And god (Tendulkar) rested on the seventh wicket

I got the SMS from a friend last night: "Sachin tendulkar retired... im in mourning"

My text reply: "Wow! finally... god can rest."

Sachin is a god. He has super-human powers, brings us all together, is cute and doesn't speak much... all the qualities of a good, modern deity. For me, Sachin has always been more of a phenomenon than cricket player. That may be because cricket for me has been more a phenomenon to be analyzed than a game to be played.

Yes, I have played cricket... minimally. My friends would drag me from bed and make me play. They would tell me that I throw like a girl.

Yes, I'm actually playing cricket, early morning. Where's the ball, guys?

How insulting! For the girls. I throw more like an inebriated granny after five pegs of Bacardi. But who's evaluating? That still didn't stop my friends from dragging me to the field at six o'clock in the morning. Sadly, that was the pitiful beginning and end to the scope of my cricket playing.

In 2010, I wrote a blog about Sachin hitting 200 runs in a One Day. Yeah, I am no sports commentator! I hardly know how to set up the wickets! So it's not really about his 200 runs, but more about... well, I'll let you read it (below)...

Cricket has found a god

At age 36 and twenty years at the international level of the game, Sachin Tendulkar still has more magic than any player from the hidden corner of New Zealand to cricket's own motherland, the UK. Homegrown in Mumbai, Tendulkar was the first player to ever score 200 runs in a One Day International cricket match. This morning, Indian newspapers splashed Tendulkar's photo with the bold heading, "God!"

Cricket has found a god

As the British Empire expanded throughout the world, cricket planted itself on local fields. Only yesterday I was thinking, probably at any given time in the world, somebody somewhere is playing cricket. Be it under massive stadium lights or in the crazily narrow gulleys of Varanasi, with a $100 bat or with one of those plastic ones that hang from the windows of village shops, someone somewhere is aiming for that "six" over the rainbow.

But one question that I have is: How has something so symbolic of the British Raj become so embedded into Indian soil so as to become the universal religion of India? Elevating Sachin to be Indian god number three hundred thirty thousand and one.

The initial official matches held in Bombay have the "Europeans" against the "Parsees", and then at some point the "Hindus" became a team. As the game gained popularity among local people, it also became a unifying force: Many believe it encouraged the concept of nationhood for Indians and proved to be a turning point in India’s struggle for independence.*

So what are we saying here? Was cricket the ironic cause of the fall of the British Raj? Should Gandhi-ji have used his walking stick to hit "fours" and "sixes" instead of wielding it for ahimsa? On another note: Could Sachin Tendulkar now wield his powers for Gandhian feats? Well, according to Peter Roebuck, it's probably a no go for Tendulkar:

"The runs, the majesty, the thrills, do not capture his achievement. Reflect upon his circumstances and then marvel at his feat. Here is a man obliged to put on disguises so that he can move around the streets, a fellow able to drive his cars only in the dead of night for fear of creating a commotion, a father forced to take his family to Iceland on holiday, a person whose entire adult life has been lived in the eye of a storm."

It seems like being more popular than Jesus has its down sides. Even gods have to take a break some time. [Reposted from February 25, 2010]

And for his own sake, I'm glad he finally has.

But as I also said in my SMS to my friend: "What's next? Rajneeti [politics]?"

Who knows? Gods don't rest for too long.

Hindu, Muslim, Indian, Idiots?

Markandey Katju (Source: Nikhil Kanekal)

It's Indian Independence Day and I thought I'd blog again as I'd seen this quote by Justice Markandey Katju on Facebook:

"Ninety percent of Indians are idiots. You people don’t have brains in your heads. It is so easy to take you for a ride. A communal riot could be incited in Delhi for a small amount of Rs 2,000. All somebody has to do is make a mischievous gesture of disrespect to a place of worship and people start fighting each other. There was a propaganda that Hindi was the language of Hindus and Urdu of Muslims. Our ancestors also studied Urdu, but it is so easy to fool you. You are idiots so how difficult is it to make an idiot of you. Why am I saying such harsh things, I don't want to demoralise Indian people, I love Indian people, I love you all. I want you to prosper, I don't want you to remain fools. I want you to understand the whole game. Even the educated people in India voted in elections on caste or sectarian lines which showed how backward people are."

Though he said this back in December, he stuck with it in March, stating that Indians vote like "livestock", giving reason to the number of criminals in Parliament elected along communal lines.

I was particularly struck as I was receiving "Happy Eid" greetings and images from friends on Facebook. One particular was from Varanasi, which I had forwarded, putting the comment " Varanasi: Mecca for many Hindus. HOME for many Muslims." It reminded me again of the communal struggles in India both at national and personal levels.

The issue is particularly blatant in places like Varanasi, where the majority can be staunch and people fear change of their traditions. I remember first visiting Vishwanath Temple. Men with rifles guarded the part-temple-part-mosque structure in numbers as if protecting the Gaza Strip. Why would the source of "ahimsa" need an army and guns?

When you reach a strip of road between Lanka and Godwolia in the city, you enter a Muslim majority neighborhood. Slowly the saris meld into punjabis and burkas, the white lungi cloths of men turn plaid and their hair and beards suddenly become cropped and trimmed, donned with boxy hats. And conspicuously, homes and shops are pushed behind cages. Yes, cages. A friend told me that the cages are for when  riots occur. They'll get behind their cages and get their guns out.

And that's mild talk compared to what I hear from some people that I've met. A lot of the social backwardness of India is blamed on Muslims, particularly over-population. Muslim civil law allows them to keep multiple wives, which I don't see as much of a benefit as having a single spouse is stress enough.

It also doesn't help that much of the quite regular terrorist activity in India is visibly Muslim. Though, to be fair, there are also Christian terrorists (separatists?), and Hindus killed Gandhi for being too pro-Muslim.

The majority of the minority (about 20% of India), Muslims are the most visible and powerful of the non-Hindu groups. Of course, like with any grouping in India, "Muslims" are not really one group. Like "Hindus" they are a collection of languages, creeds and traditions, but politically they are treated as one voting block.

Currently, Narendra Modi is a political conundrum both in the national and international scene. It would seem like a no-brainer for Muslims to give the Prime Minister hopeful an easy thumbs down. Modi was on guard while Hindus conducted systematic arson and attacks against Muslims in his state, Gujarat. With his party, the BJP, keeping the center, he stayed in power, but the USA continues to deny him a visa. All of this would make you think no Muslim would touch Modi or the BJP with a twenty-meter pole, but it's more complicated than that, of course. I can't get into it now, but to make a long, convoluted story short, the political scenario has reached such lows for everyone that now some Muslims are cheering for Modi to make it to the top.

Justice Katju said that before 1857 there was no communalism in the country but the situation is different now. "Today 80 percent Hindus are communal and 80 percent Muslims are communal. This is the harsh truth, bitter truth that I am telling you."

Though there was a recent mall incident in Modi's state where Muslims were charged an entry fee on Eid while non-Muslims were not, there is a sense that Muslims in Gujarat are doing better economically than other Muslims in India. In fact, Gujarat in general has a strong economy, many attributing it all to Modi.

And money is everyone's religion.

In a convoluted way, maybe Modi could make India less communal, if he's able to fork up the economic goods, which is what almost everyone believes he can do. Money pacifies simmering communities as long as it seems to be thrown around equally... enough. (Update: Do I have enough evidence to support that? Not sure.)

One person commented that the idiotic 90% applies to the whole world. Maybe he's right. America is far from perfect. People contribute America's change mostly to the civil rights movement and Martin Luther King Jr. But was there something more to it? Still "change" is relative and it took America until now to elect its first black president. It has yet to have a female lead the nation, which India has done and almost did again recently. (Yeah, arguably she IS the leader.)

So on this passing Independence Day, between Eid and Rakhi, we remember those who fought so hard for freedom. But, why did people want freedom so badly? It seems like a silly question. But the answer is not so that we would be enslaved again to our own idiocy. And it's not that Indians should lose their sense of community.

I guess MLK Jr. had it right when he started it with a dream. The dream of Hindutva is an India erased of a the Muslim identity, where Muslims take on Hindu names and their woman wear Hindu symbols of marriage.

But what about the dream of integration? That was more like Gandhi's dream, and they shot him. They shot MLK Jr. as well, and his dream is still alive today. Dreams don't die unless we let them. Who's keeping the hope of peace between Hindus and Muslims alive today?

Anyone?

How I found peace at an Indian McDonalds

A California Nightmare: McSpicy Paneer Burger

You'd think in the city of light (Banaras) you'd find peace everywhere. Actually, this is a gross misunderstanding.

A couple weeks ago, I was in Delhi at a conference where someone was talking about Banaras (Varanasi) as THE place to go to find peace and harmony. I said, "Uh... have you ever been there?"

He replied, "No, actually."

"I wouldn't say that Varanasi is THE place to find peace exactly... unless, of course, you mean a different kind of a peace--the kind of peace that no one really is looking for."

I returned to chaotic Varanasi after this Delhi trip, away from the air conditioned conference and buffet catering, understanding that Varanasi offers a different kind of peace. A peace that you cannot see, hear, taste, smell or touch. Actually, most of the time I can't even feel it.

That is until yesterday. At McDonalds.

OK, yesterday was somewhat typical of a Banarasi (Varanasi-like) day in the sense that you can't get simple things accomplished without multiple snafus of various magnitudes.

In the morning, I got roped into a video interview with the vice principle of Asha Deep School for a documentary being made. The journalist (documentarian?) and I got to talking about how difficult it is to get anything done in this hot, humid weather.

It's hard to imagine that just a week earlier that it rained, making the air so cool that I had to wrap myself in the shawl I got for the Allahabad trip to the Sangam, which feels like such a long time ago. Where has that weather gone? It's fallen and died in a deep, dry hole somewhere with Persephone, eating pomegranate seeds.

So as I was saying... a typical Banarasi day. The journalist put us in front of the camera and just as she started to ask questions... CLICK. The camera automatically turned off. She said, "This has never happened before." Then it was like dominoes: The fully charged battery indicated as empty, the totally empty memory card indicated as full, we needed to change the batteries in the microphone, a mangy puppy kept trying to sneak in, a squeaky door, a beat up truck with a super loud motor. All while we were sweating; since we couldn't turn on the fan during the recording.

Make Shift Shoot: Photo from an earlier interview

Even so, we were able to pull off a relatively short interview, locking in topics like caste discrimination; the lowering of the poverty line; drugs and the tourist industry; the big, fat annual day show; and education. We watched the time since we knew we should try our best to beat the noontime sun. From noon to four in the afternoon, the sun can kill you. Bake you. Fry you. Get under your skin and eat you.

So after the interview, I put on what I think of as my Banarasi astronaut suit: First, I plug up my ear canal snug with my iPod  earphones--sealed shut from dust and noise pollution. Then, I wrap my face and head with a "gamchaa"; kind of a scarf for Banarasi men. Think of it as a male-veil or a scarf for studs. Finally, I put on my sunglasses bought across the street from Manas Temple for 90 rupees ($1.75)--probably NOT UV protected. Oh, well. Then, I roll down my sleeves, get on my noble steed (i.e. a borrowed bicycle), and ride into the blazing sun, heat, noise and swirls of dust. I call it an astronaut suit, but I'm the one that looks like an alien.

Look, it's no joke. Earlier in the week, I went to my friend's house for a funeral reception at his home (the 13th day after the actual funeral ceremony). On the way home, the roads were in the middle of construction. The amount of dust in the air was UNBELIEVABLE. Even though I had my male-veil to protect me, I was coughing non-stop for three days afterward. THREE DAYS, just from dust.

Irony Kills: This is the poster I designed.

Ironically a few days later, there I was helping that same friend design a science poster on none other than "Particulate Matter and Its Impact on Human Health." I looked at him with bitter irony as I pointed out on his poster my own symptoms from inhaling tablespoons of dust on the way back from visiting his home. He listened unfazed, since he was having to take the same route multiple times. That's when you realize it's stupid to feel sorry for yourself.

So, peace at McDonalds. Is that what this post is about? Yes... almost there. Keep reading.

Yesterday. Hot, sweaty, malfunctions. Oh yeah, the journalist mentioned that she had done hundreds of shoots, but this was the first time she experienced so many malfunctions. She had talked with others and they had said they experienced the same--surprising malfunctions while shooting in India. "It's the heat," she claimed.

So have I established the fact that it's hot, dusty and chaotic around here? It is. And I had planned to say more, but let's fast forward a bit and get to the end.

... so that is why I think my friend proposed that we go see a movie. After, of course, one or two chaotic moments getting to the theater in the evening, we finally got to the air conditioned shopping mall and sat in our seats for the film. During the film, there were things that would put Americans into a frenzy; like people talking loudly on cell phones (which, for Americans, is justification for homicide) and a guy going up and down the aisle asking for orders from the snack bar DURING THE MOVIE and not in a whispery voice. However, I ignored those things--focused on enjoying the movie, the overpriced popcorn and time with my friends.

Somehow afterwards we ended up at McDonalds. (YES, FINALLY AT MCDONALDS!)

I pointed out to my friend how there are probably only three things on the Banarasi McDonalds menu that are the same with the US menu: The soft drinks, the french fries and the Filet-O-Fish. The rest of the menu reads like a McDonalds lover's California nightmare: McVeggie Burger, McSpicy Paneer (cottage cheese) Wrap, McAloo Tikki Burger. I ordered a spicy paneer burger myself--a huge slab of fried cottage cheese with special sauce, of course.

The restaurant (I know McDonalds calls itself that, but really... is it a "restaurant"?)... As I was saying... The "restaurant" wasn't to max capacity, but it was still pretty crowded with kids and mostly young guys who had no clue how to form something called "a line" or how to order in a way that makes sense, however the manager taking the orders showed extreme tact and patience.

I can't exactly remember what my friend said, but something like, "This place is driving me crazy." Lately, "[Fill in the blank] driving me crazy" has been a bit of a mantra for my friend. "These kids are driving me crazy." "These mosquitoes are driving me crazy." "This typist is driving me crazy." "Banaras is driving me crazy."

This is the kind of the peace we want.
That's why it is marketable.
That's why I delete this message
every single stinkin' week!

Then he mentioned that his mother noticed this and how she said (something like), "You know what your problem is? Your problem is that you are looking for peace from things outside of you. You need to have internal peace."

You know how you've heard something like 50 million times and it's like you know it but you don't actually know it? Yeah, that's when I slapped the table and said, "Your mom is totally right!"

We talked about how we have everything (food, shelter, friends), yet we are still not at peace. Later, my friend pointed out a little girl quietly twirling in a swivel stool. I joked with him, "THAT is inner peace!" In the chaos of McDonalds, the girl found something that she could enjoy, and it didn't matter what others were doing or thinking.

In fact at times, it is sad to see people grabbing at external sources of peace and happiness, as if they are enough to satisfy us. This includes myself, I guess.

So in the middle of chaotic Banaras--in her dust, heat and mayhem, we're stripped of external sources of happiness. We are Persephone wondering when will and how can I and why is it so freaking hot?

And we have to look for the kind of peace that we didn't want to find.

The kind that says, "Nothing is enough until nothing is enough."


Related post: The holy uncaring cow of peace

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.