Going Postal: Two Sides of the Same Stamp

While there are many ways you can learn about a different culture, i.e. studying history and art books, religious and philosophical texts, or current newspapers, the best way to discover what makes a nation tick is to interact with it in a most commonplace way. Receiving and sending mail is almost a crystal clear model for how life often works in India.

We’ve been fortunate enough to receive a few cards and care packages (sent to 1428 Sector 34-C Top Floor Chandigarh 160022 INDIA) from friends and family over the last two months. Each time the mail man comes to deliver a package, he rings our buzzer, walks up our stairs with package in hand, smilingly points to the “Estimated value in US Dollars” number scribbled on the package and demands that much moolah in Rupees. At first I thought it was a simple misunderstanding, and since I couldn’t explain to him in Hindi that the postage had ALREADY been paid, I pulled out a 10 Rupee note and exchanged it for our package. I thought maybe I was unaware of a “hand delivery” charge for the postman.

A second package arrived a week or so later. Same buzz, same postman, same smilingly pointing to the “Estimated value in US Dollars”, and same demanding of postage. That time it was for 25 Rupees. My two thoughts were – ONE: Get the landlord to help interpret this situation and TWO: Have friends and family write negative numbers on the packages to see if he pays me. I did neither and paid the Rs. 25.

We finally asked our neighbor if charging extra for packages was common practice in India. She said no. After a few phone calls to the post office, we learned this guy was simply scamming us naïve Americans, albeit smilingly. This is one part of this culture we’re not quite used to yet – being constantly “misinformed” about the actual prices of things because we look like easy targets. Unfortunately, rickshaw drivers, market vendors, and now postmen are all on our “Guys To Be Suspicious Of” list (stalkers are still at the top.)

But this is not true of ALL postmen in India…


Today I frequented our local sector post office to mail a birthday card and package. Since this is only a drop-off point, I never see the postman who comes to our apartment there. As the English-speaking employees were apparently on a lunch break, the Hindi speaking man invited me in to sit while I thought he would mail my posts. After 20 minutes of sitting next to him (relishing the fact that I’d be arrested for this in the US), smiling stupidly, kindly refusing tea, and socializing with the other waiting customers, I wondered when he was going to get around to mailing them.


When Sunita (the post woman who knew English) arrived, she chatted with me as she weighed my package and looked at her worn handwritten postage chart about 10 times. She eventually found the 8 stamps I needed and was nice enough to actually put them on for me. Since stamps don’t come with adhesive, this involves wiping glue on your finger, smearing it on the back of the stamps and sticking them on the envelope.

As opposed to dealing with the suspicious delivery postman, the whole experience inside the post office was quite relaxed, pleasantly social and a little sticky – just like India itself. It just goes to show that you can't judge a book by its cover. . . or a country by its postmen.

Jimmy

Eating in Hindi

Over the last 2 months in India, we’ve had the pleasure of being dinner guests at a number of distinguished places. Fancy restaurants, cozy homes, hotel reception halls, and outdoor venues have all fed our curious appetites and inquiring minds. Whether it’s been eating with foreign dignitaries, fellow teachers or random people we’ve just met, I’ve learned that it’s important to approach every dinner occasion with an attitude of openness, caution and preparedness.


Here’s what I mean. Typically we’ve been invited to the homes of other teachers for a home cooked meal. If they say dinner is at 8pm, what they really mean is that, after chatting, drinking juice and snacking, we’ll sit down to eat at around 10 or 10:30pm. The socializing here comes before the meal. After explaining what each dish is, they’ll always load our plates first and will rarely start eating until we’ve started chowing down. Even if your cheeks are so full of lentils and chicken that it’s leaking out, your host will probably kindly accuse you of not eating enough and proceed to pile more food on your plate - of which you can’t possibly eat because you’ve already had 3 helpings and you’re about to fall asleep. Then comes dessert - often in the form of something squishy and somehow sweeter than sugar itself.


To get the most out of an Indian dinner experience, here are a few things I’ve learned to do:
1. You MUST take a nap before your dinner engagement. Plan on getting home after 11pm even on school nights.
2. Remember it’s OK to eat with your hands. It’s preferred if you use the CHAPATI, PARATHA, PURI, ROTI OR NAAN (all flat breads) to scoop up your food.
3. Make sure you try a little of everything and learn the names.
4. Ask if you’re drinking filtered or bottled water. American bellies aren’t naturally adjusted to the tap water.
5. NEVER fill your plate with the amount of food you think you’ll eat. ALWAYS take small portions so that by the third serving, you’re eating what you intended and your hosts are pleased that you’ve eaten so much. It also helps to leave a little food on your plate to signify that you’re full.
6. Use a few phrases from your limited Hindi vocabulary to break the ice and surprise your hosts.
“Svadhe!” = Tasty!
“Bahut bahut shukriya!” = Thank you very, very much!
“Bate bargaya!” = My belly is full! (A guaranteed hit with your hosts.)
7. Warn your host that you “don’t have a sweet tooth” and are aware that most Indian desserts are very sweet. This lets you off the hook when you can’t finish your RASGULLA (sugar saturated boiled cheese balls).

Honestly, we love Indian food. Especially home cooked meals. Here are some of our favorite dishes we hope to fix for some of you when we return:
• Rajma – stewed kidney beans with garlic, ginger, tomato, onion and masala
• Dal makni – lentils, rajma, butter AND cream in yummy stuff
• Garlic naan – garlic flavored flat bread baked in a tandoori clay oven
• Baigan bartha – roasted eggplant extraordinaire

While some say love is the international language, I’m pretty sure its food. At least that’s what my gut’s been telling me.

Jimmy

Homecoming, Sort of

Our school is in the midst of its Annual Function days right now. The homecoming isn’t for alumni, necessarily, but sort of for Ram. After his defeat of Ravana, he took a long journey home, and his arrival will be celebrated next week with Diwali, India’s biggest festival.

The atmosphere at the Bhavan right now is a lot like homecoming at my school in Washington. Lots of interruptions in the teaching day, a complete lack of concentration, and strange interclass competitions. Although I’d have to say that the traditions practiced here make a little more sense than electing a queen, engaging in eating contests, or having the faculty at school embarrass themselves in a lip synch.

One of those traditions is a Mehendi competition. Mehendi is an ancient practice that used to be associated with bridal preparations. Henna leaves are ground into a paste that is used to dye the skin. It’s applied through little sacs—sort of like icing bags for Christmas cookies. So yesterday I gathered with a group of 30 or so girls all representing their classes and allowed Taruvi, one of my 11th Commerce students, to use my hand as her canvas.


I have students at home who routinely steal my sharpies to write on their arms and hands in some outpouring of creative countercultural expression. I really never cared what they did, but I was often a little annoyed that I couldn’t find my markers at the end of the day. But who knew they were actually putting a new spin on an ancient Indian art form?

The students had one hour to complete their designs, and only had to complete one hand. I had to sit very, very still. Afterwards, there was no high-fiving (for obvious reasons), but there was some trash talking between Shruti and me regarding whose design would win. She may look innocent, but she’s a scrapper.



The Mehendi itself takes a while to dry. And if you really want to the color to deepen you’re supposed to apply a mixture of lemon juice and sugar, keeping it damp for the next 24 hours or so. I of course didn’t have the patience for this, so I instead enjoyed the feeling of picking off a million little scabs as soon as I got home. Incidentally, mine turned out really orange, which according to folk wisdom means my mother in law actually likes me.





While some of us were busy getting our skin stained (it will go away in a couple of weeks), other students were creating Rangoli—or floor art made from colored and dyed grains. Students created these elaborate designs from rice, lentils, and other dry foodstuffs on the floors outside their classrooms. This is also associated with Ram’s return home, and is an important sign of welcome in any Hindu household. It’s also sort of like edible graffiti.



All the festivities will culminate in the performance of two plays this week, and the Diwali celebrations on November 1. Until then, very little formal teaching is happening, but I’m learning a ton.

Jen

To Travel or Not To Travel: That is THE Question

Traveling, by its very nature, is inconvenient. Yanking up those settling roots from home - even if just for a weekend - often requires fierce determination and unparalleled stamina. At least that seems to be the case in India.

By holing up at home, one wouldn’t have to deal with:
• Fellow train riders who pass the hours by listening to potential new cell phone rings tones at full volume.
• The man sitting next to you who is either clearing his throat by coughing up his left lung or practicing his best Gollum impersonation – every 2 minutes.
• Hotel owners who won't let you check in to your reserved room yet because they haven’t quite finished their game of pinochle ON YOUR BED.
• Veggie cutlets . . . cutlets of what exactly?
• Adults running like school children to the front of the line to board a train car they already have reserved tickets for.
• The bombardment of shop keepers who keep offering a “special discount just for you" even after you've said no for the 50th time.
• The high travel-to-sight see ratio of about 8 hours to 1.
• Being approached by random men who want a picture with you because you’re American. Well, actually, just with your beautiful American wife.

Even with these reasons to stay home, there are far more reasons why you SHOULD travel. Here are just a few . . .



Agra fort - built in 1565, remodeled and served as both a palace for Shah Jahan (who built the Taj Mahal) as well as his prison when he was overthrown in 1658. At least he could gaze upon his wife's tomb from his cell window.


Beautiful American tourist - I was lucky to get a picture of her.


Pretty flowers - 400 year old inlay in white marble walls.


The Taj Mahal - Symbol of India built by Shah Jahan for his second wife, Mumtaz Mahal, who died in childbirth in 1631. Taking 22 years and over 20,000 laborers, it's made entirely of white marble, semi-precious stones, and cost the equivalent of $60 million (today) to build. Some laborers had their thumbs amputated to ensure the perfection of the Taj could never be repeated. All for a wife's grave.


The opportunity to kick off your shoes and relax - Done out of reverence for the Islamic tomb and cleanliness for the place, we all got to go barefootin' for a while.


Romantic sunsets - Although we shared it with about 2000 people, the setting sun and the rising full moon were remarkable sights to behold.


Togetherness - Although watching that Scooby Doo episode with Sonny and Cher as special guest stars dubbed in Hindi may seem like quality time, the best moments come when you get to share a new experience with that special someone you'd consider building a monument like the Taj for - though maybe without the tourists.



Jimmy

Ram-O-Rama

So as the weather cools off, festival season in India heats up. Yesterday we enjoyed our first holiday from school in observance of Dushera. Dushera commerorates Rama’s victory over the demon Ravanna after their epic ten day battle. The festival is celebrated for ten days, and each night all over the city, folks gather to watch the Ramlila—a staged reenactment of the story of Ram and Ravana. (You can read about in any one of the translations of The Ramayana.) We attended one a couple of nights ago and, even though it was in Hindi, managed to enjoy most of the story. The highlight was when a worshipper wanted to wash Prince Rama’s feet, and the actor—in a gesture slightly out of tune with his elaborate costume and his standing as a god—bent down and tugged a pair of very modern looking tube socks off his feet. Apparently, he’d been trying to avoid getting splinters from walking around barefoot on the crude stage. Even epic heroes get owies.


But the real fun came tonight with the burning of the effigies of Ravana, his brother and son. The celebration is meant to observe the ultimate victory of good over evil. So the same actors (including the tube-socked hero) paraded around the grounds at the feet of the three giant effigies. Thousands of people were gathered for the fun. The fireworks were loud and colorful—like India herself. Even the little ones were a bit overwhelmed with the noise.


After a lot of speeches--speeches I’m pretty sure no one listened to because we’d all come to see stuff get blown up--the sun set. Apparently, Ravana had a prophecy upon him that he could be killed neither by day or by night. So like all good heroes Rama sought the loophole and waited until sunset (clever, clever, Rama) to make his move and strike the fatal blow in the only place the demon king was vulnerable. That’s right . . . his belly button. I can sympathize—if someone tickles me there I’m almost guaranteed to pee my pants (a fate far worse than death).

So after several people tried to shoot cheesy plastic arrows into the effigies, and they all bounced off, the moment we’d all been waiting for arrived. A torch was tossed at the feet of Ravana’s brother, the flames kicked upward, and moments later the forty foot high figure exploded in a shower of firecrackers, smoke bombs and fire.


There’s definitely something primal about enjoying a good bit of fire-buggery, even if you aren’t the one holding the match. Children cheered and clapped, the heat washed over us like a wave, I couldn’t help but get caught up in the fun. Because they stuff them with hay and other explosives, they burn up so quickly that only moments after the fun begins, there’s nothing but a bamboo skeleton remaining where the giant, evil action figure stood a moment ago.


It’s so much fun they do it twice more, saving the ten-headed Ravana for the big finale. In short, a fitting end to evil-incarnate is a great kickoff to the festival season. We’ll keep you posted on the festivals as they unfold . . . and we promise not to light anything on fire.

Jen

All-Star Cricket

Take me out to the cricket pitch,
Take me out to the crowd,
Buy me samosas and cashew nuts,
I don’t care if the traffic is stuck,
For it’s root, root, root for the Seniors,
What’ going on? Could someone explain?
For its 49.4, 49.5, 50 “overs” and its done at the ole’ cricket game!

Last night I got to fulfill a life-long (ok, month-long) dream of mine to witness a real “major league” Indian cricket match. Our friends Sonny, Vineeta, and daughter, Ayushe, took us to the Punjab Cricket stadium to watch the India Seniors battle it out with the India “B” team. All-star cricket in our own home town.

Sonny’s nephew, Yuvraj Singh, is a professional cricketer for the Seniors and happened to get us into the air conditioned box seats for free. In India, it’s all about who you know.


As I bombarded Sonny with questions about cricket, Jen showed her team spirit by letting Ayushe play with her hair and refraining from yelling things like “swing batta, batta swing!” or accusing the pitcher (bowler rather) of being a belly itcher.


In India, cricket players are like gods. The first batsman for the seniors earns Rs. 10 crore (over $220,000) in endorsements each month for simply putting a new logo on his bat. He barely scored a few runs before he got out.

Yuvraj, on the other hand, was still batting when we left at 9pm and had scored 39 runs so far. A couple hours later, Yuvraj was STILL batting and helped win the game 242-240 with his 99 runs. He was awarded “Man-of-the-Match” and was celebrated for changing the tide of the game. (Seen below.)


I never thought I could get so excited about a game I know so little about. It was an excellent evening.

I think you’d agree that the sportswriter said it best when he wrote, “Yuvraj's attack doesn't come with any half measures and the local crowd erupted in raptures at some sparkling strokeplay.”

At least I think he said it best.

Jimmy

The Aftermath

It's impossible not to grieve with the thousands of families who have lost loved ones, homes and communities because of the recent earthquake in northern Pakistan. (More info.) The death toll keeps climbing as the reports of devastation bombard the news. What was experienced here in Chandigarh as a temporary scare and novelty has left many homeless and dead in Pakistan and India. Thankfully there are many countries and organizations offering assistance in this tragic moment of crisis. One organization that seems to be at the forefront of disaster response, relief, and rebuilding programs, both domestically and internationally, has been WORLD VISION.

I don't believe we're made to sit idly by and simply feel sorry for victims of tsunamis, hurricanes, earthquakes, disease, famine, and oppression in the world. We were made to act - with compassion and wisdom - and affect change. I want to encourage everyone who reads this to find out ways you can help. Food drives, clothes drives, praying, gaining more awareness, going there, and supporting existing relief efforts through financial gifts are all valuable ways to turn sorrow into hope.

Your own connections and research may point you in a different direction, but mine have lead me to getting involved with WORLD VISION. To find out more, check out www.worldvision.org (Also on the sidebar of this page.) Thanks.

"Be the change you are trying to create." Ghandi
"When Jesus landed and saw a great crowd, he had compassion on them and healed their sick." Matthew 14:14

Jimmy

Steady there . . .

Just a few minutes ago I heard the vegetable-man chanting his sing-song list of vegetables in Hindi on the street below as he slowly pedalled his three-wheeler by. I ran down the stairs to catch him out front to buy some much needed aloo, pyaaz, tamatar, sem, and capsicum. As he was bagging my potatoes, I noticed his flat-bed tricycle swaying back and forth as if it had been nudged from the side. My first thought was "a top-heavy cart like that must act like an upside down pendulum on those skinny wheels."

Then came the dizziness. My next thought was "I should have eaten breakfast sooner. It's not the cart, it's me. I'm having trouble keeping my balance..."

Then came the neighbors. All pouring out of their homes with looks of curiosity and panic. As I waved at our downstairs neighbor Veejay, he asked, "Do you feel it?"

"Feel what?"

"The earthquake!"

Then came my understanding.

At 9:25am, an earthquake, believed to have its epicenter in northern Pakistan, shook northern India with a reported Richter scale force of 7.6. Chances are, those in the US probably know more about it than I do at this point.

After buying the rest of my veggies, I raced upstairs to answer a phone call from Jennifer. She called on a mobile from the assembly field of the school, as all the buildings had been evacuated, to say everyone was fine.


She was teaching on the top floor of the school when the earthquake sent them swaying. After their quick evacuation she said, "We could still see the building swaying back and forth for a while once we got out." Thankfully the buildings here more resemble concrete-clad army bunkers than they do architectual abstractions.

We're both safe - though parts of Pakistan and Northern India didn't fare as well. The most recent estimates list 18,000 dead and 40,000 injured. Please pray for these families and communities.
Jimmy

If only teachers got to wear uniforms. . .

You know we’re scraping the bottom of the blog barrel when I resort to writing about fashion. But we’ve had enough questions that I decided it was time to offer a primer on Indian clothing.

The first thing you must know about Indian clothing is that the colors and patterns are as diverse as the place itself. And understatement isn’t really a feature of the clothing. The brighter the better, the more ornate the more lovely. I’ve not yet braved a sari or a bindi, but we’ll be attending several weddings this month and will try my luck wearing those soon.

I am a convert to the Punjabi suit. I’ve got two now, having twice braved the harrowing shopping experience. Its not exactly fun to have half a dozen people trying to get me to buy one thing, and I find that the clothes I liked at home—ones my sisters and girlfriends often described a boring, sloppy, or (gasp) frumpy--don’t really exist here. In order to make the experience as painless as possible, I tend to gravitate toward the ready-made shops where complete outfits are already assembled, and waiting to be altered by the resident tailor. In a parody of that scene from Pretty Woman where Julia Roberts goes into the boutique and all the ladies start trotting out fancy outfits, here a bunch of desperate looking guys pull getups form the racks and lay them out for my inspection. Some are nice. Some are god-awful. Some have beading. Some have sleeves. But they all have three things in common—the salwar, the kurta, and the dupatta.


The salwar is a giant, one-size-fits-all pair of drawsting pants in a light, airy fabric. They are the best article of clothing ever. Breezy in the Indian heat, cotton—sort of like wearing your favorite pear of worn out pajama pants all day under a dress. That dress is called a kurta and it’s usually a pullover number. The length can vary, but they come down at least as far as mid-thigh. And they’re loose as well—no need to suck your stomach in. The look is completed by the dupatta, a long scarf in silk, cotton, or some other flowing fabric, worn across the neck and chest. Originally this was meant for modesty, but now its merely a really cool accessory. Some of my colleagues at work pin the dupatta in place, but I haven’t thought this far ahead in my early morning dash to get ready and catch my ride. Consequently, the dupatta and I enjoy a contentious relationship wherein it slips around my shoulders, ends up completely imbalanced and generally inspires me to view it as a wild animal rather than a fashion accessory. At least it looks cool. And flipping your dupatta back is something akin to flipping your hair—mysterious, feminine, but annoying after a very short while.

As much as I’m enjoying my tentative forays into Indian dress, my coworkers and students are enjoying it more. Today was the first day I wore the new outfit in the picture. At first I actually enjoyed all their nice compliments—some even suggesting that my love for Punjabi food (more on that later) and now the clothing might make the immigration folks doubt my citizenship by the time this adventure is all over. But when probably the 200th person complimented me on my get up, (without even trying to hide their surprise at the fact that I picked it out myself), I began to realize that maybe they weren’t so keen on the new clothes as they were simply happy that I wasn’t wearing the same pair of pants I’d been wearing three or four times a week for the last six weeks. I can’t blame them.

Tambola – “YES!”

“Five and one, kiss and run, fifty-one.”
“Eight and two, Mama and bachu, eighty-two.”
“Time for fun, two and one, twenty-one.”


“YES!” shouted the woman who then stood to her feet. With clipboard in hand, she wove her way through the maze of plastic patio furniture spread evenly on the manicured lawn up to the caller’s table to verify her win. The tall, electric fans standing sentinel along the rows helped move the cooling evening air through the murmuring crowd of retired Army officers and guests. That’s right, it was tambola night. And I was there to win.

We had the pleasure of spending Saturday evening with Mr. & Mrs. Meher and Ibadat (Inderpreet’s parents and daughter) at the Army Officers Club for Tambola and dinner. All week long Jennifer and I were in gleeful expectation of getting to see Inderpreet’s family again and playing a local game here not so unlike BINGO.

Ten rupees will buy you a card of three Tambola blocks and a good twenty minutes of fun. I won’t try to explain all the rules, but if you hear a number you have on your sheet called, you mark it through. A whole line of marked numbers earns you the right to shout, “YES!” and claim your prize of between 50 and 350 rupees depending on reasons of which I still have no clue about.


Other than our hosts, what I found most enjoyable was the way in which the numbers were read over the microphone. Every number had a little nickname or rhyming limerick to accompany it. “Close to heaven, seventy-seven.” “Laurel and Hardy, thirty-one.” I couldn’t help smiling the whole time.

Well, almost the whole time. After the first game, I accompanied Ibadat to the front to purchase more Tambola sheets. As we were heading back to sit down, a very official looking man approached me and informed me that I would have to leave the premise, as I wasn’t observing the proper dress code. Being ignorant of Tambola clothing requirements at the officers club, I had accidentally worn sandals and failed to tuck in my shirt. He ordered me to take him to our hosts in which he was then set keenly straight by kind yet determined Mrs. Meher. Expulsion thwarted! He agreed to let me stay, but said I was prohibited to play. Ibadat graciously made sure I wasn’t embarrassed by the situation and was still having a good time.

Moments later we heard “And the free ticket goes to one-one-three-four, James Cadbury or something like that…” The smile returned as I realized I had won the raffle drawing for a new free Tambola block after writing my name and Mr. Meher’s club membership number on the back of my losing ticket. I thought it best to let our host claim the win as one run in with a dress-code-enforcing retired Indian Army officer was plenty for the night.


I’m learning that adventure comes in many shapes and sizes. Whether it’s scaling a mountain or playing Tambola, a true adventurer will always relish that which is far more important than the prize or summit – the people he’s with.

Jimmy

Hope

The local paper has a number of editorials each week calling for reform of the public education system based on the amount of pressure the students must withstand. The competition for places at the best universities is stiff, and the lack of opportunities available for students who don’t score in the 95% range on their boards is real. Strangely enough, the 11th class year falls between exams, so the students I’m teaching worry less about my assignments than they do the tuitions they do after school with private tutors. All the same, the pressures are very real for all the students. Twice since we’ve been here, the same local paper has reported the suicides of teens distraught over their marks in their tuition classes—the practice sessions they attend to prepare for the board exams. Almost everyone agrees that something needs to change, but so far, no one has a clear idea of what should be done. As a culture, India seems to encourage dedication and endurance—which is possibly why students choose a career path at 15 and stick with it even if they don’t like it. While these values are admirable, they certainly don’t make it any easier to address problems in the model, or allow for correction of mistakes or changes.


But last week, we had the opportunity to see a different facet of the Indian educational system when we visited a school for deaf children. Here, kids from impoverished families who a generation ago might have been written off as burdens, are taught not only academics, but also a trade that will allow them to work in a cottage or craft industry. In a word, it was inspiring. The school was filled with smiling faces of children of all ages, eager to show off the rangoli floor art they’d made with grains to welcome us. They held copybooks out for our inspection, proudly pointed out the pictures they’d drawn that decorated the walls, and didn’t try to contain their joy at the feeling of words and sounds coming out of their mouths during the pronunciation lessons. In the rooms for older children, teens showed us their sewing, candles they had made and will sell in the upcoming Diwali festival of lights, woven chairs and stools, and even the beauty parlor where a haircut, massage, waxing and manicure runs a very reasonable 500 Rupees (about $12).


We also we able to witness something magical when the school’s benefactor and our tour guide presented two girls with their first hearing aids. The little girl in the photo is six years old and hearing sound for the very first time. I’ve heard people describe watching a child take its first steps, and this might be the closest I’ve ever been to such a miraculous moment. It was more than the fact that her eyes grew two sizes larger when the man flipped the switch on the device and spoke her name. It was more than the fact that we’d seen all those students displaying work that would make them self-sufficient. It was more than the fact that they were finding a place for themselves in a land that can sometimes be unkind to imperfection. It was the fact that for these children, hope was something real, something to be counted on, something sustaining. I was glad for the reminder.
Jen