I honestly have no title for this. Yet.

Just when I think I can take a deep breath, step back, and take an emotional break for a few days, another important life lesson taps me on the shoulder. It's good; don't get me wrong! It's why I'm here. But still, it's funny how something that seems so straightforward can end up taking you in a sideways direction.

We had a project retreat this weekend in Mabeleshwar (I'm definitely spelling that wrong), a tourist-y village about four hours away from Pune. I say tourist-y, but we hit it in the off-season, so it had the nice silence of a real village but the really good fudge shops of a tourist town. Yes, Dad, they had chocolate walnut fudge. Pretty cool, if you ask me. Anyway, the purpose of the retreat was to catch us at the halfway point of our independent study projects and see how we're doing. People are in varying stages right now, ranging from almost done to still thinking about the topic (that poor guy...), and the staff decided that we should have a chance to talk out each project while there's still time to change things. I felt like I was in a pretty good place as far as project progress and mental sanity are concerned, but I figured it'd still be a good opportunity.

So, there we sat, on the open porch of Hotel Mayfair, sipping not-so-good chai tea , nibbling on very British biscuits (not cookies, mind you), and talking about life. Due to the pretty awesome nature of my project and my inability to shut up when I'm excited about something, most people in the group already knew a decent amount about what I'm doing. I explained that I'd completely nine interviews, almost exclusively with upper-middle class women who are employed. The interviews had been amazing for the most part, but I'd come to realize that the open-ended, Western questions I had prepared would work just fine for an established, confident woman but would yield next to nothing when addressing a less educated or more timid woman. I conducted one interview with a young bai (a house cleaner/cook), and the tension and confusion were palpable. I learned a few interesting things about her, but it was obvious that the structure of my questions was completely impractical. I started talking about all this in the discussions, and then my mouth just took off without me. As I spoke, I realized that there were a lot of things I'd been thinking about quietly without even realizing it.

What started out as a fun little theatre project has morphed into a sociological, highly intimidating life journey. When I started out on this project path, I knew that I had four months... three, really, once you take the travel break into account. So, I was setting myself up... not for failure, but definitely for something interesting. But, being me, I just figured I could do it. I wouldn't let a little thing like impossibility stop me. However, I hadn't anticipated India's effect on my personality. It sounds strange, but I'm sort of a different person here. Being in a foreign country for half a year is intimidating, sure, but you also have to factor in that your support system over here is made up of young people just as scared as you are. It changes you. I'm definitely still Sarah; don't worry. But I'm less confident here. I'm not as sure of myself, I'm more needy, and I second-guess myself in ways that I would never do back in the US.

I realized that when I proposed the topic, I was still completely invincible and confident in my ability to do anything. I'm not saying that I've done a complete personality turn by any means, but my newfound hesitation here makes it next to impossible to ask difficult interview questions. I mean, I'm writing a play here. I need interesting, difficult topics to inspire me. But I've never interviewed people before, and I'm not used to having conversations that can upset people I hardly know. And I do see them as conversations, not interviews. It's allowed me to get personally connected to this project to an astounding degree, but it also makes it difficult to remove myself to the point that's necessary for a sociology project. Asking somebody about the death of her husband or the caste system are essential questions for a comprehensive understanding of her experience, but I can't bring myself to do it. And that's pretty frustrating.

I started talking about all this, and it was scary. This has become so much more than an independent study project for me. I feel like I owe it to the women with whom I've spoken to do a really, really good job on this. It's not just some analytical paper that I crank out and forget about; I'm trying to capture lives that are foreign to me in so many ways beyond geographical. It's pretty intimidating, to be honest.

But fortunately, I'm surronded by great people over here. The other students and professors helped me formulate a slightly different plan, and I'm even more excited now. I'm still writing the play; wild horses couldn't step on me enough to make me change my mind about that. It'd hurt, but I'd get over it. ;) Anyway, I'm going to write the play just using the interviews that I have right now. For me, it's important that this play doesn't become some sensationalized piece of soap opera-esque drama. I want it to be real. When a person thinks about Indian women and interesting stories, they think of women struggling in rural areas and victims of violence. Who'd write a play about upper-middle class, successful women? There's no shock value there.

But that's what I'm going to write about. This is now just Part One. As my friend Lena said, this isn't my independent study project anymore for my semester abroad in India. It's my life project. This play I'm writing right now is really a sections of a larger play, one that will take shape over years of growth and many visits to India. In the mean time, I'm going to start writing. On Thursday, I'm leaving for a month full of train rides and sleepless nights walking through the desert, so I'll have plenty of time to think. I'm still heading towards my main goal, but it's been broken down for me into pieces that I can actually swallow. I don't have to sacrifice my idealism... I just have to be a little patient.

Scared? Not anymore. The best part? I'm not hesitating one bit.

Love,
Sarah!

iPod: "Distraction," Angels & Airwaves

You know you're adjusting well to India when...

20. You watch Marathi American-Idol style programs and enthusiastically, almost violently, support one contestant.
19. You actually SMS (text message) your vote for the singing contestant to the show.
18. You wake up in the middle of the night to people screaming and beating on drums outside and actually fall back asleep.
17. You bargain an 800-rupee shawl down to fifty rupees.
16. You drink the tap water, and you're fine (so far....).
15. You watch the Marathi soaps and get really invovled, even though you have no idea what the heck's going on.
14. You put ketchup on your pizza.
13. Rickshaw rides suddenly seem relaxing.
12. People stop asking if you're American and start asking if you're Swedish.
11. You know and sing along to all the hottest Bollywood songs, even though you have no idea what you're singing.
10. You enjoy the burning feeling that comes with eating full-heat South Indian cuisine.
9. Your bottle of hand sanitizer is gathering dust in your corner instead of being clutched in your hand 24/7.
8. You don't blink an eye when you hear a remix of "Summer of '69" at the hottest club in town.
7. Scraping the layer of dust off your feet each night no longer grosses you out.
6. You eat three slices of Domino's pizza along with a pound of chocolate and wish you had eaten a dosa instead.
5. After two months of yoga, you can finally touch your toes.
4. You eat soup with one hand and no spoon.
3. You still dream about Kraft Mac and Cheese, but with decreasing frequency.
2. You pay thirty rupees for lunch and feel overcharged.
1. You do a double-take when you see a girl in a tanktop and start wondering how her parents must've raised her to be so immoral.

Love,
Sarah!

iPod: "La Vie Boheme," Cast of Rent

America sneaks up

Well, it's been an American week, at any rate. Strange, considering that the quickest way back to the good old US of A would be a tunnel through the center of the earth. Remember that? I know that when I was little, I was obsessed with digging a tunnel to the other side of the world. Hey, I was a tough little kid! At the time, it was all about China. What did I know about India, besides that The Jungle Book was set there?

But anyway, I'm now ten-ish years older and not very much wiser. Tunnels gave way to airplanes, and I've been matching dreams with reality. By and large, I'm loving the culture, gulping down mango lassi and rassa. Last week, however, we did the unthinkable. Morale was low, rupees were scarce, and homesickness reared its ugly head. So, as a group, we decided to throw caution and morality to the wind and go to a McDonald's. Yes, you heard me correctly. Once again, I think it's somewhat funny that I've had more American fast food over here within the past two months than I've had back home in the past year. And no, Taco Bell at home doesn't count. Shhhh!

We walked into a glowing, shiny, very plastic restaurant and were greeted by people taking our orders down on pads. Some strange melding of sit-down and fast-food, this McDonald's had an air of exclusivity and glitz. We were greeted incredibly warmly, even more so than usual. After all, we're the McDonald's poster children (literally). Surprisingly, the food was good. Back home, I avoid McDonald's at all costs. First of all, I saw the movie Super Size Me. Enough said. But secondly, I'm a vegetarian. While ordering a "filet of fish, but hold the fish" is pretty exciting, the resulting meal isn't too spectacular. Over here, in a country of roughly 500 million vegetarians, the veg options were plentiful although deep-fried. I had a McVeggie (a fried and battered concoction of potato, peas, carrots, and Ganesh knows what else...), fries, and a Coke (pesticide and all), and I felt darn good about it. I know that I'm a bad person, but I've accepted that. I plan on having a masala dosa, rice, and dahl for lunch today to attone for my sins.

So, if McDonald's wasn't enough to catapult me back to Minnesota for a week or so, we received some surprising news. The next day, through the wonders of ACM (yet again), we had the opportunity to audition to be extras in the new Angelina Jolie film that's being filmed in Pune. It took me a minute to absorb that. After all of my whimpering and pleading and scouring the newspaper back home, all that I needed to do to audition for a Hollywood film was to travel halfway across the world. OK, you can hardly call filling out a form and getting a picture snapped an audition, but it made me happy. They'll give me a call if they decide that I look like a journalist or an FBI agent... I'm not holding my breath. It was definitely fun, though.

That same day, the American-ness continued. We decided to have lunch at the famous German Bakery, a much-hyped place praised by every foreigner we'd met so far. One thirty-minute rickshaw ride later, we landed in heaven. Ice-cold fruit salad, cheese mushroom pizzas, scrambled eggs, butter croissants, cookies, chocolate pie, spinach burgers... Ahhhhhh. Besides the allure of the food, we walked into a casual, open-air establishment and were pretty much ignored by everyone eating there. I can't tell you how good that felt.

Even though there were a bunch of other foreigners present, they all had the unshowered, white-person-with-dreadlocks look that so many Americans have over here. The fairly (in)famous Osho Ashram is located in the same area, and we encountered quite a few people who came to India seeking enlightenment and hemp clothing in equal amounts. Even though I'm certain that some people here are on a true spiritual quest, I felt like I was back in somebody's dorm room at CC, looking at posters of Bob Marley as some guy who hasn't showered since 1996 tells me that "the devil's in American materialism" and that "Eastern ways are so chill, man." Everybody looked somewhere between blissed out and strung out. I bumped into a woman on my way to the bathroom who told me to "Just feel it. You are one with ohm and the wind... The self needs to dissolve. Forget materialism" or something roughly along those lines. I'm into relaxation and spirituality as much as the next person, but I feel that I'd gain a lot more inner peace and forget materialism by spending the $7000 Osho fees on providing food and housing for others here. But then, I'm just a bleeding-heart liberal. Still, the food was good, the atmosphere "chill," and I thoroughly enjoyed the experience.

Love,
Sarah!

iPod: "Chasing Cars," Snow Patrol

Snapshots of Ganesh

Remember the red powder I was talking about? Here it is on the people who were participating in the festival.














And here we are... The other Sara and I were bombarded. Looks like she got a little more than I did!






These were from the first weekend in Mumbai, when I had a Dance Party of One that turned into a Many.


Love,
Sarah!

Yogahhhhh...

"Om sarve bhavantu sukinahasarve santu niraamayaha..." drones the guru.

"Om sahr...vi... baktu.. suckingha serve... sum.. um..." I mutter.

And so begins a day of yoga. Through the ever-amazing CC connections, the other students and I are able to take classes at Iyengar Yoga, one of the most famous yoga institutions in the world. Normally, a person needs to have studied yoga for half a dozen years before being able to step inside the hallowed halls (without shoes, of course). But thanks to the Drama/Dance Department at Colorado College, us inexperienced, inflexible Americans get the full experience. And what an experience it's been.

I can proudly say that I can touch my toes now. OK, you're laughing, but I'm serious. I rationalize that I have abnormally long legs, but the truth is, I'm just not that flexible. I used to play sports when I was younger (seriously, ask my Mom), but when high school rolled around, I chose afternoons of drama and The Legend of Zelda over soccer. I haven't looked back in regret, although wincing when I stretch my arms over my head shoots momentary burts of motivation through my veins. Allright, this is it, Miss Lee. Tomorrow you start running.

Which is all well and good, until the actual exercise starts. Then my inner voice goes, well, at least you tried. Ok, you barely tried. Let's go read a book and feel better abour ourselves. And we're suddenly plural, by the way, Sarah. And so it goes. But being in India, not even the Voice of Eternal Laziness could think of a reason not take the amazing offer and join these classes. And they've been excellent. It's funny, but even though I'm supposed to be aware of my body, I'm not especially. When I say I'm "supposed" to be aware, I'm 1.) a teenage girl, and 2.) an actor. But I just don't think about it much.

Maybe that's why they say that yoga is as much a mental exercise as a physical one. True, the stretching hurts the most, but it's incredible how much control I can regain over my shuddering calves by breathing deeply and focusing. For two hours each week, I don't care about the rickshaws blaring outside or the lack of good sourdough bread. Oops, the internet cafe is closing. More later.

Love,
Sarah!

and... CUT!

Yep, it's high time for a fluffy entry. I can't be serious and philosophical for too long, otherwise I cease to be Sarah Lee. So, picture this, if you will...

A young, blonde girl studying abroad for a semester realizes that her new, short haircut is now her not-so-new, getting a little shaggy haircut. So, she decides that the logical course of action is to cut the said hair. Not by herself, of course, but in a hair salon. She asks her host mother for a recommendation and finds herself in a small room with a black-and-white TV and posters of haircuts from the mid-seventies and definitely from the eighties. The hairdresser is supposedly fluent in English, but after a few gasped words from the girl, blondie is quickly drowned in a barrage of liquid Marathi as she sits and watches, paralyzed, as more and more hair falls to the floor. Hm.... Remember that part about just a little trim?

The style is finished off with blow-drying and much brushing of already curly hair. The Girl puts on her best smile and expresses thanks for her 100 rupee haircut (read: about $2.12). She then returns home and does her best to salvage her 80's gym teacher look with some hair putty. After a brief moment of insanity, she proceeds to an internet cafe, blasts screaming punky guys playing guitars on her iPod, and reminds herself she's still cool. Maybe now she can even justify a mohawk.

Love,
The Young Blonde Girl and What's Left of Her Hair

iPod: "The Only Medicine," Scary Kids Scaring Kids; "What It Is To Burn," Finch; "Captain Anarchy," Anti-Flag; "Outside of This," Greeley Estates; "It's Time," Political Pushover; "Raw Power," Iggy and The Stooges; and many more.

Expensive drinks and social responsibility

I woke up yesterday in a cloud of soft cotton, a fan softly paddling at the air above me. As I shook myself into consciousness, I could hear ocean waves crashing against rocks below me. I pushed the heavy curtains that covered one wall aside, walking barefoot out onto a marble terrace covered with plants and beautiful tribal art. The live-in cook took my breakfast order (french toast, fresh-squeezed orange juice, and fruit) while I leaned over the sea. No, I wasn't at the Broadmoor. I was just in Bombay.

Through one of the many bursts of luck that I've experienced here, I was invited to spend the weekend in Bombay with my friend Zach and Dhiren, a friend of his from Grinnell. Dhiren had come to Pune to spend the night with Zach before the two of them were to return to Bombay for the weekend. I joined them at Cafe Sunrise for dinner last Thursday night and was promptly invited to join them. We left the next morning by bus and arrived in the late afternoon on Friday.

Spending time at others' houses here reminds me of one of the many ways in which I want to change standard behavior once I'm in the US. I was invited for the weekend after knowing my host for about ten minutes, and I was treated in the kindest and most welcoming manner possible. I usually feel uncomfortable having people do things for me, even in retail stores. I'm that girl, the one who ends up tipping over the stack of impeccably folded sweaters in her desire to get the one at the top without assistance. But after I got over the initial tentativeness and timidity, I found myself settling in. Over a candlelit dinner, Zach and I spoke with Dhiren and his mother about everything from politics to religion to our projects. I have never had such a stimulating conversation outside of my crazy philosophy classes at CC. I couldn't believe how at home I felt after just knowing this family for several hours.

I mentioned before that there's a mentality here that the guest is like a god. It's not just a "I should do this" social force; it's an "it's an honor for me to do this for you" mentality. And for me, that's what made all the difference. In the US, it's sometimes tricky to figure out if people are just being polite or if my presence as a guest brings genuine pleasure. But over here, that wasn't a question at all. When Zach and I contemplated spending an extra day with them in order to see Dear Liar at the Center for the Performing Arts, my hesitation about imposing was waved away in seconds. At home, I would have to be practically forced to stay longer than I'd originally planned. Instead, I relaxed and resigned myself to enjoying more delicious food and ocean waves.

As perfect as this weekend was, it seems that I can't escape a single day without having some sort of grounding experience. If I don't watch myself, I'm going to start preaching, if I haven't already. As I mentioned, Dhiren's house overlooks the Arabian Sea. And when I say "overlook," I mean that if I were to jump off the balcony, I'd land in the water. When the tide goes out, the rock at the floor of the ocean is exposed, looking like something out of a textbook about tidepools. Naturally, I wanted to explore and look at the fishies. Dhiren warned us about the slippery rocks and generally unpleasant conditions of such a walk, but of course Zach and I wouldn't listen to reason. So we went out, walking around the wall of the apartment complex and skimming the edges of the neighboring slums. On our way down the gravel pathway, we passed a man defecating on the rocks. Dhiren had mentioned that we'd be passing the public "latrine," but once again, hearing about something never really sinks in until you actually see it. We quickly turned away, trying to give as much privacy as possible, which wasn't much. We walked down on the rocks, stepping carefully to avoid the oil slicks and algae. We didn't go far, since it was almost dark. On the way back, we passed barefoot children scampering through God-knows-what, completely oblivious to what they were walking through.

At lunch the next day, we talked about social and economic conditions in the area. I asked about the whole comparision issue that I've mentioned before, about whether or not most people over here make the same comparisions between income and house size that plague much of the US. While Dhiren's mother replied that that mentality is fairly rare, she and Dhiren also pointed out the major shifts in attitude are taking place within people my age over in Bombay. Some people are becoming more materialistic and staunchly avoid looking at the poverty and conditions that they can't possibly avoid seeing. You can't drive or walk more than one block in any part of the city and avoid encountering people or places that are poverty-stricken.

Naively, I asked how this was possible for such a mentaility to exist. Even though many people ignore poverty in the US, it's easier for us since our government does an exceptionally (good?) job covering it up. We hear about it if we want to, we read about it if we want to, but otherwise we just sort of forget about it. But you just can't do that here. During Indira Gandhi's "Emergency" of the seventies, bulldozers plowed through the slums and hutment colonies to hide them from the rest of the city. But that didn't last long. There are simply too many people living in those conditions to sweep them under the rug. According to our Environmental Science professor, around fifty percent of Bombay's population lives in hutment colonies (a nice word for slums) or on the streets. So, no matter how well-off certain people might be, they can't be ignorant about what's going on next door.

Dhiren came up with what was, to me, the best answer I've heard so far about this issue. He explained that many people do contribute money and works towards improving the lives of others. However, it's impossible to have any sort of life of your own without partitioning out how much and how often you let poverty affect you. It's essential to take action and responsiblity for facilitating social change, but it's also necessary to deal with it in doses. Feeling the hopeless and desperate way that I feel works for a student studying abroad, but it's crippling for a permanent resident. So, to go back to the earlier question of younger people simply avoiding the issue, it's a question of balance. I'm all charged up about these issues all the time because I've been here for, what, two months? How would I feel if I'd grown up here?

Things affect me/us differently because as I said earlier, we're shielded from it at home. Growing up in Orono, Minnesota with a population of 3,000 and little poverty, I just don't see it. Even in my frequent (ok, very frequent) trips to Minneapolis, I go to Uptown, land of $5 chai teas and $10 movie tickets. I might like to think of myself as open-minded and compassionate, but really, I have no idea what I'm talking about. So. Even though I feel like I'm beginning to sound like a lessons-on-social-consciousness broken record, that's where I'm at. Yes.

Love,
Sarah!

Water and fire

I feel like life is a huge series of contradictions right now. I realize how negative that sounds, and that's not what I mean, really. It just comes down to how multi-faceted everything is over here. Things may also be like that in the US, but I'm just hyper-sensitive to anything and everything since I'm abroad. Last night marked the end of the Ganesh festival (technically, anyway), and there was more drama in that twenty four-hour span than you'd find in a whole season of any soap opera. Not that I'd know or anything. I swear I didn't watch Days of Our Lives religiously for an entire summer.

Last night was a whirlwind. My friend Sara and I wandered through the carnival-like immersion celebration, escaping the bigger crowds but still getting doused in auspicious (and apparently carcinogenic) red powder. We saw mass immersions at the river and were interviewed for a local paper (again). We ate coconut with a little girl and took some great pictures of our powder-covered selves. I was ecstatic, and glad that the evening was better than that same afternoon.

I came home early from class, super-excited for my family's afternoon plans. The Ganesh festival's end is marked with the auspicious immersion where every family brings their Ganesh idol down to a river or lake and immerses it. The idols are made of plaster of Paris, so they eventually dissolve in the water. My family had told me to be home around three to make sure that I made it in time. I couldn't wait to join the thousands of Puneites at the river. From everything I'd heard from friends whose families celebrated an abbreviated Ganesh festival, the immersion was amazing and moving. When I returned home, my ai asked me if it was "that womanly time" yet. I answered her truthfully, understanding that I wouldn't be able to participate in the prayer before the immersion. I waited in my room, reading the same paragraph in The Catcher in the Rye about fifty times. Finally, the prayer was over, and my ai came into my room, presumably to fetch me. "OK, we will go now. We will be home in one hour after immersion. You have the keys if you go out, yes?"

And then they left. I kept reminding myself that it wasn't personal, it's not me, it has nothing to do with me, this happens all the time, at least I'm not actually Hindu, it must be much worse for somebody devout... But the tears still came. I don't know if I was more upset for myself or for the other women who had been brought up to believe that they were unclean, less worthy than men for religious purity or simple human value.

And that's how I got here. Yep, I think we all saw it coming. I do believe that I'm in the midst of a full-blown feminist awakening. I remember a blog entry (hm, I believe it was from a day or two ago) when I wrote about trying to be culturally understanding and how superimposing my Western views wouldn't help the situation at all. Well, I still recognize the truth in that concept, but I just don't care.

This small thing isn't what's actually under my skin. It's a personal religious choice, and it won't affect me in the long run. That I can understand and deal with. But there's so much more going on, and it's all funneling into (and arising from) my project. I spent the last five hours reading May You Be The Mother of A Hundred Sons, a Washington Post writer's account of her time interviewing Indian women during her three-year stay here. I'm only about a quarter of the way through her book, but my mind is already reeling. It's making me passionate and excited about my project, but also frightening me as it reminds me about how serious the issues are that I'll be exploring.

I haven't had the courage yet to probe into the more difficult subjects, but I have to find it, and soon. It's all well and good to learn about raising children and acting in Mumbai, but it's quite another to ask about things like spousal abuse and bride burnings. I'm not trying to write a positive or a negative account of Indian women; I'm just trying to learn something. I know now more than ever that this project isn't something I can bring myself to do halfway. I need to give this everything I have, and the short three months that I have left are more than a little daunting. I'm going to try to use my travel "break" as an opportunity to get interviews. We'll be traveling through Rajastan, an area famous for its textiles as well as its sometimes fundamental villages. In fact, the chapter that I just finished mentions a small village in Rajastan called Deorala.

In 1987, a woman (actually, a girl of eighteen) named Roop Kanwar committed sati, the practice of a widow throwing herself onto her husband's funeral pyre to burn to death. Sati is named for a Hindu goddess who burner herself to death to prove her purity against her husband's accusations of her infidelity. Sati was outlawed several decades ago but there are parts of India that the law can't really touch. Controversy is still alive about whether or not Roop Kanwar voluntarily killed herself. Many people suspect that the first sati in decades was a murder rather than a suicide. The author of Hundred Sons was in India when this happened, and she attended the celebratory ceremony that occurs two weeks after a sati. The author and her husband had to fight her way through tens of thousands of people who had come to the site as a religious pilgrimage and an occasion for celebration.

Now, please believe me when I say that I understand that this is not a mainstream concept. Many educated people see sati as a barbaric and archaic religious practice that has been nearly eradicated. But it's still there, along with its horrendous cousin, bride burning. Known as dowry deaths, these murders occur when a bride's family does not pay the expected dowry to the new husband's family. The family, dissatisfied with their new daughter-in-law and her dowry, burn her to death. The stories that I read about were from the 1980's for the most part, but I was reminded of an article that I saw in the Indian Express less than a month ago. A father-and-son team of police officers murdered the son's wife when her family did not pay the expected dowry. This left the son free to marry again, acquiring more dowry.

And that's why I'm here. That's why I'm doing this project. I won't let it turn into a sensationalized bit of drama to shock and awe. But it's apparent already to me that what started out as a theatre project is turning into so much more than that. I'm glad that I've chosen this topic, and I'm going to do everything I can to do it well. But I'm in over my head, and I know that even now. I guess we'll see what happens.

Love,
Sarah

The unclean end of the sentence

Just to warn any manly men who might be reading this... I'll be writing about girl stuff in here. You know, womanly things. Don't say I didn't warn you.

I wouldn't call it culture shock, since I knew it was coming. At least, I had some idea. Maybe it was culture confusion, or culture nervousness, or just good old culture "huh?!?!?" I'd heard stories and some general facts, but I was under the impression that it wouldn't really be a big deal. I felt like some crusader through Biblical times, checking and following and worrying and relenting. Which, all in all, is very unlike me.

I know that I wrote before about the concepts of being "clean" and "unclean." Toilet paper is not used because water is considered more clean or pure. Certain foods are prepared and sliced a certain way to retain their purity. And then there's the caste system, which I don't really want to get into. But then, there are women's issues. Specifically, I'm talking about monthly periods. Yes, I'm sorry to bring it up, but it's true.

I hadn't had to deal with this yet on the trip, but the issue arose just in time for the end of the Ganesh festival. My ai (host mother) had asked me to let her know when the issue came up, and as a dutiful guest, I did. She timidly informed me that I should take my breakfast in my room instead of in the kitchen, since my chair is directly next to one of their shrines. I am not to enter the room where the main Ganesh shrine is, and I am to take my (bucket) bath in a separate bathroom. There are three quasi-bathrooms, one containing the Indian toilet, another the shower room, and the last a Western toilet. Normally I shower in the shower room (surprise, surprise), but I am to bring the water into the Western bathroom and shower there. This all will only last for the five-day period of "uncleanliness," and then things are back to normal.

Right now, I'm thanking my lucky stars that this didn't happen earlier in my time with my host family. Living with them for around two months, I've grown to understand that certain things that are fairly offensive to me are simply how things are done in the more traditional families. I'd heard varying degrees of stories such as this from the other students on the trip, but I still felt like things were a little more rigid with my family than with the others. At first, I was hurt and annoyed, assuming that it was some sort of personal grudge against me and my dirty American-ness. But now, knowing how much affection my family has for me and how concerned they are about my well-being, I realized that it wasn't personal at all. I'm just a woman, and that has a different meaning here.

One of the other girls on our trip had a similar "cleanliness" experience, except she was just asked not to partake in the puja (prayers held during the Ganesh festival). She was upset about this menstrual discrimination, so she avoided the subject with her family and participated anyway. Even though this is tempting, I decided that it was better to just be up front and avoid the potential catastrophe if things went wrong. Sure, I'm outraged that women are persecuted for being women. But then I have to remind myself that they don't see it as persecution; it's religion.

I almost have to laugh when I think about how different things are for me back in the US. Instead of being seen as unclean and a contamination threat, my guy friends and male family members (love you, Dad and Harry!) proceed with extreme caution and care. I see my guy friends visibly wince and shrink away when such matters are discussed. It's awkward for them, which I can understand. But it's certainly not looked down upon.

I suppose it's also possible that I don't understand the exact web of religion and emotions that govern these traditions. I see this separation and religious practice as repressive and archaic. But then again, I'm not a traditional Hindu. Almost all of the other host families don't follow this tradition, and I understand that each family is different. I just happened to land with a devout family. As intimidating as it can be, I remind myself that at least I'm not getting a watered-down version of Hindu life. Also, I'd be a hypocrite if I didn't mention the Judeo-Christian historical issues with menstruation as well. It's mostly forgotten now, since none but the most traditional families still look to Leviticus for guidance on women's cleanliness. But if you look, it's still there.

But, back to the point. When my ai let me know what was to be followed, my first reaction was disbelief. How could my family, who I have grown close with, treat me in such a way? Did I do something to offend them? Was this a secret retribution for the attitude over here that all American women are without morals? And then immediately afterward we sat in the living room and talked about life, laughing about travel and sports and movies. My mind was reeling, wondering how the two extremes could exist with the same half-hour. It's the hardest thing that I've had to do here, especially since my entire project is studying women and the difficulties and discrimination that they face because of their gender. I'm going to allow myself to get indignant about it when I'm back in the US, but not before. I need to absorb here, trying my best not to compare the two cultures. That won't get me anything but trouble. So I'll take my bath and my breakfast at my desk, and I'll like it. That's just how it's going to be.

Love,
Sarah!

Oh. My. Ganesh. (Part I)

This is going to be a two-part entry, even though it's all about one weekend. Too many things happened for me to cram it all into one exhaustive entry. I can't expect that sort of attention span from anyone. Anyway, Part I!

Here I sit in a bedroom in the heart of Mumbai, reeling as much from the sheer amount of people as from the six-year-old boy singing along to the likes of "In Da Club" and "Candy Shop" in the room next to me. I calm my racing pulse by reminding myself that he has no idea what he's doing when he screams lyrics that would make his first-grade teacher fall over into a dead faint.

I'm in Mumbai during the Ganesh festival to do research for my project (which seems like it's actually going to happen, by the way). Anju from ACM and I arrived from Pune last night after a surprisingly low-key bus journey. As in the US (especially in movie theatres, for some odd reson), "air conditioning available" is secret code for "frost bite will ensue." Getting off the bus to meet the 9 PM Mumbai heat made me think of one of the slightly insane rituals that us Minnesotans have. You know-- the one where you sit in an outdoor hot tub with some friends in the middle of January and then jump out to roll in the snowbank. Come on, you know you've done it. But this time, the heat-then-cold order was reversed, and somehow I felt that squealing with glee (or pain) at the temperature change wouldn't be especially appropriate in this situation.

So, we arrived in Mumbai. A soon as we walked in the door of Anju's family's flat, we were whisked out to attend the Ganesh festivities. I soon realized exactly where we were going, and I was simultaneously enthralled and petrified. Funny how often I've felt that way over here...

In Maharashtra, the Ganesh festival is roughly like combining Christmas with a Super Bowl party for the winning team. "Dancing in the streets" isn't at all figurative during this eleven-day festival. On the cab ride from the bus station to the flat, we'd seen groups of mostly men jumping up and down, dancing, throwing colored powder at each other, beating huge drums, and basically having the time of their lives. And that's what we were headed to... into the middle of the biggest one in the city.

Before anyone freaks out about the concept of me walking into the middle of a crowd of several thousand Indian men, let me say that the festival organizers and chief of police (!) had been notified of our arrival. Did I mention that Anju and her family are possibly the most socially well-connected people who I've ever met? I tell you, if anyone else had brought me here, I would've fallen into a dead faint. Instead, the Red Sea of people parted (once again, I'm not exaggerating for poetic expression here), and Anju and I were escorted into the throbbing, colorful, chaotic center.

We stood on the edge of the drums and dancers for a minute before a festival organizer greeted Anju and then said something to me that sounded like, "Do you like the festival?", to which I enthusiastically nodded and smiled. Can't go wrong with that, right? The next thing I knew, Anju and I were in the midle of the dancers, and everyone was staring at me. I stood rooted to the spot like a scene from a movie about a really, REALLY weird middle school dance. Everyone else stopped moving and looked to see what I'd do.

There was a beat of silence (I know it was a full beat, because my heart skipped it), and then I unfroze and danced like a maniac. I twirled and jumped and did the dance that Darcy in Bollywood's Bride and Prejudice called "petting the dog with one hand and screwing the lightbulb in with the other." Watch the movie if you have no idea what I'm talking about.

And that's when everything exploded. I was hit by a wave of cheering and laughter as everyone started dancing and beating on the drums, some looking majestic as they did the traditional dances. Others, on the other hand, were imitating my awkward "what the heck am I doing?" dancing. It was nice to have company in Silly Person Land. Flashbulbs exploded like fireworks as a dozen cameras and cell phones grabbed my image. My Anti-Flag shirt and I will end up in some random guy's photo album, no doubt. "Oh, this photo! Some crazy Swedish girl tried to dance in our Ganapatti festival. Ever seen a scarecrow in the wind? There you have it."

Oh, I'm crazy, I know. Anyway! The next morning, I bolted my egg (!), orange juice (!!), and Corn Flakes with boiled milk (!!!) and set off with Anju for one of her contacts' houses. The man I was meeting was in theatre, and I was told that he was the perfect person to talk to about my project. After an introduction and a few nervous sentences on my part, he said, "but what is it that you want from me?" Uh... "I'm not a playwright. I just translate plays. And I didn't understand a single word you just said." Oh, dear.

As fate would have it, his wife felt sorry for me and agreed to be my first interview. I'd asked all the questions that I'd written down and started to feel pretty silly that I hadn't gotten much information that I could use. But then, in a strange leap of faith, I said something that changed the direction entirely.

"I know that this is sort of strange, since we've just met, but I'm doing this project to get a better understanding of India that I can't get from guidebooks and history books. I chose to write a play because I feel that theatre has the ability to convey things that can't be easily written down or simply explained. If you have any personal experiences that you'd like to share with me, I'd appreicate it." Oh! Well, in that case...

Turns out she's a playwright whose plays and puppet shows on social issues have been performed internationally. Twenty minutes and one cassette tape later, I'd found my main character and possibly my guide. Funny how life works out sometimes, isn't it?

I'll write about the next two interviews in Part II. For now, I need to go take a really, really long nap.

Love,
Sarah!