Inspired Action

THE END

2009-08-07T00:01:00.004+05:30

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

2009-08-06T00:11:00.000+05:30

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

2009-08-05T01:36:00.008+05:30

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

2009-08-04T00:14:00.019+05:30

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

2009-07-31T15:58:00.005+05:30

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

2009-07-29T22:00:00.001+05:30

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

2009-07-28T10:30:00.000+05:30

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

2009-07-27T10:19:00.019+05:30

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.

MALL CULTURE

2009-07-23T10:16:00.009+05:30

Are you ok? About time you picked up! We could see you half dead in a ditch somewhere! Mom’s voice fills up the room through my cell phone and I'd like to capture it in a jar and store it next to my pillow. I pretend to be insulted. Oh mother! I yell back. She can’t see my smile, but she knows it’s there. I completely ignore her concern and move on to whatever else I can think of. I tell her about the mini bananas sold on the street that are as sweet as candy. They don’t taste like that in any supermarket back home. What I’m really craving though is apples; that's a fruit I haven't seen sold on the streets.

I let mom know that my Delhi colleagues take turn to check my wrist for fever and report back my status to anyone around as if they were all in medical school. I tell her that the Director brought me a big pink ribbon bouquet of feel-better flowers. I reveal that the CEO is taking me to her daughter's guarded residential area just outside of Delhi, and we'll go to the best chicken restaurant in town. I'll get to meet her granddaughter too. And if that wasn't enough, I'm invited to the CEO's house later this week for lunch to meet the rest of her family. Before we hang up I strategically finish by saying that I, the daughter to this shopaholic of a woman, is going to India’s biggest shopping complex on the next day off. I will have a driver for the day. She’s relieved for now. Anything related to shopping always makes her feel a bit better. Then we kiss goodbyes.

Vikram is my driver for the day. He is dressed in starched blue pants and matching shirt. The car model is a white Maruti Suzuki with tinted windows. He’s a Christian; I see the cross made out of blue plastic pearls hanging from the rear view mirror. No Madame. Not in backseat. I release the safety belt. Vikram locks his seat belt in the front. Police, he says and refers to the front seat only rule, as if the purpose of seat belts was some unnecessary car accessory the police forced drivers to wear in lack of something else to monitor. I check the backseat and realize that although there is a seat belt here, there is no locking device. I never got that rule. If we make a full frontal, I’m the only flying out the window—all the way from the seat behind Vikram. I decide to sit back and relax. I don’t think this is the right time and place to discuss this.

Vikram adjusts the radio frequency (all the way downtown to the mall - a 45 minutes drive) by bending the antenna between two fingers, as if he's playing a musical instrument. South Delhi is less condense. The wealthiest people live here. The neighborhoods are ornamented with beautiful flowers and tall trees. Gates surround mansions and endless gardens. Guards stroll up and down sidewalks. Most signs are in English here. Luxury cars shine bright in the sun and cast patterns of light on my face.

The security guard electrocutes flies on a stick and kicks them out through the sliding doors. I order a medium vanilla latte, no cream, and rest my chin in my hand. I sit by the window with my back to the shopping mania. It’s raining outside. I watch palm trees getting soaking wet. I have one bag beside me. It’s not a new shirt or a perfume. In the bag is another bag of apples…also a bag of pears… and milk chocolate… with hazelnuts… I’ll enjoy the fruits and the chocolate back at the guest house. Mall culture is the same anywhere. I feel like I’m back in Queens Mall. The same stores. The same food courts. The cinema complex. People here are dressed in designer jeans and high heels. Kids scream for more donuts. Teenage girls come out of the bathroom with makeup. Men in turbans laugh on their cells, leaving behind scents of Oscar de la Renta. I see henna-colored hands tightly gripping Prada bags with manicure nails. Couples hold hands and eat from the same plate of Nachos Deluxe.

Most of the day I walk up and down India’s first ranked shopping experience (third year in a row) without any care for any of the stores. Mango... Guess... Aldo... Nikey... Now I’m sitting here, close to the pouring rain, enjoying a latte to get away from it all. Mall culture… Is this progress? I look at my phone. Vikram is waiting in the underground parking lot. Vikram? Yes, I’m ready to go back now. As we exit the gates a boy in dirty shorts and naked chest is walking down the street, mid traffic, not any taller than car tires. He looks at the world as if it is empty.

A DOLLAR'S WORTH IN DELHI

2009-07-20T10:06:00.005+05:30

Chantal and Daniel (my sightseeing friends) order soda with their lunch. I settle for mineral water and make sure the cap wasn't screwed on the bottle. It reads: crush the bottle after use. My friends don’t need any bottle openers. The classic old school coke bottles are being re-used, still served shameless, and by the look of the faded labels they might have gone from lip to lip since “Friends-Joey” was just an unknown model aspiring actor on Coca Cola posters in my high school. The check leaves us with frowned eyebrows. This is at least double the actual price, the three of us agree. It comes a point when principle is an issue more important than the tourist’s “Oh well, whatever goes in India I guess” response.

On average, I spend one dollar on lunch (someone at the office orders it for me from the most expensive neighborhood restaurant with a spotless reputation). I spend 50 cents on dinner (The Manager at the Guest House has made me a regular customer at his friend’s place). For our meal now, served at a simple street joint with medium-sized portions of mixed vegetables in hot curry with right-out-of-the-oven naan, we are being charged the rip-off price of 2 dollars each! To everyone back home we must sound like cheap bastards, but there are only so many more days that we’re willingly surrendering ourselves to the anonymous group called sure-rip-me-off-I-don’t-mind-at-all.

Daniel takes charge and asks if this is a joke. The waiter doesn’t have time for us anymore. I do a quick currency conversion and decide I’m still a voluntary rip-me-off Westerner. Chantal reads my mind and leaves money on the table. Daniel gets up and asks for the manager. The three of us head to the back. The fat-bellied manager counts stacks of money with only one good eye. He licks a dirty pinkie after each count-up. Daniel competes for his attention with a bunch of people that can’t have a good reason to be standing right there. By the way they point to the TV I’m guessing they’re discussing the cricket game. We end up leaving. I look at Daniel, moved by his honorable effort to pursue justice in a city where rip-offs come served on a hot plate three times a day and, as a bonus, come in handy as silent breakers on slow business days.

Sir, did you pay too much? We turn around. A middle-aged man of Indian decent grabs Daniel by the arm. Sir, I couldn’t help to notice what happened. Is it true? How much did they charge you? I’m a lawyer. It shames me and Mother India when you people are mistreated by ignorant street THUGS! Daniel, a bit confused now, follows the Indian man who is screaming from across the room. Everyone gathers closer. They just got free tickets to a live show. We watch the Indian man having a lecture until the fat-bellied manager’s only good eye tears up in shame. Then something happens. I look at the Indian man whose school principal index finger is stirring the swarm of flies above us, our Superman, and in that exact moment out of the corner of my eye I notice a greasy arm reaching out to us. We are given money back, one bill at a time, after a maroon tongue licks the counting pinkie.

GETTING HERE AND THERE

2009-07-18T13:11:00.006+05:30

When I walk down the hall I hear where he is. The Boy always turns the TV on in the room while he’s cleaning. He leaves dusty slippers outside. He washes white marble floors on his knees with a tired rag. I’m guessing he’s The Servant’s grandkid. I try not to peek inside the room as I pass by. I can’t help it. The Boy is facing the magical screen while his arms rub the floor mechanically, with eyes to a world of thick-haired heroes in front of exploding buildings, needy women with heavy eyeliners, and unconditional love challenged by gangsters with cared-for moustaches. He suddenly senses that I’m passing by and our eyes meet. We both smile. I do it politely and slightly embarrassed. He must think I’m totally weird. As I walk down the stairs I realize his smile was different. It was only another chore.

Walking down the street in Delhi means just that. There are no sidewalks. Since traffic pours in from all directions all the time, taking a casual stroll is an exhausting ordeal. It gets worse. Drivers honk their horns. Nonstop. Over and over again. ALL THE TIME. Even at 4:23 in the morning when traffic jams can’t be an excuse. Traffic means more than just cars. There are bicycles. I haven’t seen anyone riding a bike with a helmet. I have seen bike riders cross multiple lanes and cross sections while I put both hands against my chest in a gasp and worry for their lives with a mother’s discomfort. Then there are cycle rickshaws—a big tricycle with a front seat for the rickshaw puller and a wide seat at the back for what looks like one person, but I usually see three people squeezed in back there. There’s also the auto-rickshaw, a small vehicle without doors or seatbelts. Don’t worry; the right side is bound by iron rods to prevent passengers from falling out. Picture theme park rides and you get the idea. Again, there’s a single seat in the front for the driver and a wider seat in the back for 3 passengers. Now and then I see at least ten people (kids on laps and people hanging on the sides included) riding a single auto-rickshaw, so I figure as many as possible is just fine.

I choose to ride the subway. Delhi is host to the Commonwealth Games in 2010 (sort of a miniature Olympics for past British colonies) and the city is under pressure to be the expected modern metropolitan host. The subway system is brand new and is expanding to reach the entire city by the time of the Games. A few construction workers just died on duty. Riding the subway in Delhi is like checking in at the airport. Before I slide my card I get frisked by a female guard. They don’t smile a lot. Good news is that, as a woman, I get to use the express line in comparison to how long the men have to wait. Then I drop my bag off at the next security check point where it gets scanned. Once it comes out on the other side I must be quick to pick it up before someone else does. This is the procedure at every subway station! Then I’m off to catch the train. The subway is a free haven in this loud city. The trains are AC cool and blocks out the street noise. People are calm and reserved. The announcers sound stewardess friendly in a male and female voice. They present every stop in both Hindi and English. Between stops they command men to leave seats for women passengers.

I live five stops away from the central point in Delhi, Connaught Place. It was designed by a British architecture back in the 1920’s. This architecture aimed to build an impressive commercial center in the capital with wide boulevards and colonial architecture suitable for international visitors. Although familiar signs of MacDonald’s and United Colors of Benetton are found here, Delhi appears as a retired English gentleman stubborn to preserve its old ways rather than to move along with the developing nation it belongs to. I can count how many westerners I’ve seen in the past two weeks on my left hand. The dress code is overall conservative Indian. The commercial center is covered in sun dust and smells hot incents mixed with sweaty street vendors. Many office and retail spaces are shut down or difficult to locate without proper signs outside. Pedestrians have no choice but to intermingle with reckless traffic (life threatening for visitors). I disappear into endless flower stands. Where did they come from? Problem solving has become a daily routine.

I have come to realize that I kind of dress like the city’s less conservative university clique. Whenever I hit the streets I pretend to be one of them. I pretend I know exactly where I’m going (off to some trendy coffee shop that pops up everywhere – a youth revolution against this tea drinking nation) when I have no clue how to find my destination. I show no interest in the intense madness of street life and pretend to be bored with it; beggars without legs, guards with automatic machine guns, women wrapped in stunning saris, white cows sniffing garbage bags, howling dog packs from house roofs, boiling pots stirred by toothless men. Delhi is one of those crazy ol’ ladies you see on the subway in any urban area with uncombed hair, repulsive odor and naked skin under a coat that opens up. You pretend not to notice her and hope she won’t come up to you, but you’re still curious to hear what she’s talking to herself out loud about. When she gets off you relax a little. And life goes back to ordinary again.

HEALTH UPDATE

2009-07-17T08:00:00.000+05:30

Everyone from the firm has gotten sick in India. Usually the condition is an upset stomach. My tummy is fine, but the intense culture adjustment has finally caught up with me. I haven’t slept alright even one night. I either wake up freezing cold from the AC or drenched in sweat as the ceiling fan blows hot and humid air around and around and around… I have no strength… I stayed in all day yesterday, but I’m trying to do some work today.

AN OVERVIEW

2009-07-16T10:08:00.007+05:30

India is our biggest democracy and ranks second after the U.S. in terms of higher education enrollment with more than 60 million university students. About one third (!) of all IT engineers come from India alone. India is tolerant to people of all faiths. Islam, Buddhism and Christianity are minority religions—Hinduism is practiced by 80% of the population. The middle class is expanding at high speed. The Indian menu reaches the top-three-list on the world’s yummiest foods (ok, that’s my opinion).

Statistics also report that about 40% of India’s population submits voting ballots signed with fingerprints instead of handwritten signatures. One fourth of the world’s poor live in India. Some 18 million children (twice the population of New York City) live on the streets. I wonder how many stray dogs there are. We shouldn’t forget about them.

What difference can I make in a city with more than 900 Bastis (slum pockets)? What impact can I possibly make in a month for the at least 100 000 street and working children in Delhi (some estimates claim there are about 500 000 children on the streets in the capital)? I can’t change these statistics. Pratham can. Pratham is healing Delhi’s scarred silhouette.

Although every child is required to attend school by Indian law, there are not enough municipal schools to go around. If possible, parents pay for private schools as an investment in quality education and eventually top tier universities—a security blanket spread out to cover over street life and poverty. Children in slums, always at the bottom of society’s priority lists, don’t access mainstream education. Many children are burdened with the responsibility to financially support their families and don’t have time for school. Children with low income parents are often interrupted in the middle of the school year because the family migrates in accommodation of temporary job opportunities. Many parents don’t encourage their children to go to school—education doesn’t serve dinner tonight.

Funded by UNICEF in 1994, Pratham was born in the slums of Mumbai out of collaborative initiatives from civil servants, corporate investors and the government. Pratham has been replicated across India thanks to its low-cost programs run by volunteering teachers in the community where children live. Pratham reached Delhi in 1999. Local ownership, large scale outreach and measurable achievements have created successful partnerships, not competition, with municipal schools in almost all Indian states.

Pressure from the Indian community in 2001 led to an increase in government spending on its educational system. The number of children out of school drastically dropped from 40 million to 10 million in five years. Surveys then detected that many children in fifth grade couldn’t read simple paragraphs or complete basic math calculations. Once children are in school, the challenge is to improve the quality of their education. That’s why Pratham is working to enhance the teaching standard for children in Delhi’s slum districts. It’s great that more children attend school than ever before—that they learn is crucial.

Prevalent in more than 300 slum zones, the Delhi team reaches out to more than children. They train young women (illiterate/limited literacy) in the slum to qualify for pre-school teaching. These women volunteer and take time away from domestic duties to teach (many women are still bound to the home environment). Their role as teachers builds self esteem and confidence and the women become respected figures in their communities. Many women eventually sign up for university courses to pursue licensed teaching.

PRE-SCHOOL PROGRAMS:
Strategically located close to children 3-5 years old, pre-school activities are set up outside community temples or in a neighbor’s home (usually at the home of the teacher—most residents share one room with many family members and this space is generously set aside for the children a few hours every day). To prepare the children for first grade, they are taught to wash their hands and comb their hair, dress neat and don’t interrupt others, to share food and belongings, identify figures and recognize alphabets. Activities are carried out with song, rhyme and dance to implement motivation early on in the learning process.

SCHOOL SUPPORT PROGRAMS:

- Library units (rely on donations) give children access to books
- Tutors support quality learning in municipal schools
- English classes are integrated into the standard curriculum
- Computer classes are offered to supplement the lack of privately owned computers
- Summer camps organize group work in areas of self reflection, role play and literature discussions
- Transitional school for working children, usually domestic workers and rag pickers, to bring them into mainstream education

What can I do for Pratham in Delhi while I’m here? I work six days a week at their office down the block from my Guest House. I am their temporary online editor for the Delhi website that is about to launch in the next few weeks (a website separate from the mother organization http://www.pratham.org/). In addition, I do desktop publishing in connection with their annual report that sums up achievements for the past year. I visit slum districts and write features about the people involved. I show up to symbolize international corporate interest for the organization’s tireless effort to break cycles of child poverty. My work won’t change any statistical reports, but I feel honored to contribute to the chain of participants from all walks of life that spread Pratham’s mantra to children. Main hoon aur main bahut khass hhon. I am, and I am special. That speaks louder than any statistic.

TAJ MAHAL

2009-07-14T10:13:00.023+05:30

The Delhi sightseeing tour is run by the government and covers landmarks, temples and monuments. I get a seat next to Chantal. She lives in London, but with both parents from Sri Lanka she gets away with the Indians-only cost of 10-20 rupees (0.3 USD) per sight. In comparison, non-Indians regardless of nationality are charged between 250-500 (5 USD) rupees for the same experience. Besides us there are only Indian travelers on this trip. Many couples are celebrating their honeymoon. The peak for foreigners to visit India is in the winter. The dripping sweat down my back explains why. Every day news broadcasts give alarming reports on the absent monsoon rain. As a result of the drought vegetable prices have tripled. In one of the world’s biggest economies, while sustainable crop production is a necessary means of survival to the majority population of hundreds of million farmers, the government still relies on weather conditions.

We pass through uptown and downtown, commercial centers and parks. Borders fade behind naked bodies of young children that roll around in their sleep on pavements. Most buildings looked modern 15 years ago. Cows cuddle in front of subway exits. Bootleg book stalls spread out next to postmen that sort out envelops on the curb next to running bare feet. I don’t see garbage bins anywhere. Monkeys occupy roof tops and hang from Bollywood posters. Little girls and boys appear in the middle of red light cross sections and go from car to car trying to sell anything from miniature Hindu statues to TIME magazine. Their arms barely reach into open car windows.

On our way to the Taj Mahal we meet David from Atlanta. Delhi disappears behind us and we pass through country sides and state borders. Fields thirsty for water spread out on both sides. Camels pull heavy loads of Fanta bottles. Teenage boys wash their naked backs underneath water pipes that have been cut out from buildings in ruins. We stop at roadside diners that are dressed in Pepsi logos that lick the dirt from highways. We randomly select something from the menu only to be told the dish is not available and they serve us something else that, in the end, tastes delicious anyway. Children go to the bathroom in front of passing cars. Stray dogs bark from allies in shambles. Parents walk with their kids against multiple-lane rush hour traffic without hesitation. The Happy Water World is abandoned except for empty swimming pools that crack in the heat. People ride down the highway on top of trucks. There’s no breath of silence. No space for privacy. I see neglect everywhere. As we leave one of the Seven Wonders of the World and return to the capital of the world's eight biggest economies, it is clear they measure money by quantity—not quality investments.

(Click on images to enlarge pictures)

Our colorful tour bus

The beautiful Laxmi Narayan Temple that welcomes people of all faiths

We follow the last steps of Ghandi

The World Peace Gong (Ghandi Museum)

I can't read it, but it looks beautiful

In front of the Lotus Temple

The Lotus Temple

An Indian tourist reads about the Red Fort

I'm fascinated by women's garments

Ghandi's burial site

In front of the Agra Fort

My group (the guide to the right with the light shirt)

Taj Mahal in the distant background

We're (finally) getting closer

Taj Mahal (we arrive drenched in sweat, but it's worth the memorable trip)

We take many pictures (and wish we looked fresh and clean)

I am grateful to experience this in person

I am happy to share this with Daniel and Chantal

Waiting in line to enter the Taj Mahal

We were taken on a Hindu pilgrimage to the birthplace of Krishna

THE GUEST HOUSE

2009-07-09T11:28:00.020+05:30

Chai comes served in a worn-out container on a plastic trey covered with faded flowers. The glass is dripping wet from a quick clean-up. I put both hands against my chest. Our eyes meet only briefly. Shukriya. Thank you. Mr. Gopal, “The Servant,” bows and closes the door. I massage antibacterial gel into my hands, already a routine before I touch anything, and grab two slices of roti from last night’s meal. The chai is burning hot, but a light and sweet relief on my tongue. Interrupted dreams from last night wash away from consciousness, one sip at a time, replaced with high-pitched voices from the morning news that cover plans surrounding Michael Jackson’s wake, the G8 summit and cricket scores.

The Guest House is more of a character than a facility. Its blue facade brags of a rare beauty next to half-built buildings of cement that lean against each other’s broken limbs. Three balconies dressed in Christmas lights face tall trees underneath an unlit RESTAURANT sign. A candle is placed in front of their Ganesha statue (the Hindu God of Success) next to the main entrance of broken glass doors. The lobby still echoes of a restaurant that used to be up and running until last winter. I don’t know what happened. Tables and chairs rest in dust and shadows, untouched for months, perhaps waiting for a license to pass through hurdles of nonchalant bureaucracy.

Underneath a 14 Inch TV, The Manager, Mr. Rajan, kicks back in a plastic chair next to the entrance doors. His office. He escapes into the emotional fireworks only Bollywood can deliver. His hair is bright white against sun-dried cocoa skin. The remote control lies loyally in his grip. His English sounds like grinding pebbles underneath slippers. He moved here from South India. Not for Delhi, he says and wobbles his head in the way that defines Indian gestures to foreigners. For work. You want chai? Each word fits into a restless smile. That comforts me.

“The Manager” and “The Servant” taste politically incorrect to western tongues. The titles don’t reflect who they are. To this caste-defined society though, the titles reflect what they are. The Servant runs down the street and brings me back squeezed juice from limes, oranges and mangoes stacked in piles on wooden carts dragged by skinny arms. I do a thumbs-up to the refreshing taste. That pleases him. We exchange a smile—the only common language we have. Together we watch the street from the porch. Bus windows stuffed with arms and legs that hang in the evening air pass by, one after the other as the sun sets. Saris from a group of women float in the whispering breeze. The women carelessly step over a mechanic’s leg that sticks out from underneath a Maruti Suzuki. A line of rickshaws are parked down the block and serve as temporary bedrooms for their drivers. The Servant takes my glass and heads to the kitchen. The Manager is dozing off to restless singing from Bollywood fantasy.

I imagine this place decades ago. Built according to British colonial style, I admire exquisite wooden carvings on the closet doors, high ceilings where fans of dark wood spin, petite lamps of gold and glass even in the bathrooms, and marble floors everywhere. It was luxurious once. Over the years, the beauty has become misplaced against rusty pipes, broken furniture, the abandoned elevator and electrical cords put up in a hurry. I am the only guest until the next wedding hits this neighborhood. The Owner (I haven’t met him yet) makes a season’s worth of earnings from one wedding alone. The festivity goes on for three days and celebrating family members occupy every room. In the upper corner I look into two little eyes. The lizard is smaller than my pinkie. We decide the room is big enough for both of us.

(Click on image to enlarge picture)

DESTINATION DELHI

2009-07-07T10:39:00.009+05:30

India stinks! That’s what the five-year-old Indian-American girl in the seat next to me yells as soon as the plane lands on Delhi ground. I look outside. Behind the line of aircrafts a dirty blanket of fog wraps around the sweaty sunrise. I smell it too.

Two months have passed since I received the phone call. The committee told me that I am one of six volunteers selected for the firm’s social initiative investment in India. In the midst of congratulations they urged me to make all necessary preparations and emailed me a to-do list: apply for a visa, book the cross-continental flight ticket, fulfill all required vaccine injections, buy a preventative stock of tummy pills and antibacterial gels, and don’t forget to schedule an appointment with your doctor for any conditions that the non-prescribed boxes of pills and gels bought at the pharmacy can’t wipe out.

As I browsed through Indian travel sites I realized there’s also a what-not-to-do-list: don’t go along with intense and friendly strangers that are desperate to help you out, don’t drink the tap water and under no circumstance drink water sold in plastic bags by the road, don’t wear shorts, don’t eat salads unless the vegetables are cooked, don’t go out alone at night, don’t jump into a taxi without bargaining the price down to half the initial amount, never refuse any drinks or food offered by your host, and don’t touch the cows.

At the London Heathrow I stroll up and down the corridors of shiny floors next to Harrods and Gucci, public bathrooms and the Champagne Bar, leaving behind overtime and deadlines at the office before I catch my connecting flight. I am traveling to Delhi alone. For the reason that the committee spread us out over the next 12 months, I am the only volunteer in July and can expect scorching temperatures in the 40’s (Celsius) and 104 (Fahrenheit).

For weeks I’ve been doing as much research as I can about the practicality of India. Electricity (adaptor required), dress codes (my closet doesn’t match Indian sensibility), eating (I have to learn how to spoon up the food with naan and share with the rest of the table), houses of worship (Brooklyn will look atheistic in comparison), time management (expect hours, not minutes, of delay), traffic (Indians drive on the left side as a legacy of past British colonial rule—unlike in Britain, Indian traffic rules are spoken in loud honks), and family matters (“It’s nice to meet you. What was your name? How are your parents? Are you married? Why not?”).

In the pre-paid airport taxi, marked with a Nikey sticker stretched across the front window, I hold on to the luggage and the back seat as the young driver races down bumpy roads. We pass men on mopeds with helmets and women sitting sideways behind them with nothing but colorful scarves around their hair, witnessing a one helmet per family average. The red lights at intersections seem useless. I see a barber shaving a man by the highway; a blue plastic mirror hangs on the concrete wall to guide his strokes. Stray dogs hide in shadows. We almost crash five times. Inside my sweaty palm is the receipt I’ve been informed to hand the driver when I arrive at the guest house—his only guarantee of payment as a strategy enforced by the traffic police in a city where the hustlers make New York City seem like a day in the park.

I had played with the idea of working for an international non-profit long before I signed up for this. I checked out organizations in Africa and South America. The budget was a concern. Could I afford it? When I first started working for the company a year ago and heard about their offer to volunteer in India, all expenses covered for, signing up was easy. Tonight I’m sitting here in my temporary Delhi home, the evening traffic loud outside the window and the AC blowing cool air against my skin, and I know that the destination continues beyond this city. There’s an itinerary in my spirit. That travel expense is on me.

My company at night...

My new haircolor...

CHILDREN UNPLUGGED

2009-07-04T02:55:00.004+05:30

Power shortages in New Delhi are frequent. Pull the plug and no one would pay much attention or stop what they are doing. The street and working children of Delhi are as embedded in the city’s character as power outages. Their childhoods are flickering lights bulbs that burn out too fast.

Some people were born to be power cords. According to Wikipedia, "power cords connect an electrical appliance to the distribution circuits of an electrical power source." The power cord is capable of transforming something that, on its own, is disabled. The power cord enables the TV to play our shows, the washing machine to clean our clothes, the fridge to store our food at the right temperature. It provides value. Most of us take the power cord for granted despite its important function in our daily lives. We only pay attention to the power switch when it doesn’t light up the room against nightfall.

This summer I'm going to be a volunteer for Pratham and Butterflies in New Delhi, India's capital of more than 14 million people. The company I work for is sending me as a symbol of its corporate consciousness. Pratham, India's largest NGO (non-governmental organization), and Butterflies are paying attention to millions of children who are unplugged from the potential to realize any goal beyond that of every day survival on the streets. These organizations are wired installations of opportunity set up across shanty towns and railway stations, sweat shops and red light districts.

I'm on my way to the airport, about to visit India for the first time. This could be a recipe for disaster. I am a neat freak. I can’t stand big crowds. Still, I’m going to the second largest populated country in the world with more than 1.2 billion people. I'm about to connect with a mosaic of ethnic groups, customs and languages unfamiliar to my senses. Why am I willingly throwing myself into this melting pot of streets crowded with speeding auto-rickshaws and fast food eating cows, Bollywood production and henna colored arms, the Taj Mahal and monsoon rain?

Perhaps I should be spending a four weeks long vacation in the Mediterranean with friends. The decision to challenge stereotypes of India comes at a time when mom could ask when I'm planning on delivering grand kids. I raise my cup of chai to her. She never got a decent raise, she never received any praise after all those years when budget cuts didn’t mean less work, but underneath memories of night shifts and working holidays, I unfold the knot of pity most people expect me to pack for India.

Before arthritis settled in mom's hands, they would cup my fingers as I followed her to work when I was a little girl. Aligned with memories of her washing and feeding and medicating and tucking into bed, oblivious to my embarrassed discomfort with the drool, the smell and the cramp attacks, is how effortless she'd listen to what was inarticulate emotions to my ear. If her role as a mental health worker was a dance, she'd be a ballerina that gracefully could swirl and twirl any blurry speech into verbal pirouettes. To her, their voices have always been indistinguishable from yours and mine.

Most people feel sorry for children born into lack, into don't have, into no way and ache over indiscernible faces of deprived childhoods. Underneath the uniform of impoverished opportunities, Pratham and Butterflies enable children to become more than their past that we pity them for. These empowerment cords offer alternatives through education, health care and budget management for the rag pickers and the glue sniffers, for the girls and boys who can’t use enough words to sum up all of their losses even if they learned the dictionary. They are plugging into the electrical outlet of each child’s ability to develop goals beyond survival that we call living. I'll make sure to pack ballet shoes before I zip up the suitcase. The Mediterranean can wait.