper landscape into a printer. As he explained, it's like trying to ride a bicycle in a narrow gully and then suddenly another cycle comes rushing the opposite direction. Then, what happens? You both get stuck. You can't fit two cycles in such a narrow gully! That's like portrait and landscape.

Uh... kind of. The kids may not get the point, but they had a good time laughing.

It was like when my biodiversity professor tried to explain how ecological niches are like seats in a rickshaw. You can sit more than three people, but eventually some may pop out. My classmates laughed hysterically as he explained it half in Bhojpuri. Anything half in Bhojpuri is hysterical, especially when trying to explain science.

So I in a sense I took my own Indian university experience to heart and taught computers without using computers on the fly, as there was no electricity. Today's topic? HTML.

I was drawing the icons for Internet Explorer, Chrome and Firefox, creating hyperlinks and images... all on a blackboard with a crumbly piece of chalk.

At the end, one of the students looked up at me and said, "You are a very good teacher."

The electricity finally did come back and we did eventually hit the computers (see above). We do have plans at the school to upgrade the computer classroom with a new battery backup and some new computers, so we can actually teach on computers when there is no electricity. I was thinking that solar hook ups may not be a bad idea, but that maybe a little over the top.

I was also thinking about what the child said to me--"You are a very good teacher"--not because it reflects my educational prowess, but because it shows to me that these kids want to go to school to learn something.

I've seen this multiple times these past few days. I explain something to a child, and out of self-realization they smile. When they learn something, really learn something, they are happy. In a world of energy depravity and growing up in marginalized communities, education is seen as a means to a practical end--a good job and a good marriage.

It's nice to be there when learning is suddenly not those things, and for a moment they're just happy to know.

Tips for working with the underpriviledged

I arrived late at Asha Deep School, since I was sick, but the nicest thing was when I opened the gate, I was greeted by none other than... bharatanatyam--the traditional Indian dance.

Greeted by dance. Kids preparing for Annual Day, learning baratnatyam kattak.

At this school, you can find kids dancing and juggling while also learning computers, math, English and Hindi. The kids are getting ready for their annual program on Assi Ghat in a few weeks.

The next couple months, I will be volunteering at Asha Deep Vidhyashram (school). This was my first day back. Actually, I've helped out at Asha Deep for the past few years and have written about it in my other blog, so I can say that I have some experience working with NGOs and underprivileged children. Coming back to Asha Deep, I keep these tips about working with NGOs in mind:

1. You'll end up doing what you didn't expect to do. This is probably RULE NO. 1 for all NGO work.
2. You'll end up doing what you don't want to do. This may be RULE NO. 2.
3. You'll end up doing what you cannot do. This may be RULE NO. 3.

Follow these rules, and you will go far in any NGO. ;-)

This first afternoon at Asha Deep, we laid out some "plans" for my work there. Here are some of my objectives:

1. Be a translator (Hindi-English) for a speech therapist who will take one of the girl students to get a cleft palette operation with Smile Train at one of the local hospitals. Today in fact, I may need to translate for the girl's parents to explain the procedure. (I'll explain more in another post.)
2. Help structure the computer class for older children.
3. Help structure adolescent health/development curriculum.
4. Put together a few environmental science classes.
5. Did someone mention putting together a Women's Forum in the the slum area?

So it seems, Rules No. 1, 2 and 3 are in play here. 

I guess that means I'm on the right track.

UPDATE: Sorry, the kids were not learning bharatnatyam. They were learning kattak.

Cooking Day: Ramen Indian Style and India's Roti

I realized that today was the first day in India that I have paid for my own meal. I've been here for almost a week and I've hardly spent 1,000 rupees ($20 USD). That pays tribute to Indian hospitality.

Yesterday, though, was a day of cooking.

I was so tired from all the running around and travelling since I landed in Delhi that I was becoming a bit sick. My friend invited me to his room and said he'd make me some "chowmein." Chowmein for him was Maggie noodles (ramen), but this was ramen like I've never seen made before. It was totally Indian style.

The most Indian ramen ever.

I watched my friend make these noodles and in the end I told him, "You have not followed one step that is on the packet!"

Here's how to make ramen Indian style.

1. Buy a packet of Maggie noodles.
2. Put a dollop of mustard seed oil in a heated pot.
3. Add chopped onions.
4. Mix the Maggie powder with a half spoon of garam masala and salt with a little water and add to the onions.
5. Add chopped tomatoes and stir, letting the mixture fry up.
6. Crush the noodles into small pieces.
7. Add a cup of water to the pot and let boil.
8. Add noodles to boiling mixture, add chopped dhaniya (cilantro) and simmer for 5 minutes.
9. The noodles should not be soupy, so it is chowmein-like.
10. Enjoy as an afternoon snack. Good when you feel a cold coming on.

It was Indo-licious.

Later that night, my friend challenged me to help him make roti (bread). I tried at first, but then he shooed me away, saying that my delicate, white hands wouldn't be able to handle the heat of fire. This only made me try harder. My goal was just not to burn the freakin' roti.

Roti making

Tips for baking North Indian roti:

1. Use a knife to check if the roti is ready to turn.
2. Turn the roti before the heated side is fully cooked.*
3. Turn again when the roti looks like it's blistering.
4. Then, push the roti onto the fire and let it blow up like a balloon.
5. Lightly use the knife to toss the puffed roti into the container.

* You need to have one side slightly less cooked so that it puffs up correctly.

In the end, a simple and roti-licious meal.

Like all my other posts, I end on a sentimental note. 

As you can see this simple meal represents the hospitality I have received since coming back to India. I note this not as someone new to India or amazed by the sacrifices "people" will make.

I just feel lucky to have found friends like these, who will share until their last bit of acchar (pickle), making life all the more lush.

Sarnath: Where Buddha sat

Behind me is where Buddha sat.

The morning after graduation, my old classmates and I went up north to Sarnath where it is said that Buddha gave his first sermon.

One of my friends had a lot of questions about the place. Some so basic, that we had to explain that all of these relics used to be underground, under mounds of dirt and no one even knew that they were there.

Actually, you kind of forget that point when going to ancient sites like these; that everything about the place was underground and forgotten. That kings erected pillars and that Buddha sat right there and meditated.

Makes our lives seem a little less significant in a way, when we who don't even have temples or cities in our names strive so hard to make something of our lives, as if someone would remember us when our remains are underground.

Events, like graduation, are milestones of time, marking a period that we are about to leave behind.

Yesterday, we took photos after the graduation ceremony. The one we tried most to get perfect was the one where we all throw our graduation caps into the air. We tried that numbers of times to get the light and shot just right. Looking at them now, they are the ones in which we look the happiest.

At Sarnath too, we went to the saddest zoo ever and also played some children's games, blindfolding each other. Here we were in public, Master's students, playing kids games, in part knowing that soon this will all be behind us.

Surrounded by old relics, where Buddha sat, knowing tomorrow life will move on. But at least we have now.

And actually, isn't that all we ever have?

Epilogue
After Sarnath, we all said our good-byes.
Not goodbye really, but more like, "See you on Facebook."
Isn't that how it is, then?

I did it: How to survive until graduation in India

Hats off.

Today, I graduated in India.

Almost a year after finishing classes, we had our convocation (graduation) ceremony, bringing closure to my 2-year experience in the Indian higher education system.

Of course, every university is different as well as everyone's personal experience, but here are a few things I learned about surviving until graduation in an Indian university.

1. Wikipedia is your friend. Don't down it. Sometimes you may not have textbooks or a syllabus, but you do have Wikipedia. If anything, use the references.
2. Your next best friend are old exams. In my experience, about 80% of the exam questions are the same from years' past. Study them, memorize the answers, make notes from from them. Beg and plead from your seniors for them. In fact, your department may have a stack of them ready for you to photocopy.
3. You are the master of the syllabus. It is up to you, the students, to make sure the professor(s) cover the syllabus. This is especially when a class is team taught., since the teachers may not update each other on where they are at on the syllabus once the class gets going.
4. Don't sweat timing. Exam times may not be set, classes may change days. Heck even my graduation date wasn't set until about a month prior, and we did not know the time of it until less than a week prior. So don't sweat it. It was Jesus who said, "Don't worry about tomorrow for tomorrow will worry about its own things." Let tomorrow worry about itself.

So graduation day ran off like a one-year reunion. It was interesting to see who came and who did not, who got fatter and who got skinnier, and those who went on to get accepted into programs and those are still trying to get in. Actually, there seemed to be a correlation between those who got fatter and those who were accepted into programs already. I guess that includes me. I got the fattest, I think.

After the convocation we took photos and it was like old times after fresher and farewell parties. Some of us then met up with our juniors to give them advice about applying for programs, exams and finishing up their dissertations. Tomorrow, we have decided to meet up in Sarnath, where Buddha first preached.

A year prior I was imagining this day when we'd all be back for graduation. Like I mentioned in a previous post, part of it was like we never left. However, as some have not as yet been accepted into a program, there was a bit of an unsaid sadness there.

As one of my friends who still is waiting to get into something said, "1.5 lac (150,000) rupees later and all we have is this piece of paper."

I'm hit by Banaras

It's my first day back in Varanasi and I've only been hit by a motorcycle once.

Well, first the disappointing news. We did not get to go to the Kumbh Mela in the morning. My friend's father had an accident, so we needed to rush to get to Varanasi.

Ah. My first day back in Varanasi, and my Master's friends and I keep saying, "It's like we never left."

Almost a year after our classes finished, now we have our convocation (i.e. graduation). Yeah, I do admit, it's like we're picking up right where we left off, except that some of us are skinnier and some are fatter... like me.

We picked up our robes for the next day's ceremony and went to see the Ganga River. On the way, I got hit by a motorcycle. No big deal.

Traffic is a re-shock. I couldn't remember which way side people drive, left or right. I kept forgetting which direction to look because my brain couldn't process which way the traffic was going, since vehicles were going either way on both sides of the traffic divide. In the end, I realized it didn't matter, just continually look both ways as you cross. It didn't do that one time, so I go hit. It was fine.

After "Ganga darshan" (seeing the Ganges), I had my first Banarasi (Varanasi) chai in a clay cup. My friend's father from Rajasthan asked, "Is there any dirt in this chai?" I explained, "Yes, uncle. That gives it the Banarasi taste."  Everyone laughed.

It was a long first day. My friend's father wanted to finish the day with real Banarasi "paan" (chew). See photo.

Time to time throughout the day, my friends would ask me, "Why are you so quiet? What are you thinking about?"

I would sigh and think, "I'm back."