THE END

How can I describe what it feels like to be sitting on the back of a motorcycle flying through Delhi’s insane multi-lane unorganized action-packed jungle of untamed vehicles, wearing no helmet (but to be fair, at least there’s not a sleeping infant resting against my chest in comparison to my fellow helmetless women on the highway), speeding past bulls that are cooling off in the muddy Yamuna river where farmers wash vegetables before heading off to markets, bumping up and down on broken roads of mud and rocks that should be shut off for traffic, turning corners and bothering philosophizing goats in their morning promenade, looking at billboard advertisements for skin whitening moisturizers and smiling cricket stars hugging boxes of cereal, holding my breath against the nauseating odor from rottening sewages where women with indifference in their eyes and flies in their hair wash yawning children under illegal water pipes; aching when I get eye contact with tightly packed hens wearing few feathers in cages stacked on the back of trucks, thinking about the email from my boss offering me to attend the annual training event at Euro Disney, getting stared at by teenage boys with elbows tightly locked in open windows as they hang on the outside of crowded buses, suffering from dehydration with frail limbs trapped in the scorching temperature, almost colliding with coconut colored cows and rag picking children under bridges, while my heart is pounding to the beat of a senses overdose in this moment when life is lived to the fullest?

THE END

I want to thank everyone for sharing this experience with me. I have enjoyed all of your comments and emails!

THE GOODBYE

On my last day the women at work had a surprise for me. Red henna!

My colleague used gift wrapping paper as painting tool (organic henna).

30 minutes later...

The finished product...

On my last day I went to a Learning Center in one of the slum areas. These children show weakness in reading and math. Based on statistics, these children are likely to drop out of school and go back to work. With tutoring and support, the aim is to empower and motivate them to stay in school.

The boy next to me on the left (blue t-shirt) is a former child worker. Like most kids, he would run after trucks and trains and steal fruits and vegetables that he'd sell in the market. He would give the money to his family. He is determined to stay in school because he never liked his job. He comes to the center in the mornings to improve his reading skills. He couldn't take his eyes off me. Every time I looked at the class he would stand out because he would straighten his back and keep his eyes fixed on me. Whenever our eyes met he would smile. Through his energy I could feel how powerful my visit was to him. Every time our eyes met, I could read his face. I am an achiever despite my environment. And my corresponding smile would say: I believe you.

When I got back to work, an electrician was busy fixing the power connection. He successfully managed to restore it. Finally we could enjoy the AC and Internet again... Electricians in India are as brave as fire fighters. They risk their lives when they work to restore power - they could get electrocuted by the cables connected illegally to a main circuit that provide residents with (unpaid) supply of power.

People at the office thought I was such a dork for taking pictures of an electrician.

It's an insult to India to show you my pictures. India is multidimensional and fascinating and can ONLY be perceived live in person. I wasn't brave enough to be a successful photographer. Everyone stared at me when I took pictures. Pictures can't capture the heat, the sounds, the chaos, the smells...

When I was sick, these women surprised me by showing up at my hotel room with food enough to feed a small country. They didn't mind the tight space around my living room table and we enjoyed a nice lunch together with lots of laughter. They were the best medicine!

On my last day, I didn't expect such a big crowd. They all gathered around me and I spontaneously held a goodbye speech. The CEO handed me a silk scarf as goodbye present from everyone. I treated everyone with Indian sweets. Later, the core group of women I had spent most time with said, "Emma, do you think we've celebrated everyone like this? We want you to know that no one from your company has connected with us like you have. Everyone here knows you. Did you see that everyone showed up to say goodbye? This has not happened before with other volunteers from Sweden. We will miss you."

Subaida was eager to spoon feed me home-made dessert made from rice, milk and nuts.

Mmmmmmmmmm................

The team!

WORKING CHILDREN

Jitender, 12 years old - as told to Emma Holmgren

I don't want to go to school. My dad runs a samosa shop from our home. I am the errand boy. I deliver. I pick up. If we've run out of spices, I get it for him. Whatever he needs. Yes, there's a lot of work. But, I still don't want to go to school. As soon as we've saved up enough money we'll open up a real restaurant. We'll serve all kinds of food. Dad will be real busy.

I have 4 brothers and 4 sisters. My older brother dragged me to Anita's class. I would see her teach children in my neighborhood. She would call for me, but I didn't want to come. When my brother took me to the class, I would sit there with the other children. I knew them already, they were my neighbors. We prayed together. That's what I liked the most. But I played too much. Anita would yell at me because I wouldn't sit still. That's why I don't want to go to school.

My sisters are in school. They can read newspapers and books. I can't, I only look at the pictures. Next week is Rakhi festival (celebration between siblings). I will give them money. They need it for school. When I look at my sisters I want to be able to read too. I'm thinking I could manage to find time for school again. I could go to work after class. Anita was a good teacher. I was getting tired of being beaten up by all the boys. Everyone's bigger than me, even the younger ones. They'd all come after me. Every day. I couldn't take it. I want to be in the restaurant business. Dad says we'll have our own restaurant one day. I am hoping it will be soon.

Vicki, 11 years old - as told to Emma Holmgren

We're from a village in Bihar. We have six bulls there! I prefer the city. There's electricity here. When we go back to the village it's a hassle to get the TV running. We have to fix the connection and get the generator. There's more to do in the city.

I can prepare any kind of food. We sell rice, vegetables... fish... bread. My brother does the dishes. I bring the plates. I can clean up. Whenever I'm not in the shop I run after the vegetable trucks and whatever I can get a hold of I'll sell in the market.

Abhishek, 8 years old - as told to Emma Holmgren

I sell vegetables. I take them from the trains or the trucks. I can get 10 rupies. 20 rupies. 30 rupies. I give everything to mother. If I get extra money, she'll give me 2-3 rupies as pocket money. I work every day except Sundays. That's when I sleep all day.

Mother says I'm too young to go to school. I need to grow up a bit more, or the other boys will beat me up. It's not safe in school. Mother won't let me go yet. When I grow bigger, I will go to school. I will go if Vicki comes with me (Vicki nods). I want to go to school because mother says it'll give me a good job. What I want to be when I grow up? (Silence). I promise to be a good boy.

FORGET ME, FORGET ME NOT

I am invited to the Director's home. The up-and-coming area is located outside of Delhi. Many young families move here. The apartments are brand new and affordable.

Many construction workers have never worked in construction before. They are farmers from villages across India. They are forced to abandon their homes when they can't survive on the land anymore. They come to Delhi for work, any work. They end up as day laborers, unable to decline miserable working conditions. They set up their homes next to the buildings they work on. The slum is therefore within, wall to wall with brand new apartments. When a portion of the area's apartment buildings are complete, many workers take on jobs as domestic workers and gardeners. Eventually there won't be space left for them in the neighborhood and they have to move their homes further away. A slum has been created.

Children live here too. Lots of children. But there's no school.

That's why the Director has taken the initiative to start a school here. Volunteers test the children. Each and every child. Can they read? Can they recognize numbers? Some of the children went to school back in the village.

A young woman makes chapatti (Indian bread).

The ladies' room.

Cooling off in the mud.

Parents are interviewed. How many children do you have? Are they in school?

This boy can write. Notice the realty sign in the background, used as part of an outside wall.

An illegal water pipe. People come here to shower and to get drinking water.

Women carry water home. The new supermarket is spotted in the background.

The school has two rooms on the ground floor of a building without walls. Construction is going on upstairs. Some parents wait outside, excited and hopeful. And proud.

A week into classes, the teachers notice that children show up with combed hair, clean hands and wearing their best clothes.

These brothers finish assignments faster than anyone else in class. Many of the children are extremely bright; they might not have had a lot of schooling but they are experienced. They can't recognize numbers, but they know how to give exact change for five bananas. They are survivors, fighters, at least for a moment not forgotten about.

THE WESTERNER IN ME

I've had symptoms of dehydration for the past two weeks: daily headaches, muscular pain and overall weakness. I'm eating well and drinking water until I'm about to burst, still, I am trapped in an 80 year-old woman's body. Meanwhile, I am visiting slum areas and meeting amazing children, doing office work and writing journal entries. I wasn't going to bore you with these "behind the scenes" details. Let me continue. I've tried hard to find the time to continuously upload journal entries that 1) reflect what I am experiencing and 2) upload frequently enough to cover everything that I am experiencing. Problem is, planning has no place in India.

On good days, the Internet connection has been slow. But it has been working. Even though I've always reached the office extra early in the mornings to publish my journal entries before I start doing work for the organization (the guest house doesn't have Internet connection) with the text already prepared and the pictures selected on the evening before, the accompanying pictures take a monsoon season to upload - that once I've actually managed to publish a journal entry I feel I deserve a round of applauds. I wasn't going to share these work flow details with you either.

I had my last few pieces of writing to publish, to wrap things up before I leave India on Sunday. Of course, Internet went down. I've waited (patiently) for a few days. In fact, yesterday I couldn't get out of bed (body ache). This morning I came to work and found out that there was a connection on one floor (only) and I could work from there. I still didn't have Internet connection and one of the computer managers stopped by to have a look. A few mouse clicks later, my firm's security systems had done its job: my laptop was securely locked. The "denied access" sign blinked in the rhythm of the growing number of computer managers that entered and eventually filled the tightly packed office room. This is the moment in which I had my emotional breakdown.

After weeks of uninterrupted diplomacy, never ending patience and a bottomless sense of understanding for endless encounters with bizarre circumstances, tears of frustration, despair and complete exhaustion escaped my eyes. I no longer have access to any of my company documents, to work email (I had just found out from my boss that I am going to the firm's global training event held at Euro Disney outside of Paris and I need to stay in touch with the organizers), or to any of the edited documents I've worked on for the last few weeks. So... I give up. This paints the picture of my month in India: everything is out of my control.

How is a control freak supposed to happily adjust to that without an emotional breakdown? True, I could have released the control conscious Western business woman side of me in the privacy of my hotel room - but then again, isn't India all about closeness and togetherness and shared privacy? I am now writing from a borrowed computer and my fingers are tapping against a keyboard dirty enough to challenge any antibacterial gel. I will publish the remaining pieces of reflections as soon as my laptop has received treatment from my company's technology support in Stockholm. By then, my eyes will be dry.

GATED COMMUNITIES

The CEO of Pratham Delhi, Madame Indira, is taking me to visit her daughter. Her chauffeur navigates through Delhi’s traffic with confidence. Madame Indira’s daughter lives about 45 minutes away in Gurgeon, an upper class resort just outside of Delhi. The area is home to many international businesses and shopping malls. Guards greet us at the gate. This gated community has its own supermarket and fish pond, beauty salon and generators. Residents here never have to worry about power outages. Fields of dollar green grass stretch out. Children fill the playgrounds in front of a cityscape. Delhi is far away.

Madame Indira’s granddaughter is dressed in pink. At age five, her English is already excellent. She attends a private school in the neighborhood. Madame Indira’s daughter, a teacher, tells me that she wouldn’t want to move anywhere else. “We can afford a domestic worker. We have 17 malls to choose from. If I want milk I just go down the stairs. I can get a haircut without having to leave the gates. I have everything here.”

They want to show me the supermarket. It is stacked with everything, even off-season fruits like apples (that I have been looking for in my neighborhood). They take me to Mega Mall. They show me the movie theatres, the food court, and all the stores for Him and Her and the Little One. They let me try some Indian food for the first time. We laugh together and I feel surrounded by warm hospitality.

A couple of days later, Madame Indira takes me to her home. She lives in a gated community. Beautiful flowers and trees fill the gardens. I meet her other two daughters. They are in their mid thirties and they share a room. They are not married—yet. They have pursued PhDs; now one of them is engaged. When I tell them I am unmarried and have an apartment of my own, they shake their heads. “That is not the Indian way.”

They feed me South Indian food and desserts until I’m about to burst. They insist I sleep over, and I humbly accept. In the morning they make me crispy toasts with tomatoes and cucumber. The chai tastes better than coffee. “Next time you visit India,” her daughters say, “you must stay with us.” I wave goodbye. As we leave the gates and drive past a ten-minute-row of open huts sitting on top of garbage where people live without any privacy next to the main road, Madame Indira’s words rest inside the car. “Many poor people in India believe that they were born to live impoverished from opportunities. I can’t accept that. Education is the container of dreams, especially in the slum.”

THE OFFICE

We had a power outage last night. The AC stopped. The TV shut down. The lights went off. Stray dogs barked in the distance. I sat on my bed in the dark, in the heat. I felt wrapped by the forceful monsoon rain that dominated Delhi outside. I just sat there and listened. It seemed like the thunder and lightning would never stop. After a while, thoughts found their way into the shadows of the room. A sense of deep loneliness mixed with an unbreakable comfort that only comes from achieved goals. The office was flooded this morning. I am the only one surprised by this.

I am usually the third person to arrive at the office. Madanji (incorrect spelling, I’m sure) unlocks all the doors and puts the fans on. He brings me the best chai in the world, light and sweet. Second arrival is the cleaning lady. She wears bright colored saris and speaks to me in Hindi, showing off her dimples and a nose ring. My office room is on the second floor. I have my own desk, but I share the room with as many as 10-15 women (depending on how many can fit around the oval table in the middle). I am always relieved whenever I’m able to upload a journal entry on the slow Internet connection.

The office opens at 10, but the crew usually won’t show up until 11-12. On average, their commute—regardless of transportation—takes between one and two hours. Delhi is a big city! Madame Indira, the CEO, has the big office with the bathroom. “You are our special guest and you can use my bathroom any time,” she tells me in front of everyone. I thank her, but I haven’t had the courage to pass through her office for a toilet visit. There’s another bathroom down the hall, the problem is that the door won’t unlock from the inside without a “special touch” that takes months of practice to maneuver. So, everyone’s required to bring their cell phone in there(or scream for help the old fashioned way).

When Madame Indira shows up, everyone gathers around her to hear the latest stories (she just came back from a visit to Chicago where her fourth daughter goes to med school). She loves the attention! Then there’s lunch. They help me order from a nearby restaurant after a ten minute discussion about the Hindi menu. What?! someone shrieks. She had that two days ago! I want to ensure them that they don’t have to fuss over my lunch, but it’s a routine by now that we enjoy and the food is great every time. We share our food on a few plastic plates and eat with our hands. I resist their offerings of yogurt—I’ve been told to stay away from cold sauces (bacteria die over hot flames).

There’s an all male tech team. They have a room of their own. One of them approached me every morning during the first week, digging for facts: my age, my marital status, my nationality, my purpose in India. I’m pretty sure he reported back to his fellow teach mates. What?! the women shriek when they find out that I am unmarried AND am living on my own. They look at me in disbelief when I explain how much personal space means to me. They can’t believe I’m a blond most of the time, that I wear makeup instead of a sweaty face; that my everyday look is tight fitting business casual instead of layer on layer Mary-Kate Olsen bohemian style.

The website is (finally) coming along. A team of three website builders were ordered by the boss to stop by in person after the designer in charge unsuccessfully delivered the website according to my instructions (after repeated attempts for tree weeks). One of his assistants sat with me and we worked on the website together while the lead designer stood around with his arms across his chest and breathed against my neck, asking impatiently over and over, “Is it good? Good, good, good???” I did a great job ignoring him for hours, and one edit at a time and half a business day later, the assistant and I were finished with the design. Then, everyone at the office (really, everyone!) gathered around to give their consent—at the same time! The boss was pleased too and ordered the design team to launch the website before I leave (on Sunday). Oh, and I’m also busy doing desktop publishing and editing the annual report. In many ways I feel I could do more. They tell me that no other volunteer has been asked to do this much work (they usually visit different areas and write a reflection report, that's it). But then again, I’ve been doing my best here all on my own, switching between office and slum, between editor and tourist, in a country that is humid, intense, spicy and very far away from home...

THE CHILDREN

Pratham, the organization I am supporting this summer, is active across five neighborhoods in Delhi. A cluster of about 250 households is demarcated as Basti (slum pocket) and treated as a unit of planning and intervention. Pratham’s programs are mainstreamed into 260 Bastis. One Basti is home to about 420 children. A database of all children 3-14 years old is maintained for each of these slum pockets, recording the schooling status and learning level of all children.

The majority of Delhi’s child population (87%) is attending school. That is great progress. Out of that portion most students (73%) are enrolled in municipal schools. The current CEO of Pratham, while she was the Education Officer in the Indian government, successfully implemented school lunch as a mandatory policy in public schools. The government is also responsible for providing the students with uniforms and school supplies. Pratham is active in public schools to improve learning levels in math and reading (after surveys showed that many students in fifth grade couldn’t read). Test scores taken in the schools where Pratham is supporting students show that in the last three years, covering the same child population:
- the reading proficiency level has increased from 48.7% to 73%
- the math proficiency levels has increased from 38% to 69%

North Shahdara (slum pocket)

I look at the seat for two. “We can all fit!” the women say and laugh at my expressive doubt. The four of us, Samyukta (I call her Sammie), Arshi and a program manager whose name I can’t remember, squeeze in behind the auto-rickshaw driver. With my dark hair tied in a braid I’m doing what I can to avoid locks of curls from sticking to my moist face on this unbearable humid, hot morning. Makeup? Forget about it! I wipe my nose and forehead with a napkin (only after I’ve cleaned my fingers with antibacterial gel). My nails are cut down—long nails are effective venues for bacterial parties. Comfortable in Arshi’s lap, I stick my head out to savor the breeze as we drive to my first slum visit in Delhi.

We change mode of transportation to be able to continue down narrow alleys. I get up on the cycle-rickshaw. The driver’s long, thin milk chocolate legs start to peddle and off we go in a pedestrian’s tempo. I feel every bump on the road against my (poor) behind. The wheels successfully ride over piles of garbage and uneven roads of mud. When we get off I feel bruised and battered. The women discuss something and laugh. One of them translates, “We call this a five-star slum.”

The girls sit on the floor in blue uniforms. When we enter all of them get up. “Good morning madaaaaaam,” they say in unison. School books hang in a line on a rope in the back, like wet laundry. The library program offers many unique titles for children to improve their reading level. Here, most households don’t own a single book. Walnut eyes look at me; dimples grow bigger, white teeth show. Arms are raised. The teacher points to one of the girls. She walks up to me and the interpreter reveals the question. How did you find us and what do you think of us now that you are here? I tell the class that I am happy to be here and to see with my own eyes that they are learning and doing well. I sit down on the carpet and they hurry to sit close to me. We take pictures. As we leave the class, the girl’s question lingers within. What do you think of us? I read pride in their eyes. Someone comes to visit us! We mean something to the world!

Zakhira (slum pocket)

Pallavi, a supervisor, has a hard time getting an auto-rickshaw driver to agree to take us to our destination. About 17 drivers later, we have a deal. Pallavi and I talk marriage (what else?) on our way to my second visit. “My parents found my husband through a dating website. We don’t believe in love marriages. He must come from a good family. I live with my husband and his parents. That is not a choice. We get along sometimes.”

We get off on a garbage dump. I am immediately surrounded by flies. I feel chills down my spine as I observe the mountain of garbage where a group of children run with kites. I want to cover my nose from the smell and my lips from the flies, but I don’t want to show disrespect to the curious faces around me. Some people have gathered around a truck further down the road. “The truck comes every day, or once a week, who knows…” Pallavi says and points to plastic bins. “Women fill the bins with water. The community depends on the water trucks. There is a limit per family or the water wouldn’t be enough for everyone.”

We start hiking up the hill on mud roads. I can feel everyone staring at me from their homes where windows or doors should have been. Women rest their entire weight hunched down on their two feet while sorting grains on flat stones. Goats with pink and brown spots are tied to short ropes next to men in Muslim attires with sore eyes and wrinkled foreheads deep enough to hide childhood dreams. Bricks and stones are placed on tin roofs in efforts to create stability on windy nights. Naked children stumble on chubby legs in the direction of their mothers’ voices.

Pallavi nods and I look that way. In a tiny opening I see a group of preschoolers clapping along with their rhyming teacher. One step at a time, I manage to climb down the narrow path to the class. Their outdoor classroom, the teacher’s front porch, is just big enough to fit about 15 children. The children are learning to identify family members on picture cards. The children come every day for three hours. They get food, supplied by Pratham. Surveys show that preschoolers are more likely to 1) enroll in elementary school and 2) be well adjusted learners once they go to school. When I look up I have an audience on top of the hill of local men, women and children. We wave to each other. Again, I see that something in their eyes that I can’t dress in words yet.

South Shahdara (slum pocket)

I go with Nupur and Mamta in a cycle-rickshaw. Today is a festival in celebration of newly weds. Mamta married recently and today she is dressed in a brand new lime green gown with henna fresh on her fingers. She has brought sweets, pieces of soft cake ornamented with pistaggio, which I swallow with a sigh of delight. That pleases her. “I had an arranged marriage,” Mamta says as we chit chat on our way to the school. “I was only worried about one thing. Would he let me finish my Masters degree in Hindi? Would he let me continue to work? Now that I’ve been promoted I don’t want to stay at home. He said I can do all these things. That made me very happy.” Her smile is contagious.

We interrupt an English class. “Good morning madaaaaaaam,” the girls stand up during the formal greeting. I am invited to sit down in the back row. There are about 20 students in the class. Girls turn around and spoil me with generous smiles. Humbled by their enthusiasm, I realize that I am also smiling. How did my smile get here on its own? Genuine laughter has been missing for a long time in my life. Long hours at work, one pay check at a time, deadlines and stress... I have a storage of polite smiles and diplomatic laughter that can be delivered on time whenever social etiquette requires it. Who knew that my smile, my genuine smile, was waiting for me all this time inside a girls’ classroom in a Delhi slum? I wish I could thank them. As we leave, some students run after me. Every time I turn around they stop, smile, and instinctively I can feel their hunger for recognition. See me! See me! I am here! If you see me, that means I am somebody! I am careful not to ignore eye contact with any of them before we exit the gates and leave them behind.

We are invited into someone’s living room. I am here to interview some children about Pratham’s library program. I take my shoes off and feel the mud underneath my naked feet. There is a bed against pink walls and a picture of the Taj Mahal. Someone hands me a glass of water that I wish I could drink, but I won’t take the risk for my tummy’s sake. Some women hang around in the room next door; our eyes meet with shared curiosity, their faces are framed with colorful saris.

The children come and sit in front of me. Three boys and one girl, all of them are well spoken and polite. The best thing about the library, they tell me through the interpreter, is that for once we don't all have to share one book. As the interview ends, I put my notebook back in the bag when one of the boys (he likes science and singing) takes a deep breath. His eyes fill up with tears. He wipes his face with the back of his sleeve. Although I can’t understand what he is saying, I don’t look away. Ever since his mother died, the interpreter tells me, he is all his grandmother has got. He is doing everything he can, he says, to become somebody.

The children wave to me as the auto-rickshaw drives away. They have the same look as all the other children. Now I know what that look is. Barack Obama said, “it hints at what might be possible and therefore spurs you on.” If by my presence alone (a symbol of international interest for their progress) I can trigger increased motivation in these children, whose lives are contained between brick walls on slim alleys infested by flies and smelling garbage, to keep on going, I would come back again and again.