Last night I was invited over to friend Robyn's apartment for a night of watching Bollywood movies - you know, singing and dancing? Of course I had to bring over the movie that the library assistant, Anita, had recommended. Why didn't I get a clue when she asked me if I'd seen "Water," the movie featuring child rape and suicide? I had, so she recommended "Salaam Bombay." I imagined people swinging on lamp posts, dancing around subway stops, and singing in the harbor until the fish were swimming in unison (Oh, I guess they do that anyway). I mean, there WERE pictures of people kissing on the cover (turned out to be a pimp and his drugged woman). The movie started with a scene of a deserted young boy going to Bombay by himself. Then he befriends a crack addict and a young virgin sold into prostitution - at this point I suggested that maybe we should watch another movie, but Robyn and Spring said they were "ok" with this one. Of course it went downhill - and, not to ruin the movie for all of you who are going to rush out and see this 1980s winner of the Palm D'Or at Cannes - but the movie ends with a scene of our friend, the little kid, sitting on a step, alone, crying. The crack addict is dead and we last saw the young virgin on her way to an encounter with the man who "bought" her. The boy has stabbed and killed the pimp but he doesn't win any game shows. Fade to black. Really black.
Yes, be sure to invite me to your fun party if you want to leave in a depressed mood. And of course this was perfect for Robyn, whose husband just left for a month with his family in Cairo yesterday morning.
walked around "the compound" again today - I feel like I'm a character in a British children's book about a sickly child who rarely leaves the house and, when she does, is amazed at the most ordinary things. Wow, there's a tree! and so on. Like Sarah in "The Little Princess," I yearn to leave the barbed-wire fenced school and find, well, some bananas at the fruit stand. And I don't see "daddy" coming to bring me furs and save me from my orphaned plight. Though there is a Russian market near here that sells all kinds of furs.
I did make some exciting discoveries this weekend: there are places that I can walk to to get things. To some of you, this may seem like no big deal. But you probably have cars. I have to negotiate taxi or rickshaw fare each time I go anywhere. Even now that I'm more used to it, it's still as foggy as ever. For example, I got into a rickshaw this AM - the meter was at "94 (rupees)" and running. At the end of the ride it was at "123." Most people would assume that subtraction was in order. But no - when I said, "Oh, according to the meter it's 30 rupees," he laughed and shook his head. Then I said, what is it, then? And he narrowed his eyes, looked at my purse (closed), and said, through his teeth, "Whatever you like." I HATE it when people say that here - they never really mean it. This kind of stuff would never happen in Germany. So I said, "zero?" Ha, ha - he shook his head and I smiled. Then I said, "So?" And he nodded/shook his head in that uniquely Indian way of saying "ok, whatever, not really." Passive-aggressiveness if I ever saw it. So then I said, "30? 40? 50?" Then he decided that it was time for his move "80," he said. I knew that was about twice the normal fare for that ride but I only had a 100-rupee note and I had not thought the driver would offer change anyhow. This way I got change and he felt like he'd scored a coup. I wonder how my "negotiations" seminar in law school prepared me for this. When I negotiated for the teachers' union in Edina, at least the school board said clearly, "Nothing." No "whatever you like" for them!
Ok, so where could I walk to? (grammar waivers have been signed) First, a coffee shop! Yay! As Anna said, I've been searching for Sebastian Joe's East. No, it's not Sebastian Joe's, but Sarah and I actually sat and drank coffee and did some work - and then I walked back. Sarah still has a sprained ankle and is trying to get better, but it's going slowly, and I don't think our walk to a coffee shop a mile away helped, especially because we got lost and walked an extra 10 minutes getting there. We also passed several piles of unidentifiable substances on the sidewalk, Jesus and Mary College, an unlabeled entrance to a huge compound that looked like the home of the Wizard of Oz, and the "Defense Officers' Colony," which included separate entrances for the "Married Officers" and "Single Officers." Which one do you think has the better parties? But we also passed some housing, painted pretty colors of pink and gold, that looked like post-WWII Dresden. And that brings me to my point that beauty, wealth, poverty, and ugliness all cohabitate in this city, so that you cannot avoid any of them.
In a neighborhood that has probably the most expensive real estate in Delhi, along with a relatively high percentage of expats living there ("Malcha Marg"), I walked past this dump, where there are usually cows and dogs hanging out together and munching. Today there was only this young boy, who seemed to be looking for reading material (!), and another older boy carrying branches that would surely be turned into firewood.
Right after that, I walked down a one of the boulevards that mark this neighborhood's style - two one-way streets with a park between them.
And here, if you're ready for them, are the uncensored photos of that block.
Yes, this is the same street. On the right is the view that I saw as I started down the block. The guys at the end of the block (there are always groups of guys at the end of a block) are checking out a new moped. But just turn to the right and you get the view seen here on the left. Trash, a scummy-looking apartment building, but if you look carefully, you can see the lovely balcony high up next door, where a white furry little dog was barking its pampered head off.Next, a closer examination of the park between the two streets:
Same park, same block. In fact, there were a couple of benches with piles of trash in front of them. The major activity today, though, was gambling. This is a big activity on Sundays here. Groups of men or boys (or even a grandma or two) crouch in close circles with cards and other items that I haven't crouched by them to see yet. I have yet to see a group of women doing anything together that looks like fun, not counting the wealthier folks in the shopping malls, or the college girls in jeans and Western-style tops in the coffee shops speaking English. There is no moment more disquieting than walking past such a group of girls while wearing your very first Indian-style outfit with long blouse and pants that look like giant Girls' High gym bloomers. Boy, do you feel like a fake. At least, I KNOW some people that have felt that way.
OK, now we move to the next block, where Gates 1 and 2 (of 8) to our school are on one side and the US embassy shops and housing are on the other. Although one would think that a block with barbed-wire-topped walls on both sides would be boring, there remain mysteries. Such as - why are there tourist buses parked here day and night with engines running? Do they ever go somewhere? Who owns them?
And other familiar sights - there's the "Diplomat" taxi stand, run by Mr. G. Singh, with quite a few other Mr. Singhs working there, since all Sikhs share that last name. I actually have two driver numbers in my phone directory - one is for "Mr. Singh taxi" and the other for "Taxi Singh," so I don't get them mixed up (right, Ellen). Sadly, as I approached the taxi stand, Mr. G. Singh himself, a gentlemanly type with green eyes and ample Sikh literature that he shares with passengers, got into his car, ready to take me somewhere (since that's why I'm usually approaching the stand). I didn't even realize this until I looked at the picture just now - a pang of guilt strikes.
And, on the other side of the street, are some men walking, carrying a large can of cooking fuel - something you don't usually see on the streets of Edina. Right behind those men is the US embassy, one block of a three-block compound. The actual embassy building looks just like the Kennedy Center in DC (designed by the same architect), which is a bit spooky. Also, the embassy wall has a sign - DO NOT TAKE PICTURES - so go ahead, turn me in to the FBI.
I think about the high security here and its usefulness - two days ago there were two huge semis parked right where these guys are - one of the drivers had a flat tire and it took hours for them to figure out what to do and then to get it fixed. Tell me if I'm wrong, but does anyone here see a security risk in having two big trucks parked right between two blocks of an embassy compound? Maybe I'm just over-cautious.Now we turn the corner and walk down the block to the school gate closest to my apartment. Across the street from the school is a bustling neighborhood of tiny houses - I haven't gone in there (no invitations yet, but I'm working on it), but I've heard that even though it looks like it's made of sticks and corrugated tin, there are concrete walls.
The shacks right on the street are actually little stores. Behind them is a block filled with hundreds of tiny homes. From my balcony, I can see into the middle of the area, where smoke rises from cooking fires in the morning, various flags wave, and people walk back and forth. Kids hang out on the street next to the area; there's a lot of kite-flying and playing with "found" objects of various sorts. If you walked down the street back where I came from, you would pass the one "washhouse" for the area on the left, though the amount of water provided is so small that most of the residents buy water from the rip-off water truck that comes through every couple of days. Also, men in their underwear pass the time hanging out on rope beds, laundry hangs from makeshift lines and tree branches, teenaged boys sit in a row on the curb, women and men work at building another rope bed or cooking food - and little children run around everywhere. When I walk past they all say "Hello" and "Photo!" I haven't taken photos of any of them yet, not only because I'm actually not a pedophile, but also because I don't want to offend parents - However, I have devised a plan - since they don't have any cameras, I think I'll take pictures of the kids and then get them printed to give back to them. Maybe I can even make some new friends.Girls of all classes here wear beautiful clothes, while poorer boys' clothes look grimy and both boys and men often look half-dressed. There are clear class distinctions in clothing worn, but it's most obvious with males, where upper-class males tend to have Western dress. But women always seem to look beautiful and dignified, even when carrying a load of sticks or construction debris on their heads. Even working at a construction site, women wear lovely saris!
OK, so turn around from the view you just saw and here's what you see.
Yes, doesn't it look inviting? This is the wall of the school where I teach. "We care, we dare, we . . . share?"
There IS a gate in the wall, though, that people can go through . . . well, not everyone. Staff can only enter through Gates 1 and 5, both of which are next to trash collection areas. When my housekeeper leaves, she is searched, just as all staff leaving are searched. I have to write her a note whenever I give her food to take home: "Please allow Triza to take home the potatoes and bread in her bag." No kidding.
Now let's go inside - and see what people from the shantytown can't see.
An empty playground, with dozens of kids on the other side playing in the street.OK, I thought I heard tennis balls being hit, so I walked a bit more along the wall.
Look what I found (actually it's sad that I hadn't seen this before, having lived here for six weeks).Ok, so the lifestyle appears to differ a bit depending on what side of the fence you're on - but, I have to admit in the midst of this self-righteous polemic that our school actually pays for and supplies school uniforms for any child across the street who will go to school in exchange. Also, we have a program mostly run by students in which children from across the street come through the gate Thursday afternoons and there are activities ranging from creative writing to soccer to picking lice out of your hair (fun!) I signed up to help out - but it's been postponed because everyone is worried that one of our students will give one of the young children swine flu, and apparently they have little access to health care. Of course, even without swine flu lots of germs could be exchanged, but the Indian government is speaking out on swine flu restrictions.
Nonetheless, it feels just a BIT uncomfortable to see the difference across the fence. The story is that this protected environment is what the American Embassy wants for its young citizens - and public service is definitely emphasized at the school - but it still makes me uneasy every time I look out from my balcony. I hope to at least bridge the divide a bit on my own, starting with taking some pictures . . . .
Random photo of the day time!
OK, here are the little crows again! They are starting to practice flying. I guess they spend more time in the nest than I thought - maybe this is the new trend for crows as well as post-bac Americans. And don't even tell me that you can't see the nest this time, or the little crows' beaks, or the mother crow on the branch below. And those of you who are English teachers, please find some symbolism of something here and let me know so I can put it in the Sparknotes version.
Yes, it is wrong that people live in such poverty (No, I'm not talking about the crows anymore) across the street from such wealth. Even IF the tennis courts have a politically correct compost pile in front of them (did you notice?)
Yet there is no way to live a completely protected lifestyle here - even in your air-conditioned limo, the beggars will still scratch at the windows and make hand-to-mouth gestures and stare at you unrelentingly, a stare you feel even as you look away. Yet it is also difficult to ignore the beauty, even in the worst areas. The beautiful saris and the dignity of the women carrying bricks and rubble in baskets on their heads. The flowers that bloom in the middle of trash piles.
And to be honest, the shantytown across the street is full of life from dawn 'til dusk. The children playing outside have ready grins, the adults a great place to watch the goings-on from their rope beds - sometimes I think of the lonely quiet of the school campus on a Sunday afternoon and I wonder if we are really better off than they are.
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