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.

The exams have been administered. The last student has gone home with the knowledge that he will have to wait a few more days before he knows if he passed semester one of English 10.

A tall stack awaits me, and it's not IHOP chocolate chip pancakes. I am killing time before tackling that pile of Writing Workshop assignments, so the enjoyable part of Christmas break can begin.

Here at our house, we are nearly ready for the festivities. In the last few days, we have finished decorating the three trees and wrapping the carefully chosen gifts. John has made the fudge Grandpa requested in lieu of a store-bought gift. We have even squeezed in some research and discussion about hosting an exchange student during second semester.

True, there are two gifts left to buy, but I know what they will be and where to get them. I am still waiting for the last book order to arrive. And the seven boxes of decorations - minus some outdated ones that went to Goodwill yesterday- still crowd the living room waiting for someone to hoist them back into the garage attic.

Yesterday morning's trip down McGalliard sparked some ugly thoughts about this yuletide season. Horns honking, traffic backed up like we were on 98 in Panama City on spring break, people pushing and grabbing one of a kind objects - me included- made me wax philosophical while waiting, yet again, for a green light. What is it about this religious/secular celebration that brings out the egocentrism of its celebrants?

I wonder what the Indian students know about our Christmas holiday season. There is so much that is ugly amidst the brightness. Do they get the satire of National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation ? Do they understand that we know there is both tacky and tasteful when it comes to covering our houses with electrified ornamentation? Are they touched by Scrooge's transformation when the Spirit of Christmas Future points its bony finger? Can they hear God's voice in Handel's Messiah ? I wonder.

I am curious to know what beliefs or customs, if any, change Indians from generally respectful, generous, intelligent people into hoarding, self-centered nuts, driven to behave in uncharitable ways.

Is it only we Americans who behave so ignobly during our season of peace on Earth, good will toward men? Or is this sadly a universal trait?

I guess I need to make time to do some research over this break. But first, the papers...

How quickly the fire of culture spreads!

Once the idea of an academic exchange had began and the word began to spread among my colleagues, several teachers have been eager to jump onboard.

Two science teachers in my building have joined a Google Group with Madame Vinoda and her classes in India who are researching global warming and agriculture. The plan is that the various groups will post their research on the group site and then be able to share their work with students on the other side of the world. Amazing technology! Amazing teachers!

In another development, one of my Indiana Writing Project colleagues from last summer has jumped on board the research project with me. Her school has similar demographics as mine, and as retired military, she is interested in cultivating the cultural experiences of her students, as I am. She and I worked together to develop a cultural sensitivity research project that reflects how personal experiences through writing may change the attitudes of our students.

In fact, she and I also wrote Robert P. Bell Education Grant proposals and were funded for the supplies that we will use with this project. Many thanks to the Delaware County Community Foundation and the Bell Grant Committee for providing our students with the means to learn to write and speak some Hindi and to send old- fashioned, tangible correspondence to our new penpals.

The exchange of knowledge and attitudes burns brightly!