Travel

Saturday, December 31, 2011

The Ahmedabad Diaries - Writers are Bastards


As part of Teach for India’s annual retreat, I visited Ahmedabad for three days recently. Much of this time was split between the Gandhi Ashram and visiting communities that Manav Sadhana worked closely with.

The community I visited had been relocated to a bare ground because their houses were demolished by the government without notice. They had been living in make-shift houses, braving the freezing nights of Ahmedabad with bare minimum clothing, and struggling daily with their gnawing thirst and hunger. For me, it was a very unsettling experience, mainly because I was unable to understand my purpose over there. Despite that, as I walked around boiling with suppressed emotions, I realized something:

My eyes involuntarily took in every detail
The colour of the tarp,
The tatters in their clothes,
The remaining brambles that were indicative of the dangerous land they had initially been dumped in, The vastness of the garbage dump next to their camp,
The few utensils they had managed to save

And my mouth hesitantly asked questions
How did they end up here?
How long would they have to stay?
Did they have access to water?
Why couldn’t they find work nearby?
What did they eat daily?

I groped for details, as far as I would allow myself. I wish I could say it was because I cared. Yes I did care, but that was not the main reason why I want to know.

I wanted to know so that I would have something to blog about.

Even as I collected the information, I was sorting it in my head: “this would be good to write about; this is irrelevant; oooh this would make for an interesting topic!”

Because that’s what writers do.
We gather information, sort through it, choose the ‘juiciest bits’ and write those down.
We don’t go into the field to solve a problem or to alleviate pain – we go out to gather details.
We ask, we probe, we observe – hoping every second that the next bit of information will take our article from mundane to brilliant.
We become unfeeling, uncaring bastards who care more about the style of our writing than the subject of it.
We worry more about how a word sounds on paper than how a probing question sounds to the person receiving it.
We ensure that we have the proper pictures that will help tell the story, because that’s our only job.
 We don’t intend to hurt feelings, but if they come in the way of telling the truth, then so be it.
We don’t consciously aim towards poverty porn, but sub-consciously, we know that’s what readers want.
We don’t experience for the sake of experiencing, we experience so that we can pick up every single detail.

During my three days at Ahmedabad, that’s exactly what I did.

My professors at York would have been proud.


The Ahmedabad Diaries - Please Tell Me


I walk into your home, bearing
Blankets for the cold
Food for your stomach
Water for the thirst
A smile for hope

Yet as I look around, the smile falters
Your home is not a home
It is a piece of the ground
Marked off by sticks and plastic
There is nothing outside
Nothing inside
Except people

People who step out from all directions
People who stare at me
Their gazes filled with a myriad of emotions
I can only try to guess
Is it happiness for the company?
Is it hope for the gifts?
Is it sadness at the reality?
Is it anger at the divide?
Is it disgust at the charity?
Is it envy at the unfairness?

Because the question that remains unanswered
The one I want to ask but am afraid
The one that plagues me constantly is
Who am I to you?
Am I a guest, to be invited humbly and treated with respect?
Am I a celebrity, representing a part of society that has evaded you?
Am I God, bringing the hope of relieving you from your misery?
Am I a philanthropist, trying to make myself feel better about the injustice?
Am I a snob, coming over to look down upon you and your neighbours?
Am I a friend, willing to provide a shoulder to you when you need it?
Am I a stranger, pretending to be your friend today to never see you again after this?
Am I a helper, offering you aid?
Am I a hypocrite, saying I understand when I really don’t?
Please tell me, because I don’t know
Tell me
Who am I to you?

And who are you to me?
A friend I genuinely care about?
A piece of charity to assure myself of my goodness?
A receiver of my gifts?
A giver of love?
A passing phase I use to “gain an experience”?
A needy person I try to help?
A project to test my skills?
A person I want to learn from?
An alien I truly cannot understand?
Because like I said, I really don’t know
So please tell me

What do you feel when you see me passing through your makeshift community?
Who am I to you?
Who are you to me?
And while we’re on that subject
Also tell me,
What am I supposed to feel?

Concerned for your welfare?
Nervous about the encounter?
Troubled by your reality?
Touched by your affection?
Humbled by your warmth?
Guilty for being rich?
Confident for being educated?
Scared of being offensive?
Indifferent so as to be detached?
Hypocritical at my pretence?
Unsure about my actions?
Happy at the connections?
Hopeful about the future?
Cynical at the world?
Angered by the government?
Upset at the unfairness?
Faithful in the God up above?
Satisfied at having made a difference?

Did I do that?
Did my blankets, food and water change your lives?
Did my visit bring you out of poverty?
Did my presence alleviate your misery?
Did my company make you happy?
Did my words bring you solace?
Did my actions bring you comfort?
Did I make a difference?

Please tell me

The community we visited - standing in front of their bamboo-tarp houses



Friday, December 30, 2011

The Ahmedabad Diaries - In the Shoes of a 13-year-old-girl



Asha and me

Meet Asha – a 13-year-old living in Ahmedabad. She comes from an economically lower background than the rest of us. If you will excuse my political incorrectness, she came from a slum. She lived with her parents, a grandmother, two younger brothers and two younger sisters. Being the oldest of the lot, she was also the one responsible for the other children, and when you are given such a responsibility, you tend to grow up faster than you need to.

I met Asha at the Gandhi Ashram in Gujarat, where she is currently under the wing of Manav Sadhana, an NGO that strives to spread the message of peace and unity among the surrounding communities through various projects. Asha happened to be in one of them called Ekatva – a 70-minute musical performance by 16 children aiming to spread unity. The performance left every single audience member astonished and mesmerized, inspired by the sheer talent and hard-work that was reflected.

Being a part of Ekatva, Asha’s typical day included school in the morning, tuitions in the afternoon followed by activities and finally dance practice. Like the other children, she stayed at the Ashram and visited her family only in the holidays. I was lucky enough to join her one night as she went home.

On the bus-ride over, she chatted enthusiastically about her life - her love for dance and acting, her fear of the first performance, her excitement at the latest performance, her dream of becoming a doctor (and not because her family wanted it), her happiness at Manav Sadhana, her sadness at being away from her family, her nervousness about leaving Manav Sadhana the following year to attend a different school, her love for her friends, and her longing for her old house.

Their original house had been demolished by the Government, but luckily they had been given a flat in its stead. The new flat was 15 kilometers away from their original house, which meant that Asha’s father, who worked at a nearby shop, had to travel long hours every day to work. Despite being utterly exhausted, he was extremely welcoming, and took advantage of the great Indian hospitality to feed me seven pakoras –  in addition to my dinner.

Unfortunately, the parents and the grandmother had to travel to their village that night for voting as the elections were on, which left me alone at home with the children. My initial apprehension soon gave way to shame as I watched Asha wake up early in the morning and calmly prepare chai and breakfast for her siblings, and finish up other house chores. I nearly cringed thinking back to my life as a 13-year-old, and in that moment, I felt like a little kid, younger than Asha, embarrassedly asking her how to flush the toilet when clearly there was no flush.

Another memory which stands out from my visit is from the night when Asha and her friends walked me around the community from one friend’s house to another. The streets were lined with boys probably a little older than Asha herself, yet the way they were ogling at us was enough to send major chills through me. 

Having grown up in a very sheltered-Kuwait –life followed by boarding school followed by Canada followed by a completely oblivious me in Bombay, I have had (thankfully) few instances where I was made to feel like a piece of meat.

But right there, holding hands with Asha on one hand who aspired to become a doctor, and her 13-year-old friend Varsha who had gotten married a few months ago on the other, I realized just how different my teenage years were from theirs. How I had been spared the crudeness most girls in India are forced to face.

How I couldn’t even begin to imagine what it’s like to live in the shoes of these 13-year-olds. 

The Ahmedabad Diaries - You Look Like a Lakshmi


Disclaimer: This post might be offensive. Actually, it probably is. But it's hard to rip the band-aid without feeling any pain. 

A friend of mine once told me that I’m the least judgmental person he ever knew. And I believed him. Why? Because I didn’t hate Pakistanis. Or Muslims. Because I liked to listen to both / all sides of the story before deciding who was right. Because I apparently had bucket-loads of this substance called empathy which allowed me to involuntarily see things from other people’s perspective, making it a little hard to judge them afterwards.

Three days ago, I realized I was as judgmental as the founder of the KKK. Maybe not in my actions, but in my thoughts, I could give those white-wearing-racist-bastards some serious competition.

Why? Because I met a girl named Lakshmi. And when she told me her name, a thought entered my mind from some place I didn’t even know existed, which said to me: “Ahh. That’s right. She looks like a Lakshmi.”

She looks like a Lakshmi?!?! What does that even mean?!

At first I tried to placate myself by thinking that she probably reminded me of another girl called Lakshmi that I have met before. Yet as I racked my brain, I couldn’t think of ever having met anyone personally with that name before. So it’s not like I could draw similarities to the features. And if I have never met anyone called Lakshmi, how do I know what she is supposed to look like? Hear that? I said ‘supposed’ – like there’s a type.

You know, like Ahmed is Muslim. Ram is Hindu. Tom is white (because, clearly, he cannot be any other colour). Kapoor is a big-shot. Chhotu is the helper. Natasha is the beautiful fair one. Lakshmi is the dark nerdy one.

Where did these labels come from? When did I become the authority on people’s names? True, some names do reflect a person’s religion / ethnicity, but I had no idea that we could use names to identify someone’s social status or fairness-of-the-skin data.

I want to blame the media. When was the last time a Bollywood movie had a leading actress named "Lakshmi" who represented glamour? “Om Prakash Makhija” may have been a perfectly suitable name until Shah Rukh Khan destroyed it in his film. When was the last time we came across a “Natasha” from the village or a slum?

But blaming is the easy part. Accepting the reality of the situation is harder.

I’ve written dozens of essays and had countless discussions on how stereotypes are the bane of this world, and for some reason, I felt that my ability to come to this conclusion prevented me from falling in its trap. 

Apparently not.

It seems that prejudice is embedded within our bones, at least mine, and it creeps up at strangest of times. It may not be intentional, but it’s still there. And there’s no excuse for it.

I thought I hated it when others judged me. It’s even worse to realize that I reciprocate the feeling so easily. 

The Ahmedabad Diaries - Raju's Story


Raju's story is not that of a single man. It's the story of a community put together through anecdotes from several people. "Raju" just happens to be the main source. I have no idea what his real name is.

He lived in a slum, or as NGO workers like to call it, a community. It was a community where the stone-houses were haphazardly lined up against each other, with just about enough space to accommodate two small people. For most families, however, the actual number stood around 2 adults and 5 steadfastly-growing kids. It was crammed, but as their nation had taught them since the day they were born, they had to adjust.

Mazdoori was the main livelihood. The men worked from morning to night, laboring in exchange for an income that allowed the family to survive. The women worked hard around the house to ensure the family could survive on that income. And the kids…they learnt soon enough that the innocence of childhood did not waste its time on their likes.

Life was hard, but Raju knew there was something to be thankful for – they had water and electricity for the most part. They had jobs. They had their family and friends. They had a solid roof over their head. They had a home.

I guess he thanked too soon.

On a day like any other, Raju returned home from labouring to find that he no longer had a home. It was gone. Every last bit. As were all the houses of his neighbours, and their neighbours, and the entire community.
The only thing left was rubble. Piles and piles of it.

On his left, people were crying – moaning; to his right, a man was sifting through the rubble looking for something, though he didn’t seem to know what. Children were clinging on to their mothers, looking confused and terrified, trying to forget the sounds of the bulldozers as they tore down their homes in front of their eyes.

The government had decided it was time to vacate the land so that it could be used for construction. That Raju understood. What he did not understand was why they were not given a moment’s notice before their homes were turned into rubble. A hysterical mother had to beg the authorities to allow her to get her son who was sleeping unawares while the bulldozers approached his house. She had to beg, because they didn’t seem to care what came in the way of the bulldozers – a bed, a dog, or a child.

As Raju looked towards his wife and son standing where their house used to be, he could not explain the emotion that passed through him. Everything that he had, that they had, was gone.  The house, the clothes, the TV, the stove, the thali they ate from, they vessel they stored water in – it was all gone. “I was lucky I carried by identity papers and toolbox with me to work,” he recalls, “or I wouldn’t even have that now.”

Their lives were turned inside out. Without even the courtesy of a notice.


*** Flash forward 6 months later ***

Dust, for as far as your eyes can see. Bamboo sticks, attempting to stand upright in their position on the ground. Tarps – red, blue, white – hanging desperately onto the bamboo sticks as the wind tried fervently to release them.

This was the new community that Raju was now living in. Some might call it a camp. Some might call it a dump. The government seemed to prefer calling it home. And it had been “home” for the last 15 days.

Although the details of his life are not too clear after the house was destroyed, from what I understand the government gave some of the families flats in a distant community in an attempt to relocate them. But not everyone received a flat, and so they continued to wait; they continued to live on the rubble of what-had-once-been-their-house for a few months. After 5 months, it seems the government had had enough of the squatters and wanted to clear the land, so all the remaining people were rounded up in trucks and dumped unceremoniously onto a far-off land next to a major garbage dumping ground. There was no water closeby, no sign of electric lines, no food, no job, no money, and certainly no home. Just a vast ground filled with prickly weeds and plants.

When I met Raju, he had been living there for 15 days. His new home, consisted of a few bamboo sticks precariously holding up white tarp, with a sandy floor that had been laboriously cleared of the wild plants.  He stood in front of his house as he unabashedly narrated his story to me. The flaps of tarp that stood as a door fluttered in the wind, giving me a chance to look inside his house. It was bare.

He had sent his wife and son to their village and was living here alone. “Why didn’t you go with them?” I asked. He looked tired, almost defeated. “Because I will not be allocated a house unless I stay here,” he said, the unfairness of the situation crushing him. “I do not want them to have to live through this misery.”

And misery it was. It was the end of December in Ahmedabad, Gujarat, and temperatures at night were steadily dropping. Blankets were nowhere to be seen. The number of people living on that ground surpassed a few thousand. The men claimed there were no jobs available around them. Food was hard to come by unless it was through charity. Three children had already died by eating poisonous plants growing nearby. Water was available thrice a day – almost a kilometer away. No one had bathed in days. No one had properly quenched their thirst in days. All around, the faces - whether they be of an 8-month-old or an 80-year-old – showed signs of exhaustion.

The question that seemed most pertinent, was how long they would have to endure this hell. The authorities said that they will respond by the 31st – 3 days later. “And if they don’t?” I ask hesitantly. Raju looks at me directly, his eyes burning with an emotion I couldn’t possible describe, and said, “We might be here for 5 years. Or more. Who knows?”


The tarp-homes held upright with bamboo sticks

Raju's home 

Sunday, December 25, 2011

Here's hoping the bug doesn't bite


It starts with a little disgruntlement,
Like a little itch
Too slight to fret
Yet not so small to ignore
Still, you try

And slowly it grows
It’s gnawing at you
Like a bug bite that you want to scratch
Except it’s not on your skin
It’s nowhere that you can locate
Somewhere within
Maybe the muscle,
Or the bone,
Or the capillaries,
Or the heart
You don’t know
Yet it’s there for sure
Disgruntling
Frustrating
Angering

And as time passes
It takes over your entire being
Your muscle
Your bone
Your capillaries
Your heart
It’s a growing frustration
No matter how hard you try
You cannot ignore

But neither can you scratch
No matter how hard you try
You cannot reach
You try and put your finger on it
Yet it evades you even more

Or maybe you don’t want to reach it
Maybe you don’t want to scratch that evasive place
Maybe you don’t want to awaken the source of your anger
Because once you
Reach it
Catch it
Know it
You can no longer ignore it

You can no longer go on pretending
Pretending that everything is fine
That you are fine
That you aren’t bothered by that thing
That it doesn’t unsettle you
That it doesn’t plague your every thought
That it doesn’t dictate your every move
That it doesn’t allow you to be yourself
That all you want to do is scratch
Yet fear that which it may unleash

Because that would mean
Admitting that it matters
When it should not matter
Admitting that it hurts
When there is no reason to hurt
Admitting that you cannot stop
When all you want to do is stop

And admitting is hardly a cure
It will not take away the hurt
The anger
The frustration
The disgruntlement
The gnawing
The itch

So you continue pretending
Trying
Acting
Ignoring

Hoping that it will go away on its own
Knowing that it probably won’t

Tuesday, December 13, 2011

The "Hakuna Matata" kid

"...It means no worries, for the rest of your days. It's a problem-free philosophy - Hakuna Matata."
Headstrong...

I'm sure she's never heard this line. She probably couldn't even say Hakuna Matata (apparently it's quite a tongue-twister for 7-yr-olds). But without any conscious effort on her part, Shreya Pawar has embraced this philosophy in her life.

In a class filled with 45 screaming kids all vying for your attention, Shreya hardly stands out. That might be partly because she is NEVER trying to get your attention. She's content in her own world, with the few people around her, and never seems to need more.

But she did stand out to me, initially because of one simple feature - her smile.

Shreya is the smiliest kid - scratch that, smiliest person - I have ever met. In the no-smiling competition that I love to have with her, she can barely hold out for 2 seconds. Her eyes light up in pure unadulterated delight while crinkling up in the edges, and refuses to leave her face for the longest time. In fact, I think she's probably the only kid in my class who I've never seen crying even once! Once I found her sitting outside class with blood dripping from her knee, and the smile never left her face even as she recapped the incident of how she got hurt.

But if you think the smile is a reflection of her naivete and innocence, then you're definitely in for a ride!
The million-dollar smile
Any new topic I teach, she gets it in  a flash (although I doubt she's even listening). And as much as I appreciate the light bulb going on, the side-effect is that she spends the remaining time disrupting my already-disrupted class. Sometimes it can be as tame as whipping out her art book and drawing a gorgeous scenery, but more often than not it involves arguing and fighting with the students sitting around her. But to Shreya's credit, she never complains about the other students - she handles all the bullies on her own!

When I initially started noticing her cheerful attitude, I assumed she was one of those rare kids in my class that faced no hardship at home or with her family. Maybe she does, I don't know. What I do know is that her parents and siblings live far away from Mumbai in a small village, while Shreya lives near the school with her grandparents and aunt and uncle. She was one of those "lucky" kids that was given the opportunity to go and live in the city to get a good education. Whether that education is worth the separation from her family - only one person can answer. But good luck trying to discern the emotions behind that million-dollar smile.

I said earlier that in a class of 45 screaming kids all vying for your attention, Shreya hardly stands out. That's not exactly true. Shreya hardly tries to stand out. Yet she does. Her creativity, her talent, her defiance, her headstrong take-no-shit attitude, her curiosity, her cheerfulness, and her most genuine smile - with all these combinations, how can she not stand out? How can she not inspire?

"Some people try not to stand out, and they don't.
Some people don't try to stand out, and they do."

Wednesday, October 26, 2011

Breathing New Zealand


Pristine. Breathtaking. Untouched – words that are usually found in novels that prefer to delve more into description of the setting than to carry forward the plot. And I hate those novels. Well, at least I don’t love them. I crave a story – something to predict; something to look forward to. The description – well, that’s just there, isn’t it? It’s still, static – boring.

In the last 48 hours that I’ve spent in New Zealand though, I’ve realized that there is something to be said for that stillness – some kind of perplexing beauty in the lack of action. Ever since I reached New Zealand, which just happened to be on Labour Day (which was co-incidentally also the day after the Rugby World-cup final, so everybody was busy sleeping over their hangovers), the country has been dead. No people in sight. I’ve seen more sheep and cows than humans. Every 5 minutes I would turn to my parents and ask – so what do we do next – gesturing helplessly at the deserted water-sports area around us. And every 5 minutes, I would receive a shrug in return. So eventually I stopped asking.

And started seeing. And hearing. And feeling. And most importantly, I started breathing. I saw before me some of the most spectacular lakes and clear blue water, with snow-capped mountain peaks rising from behind, so far away that I couldn’t even capture them on my camera lens. Behind me, green grass spread out for acres, often covered by the straight-backed pine-trees neatly arranged in perfect lines that could have put a march-past team to shame. The scene was right out of those ‘scenery’ pictures I used to draw as a kid, never realizing there really were places that had such a perfect blend of blue, white, and green.

I heard the rustling of the leaves in the wind. I heard the sounds of insects which I had forgotten existed thanks to my busy city life. I heard my own feat crumbling the gravel on the ground below. I heard water gurgling from the boiling geysers that form part of New Zealand’s main natural attractions. I heard the sound of my own breath – quite a strange experience when you actually think about it. You know what I did not hear? People chattering, music blaring, horns honking, children shouting, myself yelling – everything was quiet. And calm. And peaceful.

I felt the wind like I haven’t felt it in ages since Bangalore. I felt the cold like I used to feel it in Canada. I felt the relaxation I had felt every time I went home to Kuwait. I felt the beauty of the landscape that I felt as a child in my house in Dehradun. I felt alive the way I do in Bombay – but so much more. Not alive to do things, but to just be. And I used to think that being alive means making the most of every single minute, of not wasting time but doing all the time. Yet in the last couple of days, I haven’t done anything. Unless you count lying down on the grass and actually falling asleep without a care in the world. Or walking along the most beautiful lake I have ever seen. Or realizing that I could feel alive while actually being static.

And so I took a deep breath. And then another. And a few more. I let the calm and the silence wash over me.  I let myself be immersed in beauty that for the most part has been left unaltered by man. I fell in love with something that was pristine. Breathtaking. Untouched.

Something that was static. Yet alive.

Saturday, October 22, 2011

Utterance


“I don’t like it.”

Four simple words. Nothing complicated about them whatsoever, with the possible exception of the apostrophe on the second word. They were just there, swirling around in my head, as though waiting for me to swoop in with a net and throw them out of my mouth.

It seems we do a lot of that – waiting. As the words waited impatiently for me to pick them up, I waited too: for the right moment, for my anger to subside, or perhaps, for it grow to a point beyond control, so I would have an excuse to say those words. Waiting was the means to my end – what that end would be, I wasn’t sure. Whether, like on the stroke of midnight of August 15, 1947, my words would find utterance; or whether they would fade away to silence and grudgingly trudge towards the enormous pile of forcefully discarded thoughts.

I hoped for the former, but hope, when mingled with waiting, can be a dangerous combination. The determination is there, the resolution set, the anger surging. Yet the trigger remains just out of reach, as I sit around, waiting, hoping for the opportune moment to come along.

The scene has already played out a gazillion times in my head. For all the silence that envelopes me from the outside, my inner mind is seeing the satisfaction of an eloquent and persuasive monologue, one that Shakespeare would be proud of. I know exactly what to say, and effortlessly express my anger, my hurt, my disappointment, while a wave of understanding washes over the other person. All our misunderstandings are forgotten as my words drive the point home, and the ending, as Disney so eloquently puts it – is a happily ever after. All thanks to me and my words.

But while we applaud Shakespeare for giving us words that manage to grasp the complex emotions of misunderstanding, we forget something quite obvious – he wasn’t the actor. He wasn’t the performer. He wasn’t the one standing on stage, with hundreds of eyes upon him, waiting expectantly for him to say those words. No, there were others to do that task. His job was writing, and that’s what he did. He was lucky there were people around him willing to say those words aloud for him in his plays; just like the one taking place in my head, the one that had ace performers and cheering audiences.

Reality, of course, is that other stage, the one set outside my head, where I play the role of a mute, unable to express the feelings that are now becoming too painful to restrain. And so I close my eyes, willing myself to calm down, when the truth is that I want nothing more than to let go and let it all out.

As always, silence wins the round. Reluctantly, I assure myself that the next time, my words will find their utterance.

Sunday, September 11, 2011

The good, the bad, and the murky

Hero or villian
Friend or enemy
Freedom fighter or terrorist
Founder of a nation or destroyer of another
Victim or criminal
Martyred or punished
Pro or anti
Heads or tails

People say there are two sides to every coin. True. But when you flip a coin you should get only one side: either heads, or tails. So how is it that the two of us can look at the same coin, and you see heads, while I see tails?

That's when things get murky.

I'm right, you're wrong
We have no common ground
We stand on opposite sides
And from my side, I cannot see your heads
From yours, you cannot see my tails

In 1947 - two major events happened in the Indian subcontinent. Depending on who you ask, you might get two different answers:

A nation was carved apart by a butcher's bloodstained knife,
A new nation was born, eager to open its eyes to brand new life.

It seems like an obvious statement: they both refer to the same event. But again,

I'm right, you're wrong
We have no common ground
We stand on opposite sides
And from my side, I cannot see your heads
From yours, you cannot see my tails

If you studied history in India, you might have come across the name 'Mohd. Ali Jinnah' - the driving force behind the partition of India. He was the one responsible for tearing our nation apart; for forcing the largest human migration in history; for all the communal bloodshed that followed; and for creating a country that has done nothing but wage wars against India ever since it was born.

Yet if you studied history in Pakistan, you probably came across the name 'Quaid-e-Azam' - the man responsible for creating Pakistan; the man who fought for the rights of Muslims in a country that tyrannically oppressed them; the man who envisaged and executed the impossible; the most revered and respected man of our nation - the founder of Pakistan.

Partition or Creation
Jinnah or Quaid-e-Azam

And so, depending on which country you grew up in, you were instantly indoctrinated in the respective ideology.

Two opposite sides of the coin. And again:

I'm right, you're wrong
We have no common ground
We stand on opposite sides
And from my side, I cannot see your heads
From yours, you cannot see my tails

Stuck in these dichotomies in our beliefs, refusing to take that step around the coin and trying to look at things from the other person's perspective.

Why? Because seeing things from someone else's point of view would mean

admitting that I am not the only one who is right
admitting that there are alternative positions on the same topic
admitting that while the other person may not be my friend, he isn't necessarily an enemy either

admitting that there exists a middle ground - a no-man's-land infested with murky terrain forbidding in its appearance

admitting that it doesn't have to be
only friend or enemy
only victim or criminal
only hero or villian
only pro or anti
only good or bad.

Sometimes, it can just be murky.

Tuesday, August 30, 2011

Clubbing in India - eerily similar to a walk through dadar station

I know it's a weird comparison - a club and a railway station; people 'dancing' and people trying to get on/off trains. But once you get to experience both - and I mean really experience both - you realize the two are not so different.

What is Dadar station? Only the biggest hub of local trains and national trains in Mumbai - where you start to feel like a snail when walking at a normal pace; where you come to expect being pushed and squeezed like a lemon (not unlike the juice vendors outside the station) while trying to get on or off a train. The attack can come from any side-  perhaps the woman brandishing a long black umbrella or the bare-handed one preparing herself with a fist.

Either way, the experience of Dadar station is incomplete unless you leave the place as the proud owner of a more than a few bruises (and in all fairness - you probably caused a few as well).

I never would have imagined I would compare this hellish intersection of train lines to a fun night of clubbing with friends. It's not that I expected an empty club - after all, the popularity of clubs is based on the number of people it can engulf. It's the same everywhere. Mumbai. Toronto. Wherever.

But there was a slight difference in the clubs of Toronto. Because there are so many couples grinding (which I still do not consider dancing, but whatever), they tend to remain within their own space. Even if there are hundreds of people jammed in a club, the majority of them are busy sticking to their partners, so they tend to leave the others alone.

Continue to imagine that club, but just replace the grinding couples with a bunch of Indians for whom dance is incomplete unless it involves the unchecked flailing of hands and legs. Add a few bottles of liqour and you've got Indians gone wild - or rather - hoards of hands and legs gone wild. And once they start flailing, they don't care what or who comes in their way - they will whack you right left and center.

Not unlike the woman brandishing her umbrella as prepares to get on the train to Kurla at 6pm.

Next time I want to get whacked like that - I think I'm really going to have to think of which of the two options I'm in the mood for.


Wednesday, July 13, 2011

Bombay blast blues...

It's happened again. Blasts in Mumbai. Terrorist attacks. 3 of them within half an hour. Again, it is a major media story. Again, phone lines are jammed. And again, people are starting to go back to their lives as normal.

Personally, only one thing has changed: me. I am no longer sitting in the comfort of my home in Kuwait and watching the news of local train blasts, nor am I sitting tensed in a dorm in Toronto, following the latest on the Taj attacks.

This time, I am sitting in my house in Mumbai, in Dadar, 10 minutes away from the blast. And it feels wrong.

Those last two times, I was at a distance: far away to do anything, or to ask for more information than was available. But today, I am in the city. I am just a short walk away from the spot of the blast, I am craving some news about what has happened, and all I keep hearing is: don't get out of your house.

True, these messages are all from friends and family. True, they are all thinking about my safety. True, they are all probably right.

But despite being aware of that truth, all I want to do is go out. Perhaps it is the kid in me that wants to rebel against restrictions. Or perhaps it is the gossip in me that craves information. Or perhaps it is the human in me that wants to help others. I'm hoping it's the latter.

I know, I'm a 22-year-old kid. What help could I possibly offer? I would probably be more of a hindrance than anything. It's not as though I'll be the mighty rescuer. But I never thought that I would feel more helpless sitting in Mumbai than I would sitting 1000 miles away.

Yes, safety is an issue. A very valid issue. I'm lucky to have been sitting in my home, and not waiting for a bus at the stop where the blast happened. And I'm grateful for that. But there were others who weren't so lucky. And knowing that makes it a little difficult to sit comfortably in your own house.

But I think Mumbaikars know that. I remember when the train blasts happened, life in Mumbai was back to normal (according to media) the next day. Life here does not stop. Back then, I thought this was actually a sign of indifference towards terrorism - and indifference towards the cost of human life.

Now, sitting here, I understand the need for people to go back to normalcy. I need to feel like I'm doing something worthwhile in my life. What's the point of having a life if we spend it cooped up in fear? I want to get up in the morning, get on my bus, and go to school - if for no other reason except that it will give me an excuse to get out.

Again, that would be the reckless side of me talking. We all have an image of ourselves. I picture myself (aspirationally) as someone who can be of help to others when they really need it. This is a time when people do need help. But this is also a time when I am sitting comfortably at home. If I were out there, amongst the crowd, I would probably run. As much as I picture myself as the person who would rush to help others, I'm afraid that I might run.

I think I'm afraid of being afraid.

Wednesday, July 6, 2011

The Dark Cloud of Helplessness

"I stand in the middle of a crowd, shouting at the top of my voice, but no one can hear me."

I always thought this was a metaphor. But standing in front of my 41 kids, trying to project my cracked voice over the combination of theirs gave an entirely new meaning to that metaphor.

I came to India because I wanted to come back home. I came to Teach for India because I wanted to transform the lives of kids. So far, all I have transformed is my voice. Actually, at one time it was a voice; now, it's just a croak.

Standing in that crowd shouting at the top of my lungs, I felt a wave of helplessness wash over me. What if every day is like this for the next 2 years? Will I go in every day eager for a new beginning, and end every day questioning my decision to be in this classroom? Will I keep shouting at my kids and turn into the very teachers I used to detest, or will I just sit there helplessly waiting - hoping - that they notice the person standing in front of them and decide to quiet down? Because if this is the case, forget transform - I won't be able to teach them a single thing over 2 years.

True, there is a silver lining in each cloud. If winter comes can spring be far behind. Change takes time.

Heard all that.

But at this very moment, there is no silver lining, no sign of spring, and no time to waste. 

Monday, July 4, 2011

Reunions

"You meet someone, become good friends, separate, and never see each other again. What's the point of it all?"

This was my exact thought four years ago, when I was saying goodbye to Jenny, my roommate from 12th standard. I was pretty sure I would never see her again (still haven't, for that matter).

But in the last three weeks, I have met / spoken to friends from so many different phases of my life that I feel like I'm living someone else's life. I mean, my life usually consists of going somewhere, making friends, leaving them, never seeing them again, going somewhere else, and repeating the entire process. It does not consist of meeting friends from the past every other day, and I think this more than anything else has really made my transition to Mumbai so amazing!

From the TISB (Blore) days: Abhinav, Aman, Avi, Arjun (lot's of A's) and Rohit! Met them all after so long, and felt instantly like I belonged! Last seen: 4 years ago


From Kuwait - Neha. Still haven't met her, but she's moved to Bbay as well and I plan to meet her ASAP! Last seen: one year ago


From York: Sajil - our exchange student, wanna-be cool dude, chindi Gujju, cab lover - and still the same!!!  Last seen: 3 years ago!


From dad's side of family: Sonu bhaiya (sorry :P) - Also moving to Bombay, and living very close to my school! The person I will go to when in need of advice. Last seen: 2 years ago!


From mom's side of family: Winky di (sorry again :P) Even though we met for about 2 minutes, she's always been my go-to person when in need of career in the media advice. And that's probably not going to change. Last seen: 2 years ago (or has it been 3 or 4?)


From TFI: Uma and Cigar. Got sloshed with the former last night, and plan to do the same with the latter soon enough!

And there are still more people on the list to meet! Hopefully, maybe that list will include Jenny's name sometime soon!


Mumbai - the complex maze

I had heard about it. I had seen it in movies. I had even written about it. But hearing, seeing and writing are hardly enough for a city like this - the only way to experience Mumbai is by living it.

The first day I landed in Mumbai, I was thoroughly depressed. I mean, this was the metropolitan and economical capital of India!?!?! The city that never slept?!?! To me, it felt like the city that had never seen a broom, the city where curly hair is possibly the worst curse to bestow upon someone, and the city where the refreshing effect of a shower lasts for a grand total of one minute!

It's still all of that.

But knotted within these obvious superficial settings are people who are struggling every day to earn their living, who are so busy in their own lives that they have no time to poke their nose in yours, and yet who are always willing to help you out should you need it.

- In my school, where I've been teaching grade 2 for a few weeks, we have helper staff who maintain our classrooms. The eldest one (whom we call Maushi) saw that I barely ate any food (except wada-pavs) and offered to bring me lunch everyday! I now enjoy her home-made roti-sabzi daily!

- Our security guard (Hari bhai) is the most cheerful person ever! Every time I come back home, he greets me warmly. And he's really helped us settle down and try and find us a maid.

- A random guy on the bus helped me figure out which stop to get off at (considering the conductor had no idea!)

For a newcomer in the city, getting around is quite a daunting task. But every time I get lost (pretty often), I always find someone to point me in the right direction. In a world where we are told that nice people get nowhere, I've found that people respond to you nicely if you ask them nicely. Of course, that doesn't mean I've never been ripped off, but I'd call that more a result of my ignorance.

In this complex maze of a city, there are an incessant number of things to complain about. And maybe the things worth praising are few - perhaps so few, that you really have to hunt for them. Sure, the buildings in Mumbai have all gone from their original colours to black, and there is more garbage on the roads than anything else, but the people - they are simple. And yet complex (should I say simply complex?).

It's the people in this city that make Mumbai work.

Friday, July 1, 2011

Post Birthday thoughts - continued

So just to be clear, the TFI line that I'm completely enamoured by is not "Bah screw it" - that was just a result of the clock turning twelve and cake appearing in front of my eyes.

The line I was talking about it: "What will I do about it?" It's the simplest question one could ask, yet the most rarely asked question. We always end up with "Why aren't they doing something about it?" "It's out of my control." It's also one of the hardest things to ask yourself, because it means taking responsibility for something that no one is forcing upon you. It means willingly facing numerous challenges and failures along the road less taken. And it also means getting off you comfortable backside and actually become a doer, rather than just a complainer.

I've always been the complete opposite of that - probably still am. I find the easier route of complaining so much more - well, easier. I wait for others to get things sorted, often because I don't think it's my place to butt in, and often because I'm just too scared of taking onus of something big.

But I've taken an onus now - I've taken the responsibility of 45 second-grade students who barely speak or understand english, who refuse to sit quietly and study, who ask to go to the toilet (including number 2) every 5 minutes, who incessantly fight with each other and drive me up the wall by their lack of cooperation and who make me question my own decision of taking up this fellowship.

So I did the thing that comes to me most naturally - I complain. Like I just did above. And as good as it makes me feel, it doesn't solve any problems within my classroom. At the end of the day, it is up to me to decide what will I do about it - I've taken a responsibility, and it's completely up to me to make sure I meet all its expectations.

I have no one to answer to - except for my kids, whose future might depend on not just my ability to ask that question, but also to answer it.


Saturday, June 25, 2011

Birthday time...

Three weeks in Mumbai! Three weeks of running through traffic, trying to squeeze myself onto local buses and trains, walking endlessly around crowded marketplaces, whipping out my umbrella at the first sigh of raindrops, complaining incessantly about the weather, looking for a house, trying to convert that house into a home, food hunting, getting sick of wada-pavs, getting sick generally, familiarizing myself with street names, meeting old friends, making new ones, getting lost in Marathi-speaking crowds, trying to get my kids to speak English, trying to actually get them to stop speaking, period, yelling myself hoarse to no avail, bribing them with every method possible (still of no avail), singing songs of six little sucks making melodies (have to try that!), trying to gauge the english and maths levels, losing all my levels in the process, and listening to a cab driver tell me I should get married soon since I have a poorly paying job (I may have twisted the numbers)......

All this, and I choose to write my blog the night before my birthday. Well, 2 minutes before, but close enough.

Mumbai has been a maze of mixed emotions, but it is a city I'm slowly getting used to. My classroom, my kids, my school, my home - all of these are interspersed with the city. And over the next one year, I don't know what it's going to throw at me. I'm sure it'll be a lot, what with the pending infamous monsoons, to the stifling humidity this city is known for. My kids may continue to shout every single day, making me lose my voice altogether, or they may just decide to give me a few minutes of their time and actually bother studying. I might just end up transforming myself in ways that I never expected, or I might remain exactly the way I am.

Who knows? Not me. But there is one line often used at TFI, a line that speaks volumes......

Bah screw it!!!

IT'S MY BIRTHDAY!!!!

Monday, June 6, 2011

The beginning of an entirely new beginning


This is it. Five weeks of institute are up. Four years of college are up. Two years of boarding school are up. Sixteen years of home life are up. This is it.

Now it’s time to step out into that crazy wild thing people call the world, to meet the crazier people that live comfortably in that chaos, and to become one among the many crazy out there. In other words, it’s time to move out of home, out of campus, out of college, and into the city of Mumbai as a member of the grown-up working world.

It’s going to be a new city, a new job, an almost new country, and a whole new life.

That’s a scary thought. Slightly exhilarating, true, but scary nonetheless.

Institute at TFI was an absolutely amazing time. It was the most inspiring, motivating, rejuvenating atmosphere I’ve ever been in. A group of young individuals working together for a common cause – not because it would look good on their resume, not because they couldn’t get any other job, not because they felt they’re doing a favour – but because they truly believe in the cause. Five weeks spent working, teaching, learning, eating, playing, laughing, crying, living with these people is enough to bring us close.

But like I said, the five weeks are now up.

Everyone has gone their own way. Of the 150 fellows who joined at our institute, a third have gone to Delhi, another third to Pune, and the remaining have come to Bombay. Even here, however, we have all spread out across the city, some going back to their homes, others desperately trying to find a home. We’re going to be placed in schools across the city, no longer having each other constantly to work, teach, learn, eat, play, laugh, cry and live with.

It’s going to be me. And my new school. And my new kiddos. And my new house. And my new life.

And that’s still a scary thought. 

Friday, June 3, 2011

The end of a new beginning


Four weeks, 20 days. Are they enough to form a connection? Are they enough to impact your life forever? Are they enough to make you believe, to question, to wonder, to be amazed, to be overwhelmed, to doubt, to cry, to laugh?

The last 20 days certainly were. The last four weeks at Pune have been like a page out of someone else’s story: me, a teacher? Me, teaching maths and English to 5th graders? Me, standing in front of 15 kids and talking non-stop for an hour? Me, trying to change their life for the better, while changing my own in the process?

Yeah, that was me.

My first day at summer school certainly counts amongst the most nerve-racking days in my life. Seeing all those children in front of me, staring back as they calmly waited for me to take the lead made me realize that this was it: I had to start being a leader. Gone were the days when I could live under the comfort of other leaders. If I’m going to take up the responsibility of transforming the lives of children, I need to start by attempting to be that leader they deserve.

Transforming is a heavy word, and it’s also a word used very frequently at TFI. We aim to transform ourselves, our classrooms, our communities, and eventually our country. Of course, summer school was but a baby step towards that transformation.

I taught grade 5 with three other fellows, and it was our responsibility to help our children grow, to push them towards excellence. Today, on the last day of summer school, I began to see glimpses of that change. Four weeks ago, we had the quietest class I could have ever imagined, too timid to speak, or perhaps, too afraid. But as we stood waving a final goodbye to our kids today, giving them the usual high-fives and the not-so-usual hugs, their aura was of utmost confidence. They could approach us with any questions, joke with us, laugh with us, and learn with us. 

A few names stand out:

Shraddha: The quiet one. I went to her house for my community visit, and was absolutely humbled to see her 8 by 8 house and the hospitality of her family. I also got to see the fun and outgoing side of her which had been non-existent in the classroom. Ever since that visit, I think (or perhaps hope) there has been a slight change in her behavior, and she seems more comfortable in the class as well.

Prasannata: The genuinely sweet one. Quiet, calm, dignified and mature. She stood out in a classroom filled with mainly girls just because of her simplicity. She quietly worked on everything we did, and spoke confidently of her dream of becoming a doctor. I’m really going to miss her simple sweetness!

Purnima: The smart one. And the amazing dancer! And the awesome cricket player! I was absolutely amazed to see her variety of interests and talents, and her ability to still focus on her studies and get fabulous grades!

Mufaddal: The sweetheart! Clearly our favourite kid in the class! He was the liveliest student, absolutely animated in every action he did, completely engaged and engaging, and could never get his numerators and denominators right!!! His eyes would light up when he got the answer (or rather, understood why he did not get the answer), and he would constantly pester us to play dhinka chika in class (thank you yet again, sallu bhai!). Seeing him on stage today hosting our showcase and then dancing solo to gasolina was an absolutely amazing sight! I’m going to miss this kid so much!!!

Hrithik: The indescribable one. I still remember the first day when he entered our class, and saw 12 girls sitting inside, his mouth fell open in shock – and since then, it has never gone back up again! He always had a lost look on his face, and struggled to grasp basic maths concepts. He was far behind the class, and never spoke up at all. It was a challenge just to get him to answer a question. And then today, at our showcase, he had a 3-sentence long dialogue. I remember asking him several times if he felt he could do it, and each time he nodded his head and smiled. And when he went on stage, I sat on the side twisting my fingers in nervousness. He went up, took the mike, and confidently said the whole dialogue without hesitation! I think that was the proudest moment of my time at institute, and in that moment I saw clearly the potential that this little kid has in him, and how much it was suppressed behind his fear. Today, I saw Hrithik smiling, laughing, talking, even dancing! To me, he embodies the sense of possibility that we talk about so often at TFI.

And now, having spent all this time with these kids and having become so close to them, it's so hard to say goodbye to them, knowing in all likelihood I may never see them again. Who would come to me during break and say "Didi didi play character dheela!"? Who will tell me to my face in the middle of a lesson that she is getting bored? Who will give me such hard high-fives that my hands go completely red?

And the most important question: Who will push these kids to tap their potential and follow their dreams? I dread the answer.

Someone told me that I shouldn't get too attached to these kids, because it'll make it all that much harder to leave them. That's completely true, bu at the same time, one of my favourite quotes keeps coming back at me:

"Every song ends. Is that any reason not to enjoy the music?" 

Sunday, May 29, 2011

You don't know me

You think you know your kids. She's the smart one. He's the talkative one. He's the shy one. She's the quiet one.
But you forget that the classroom does not define them.
You forget that there are several facets to a personality.
You forget that people have different comfort zones.
You forget that they might be different in their own homes.

**********

Last Friday, I was told to go and spend time with a student in their own home. I decided to go with a girl called Shraddha - quiet, sincere, hard-working. She never disrupted my class, she barely even spoke. It used to be an achievement just to get her to talk.

But the moment she heard I was coming to her house, there was a noticeable shift in her personality. Suddenly, the excitement of the pending visit was all she could think of. As we left school together, I wasn't sure what the next few hours would bring. Would they be awkward, disturbing, or enjoyable? It turned out, all three were true.

Shraddha literally held me by my hand and guided me through the traffic and moving buses (because I told her if she let go of my hand I would get lost - a quite likely situation). As we got off the bus stop and walked towards her house, she said, "Didi I don't have a very big house, but it's also not a very small house. It's in between." Since around me there were a number of the "in-between" size houses, I thought I knew what she meant. But she stopped before a 8x8 tin-roofed and tin-walled house. Inside, one corner was the kitchen, another corner a place to have a bath. The remaining half was the hall. On one side was a television. The walls were packed with trunks and utensils and the usual house-hold items. There was one toilet (aka sundaas) outside which was common for everyone living in the similar houses around them.

In her house lived Shraddha, her parents, and her two siblings. When I first entered, I remember naively wondering if this was just a part of their house, and if they had a separate place where they slept. It seemed inconceivable to think that five people could live in an 8x8 space. And yet, cliched as it sounds, they were the happiest group of people you could think of (at least in front of me).

The lack of space hardly kept her family from treating me as royalty. As they forced me to sit on a chair while they sat around me on the ground, those same feelings of awkwardness and being privileged trickled back. It was at least an hour before I was able to convince them to let me sit down with them.

Shraddha's sister shattered another one of my misconceptions. She lived in that house, with bare minimum resources, yet spoke perfect english and was preparing for MBBS. Until I met her, somehow I always assumed that living in such conditions and going up the professional ladder could not go together. Ever since I came to TFI, I have heard so much about the sense of possibility and heard so many inspirational stories, yet this was one concept that always remained quite abstract. Meeting Gauri (Shraddha's sister) made me realize that it really is possible to speak impeccable english and chase your dreams regardless of your economic background. I realized that until now I had been unfair to my kids, telling them they could be whatever they wanted, yet not completely believing it myself.

I had been unfair to Shraddha too. That always quiet, shy girl transformed in her home-ground and became the most talkative, confident girl I ever met. She cracked jokes, laughed with me, walked with confidence, showed me around, played with me, and made me see a completely new side to her that I had never bothered to notice in class. Perhaps it was the home surrounding that allowed her to open up, but at least now I know how she really is at home, and can now work on bringing out that side of her in the classroom.

And the last lesson from that day....was how much my visit meant to her and her family, and how much I genuinely enjoyed spending time with her outside of school. Thinking back to my own school years, I would have found it so awkward to have a teacher come to my house, but the reaction I got from Shraddha and all the other students was absolutely overwhelming!


Saturday, May 28, 2011

Rain Dance

The land was dry. The air was hot. The wind non-existent.
Our parched throats cried out for relief, and only to be met by the glare of the sun.
And as we sat squirming uncomfortably at the rolling streams of sweat
It happened

The horizon changed
From light blue, shades of gray entered our vision
And before we knew it, the glaring sun was gone
The non-existent wind was now cool and refreshing
The mood around shifted from frustration
Relaxed smiles replaced our frowns
And then we saw it

The dark hue of the sky was split apart
A dazzling light streaked across it
Carrying with it loud rumblings
A glimmer of hope started emerging within
We all knew what we wanted, but dare we say it out aloud?
Would the clouds and the wind betray us, and they had so often done before?
We looked at each other, wondering, hoping, waiting
And then we felt it

It fell on my head, trickling down my face
Overpowering the sweat, and bringing cool comfort
As I looked around, I knew I wasn't the only one who felt it
Loud cheers erupted from around
But before we could even finish screaming for joy
The clouds decided they could not longer hold on against the force of the water
And they let loose

Putting our bags under the shade, we ran out down the steps
Shouting, screaming, cheering, singing
Hugging, dancing, jumping, twirling
The rain dance had begun

***

I've lived in many places in my life, and seen various types of rain. In Dehradun, I've gone into the garden and collected hailstones. In Bangalore, I have gotten drenched returning from school because the rain decided to time itself accordingly. In Kuwait....well, no rain there. And in Toronto, I've complained incessantly about the rain and the depressing weather it brings.

But two days ago in Pune, I experienced rain like I never have before. As the rain started pouring, a bunch of us, ranging in age from 20 to 35, ran outside and danced in the rain for almost 2 hours. We sang and danced to every song we could think of, played every game our kids could have thought of, and bantered with our project managers to cancel our lesson plans for the day (without success, of course).

There were no inhibitions left. No awareness. No thoughts. Just feelings. Feelings of relief, excitement, craziness, laughter, friendship, and pure happiness. It was the best kind of high.

I know that monsoon in Bombay is hardly a romantic fantasy, and within a few weeks, I will be complaining incessantly about it. But for those two hours in my life, I learnt to love rain the way I never have before.

And knowing me, I think that's saying a lot.

Tuesday, May 10, 2011

Why TFI? - part 4 (last)

On the 3rd day at our training institute, we were asked to make a life map for ourselves: everything in our lives that has led up to this moment right here. It's not an easy task - reaching back into your life and buried memories and extracting both the happy and the painful; sharing intimate details with strangers. The connections and understanding between us that developed from it are hardly tangible at the moment. But the internal reflection helped me at least get a better sense of my decision to join Teach for India, and to get a better sense of myself.

Scared
Picture yourself standing in an airplane, the door wide open, the wind rushing past you in full speed, urging you with every gust to take the step. You have your parachute ready, so you know you’ll probably be safe – although it’s never a guarantee. You just need to take that one step, and the next few seconds could be the worst of your life. Your free fall could leave you injured; you might hate it from the moment you let go; you might regret the entire ordeal by the time you touch the ground.
Or you might just experience the most exhilarating feeling ever as you soar past the clouds and get to see your world from a completely different perspective.
I’ve stood at that door most of my life. In fact, the only time I’ve ever stepped off is by accident or peer pressure – never willingly. I’m scared of talking in front of many people, so I make sure I never have to become the center of attention. I’m scared of taking responsibility, so I avoid it with all my semi-conscious power. I hate making decisions, so I always ask others for their opinion under the garb of wanting all perspectives.
In short, I run far away from that door, or else hold on to it with all my might. Either way, I never step out.
It wasn’t an easy decision taking TFI, because I knew joining this organization would mean doing all the things I run away from: standing in front of a group of people and talking; taking responsibility for their results and making decisions that might affect their lives. People say you should always listen to your heart, but in my case, I think my heart is the weaker link. It’s what nudges me away from doors by altering the blood flow of my body, thus causing massive shivering and queasy stomach aches, telling me that quitting is so much easier. And the mind, for all its determination and courage, is no match for this blood-pumping organ.
Enough biology.
I’ve lived my entire life within my comfort zone, and I’ve been – comfortable – in it. But that comfort came at a tiny cost – self-confidence. I believe in TFI’s cause: “one day all children will achieve an excellent education” – how can anyone not believe in it? It’s myself that I never believed in. And so running away became a way of life – the easier path, the one without the prickly stones or the biting mosquitoes.
I don’t know if the next two years of my life will be the best or the worst; parachutes won’t be able to stop the rush of queasiness or exhilaration. I have absolutely no idea which one it will be.
Yet here I am, with no bars to hold on to, no ground underneath me.
I’ve stepped off.

Saturday, May 7, 2011

Why TFI? - part 3

On the 3rd day at our training institute, we were asked to make a life map for ourselves: everything in our lives that has led up to this moment right here. It's not an easy task - reaching back into your life and buried memories and extracting both the happy and the painful; sharing intimate details with strangers. The connections and understanding between us that developed from it are hardly tangible at the moment. But the internal reflection helped me at least get a better sense of my decision to join Teach for India, and to get a better sense of myself.

Silently Passionate


People have different aspirations. To earn money. To see the world. To become CEOs of major companies. Doctors. Lawyers. etc.

I had one too. It's been a part of me for as long as I can remember. I wanted to make a difference to someone's life; to do some good; to be remembered in such a way that I make others smile.

Of course, I never said those words out aloud. What if someone heard? If you've ever seen Miss Congeniality, you might know what I'm talking about. Phrases like "world peace" and "human rights" have become so caught up in political melodrama that the only positive outcome they have is in being used as the butt of some dry humour. In short, they've become meaningless.

In a world where everyone around you is bursting with ambition, "wanting to do some good" hardly stands as an equal. Sure, everyone wants to end poverty and see equality. I was passionate about several causes, but never did anything about it. Not out of fear, but out of my own laziness. I took the easy route out.

Like everyone around me, I joined clubs in university to show my dedication to various causes. Perhaps even attended a potluck or two. Maybe spent a few hours here and there volunteering our time to help the 'needy'. Made myself feel good. What more could I do? What more could we do? After all, we had our real lives waiting, our real jobs. It's not like we could do this forever.

People have asked me several times why I would want to spend two years of my life doing something that I could probably do in a couple of months through volunteering. I always knew the answer to that question, but it's become a lot clearer over the last week at institute. These children are used to having volunteers come over for a couple of hours and spend time with them, showing them a really good time. But as soon as that time is over, the children know they have to go back to their own reality. These few hours might give them happy memories they could hold on to as they follow the footsteps of their parents and continue living in poverty. But those few hours won't change their life.

And it is that life that I want to change. I want to help them tap into their own potential and give them the skills they might need to bring themselves out of that poverty and create their own new reality. I don't just want to give them memories anymore. I want to give them a life, so that they can do the same to others, and set the wheels in motion.

I want to remove the silent, and stick to the passion.


Why TFI? - part 2

On the 3rd day at our training institute, we were asked to make a life map for ourselves: everything in our lives that has led up to this moment right here. It's not an easy task - reaching back into your life and buried memories and extracting both the happy and the painful; sharing intimate details with strangers. The connections and understanding between us that developed from it are hardly tangible at the moment. But the internal reflection helped me at least get a better sense of my decision to join Teach for India, and to get a better sense of myself.


Confused

Esters. Propane-2-ol. Complex organic compounds and whatever functions they were used for: I loved it. Organic chemistry was fascinating. Human biology was mesmerizing. And yet, here I am, a 21-year-old with an undergraduate degree in arts, who can't even remember what an ester is, how do I write propane-2-ol, or what those things are that we do with there compounds.

Life has changed. Yet one thing has remained constant: I still don't know what I want to do.

It's the question I was always asked. Being labelled as the "bright" student (colloqially known as a nerd), everyone had high expectations: "yeh toh zaroor kuch bada karegi." What that big thing was, I never knew. And again and again I was told that I would one day figure it out. And so it continues even today.

I loved biology and chemistry, yet decided to take up arts. I thought I really liked journalism, but am no longer interested in it. My list of things I don't want to do has always been huge, but the things I want to do has been empty.

People find it weird that I have absolutely no inkling of what I want to do. To be honest, so do I. I have moved from one sibject to another looking for inspiration - the kind that comes in the form of a light bulb switching on inside my head. It never came...at least, not until TFI. I wouldn't call it so much of a light bulb as a tube light that started flickering long ago and eventually came on.

Of course, the path in between the flickering was far from smooth.