People of Kerala

Waiters, shopkeepers, cousins, and teachers- everyone I met in Kerala was eager to be of help or service to others. Perhaps it is in their nature. When each of our two drivers ventured into unknown sections of a city and needed directions to a particular school, they simply pulled over to the curb, rolled down the window and asked whomever happened to be nearby for directions. Granted, sometimes the response was a wave of the hand to the east or head nod straight ahead, but I was impressed by the general willingness to help a stranger in need, as well as the men's tendency to stop and ask when they were unclear or lost. The latter, at least, rarely happens in the US.

Religious tolerance

Kerala citizens have tolerance for Jews, Christians, Hindus, and Muslims. Places of worship are sprinkled across the landscape.

Shoppers and shopkeepers

From the individual attention customers receive in clothing and department stores to the crowds of people milling around in the streets outside tiny storefronts , going shopping in Kerala always yielded a surprise.

Our first night we visited a textile shop, where custom-made clothing made from bolts of silks and cottons arranged by colors competed with cheap ready-made garments sized to fit any tiny Indian woman. We were immediately greeted by our own personal clerk, who quickly sized up the situation and took us upstairs for a bigger selection. Everyone was eager to know why the American was buying a saree.

Then off to a department store, Big, where earrings and skirts competed for shelf space with washcloths and plastic wear- Palakkad's own Walmart.

One more stop at the pharmacy, a storefront shop with locked glass cases where the worker counted out the number of capsules required and placed them in the paper sack for his customers. Ever heard of glucosamine? Nope, not here- must be a Western preparation.

A day later, we went to the tailor, a young fashion deisgner with her own store and employees. Like a design on a sample? Of course, she will make it for you. Just choose your favorite fabric- be careful of the polyester in this summer heat, though. Stand still for the measuring- every angle and length- and it will be ready.... okay... tomorrow.... for special customers Just be back by 5, closing time.

On my last night, we shopped at a souveneir store. The requisite Kerala boat and theatre masks individually, slowly, carefully wrapped in paper, and then in hand, we pressed on to the grocery in search of sandalwood soap.

There, crammed next to the other toiletries, were the bars - just everyday hand soap, nothing special, wrapped in a cost-saving multi-pack, looking like a package of Dial, but exuding that heady scent that whispered, "I am India."

But it all is India. The press of curious people, the unexpected bargains, the waft of exotic scents- no wonder the streets are filled with shoppers every night of the week.

Work in progress throughout Kerala

Foods from Kerala

Aspiring to Achieve in Kerala

Aspiring to Achieve in Kerala

Through a Child's Eyes

My New Friend April 15, 2010

Today is Vishu, the Malayalam New Year. Yesterday, the streets were filled with newly- constructed vendor stands selling fruits and vegetables for offerings to the gods and special meals. They were also crowded with people, not only budding entrepreneurs, but also consumers eager to make their last-minute purchases before the celebrations officially began. The shops, too, were filled with people- even more than on a usual weekday night when after tea, many family members travel downtown to make purchases of food, clothing and other necessities before their late dinner. Amid the press of the people and the honking of the horns was a new sound, repetitive pops, like machine gun fire. The children had begun lighting their “crackers” early.

Shweta, my new 11-year-old friend, invited me to light crackers with her. Her father is out of town on business, so we women gathered to watch her, assisted by our ever-faithful driver Charles, as she carefully chose one after another combustible device to impress and delight me. First were the sparklers, similar to those in the States except for the matchstick handles on one variety. Then came the snakes, whose original form is an irregularly shaped pellet, not the miniature hockey puck variety I recalled from my days as a young pyrotechnical artist. Next were the fountains, shooting their blinding magnesium high into the trees above our heads, and followed by the spinners, equally impressive as they forced us spectators to scoot out of their random paths. And finally, the rope sparklers that Shweta swung around as they burned, sparking my fear that her long scarf would catch fire. Faithful Charles held it for her while keeping a close eye on her activities and then having some cracker fun of his own when she became bored with the rope.

If Shweta was disappointed to have to wait on her father’s return to light the bottle rockets and firecrackers, she didn’t show it. It was enough to have a new audience with a camera to share in her delight at ushering in the New Year.

Shweta, at 11, has been a delightful companion on our non-school-day outings. Earlier in the day, we drove for a couple of hours to visit a cousin in Ottapalum, the place where her mother was born and where the family still maintains extensive land holdings. We chatted along the way about our favorite movies and music. She told me how the students in the choir at school had modified the lyrics of a popular song from a Malayala film to perform for my sending off assembly and then sang a bit of the new version. But, too shy, she begged off reciting her rendition of “Anabel Lee” for the upcoming school competition.

Once we arrived and the tour of the home began, Shweta, bursting with energy that needed an outlet, led the way up the stairs and through door after locked door, abandoned since the owners’ children had married and moved away. Her mother declined the climb one more flight into the locked garret, teasing that rats probably lived there, but only a small lizard formerly content on the wall scurried away when confronted by daylight.

Outside, Shweta continued her scavenger hunt, finding a ripe jackfruit and coconuts to take back home from the countryside residence. As her mother reminisced about spending childhood days swimming in the man-made, stone-lined pond, and frolicking on the parapet that surrounded the house with her cousins during summer vacation, Shweta brought us tamarind, a long pod with sour fruit inside, and poked around the formerly cultivated garden.

Back inside, we enjoyed a delicious lunch of fried prawns, wet salad, chappati (like a grilled flour tortilla) and biriyani (chicken pilaf), payasam (runny rice pudding), and then it was time to sit and rest a bit.

As the adults visited in another room, Shweta and I ate bowls of butterscotch “ice creams” and talked about wedding rings, sports, and our favorite gems. Then, Maya announced that the fruits from the garden had been loaded into the car, so we were off again, winding further into the remote interior through small villages to the ancestral homestead of the family.

On this leg of the journey, my young friend began to get tired. Her long legs cannot stand much inactivity, and they were cramped into the front seat of the red compact Hyundai. Shweta began reading the signs on the roadside and practicing her English, which is quite good, punctuated with short phrases to her mother in Malayalam. After a half hour or so, by catching a few of the anglicized words and her tone, I could tell Shweta was becoming bored with our travel.

Soon, though, as we passed the rubber plantations and the roads became narrower and unpaved, our curiosity increased. Turning onto a tiny rust-colored dirt road, Charles inched the car along until we turned in through a gate and stopped. We had arrived at the ancestral home of Maya’s family, where a group of yet more cousins greeted us. We stood before an enormous blue structure, resembling a huge three-story house but as big as a barn. Behind it was the family’s temple, still used in the mornings and evenings. I could tell that Shweta couldn’t wait to go inside, but she politely waited.

A man removed the padlock and opened the double doors to reveal a long hallway. As is the custom, we removed our sandals and pressed ahead to a long room with a low ceiling. In one corner, a makeshift stage had been created, and the massive beams above had been decorated with white fringed paper streamers left over from a wedding. The female cousin, a university English teacher, indicated that we might go downstairs, so Shweta was off to the old-style kitchen with its slatted walls for ventilation and pit-style burners still in use when the extended family of over 400 members gathers.

On our way out, our hostess tried to open the short double doors high on the wall to reveal the access to the well outside. Maya quickly summoned Shweta to lift the wooden latch, as she was the only one tall enough to reach it. A quick peek into the deep well, and then she raced off to continue her exploration. Back on the main level, my young friend encouraged me to mount the ladder-stairs to go into the attic, and once I had agreed, we both scampered up the ladder to see what surprises awaited us. Disappointed that the vast space held only a few old chairs and a dirt floor, Shweta was back down the ladder in an instant, leaving me to carefully pick my way back down to the first floor.

Outside, it was a short walk down several sets of rust-colored steps and through the gate to the two old homes, part of fifteen homes in the compound. Our English teacher hostess had prepared jalebi, a piped sugary treat and lemon and ginger water for an afternoon snack. Finished, we skipped along the block stepping stones placed to protect the feet from the monsoon rains to get to the adjacent older home. Inside the second room, Shweta dared to sit on the hanging bed with me, after the old grandmother had been roused so that we might tour her 100-year-old residence.

Back outside and through the courtyard gate on the path, our walk down several flights of steps to the enormous pond delighted energetic Shweta. She searched the trees for signs of the little monkey pests that now torment the landowners with their quest for food and pointed out the little thieves shaking the limbs high in the trees above, mocking us as we made our way down the steep steps.

At the bottom of the hill, Shweta and I eagerly entered the temple-like structure built into the hillside and discovered a bathhouse that opened onto a stone-lined pond. It seems that in times of famine, the royal family who had lived in the oldest house, now razed, had employed the villagers in making the pond and bathhouse to keep them from starving. The cool water was inviting, but it was time for us to head home. With the assistance of a 12th Standard cousin, Charles had maneuvered the car down the hill and was ready to take us back to Palakkad, sparing us the climb back up the hillside.

As the car wound its way back through the villages, Shweta and I talked about Mountain Dew and Hannah Montana and mascara. We talked about freckled skin and sun-bleached hair and why having a fair complexion isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. When we saw the teenagers setting off their crackers, our conversation turned to the events planned for the evening, and which crackers were the best and why. Soon, we were back in the city, and I was dropped off at my new home, Indraprastha Hotel, to take rest before Charles would come pick me up again at 7:30 and our New Year’s Eve cracker party would begin.

It was fun being a kid again for a day. What joys I would have missed without the company and perspective of my new friend Shweta.

Questions Best Not Asked

Wednesday, April 14, 2010

Indraprastha Hotel, Palakkad, India

Dear kids,

I know you will find this hard to believe, especially coming from me, the one who constantly assaults you with a barrage of questions about everything from why your trigonometry homework grade is a zero to where you are headed in the future to your opinion about George Orwell’s 1984.

But the truth is, there really are questions best not asked. Especially in India, I think.

Here is my list:

Why do the armed guards poke metal detectors in the plants at the Indira Gandhi International Airport Domestic Shuttle waiting lounge at 2 AM?
What is the material that comprises the runway of the Mumbai airport? Why does it feel as if we landed on a washed-out gravel road in northern Delaware County, Indiana?

Why there are mothballs in the sink at the Indraprastha Hotel?

What doesn’t the glass door to the balcony in my hotel room close completely at the bottom?

Are the three-inch lizards afraid of people- especially people who are sleeping somewhat soundly?

How many people per month are killed in auto accidents because no one follows the rules of the road? Wait…there are no rules of the road. Why are there no rules of the road? And why aren’t there any lines for lanes and few traffic lights, at least in Palakkad and neighboring areas, and no stop signs? How many people would be killed annually if there were no horns on vehicles?

These are the biggies.

Then, I have also come to realize, probably much to your benefit, that there are also other questions that are simply not polite to ask. Such as the following:
What do the men of Kerala wear underneath their skirts?

What exactly is the purpose of having the plastic 4-cup measuring cup in the restrooms in relation to the huge bucket that is also present? I think I know what is usually done with the small measuring cup, but it is the bucket that perplexes me.

Why is there a predominance of sinks in restaurants for washing the hands, but rarely soap and towels?

And finally, there is the list of questions that with a little bit of pondering, I can figure out without having to confirm my ignorance to anyone else:

Why does no one ever need to take a potty break while driving or shopping?
There is simply no liquid left in the body after a day’s work to need to use a toilet. It has all been excreted through the pores.

How do the mosquitoes get so big?
There is never any cold snap from winter to kill them, so they keep feeding on all the blood of the humans nearby to grow and grow and grow.

Why are the students so eager to greet me, talk with me, and get my autograph? I have noticed that the television programs imported from the US tend to feature the most negative aspects of American culture that seem enticing to young people. They feature ridiculously sleazy scenarios depicting high school students and adults who live in a fantasy world, not the reality of everyday American life. Initially, I probably represent that culture to the kids.

Why do Indian schools with their formal, and, some might say, outdated pedagogy and facilities produce higher achieving graduates with superior language skills and retention of cognitive information than American schools do? I suspect that most Indian students know that their ticket to success is based on their academic achievements. They also know that they are lucky to be able to receive an education, as not all Indian children currently do. A free and compulsory education is becoming a right in India, but the sad reality is that it is not a right that all children are able to exercise due to lack of good teachers and schools. The streets are filled with people who have no education and, thus, no hope of future success.

So, I have come to realize that I may need to temper my questioning practices. Probably the rule at home should also be the rule when in polite company in a new culture. After all, it is probably more important to treat the ones I love with the same courtesy and respect that I employ with strangers, rather than less. I promise to work on it.

In the meantime, have you started working on that speech for next week?

Love, Mom

Capturing Kerala

Capturing Kerala

Kendriya Vidyalya Kanjikode

Kendriya Vidyalya Kanjikode- a video about the school that hosted me in Palakkad, India.

Getting from Here to There in One Piece

Wednesday, April 15, 2010

Okay, so one of my students assured me two weeks ago that she couldn’t find anything about transportation in India for her I-Search report. Why do I find that hard to believe?

Conveyance is everywhere in India. People are moving constantly. Of course, everyone moves on foot to some degree, and people in India have some unusual manners of moving: A few women balance items on their heads, coiled fabric cushioning their burdens to or from local markets Others dutifully scurry behind stern-faced mothers-in-law. The manner in which men walk interests me: Many of the men who wear the traditional Kerala skirt unconsciously grasp the corners of their skirts tied securely to their waists, and pull them higher- probably to allow some air to circulate beneath. Women don’t do that – they must have better ventilation systems. Anyway, many men seem to be particularly fond of tying, retying and flapping the long corners of their lower garments as they move along the streets.

A faster way to move through the crowded street, and one that predominates the roads is by motorized two-wheelers. Motorcycles and scooters are everywhere. I understand that safety is important to the Indian “gumnt” as my friend calls it, so helmets are compulsory in India. Few citizens seem to have gotten the word. At least many times the driver sports a shiny black helmet, but rarely do I see the women perched sidesaddle behind wearing one. And I have never seen the small children sandwiched between Mom and Pop wearing headgear. They are just hanging on for dear life.

Speaking of…..autorickshaws are a slightly safer way to get from one place to another fast. These three-wheeled contraptions are the mice of India, squeezing their way through the tiniest opening in oncoming traffic, beep-beeping their presence and asserting themselves like kings of the road.

The cars are really the kings, though. Autos here tend to be new and small. The roads are filled mostly with Suzukis and Ambassadors. What a contrast: The tiny, shiny Suzukis are crammed with people and move surprisingly fast for their size and eensy weensy wheels, unless they are straining their four-cylinder engines to climb a hill. The Ambassadors, on the other hand, lumber along like the bathtubs on wheels from the 1940’s. Seeing one in pale green or white is all that keeps me from believing I have entered an old TCM film. The few SUVs on the roads dominate the highways. Most vehicles yield quickly for these high-sitting and high-fallutin behemoths.

Bigger yet and more intimidating are the lorries, or trucks, that press their way into the traffic scene. Colorfully painted, some with flowers and other motifs, these trucks are the key to commerce in India. Filled with jackfruit from local farmers headed to the big cities or crammed with formerly wandering cattle gathered and headed for the slaughterhouse, these giant vehicles lumber along the streets and highways, constantly being skirted by the faster, smaller vehicles competing for every inch of the road.

The buses are the most competitive of all the vehicles, though. Local buses compete with government buses and bus companies. The system is a bit confusing to the newcomer, but all drivers share a common goal: Make money. Paid by the hour and by the number of passengers, bus drivers strive to reach their destinations even a minute or two earlier, so they can attract more passengers than their competitors. Free enterprise/ supply and demand is present and mostly healthy on the roads of Kerala. Passengers hang out the windows, probably to get a waft of fresh air

While many Indians us buses for their daily commutes, I understand that trains are depended upon by most working-class people. It is nothing for government employees to be re-stationed in cities distant from their families, so the faster conveyance of government rail service is vital to those who wish to visit their families on weekends or commute to work daily. I have seen evidence of rail service, six or eight tracks side by side underneath a bridge we are crossing, but few trains themselves. The two I have seen have had faded green or red paint and that rounded, bulbous shape reminiscent of the 1940’s. They sway from side to side as they make their way to the next station- no bullet trains here.

By far, the best way to travel is not by train or auto rickshaw, but by auto with a driver. My host does not drive, and who could blame her? If a driver could possible determine where to aim the auto in a roadway system without lane markers, the bigger problem would be one of assertion and risk. It takes a brave man to penetrate the vehicular fray. It also takes a fearless thumb, one that is willing, even eager, to use the horn at least twice per block.

That is not to say that it takes a cowardly heart to be a passenger. Anyone who enters into the streets of India by nature is either very brave … or very stupid. I suspect the stupid ones do not live to tell about their attempt. A wise passenger quickly develops a small arsenal of coping devices, such as small gasps or firm grips on the seat cushion, abandoning any comment or even shaking of the head in amazement, as these reactions would simply be too exhausting or frightening to keep up throughout a ten-minute ride. Experience has shown me that the best coping mechanism is to engage in interesting conversation or to read a newspaper- this best when in a large city, as these actions will completely engross one and keep the perils at bay, at least in one’s head.

Over the past ten days, we have had three different drivers, all of whom were exceedingly competent, avoiding numerous near impacts and a few harrowingly close calls. Each of them wants to continue his education, knowing that being a driver is one of the best occupations achievable without that Standard X diploma and proficiency in English. I am grateful for their proficiency in navigating the roads of India. Without their highly developed spatial intelligence and expertise in intuiting the rules of the road, Rugmini and I would be completely dead in the water.

What a shopping experience last night!

Rugmini is intent on finding me a saree to wear to school on my last day at Kendriya Vidyalya Kanjikode- her school. So we headed to the textile store in the heart of the old town. Ready-made clothing is this place’s specialty.

First, the conveyance: auto rickshaw. These are essentially nothing more than covered scooters equipped with a back seat that holds three Indians comfortably or two Indians and an American tightly. Add packages, and it’s a very comfy arrangement.

But it’s the ride that is the best- or worst- part. Not designed for the faint of heart, this little bug beats walking in the heat but is a full-fledged nuisance. Pedestrians beware! These little critters are everywhere, beeping their sneaky little presence and weaving in and out among walkers, buses and the small autos that compete for every square inch of road. I have figured out that drivers use the left side of the road, but that is the only law I can discern.

We arrived at the store, an upscale kind of place with custom order fabrics on the main level, so we immediately headed to the elevator. Upstairs, one look at me, and the size 0 clerks politely pointed to the next floor up, and then down, as each salesgirl considered what size I might possibly take. Finally, I put an end to their mystification and began to select garments for my students to wear at the Asian Fair. We chose several cotton tops on level three and then took the elevator down to the second floor to choose the pants to coordinate. Eleven-year-old Shweta says the tight leggings are the coolest, so we asked about those, but this store does not handle them. Now, we were off to find a saree.

Rugmini told me when I first arrived that she owned more than 200 sarees, so I should not have been surprised, I suppose, to find every color imaginable, and all with seemingly different prints. Eager to make the sale, two young salesclerks began pulling out color after color of synthetic fabric. How to decide? I knew that I wanted a color that I would enjoy wearing, so that put the rusts and greens easily out of competition. Between Rugmini’s groans and Shweta’s turned up nose, I could tell which ones were not even to be considered. Fuddy duddy-ish must be a universal trait: I agreed with their estimation at first glance, too. Anyway, the dark blues and reds were more my inclination, so we found a lovely print with subtle sequin embellishment and decided on it. It was synthetic, but I brushed that concern aside, reasoning that style is much more important that practicality. Besides, I won’t have to iron a synthetic one, as I would one made of cotton. Dozens of sarees lay scattered across the racks and counters, evidence of my finicky nature and the salesgirls’ eagerness to please.

Then what to do about the blouse. Saree fabric comes with about an extra ¾ yard unprinted to use to make the blouse that goes underneath. You know, the one that is very tight-fitting and shows the belly, the one I would just as soon never be caught dead in.

Well, I know a universal expression of doubt when I see one, and I saw several on the faces of the girls in the shop as they all discussed the blouse situation with Rugmini in their mother tongue.

Off again to the main level, where we would select matching fabric for the blouse and an underskirt that would be custom –made by a tailor. At least I had read about this possibility for Americans who want Indian clothing but do not comply with the sizes available. So it wasn’t as if I were the only person so large that a tailor had to be called in, right?

Next, the best news of the entire trip: Tomorrow I would be measured by the tailor for the blouse. We will return to the store, and he, I presume, will begin to make the blouse for me.

At this point, I was ready to give up all dignity, cut my loss of pride, and just accept that the humiliation would continue. There was no way out.

But wait a minute, I thought. With all the embarrassment and self consciousness of the shopping trip and the fun of the measuring yet to come from the tailor, why not just make the most of it? I decided to ask the tailor to make me a salwar-kimeez (pantsuit) as well. Now there’s something I could wear without exposing too much.

Exhausted from the decision making, we were off to have a fashionably late Indian dinner at Shweta’s favorite fried chicken fast food joint… Big Chick.

No kidding.

So Different and Yet...

Friday, April 8, 2010. 3:30 AM

Rugmini says I have been here before. In a previous lifetime.

She said it the first day when I told her the heat felt good after the coolness of our Indiana springtime. The next morning at breakfast, she repeated her observation, saying that I am adapting too well to the food to have not been to Kerala before.

It’s true that I don’t seem to mind the spices and the chutneys and the rice. The eating with the hands, I can manage well, as long as it isn’t just rice. Too messy. The bean dishes tend to be another thing, subject to seasoning. But overall, the food has been no problem. It’s even been uplifting in a roundabout way.

There was something mysteriously captivating about waiting for my host under the sprawling Banyan tree outside the hotel restaurant hut two days ago. I sat on the concrete circle surrounding the giant tree and watched as early morning Palakkad came to life. And then it hit me: A waft of strong sandalwood.

Suddenly, I was in an ethereal moment with no time or sense of place. I paused, conscious of being transported from concrete and heat to some other place. Even with the sounds of buses honking and the beep beeeeeeep of the ultra compact cars and scooters, I was somewhere else, waiting, floating, quietly while a lone waiter nervously hovered outside the restaurant door debating whether to invite me to come inside to eat breakfast.

Sandalwood has always affected me that way. At the 10,000 Villages stores, I am pulled to the sandalwood section and just stand completely captivated, inhaling the fragrance. I have been known to purchase a bar of soap to open from its package and set by my bedside to smell during the night until its fragrance has been completely sniffed away.

And now, I am in India, where the smell of sandalwood and limegrass seem to linger in the air everywhere.

Funny, how it doesn’t seem as if I am really here, someplace so different. After getting into the small SUV taxi at Coimbatore airport, I was reminded of being in the Caribbean. The tall coconut palms and the pastel houses reminded me of our harrowing ride up and down the mountains of St. Thomas. The constant honking of the horns took me back to driving a rental car with Jerry in Puerto Rico, and the sellers on the edge of the road only differed in their tropical fruit wares from those hawking t-shirts or hot dogs in New York.

My first venture into Palakkad was Tuesday evening after resting. It was becoming dark and Shweta, Rugmini and I talked more than looked as we wandered through the gardens of . By the time that I was able to take in the surroundings by daylight, I suppose I had already accustomed myself to what some might call squalor. My eyes were looking past the rags, paper and garbage scattered everywhere on the sides of roads and even on the leaf-topped houses. Past the bamboo scaffolded buildings with only half a roof. Past the wandering cows and the occasional elephant. Past the goats tethered to the edge of the road. Past the throngs of people walking or just standing. When possible, past the mass of vehicles that compete for space on the narrow and bumpy roads. My gaze was focused on the shops and on the people working inside. On their colorful clothing: Men in skirts, long and short, tugging them, retying them, hiking them up, and adjusting them to get into a autorickshaw the way women do to climb on a bus in the US. I noticed the variety of sarees, their colors and fabrics, the more wealthy women with the extra scarf training behind or pinned onto the front, modestly concealing their bosoms and arms, while their brown bellies peak out from underneath their fabric swaths.

My impressions are immediately more personal with the Indian teachers. Even though the women are clad with wispy draping cloths in glorious color combinations that leap out and shout admire me, it is their eyes that hold my stare. They are kind and generous and eager to help me fit in and feel comfortable, regardless of their gender. And my smiles, always broadly returned.

After the formalities of meeting, the tiny second-floor classrooms feel so right. I notice the peeling paint, the small, faded green chalkboard that every teacher throughout the day has written on, the worn and carved-on long benches and tables that the children are squeezed into, the lack of paper, and how no one takes notes. But the whirling ceiling fan high above removes the heat, and the breeze from the latticed window pulls through the classroom to make it manageable- even comfortable. The voices of the students chime together to fill in the almost imperceptible pause of the teacher during her lecture. They are so eager to learn, to demonstrate their knowledge.

I am captivated by the children, so polite and generous and attentive, especially for being one of 53 sitting in a classroom half the size of mine. They rise when I am introduced. “Good morning, Madam.” As I speak to them about my students and world, I walk up the only aisle, trying to make eye contact with as many as possible to notice their individuality. Each is so uniquely featured. I wonder about their heritage. A few stand out- those who bravely rise and venture a question in thickly-accented British English. They want to know about exams and punishments and what Americans do for fun. But mostly, they want to be acknowledged and praised and supported, as all kids do. It must be hard to stand out in such small space. Afterward half of them advance upon me shoving autograph books and pens in my face. At age fifty, I am an unlikely rock star.

At this point, three full days, and one long night, into my Indian Adventure, the culture shock has been minimal- limited mostly to sleep issues and toilets, and I have Jerry to thank for being able to manage them with his provision of pocket tissue packages. Adapting has felt natural, comfortable, certainly inspiring.

Maybe Rugmini is right. I have been here before: If not in another lifetime, at least in my dreams.

My Adventure Continues

Due to limited Internet availability, I was unable to blog during my trip but wrote a bit and posted some photos on Buzz.

Now that I have returned and life is settling back into a routine, I will be posting a variety of pieces that I wrote during my trip or shortly afterward.

Time flies....again

Time flies, they say.

I think that is true only in certain situations.

For example, when I am sitting in a boring lecture learning nothing new, time doesn't fly. Or when I am awaiting news about important events...say, like college notification of acceptances or scholarships. Then time definitely doesn't fly; it crashes and dies a slow, torturous death as I helplesslywatch.

It is really only in two circumstances for me that time flies; And I am in them both right now.

Time always flies when I have a deadline.

I am under a deadline for my professional development to be submitted to the organization that sponsors the TEA program. The final electronic draft is due on Friday. Having received my itinerary last week, I know now what I am expected to present beginning April 7 in India. And I have been letting my ideas percolate, which is always my first, most time-consuming, and most important step in preparing anything. But time is evaporating while my custom brew percolates.

It's not that I find so many other things to pull me away from the task at hand.

Well.... maybe it is. I do have several other projects going right now. The thought of spending the summer biking and reading by the pool has bewitched me more than once in the past two weeks, as I dream of having absolutely nothing to do for a couple of months. And here I sit blogging instead of transferring all those great professional development notes I generated last night at dinner from the paper placemat onto Word documents.

But mostly, it's because I find too many projects that compel me, that sweep me into their clutches like that great roc that snatches the sailors in The Arabian Nights and carries them off to their doom.

That's my other circumstance where time flies, like the roc- when I am over extended with projects. And I am... way over extended...now.

No need to list all the projects pressing upon me- besides they are all of my own doing, so listing them would only reinforce my own foolishness for having taken them on to begin with. But making a list is how I manage. So at least I should make a list of the pressing tasks as they relate to India.

Last doctor visit schedules - one more shot for Hepatitis (Is it A or C?) and Rx for malaria pills; also a list of all the
medications and over-the-counter supplements I take, so I won't be sent home upon arrival.

Professional development outlines made -PRIORITY!

PPT pictures of Indiana sites and school activities, people, places to share with Indian students.

Workouts every day, so I will feel good about trying on the saris.

Read, read, read about India. I cannot go with so little background knowledge. I want to know more, so I can
appreciate the history and culture I see.

Some plan made for Asian Fair which will happen upon my return.

Lesson plans for when I am gone.

Sub?

Clothing to take.

So, there. I think I feel better. Lists have that power over me.

I haven't made time stop, but at least while time flies, I can be riding on its wing, my lengthy list fluttering from my hand behind me, a book about India in the other.

In four weeks, I will be in Kerala!

Hindi scares me

What was your first word?

Of course, you don't remember, but maybe your mom does. Or your dad, especially if it was "Da Da."

My oldest child's first word was "Ah-ee." Luckily, I knew that this two-syllable utterance actually had a meaning. Otherwise, I might have missed this watershed baby book moment. She was referring to Octi, her favorite cuddly toy, a crocheted octopus hand made by a clever aunt.

Once she started talking, we quickly changed her name to Miss Verbose. Today, twenty-five years later, she is fluent in two foreign languages and another regional dialect. She can even pick out words and phrases in two additional languages. You can tell that I am proud of her linguistic achievements.

Then there is my son. The one who took college Latin as a junior in high school and now takes Russian as a senior. Russian, for heaven's sake, with its Cyrillic alphabet and cold, guttural sounds.

I'd like to think I can take some credit for their proclivity for language acquisition. But I'm afraid it isn't so.

This week I listened to Chapter One of my new How to Learn Hindi CD. I'm afraid it's going to be hopeless.

First of all, I was told to pronounce the vowels. That was okay, even a little fun to try to make unusual sounds. I succeeded in giving a fairly decent imitation, so pleased with myself, I advanced to the vowels with nasal intonation. This required careful listening and a couple of tries each to pronounce, but they were still manageable, even at 40 miles per hour as I drove home from school.

It was the consonants that came next that put me over the edge. All fifty of them, or so it seemed.

A pretty good mimic, I have managed to learn several mostly useless travel phrases in Japanese and German in the past few years. I can parrot the Pimsler sounds and string together a decent "Where is Shinjuku Avenue" with the best of them. But Hindi is not Japanese. The consonants in Hindi all sound the same to me.

And this is only part one of Chapter One.

The whole point of getting the CD was so my students could learn some phrases to use in their video narration to send to their Indian pen pals. If I cannot even get past the preview of Chapter One, how can I inspire them to learn Hindi? And how will I ever handle the written language? Have you ever seen Hindi? To me, it looks like the intricate scrollwork on a piece of Mexican silver jewelry. Of course, it isn't. Those beautiful squiggles are letters and words. Words to be deciphered. Words that have meaning... like where is the restroom- a phrase I definitely will need to know.

Having a Brazilian exchange student to talk with every night is probably not helping my self-confidence in the Hindi department. Tulio is so fluent: His diction and syntax makes it clear that he has tremendous motivation and natural ability. My thirty-year-old, present-tense-only college Spanish- a long way from Portuguese, I am realizing- is nothing compared to his command of my native language.

He reminds me every day of how inept my foreign language acquisition skills are.

The Hindi project is definitely a work in progress.