Reality check

Today I felt like I was drowning. Not in the lake/ocean/stream/bathtub sense, but it was definitely like drowning. It was strange, but I think that I understand culture shock a little better all of a sudden. Now that I know what is, I'll be better prepared for things in the future. The family that I'm staying with is amazing, very kind and eager to get to know me. But things are different here, as I knew they would be, and once in a while that catches up with you. And by you, I mean me.

There's a saying over here that the guest is like a god. Unlike many sayings in America, this one is pretty much universally followed and earnestly believed. They've given me the best of everything, and it makes me feel both grateful and ashamed as I subconsciously compare the sleeping mat, about one inch thick, with the towering pile of cotton and fibers that I sleep on every night without a thought. My shoulders and hips ache today, but it's worth the mental trip that I've taken a result of my quasi-sleep last night. Showers consist of water poured from a bucket. They don't use hot water, but the mother woke up early to turn the water heater on, despite my protests of the previous evening. I'll be honest. I wish I were a better person whose mind wouldn't even register these differences between my life here and my life at home. But I do. I blinked rapidly for about five minutes yesterday at the prospect of not using toilet paper, regardless of the nature of the visit to the toilet. These things have weight, but I don't have to remind myself that they're not important. If I'd wanted pristine porcelain and sanitized water, I'd have taken my semester in Chicago. Or maybe certain parts of Dublin.

But the technological adjustments aren't what are getting to me. I feel guilty, since I generally feel uncomfortable having people do things for me. I can't stand asking for help finding something in a store, let alone allowing a family of three to sleep in the living room, giving me the other room in the house for my own use (yes, THE other room). I couldn't care less about the size of the house or the family's income, but I just feel like they're going to have to stretch to accomodate me, and they shouldn't have to do that. They've hosted students before, so they know what they're getting into. I just hate to be a burden to anyone, let alone such a kind family who I've just met. I'm guessing it's just my Western expectations that cause me to assume that the family would care about sharing a room or having a little less for dinner. It's probably just the contrast between the American and Indian ideas of basic comforts.

I showed my host family photos from home last night, since we had been talking about my family. They immediately noticed my tattoo and didn't say much about it, besides the dad sort of teasing me about going through pain to get something inked onto my skin. I do see his point. So I grabbed the photo album that I had mostly intended for my use, and whipped out pictures of my family on luxurious Lake Superior, followed by photos of our house. We don't live in a mansion, by American standards, but it's a house in suburban Minnesota... I think that sums it up decently. I don't know if it was my own awkwarness as the differences or if the family felt the same way. Nothing was said, and it's most likely that nothing like that was felt on their part. I just want them to know how grateful I am to be staying with them, and that I don't expect or even want something like where I live at home. Our advisor/professor from the US told me that often times people don't make comparisons the way Americans do. That's what I hope. If I can get my Western, rich-by-Indian-standards girl thoughts out of my head, I'll be on my way. But that might take some doing.

Love,
Sarah

Ooooooomkara!

Where in India can you find romance without kissing, extreme violence and murder, awkward American songs, and an actual intermission? That’s right; head to your nearest cinema to see Omkara, the Hindi version of Shakespeare’s Othello!

Yes, it was certainly an experience. We headed to E Square, a seven-story mini-mall-meets-movie-theatre a few blocks from our hotel. We bought our tickets in the Ladies’ line (there are separate purchasing lines for ladies and gents, for some reason that I’m sure makes sense but that I can’t fathom) for about $3.50 US, and plunged in headfirst. We knew that the movie would be in Hindi without English subtitles, so we well knew what we were getting into. What we weren’t prepared for was the random sprinkling of English words, especially the charmingly awkward guitar duet (“I just called to say / I love you / I love you / I promise / From the bot-tom of my haaart…”). Also, just when the plot was becoming unbearably suspenseful, the lights went up for an actual intermission. All twelve of us, the only Americans or people-looking-somewhat-non-Indian in the place, cracked up. Nobody else found it even remotely amusing or unusual, so a thousand or so heads turned. Funny how I’m used to it by this point. Silly Americans!

Fortunately, thanks to Tom Lindblade’s thorough Shakespeare class, I’d read Othello several times and written an extensive paper on Iago’s motivations, which are really quite racy. I’ll tell you about it when I’m back home, since I don’t want to get my blog censored. Oh yeah! I almost forgot to mention. For reasons that may or may not have to do with 7/11, blogspot and other blogging sites were blocked for a few weeks. You can write, but not read. But we’ve found a way around that. Tricky Americans!

Anyway. I was able to follow the plot pretty well, even though the director definitely put in his own input to the story. One thing that I noticed, however, were some of the interesting limitations on the more adult content, or as my dad would say, “poetic license.” I had heard that kissing was pretty rare in Indian movies, but there was plenty of sexuality. It was almost unnerving seeing a rather explicit sex scene that was entirely devoid of kissing. The clothing was scanty, the racy references were plenty (the non-verbal ones, anyway), but there was absolutely no kissing. I saw several men shot in the head, but the (married) Othello and Desdemona equivalents were forbidden to kiss. It’s interesting how, in contrast, some American PG-rated movies show at least a peck between spouses.

Finally, cell phones dominated my entire movie experience. Not only were they essential parts of every plot twist (I swear I saw more cell phones in Omkara than I saw in my college dorm last year. And that’s saying something), but they also went off every five minutes in the theatre. I suppose that cell phone etiquette is different here, since they didn’t just go off; they were almost always answered. Here’s an example:

Omkara (roughly translated): Oh, my love who I cannot kiss… I feel that you are unfaithful to me, and I must avenge myself to preserve my honor.

Desdemona (roughly translated): No, my husband! No! I have to tell you something that may change the entire plot of this movie that will be nonsensical to all Americans watching but that could affect everyone else in this picture. It is…

(phone rings in audience, bastardizing Beethoven’s Fifth yet again)

Audience member: Allo? Ah, Rohan! How are you doing? Oh, no, I have plenty of time to talk!

It was surprisingly funny for me, since it certainly didn’t make me understand the movie any less. Maybe it’s just shifting the emphasis of important things in life from things on screens to people in reality. Although I doubt that this revelation will make me any less anal about people talking in movies (as all my friends reading this nod in agreement), I understand it. Call me crazy, call me Westernized, just don’t call me late for dinner. It was a different experience, and it’ll be interesting to compare the viewing experiences of Omkara, a Hindi movie, with The Lady in the Water, which I hope to see soon. Don’t worry; I’m sure that there will be an exhaustive description as soon as I see it. I know you can’t wait. Silly Americans!

Love,

Sarah!

iPod: Bollywood music playing on the TV

I can't read what they're saying about me

So, through a process involving a random guy at an Internet cafe, a spirited debate about American politics, and an inter-faith peace rally about the Mumbai bombings, I somehow found myself on the front page of the main newspaper of Maharashtra (read: circulation of either 7 or 70 million. It was hard to tell with the guy's accent). The URL is below, but I'm not sure if it will still work tomorrow. It's worth a shot, anyway!

Sarah in Marathi

Naturally this happens on the day when I skipped a shower when I really shouldn't have. Oh, vanity...

So.. explanation for the above. There's an internet cafe right next to the hotel we've been staying at, and I've been using it to check e-mail, update my blog, etc. Even though my roommate has wireless, it's ridiculously expensive, even with the exchange rate working disgustingly in our favor. As is the custom across most of Eupore and Asia, the internet cafes (which actually have nothing to do with coffee, tea, or anything even remotely ingestible) are the cool hang-out place. For those of you who went to my high school, think of the local SuperAmerica, but cooler. People actually go inside.

Anyway. Being Sarah Lee, after a few days at this cafe I started talking to the relative strangers around me who don't really speak my language. I started talking to this guy who seemed a bit annoyed that all of India is required to learn English. Because of India's huge size, students are essentially required to learn three languages: Hindi (India's national language, technically), English, and the state's local dialect (Marathi, in the case of Maharashtra). In the northern states, Hindi is the local dialect, so only two languages must be learned. In the south and on the coasts, there is a huge amount of resentment that Hindi is the national language. This sentiment, along with the fact that I hardly speak enough Marathi to save my life (which is probably not an exaggeration, by the way), prompted this guy to speak sharply to me about American imperialism and the like.

I understood his point, but as anyone who's talked to me for more than thirty seconds knows, I get feisty when spoken to in even a mildly sharp manner. I finally said, "Look. Asim [his name]. Just because I speak English doesn't mean that I think other people should have to. I came to India to learn Marathi so I could better understand the culture in Pune. So there, stuffy man!" OK, so I didn't actually call him stuffy. It would've been funny, though! But instead of offending him, he actually agreed, smiled, and asked if I would show up at this peaceful, inter-faith prayer vigil in the park the next day. Cool stuff, eh?

The next day at the park, I walked over to the group of about fifty people ranging in age from eight to eighty. Men in sweater vests, women in saris, a little boy in nothing at all... They were all there, and they brought me into the circle. There were other ACM students with me, but we still stood out, especially when they started singing the prayer in Hindi. You know when a popular song comes on the radio that you're supposed to know but don't, and literally everyone around you is singing along, and you sort of mumble the words as if you know what you're doing? Well, besides constructing horrible run-on sentences, that's what I did. There was some guy taking pictures with a digital camera that could've been disposable. I thought little of it.

And it went from there. Today was sort of funny, since I got pointed at even more than usual. My host mom, Purva, called the ACM office to make sure that they knew that I was on the front page. I had to giggle, since I know it's exactly what my mom at home would've done. You know it's true, Mom :)

Anyway. I don't tell this story to say how cool I am that I was one of the only blonde people at a peace rally and that's why I was in the paper, but simply because this is yet anothe example of the feeling that I can't quite describe as well as I'd like to. There's something about India. Even though the pollution is so bad that I can't eat for a few hours after riding a rickshaw, there's something that's so much more important than that. Even if I were to decide that India and I should see other people (see weird dating metaphor of previous entries), I'm not going anywhere. I'm stuck here, but not in a bad way.

Even though I read my horoscope religiously and make a wish every time I go through a yellow light, I'm not one to pull the fate card very often. I think that people make choices and that often times those choices are more closely tied in with other things than they'd think. But for all of the randomness that brought me to choose India, something was in the works for me. It's strange, and as soon as I come up with a less crystal ball-esque explanation, I'll be sure to let you know. Until then, you'll just be in suspense. Too bad, stuffy man! Hehe.

Love,
Sarah!

iPod: None. But the cafe's playing some really bad American rap, circa 1996. And I don't say "bad" when I mean good.

Expansion?

So, it’s funny, but I can already feel myself growing. Not my waistline, necessarily, but I wouldn’t be surprised if I came back fifty pounds heavier, considering how good the sweets are here. Nobody warned me. I heard plenty about the danger of pollution, wearing tank tops, petting stray dogs… but nobody said anything about the gulab jamin. Look it up; I’ll wait. Anyway! This was supposed to be introspective, not ridiculous. Or maybe both are one and the same.. I’ll have to ask one of the many gurus around here, hanging out in their beautiful ashrams by flowing rivers and parks that look like something out of the Jungle Book. The Disney version, not the other one. During our seven-hour bus tour of Pune that we took last week, we stopped by the aforementioned park. It was absolutely amazing. I walked over sheets of moss-covered rock, literally walking across babbling brooks via stepping stones that gleamed with the history of a thousand years. OK, maybe I didn’t mean that last part literally. I was just losing myself into this time-warp of greenery when our guide blew his piercing whistle. Great mean, really. He simply confused a group of American college students with wild boars or something. Maybe that’s not so much of a stretch.

Anyway! As I said, something’s growing. It’s not body fat, not dysentery (I hope)… It’s something else. I had a few brief moments of pure frustration, which I suppose is just a very, very mild version of culture shock. Things are definitely different here, but I honestly feel comfortable here. I met my host family yesterday, and I felt an instant connection. They’re all incredibly kind (I have a host mother, father, and sixteen-year-old brother) and speak impeccable English. They laughed at my jokes (I know! Most [and by most, I mean all] Americans don’t!) and made me feel so at home. It doesn’t hurt that they have a Western toilet. Indian toilets are pit-style; a concrete hole opens down into an unnamed abyss, and a welcoming hose sits patiently nearby. Yes.

I’m not saying that I’ve suddenly reached spiritual bliss or have uncovered some amazing truth about the greater human race, but rather that I just feel something settling within me. I love it here, and I’m reminded constantly of how glad I am that I picked India. I’m sure that I would’ve been happy studying in any number of countries, but India just FITS. It’s like those awful commercials for matchmaking companies that talk about THE ONE. You could date any number of countries before finding the one that truly makes you happy. I guess you could say that India and I are going steady after just one week. If things keep up at this rate, we’ll be wearing matching rings within the month. I’m sorry, I know that was an awful explanation for a not-so-awful concept.

I wanted to write about this as soon as it happened, but I decided to stay away from the Internet for a few days, just to try to alleviate my total dependence on technology (anyone who has seen me text-message knows this well). A few days after we arrived in Pune, a few people organized a candlelight vigil right outside our hotel for the bombings in Mumbai (known as 7/11, aka two days before we flew into Mumbai). It’s been strange talking with Indians about terrorism, since the people who I talked to hold an entirely different view than most Americans do. The tragedy is certainly present; the Indian Times is doing a biography on each of the hundred-plus victims of the subway bombings. However, mostly everybody who I’ve talked to said that it wasn’t something that would impact their daily lives. I want to stress again how deeply this has affected the people of Maharasthra, but the general attitude is that terrorism happens, and as awful as it is, changing their daily route to avoid the subways or staying at home is simply giving into the tactics. I heard some versions of that in the US after 9/11, but it was usually centered on the concept of “buying American,” rather than supporting one another to move on.

Back to the vigil. I had been out shopping with some friends, and we returned to our hotel in the evening to see several dozen people standing, sitting, and kneeling in front of a patch of the sidewalk that had been covered with sod, lit candles, and flowers of all types. We paused for a moment, unsure of our presence as non-Indians in the middle of a recognition of an Indian tragedy. Barely ten seconds after we stopped, a man came up, and with a small, slightly sad smile handed us candles and flowers. I lit my candle, placed it in the sod, and knelt down to pray. To my left was a woman draped in a brilliant red sari, her lips moving soundlessly. To my right was a man standing, his hands folded in silent prayer. As we left, the others at the vigil looked at us with nothing less that appreciation at our presence. Both of the daily papers the following day had pictures on the front page of other ACM students at the vigil. It’s truly amazing how an event that could have inspired defensive or suspicious emotions was addressed so gracefully and how our presence was appreciated instead of rebuked.

There’s more to add, but I don’t want to oversaturate anyone who’s actually reading this blog. Thank you for taking the time to check on me. I’ll be in touch again soon.

Love,
Sarah!

iPod: “This Place Is A Prison,” The Postal Service

Sixteen Candles, Pune style

First of all, I'd like to say that I've made a friend who won't leave my side. There is a piegon roosing in our air vent who I have named Sam. I have decided that his enthusiastic squawking and attempts to break into our room are simply an indication that he really, really likes his new name.

Yesterday... Saturday, lazy, calm, quiet, friendly, food-filled, sleepy... Right? Over here, it was more of a mixed bag. I found out about a British play a few miles from our hotel, so I gathered together half a dozen students from our program to set off for Mazda Hall. Since autorickshaws are essentially our only way to get places that are beyond walking distance, we had to split up into two groups. Each rickshaw driver will only take three people at a time, which seems reasonable. Honestly, I'd feel safest if we could pack twice that many in. Seatbelts, along with walking on the sidewalk, are for losers, apparently. Any extra padding from packing ourselves in like sardines would be juuuuust fine with me. Don't forget, Mom... Nobody goes fast enough for an accident to be really bad. Seriously. :)

Anyway, we set off for Mazda Hall, holding vaguely specific written directions and precariously small amounts of rupees in our pockets. The driver took us as far as he knew, and then we were on our own. The next half an hour was truly like something out of a movie. The moment the driver screeched away, the clouds cleared their throats and spat a classic late-July monsoon down on us. We ran (looking both way, of course) across the street, heading in what we hoped was the right direction. All of a sudden the busy, well-lit, very wet street was replaced by... well, let's just say it was neither busy nor well-lit. My roommate and I looked at each other and quickly did an about-face. In front of us, across the other street, we saw a deparment store of the likes that you'd see in the middle of 5th avenue. It was marble and gold with Gucci signs in the window and security guards canvasing the front, and most importantly, it was dry. As we walked through the doors, soaking wet and muddy, the entire place ground to a halt like the sophomore-dance scene from any 80's rat pack movie. I know that sounds like an exaggeration, but you have to trust me. If there were music playing, it would've been cut off faster than I am when I start to make a bad pun. No less than forty heads turned to stare. People paused in mid-transaction to turn and look. The only person to move was the custodian, who started wiping up our rainwater as it left the hem of my bedraggled skirt. There was nothing explicitly agressive about the situation, but enough was ENOUGH. If I knew how to say, "Didn't your mother ever TELL you that it's rather RUDE to STARE at two GIRLS who you don't KNOW?!" in Marathi, I definitely would've.

Back on the street, rickshaw drivers eagerly descended on the two pale girls near tears. "Bhandarkar Road," I gasped, knowing full well that it was a forty- or fifty-rupee ride. "Two hundred rupee," said the first. "Bullshit," I said to myself. "No," I said out loud. The next came. "Three hundred rupee." "NO!" Finally one man came up and said, "I take you. You pay extra since trip is so long." The thing was, he smiled. It was an honest, sympathetic, I-know-you're-stupid-Americans-but-you-look-simply-pathetic-and-I-have-daughters-your-age sort of smile. For that, I didn't care if I had to pay five hundred rupees. So, Baba introduced himself and proceeded to chat with us for the next half an hour about his family, America, Pune, museums, and my hair. By the time we got back, we were laughing and almost dry. Baba (meaning "father," which I have firmly decided to intepret as a gesture of kindness rather than creepiness) made us promise to come back to his corner and see him again.

So. Let's work it out. One trip - rupees x ten awkward turtles + monsoon / British play + chatty driver = tougher skin.desire to dye my hair. Who says I have to take math in college? We survived, and somehow the rain that's still pouringn down my window doesn't seem so theatening. Thanks, Baba.

Love,
Sarah!

iPod: "The Breakdown," Mae

Pictures #1

Here are more pictures.. Until I have the energy to figure out how to format pictures with the blog posts, I'll just put them all in. Muahaha!

Love,
Sarah!

rickshaws v. monster trucks

I'll write a real post soon, I promise.. I just have a few minutes now. I feel like that'll be my constant disclaimer for the next few months! My roommate somehow got ahold of wireless internet (I know, crazy!), so we have a few minutes of technology. For those of you who heard, I'm apparently allergic to the bites of Indian mosquitos, resulting in my right ankle and foot swelling up to ridiculous proportions and the bites growing into absolutely disgusting blisters. I know.. you really wanted to know that, didn't you? But, two days and 130 rupees (aka about three US dollars) later, it's all better. Temporary excitement, that's all.

I can't believe that I negelected to write about the traffic here. You'd think that the vehicles driving on the opposite side of the road would throw you, but nooo. When there are people, autorickshaws, compact cars, trucks, cows, dogs, goats, and rats scampering around together with hardly any complete stops, the different road plan means absolutely nothing. I can't believe how well the traffic flows and how few causalties there are. Honestly, it's like something out of a video game. I want to take a camera video from one of the rickshaws, set it to crappy heavy metal music, and submit it to one of those extreme sports movie festivals. Call it "Pune Autorickshaws: Evaders of Death." If richshaws went up against monster trucks, I seriously think that the richshaws would win. They have the turning radius of a matchbox car and have the unique ability to morph into paper-thin slivers of metal that can somehow squeese between the family of five on the vespa and the truck painted in colors of happiness.

All different forms of travel pass each other, leaving only molecules of air between human flesh and rusting metal as everything teems together at once. I'm almost used to it by now, on day three, which is both impressive and terrifying. It doesn't bother me to walk along the street with cars sweeping by close enough to rustle my hair. Apparently, the rolling and cracked sidewalks are for losers. Don't worry, Mom, I'm being safe. Ish. :)

Here are a few pictures before I crash.. The psychotic malaria dreams have passed for now, but the interrupted sleep patterns are taking their toll.

By the way, you should really read Tim's journal too (link on side). I haven't read it yet, but he's pretty much the coolest person ever. So I have faith.

Love,
Sarah!

one dog down

Finally, an actual post from Pune! I want to write so much, but I'm trying to go quickly since the power is unreliable and I'm in an internet cafe.

So far, so amazing. I figured I'd spend the first few days in a sort of culture-shock coma, but I haven't experienced anything of the sort. The city is so colorful and alive that I can't even imagine what an Indian traveler in America would think of our perfectly maintained, stagnant cities. Don't get me wrong; I love Uptown. It's just an entirely different vibe here. I don't even mind the pollution much, even though if I were to lick my finger and rub my cheek, there'd be a little light line of cleanliness running across my skin.

I woke up at 6 AM today, after the first longer-than-an-hour bout of sleep I've had over the last three days. It was just starting to get light outside, so I went into the bathroom to wash my face. The open window (with a screen, don't worry) let in all of the noise from the street, which consisted of absolutely nothing except for birds chirping. This huge, bustling, overpopulated city was silent except for birds. I could hear what sounded like a turtledove cooing, which I thought sounded eerily like a person. Another, different coo joined the first. The second coo then turned into a hacking cough. So much for the birds...

I walked down the street to a phone book (known as STD booths... I'll let that sink in for a second) to call home. There were a few people out on the street, but I was definitely the only blonde person for a several-mile radius. I had to jump out of the way of a few autorickshaws, but I found my way mostly unscathed. I had a brief moment of terror when one of the normally timid stray dogs ran at me growling. i should've gotten the rabies shot i should've gotten the rabies shot i should've gotten the rabies shot. I jumped over a fence of an unopened business, much to the amusement of the three men sitting across the street. Fortunately, I think the dog was just hungry and, like every other living thing in the city, could sense my newness.

On with my quest for a dial tone... I stepped over some spilled milk leaking from unloaded crates that littered the sidewalk near the booth. The liquid was stacked with easy efficency, and within minutes the milk was inside the store as the fruitwalla proudly displayed his wares. Even though I don't speak a single word of Marathi yet, it's been surprisingly easy to communicate with others around me. Even if they don't speak any of English, pointing and various exasperated noises on their part and frantic, desperate nodding on my point does the job. I even bargained twenty rupees off of a ridiculously overpriced item...

There's so much more that I want to write, but it's about time to run to dinner, which has been delicious so far. I feel like I'm going to have some serious food cravings soon (I've been wanting a burrito since we left Chicago), but there's a Dominos and Subway in case I get desperate. Oh, and there's a McDonalds too, but apparently the only meat sandwich they serve is chicken. I know... my kind of place!

I haven't decided entirely on my independent study project yet, but there are archives of all previous projects (Josh, if you're reading this, I took a look at your project from last year). I'm hoping to apprentice/observe a theatrical production nearby, either at the local college or elsewhere. I think it'd be amazing to chronicle the creative process and compare it to styles I've expeienced in America.

Anyway, I'll update as soon as I can. I'm so excited to see what the weeks will bring, both the positive and the negative. I hope you're well :)

Love,
Sarah!