Time flies without wings

Oh, it has been so long…

Since last I wrote there have been several (some particularly photogenic) interesting things going on in my/India’s life. I will divide this entry into parts according to these high/lowlights: Dev Dipavali, Thanksgiving, Terrorism, Wedding in Jaipur, End of Semester. Sadly, I don’t have my pictures with me to upload right now, but when I do, it will be awesome, so stay tuned!

Dev Dipavali
Yet another festival in a long line of festivals, Dev Dipavali still stands out amongst the rest. The story of Dev Dipavali goes like this. Thousands of years ago, when the gods used to all hang out in Varanasi, the king of Varanasi got jealous. His subjects were spending all their time worshipping gods, and not paying enough attention to him, so he decided to ban the gods from his kingdom. It was a sad time for everyone involved, but the gods went on their way and left Varanasi behind. The King, seeing how sad his order had made everyone, declared one day of the year that the gods could come back to Varanasi. That day is Dev Dipavali, the day that the gods celebrate the festival of lights, and the people of Varanasi welcome them home. An Indian welcome home is nothing to scoff at, but when Indians are welcoming gods home, they do it with especial style.
On this day, the all of the ghats along Ganga ji (aka the Ganges) are decorated with thousands and thousands and most likely millions of tiny clay lamps. Buildings along the banks of the river are covered in lights, and just about everyone in India comes to watch or take part in puja along the river, send lanterns downstream, set off fireworks, go on boat rides, dance and make merry. As for us, our program staff and students went on a boat ride to watch the insanity from (what we thought would be) a safe distance. It turns out traffic jams are not only a thing of dry land. We were constantly hitting other boats with our oars, and almost getting hit by fireworks set off nearby. It was a magical evening all around.

Thanksgiving
We decided to celebrate Thanksgiving a week early, seeing as we were going to be in Jaipur, staying in hotels, without access to kitchens on the actual day of Thanksgiving. This decision was made about 24 hours before the day that we chose to be our stand-in Thanksgiving, so it was quite the rush to prepare our meal. I, being the one person who actually really cared that we celebrated, was put in charge of organizing things. I skipped class the day before to shop for lots of things that are either very difficult or impossible to find in India, and gave a list of more easily found things to Pandit ji to get for me. The next morning I took a cycle rickshaw to the program house carrying my host family’s toaster-oven in order to double our oven space. Upon arrival Pandit ji told me that he couldn’t find ripe Kohora, which is like pumpkin, the day before, so he would have it by 8 o’clock, and the cream he bought was sour, so he’d get more by 2, and then I realized that the pie pan-type thing I had didn’t actually fit into the toaster ovens, and I had a sad moment and decided that pumpkin pie would not happen after all. Then the preparations went on, around class. By dinner time our enormous program house dining room table was covered with stuffing, mashed potatoes, salad, potato corn chowder, a delicious middle-eastern hummos salad, and lots of other delicacies. Many of the students families and tutors came, as well as all of the program staff, and we had trouble fitting everyone in around the table. There was way to much food, and it really did feel like Thanksgiving. As we were waiting for a few stragglers to show up, someone asked who was going to say some sort of grace/toast before the meal, and a few people suggested that I do it, since I had organized so much. I replied “I don’t talk, I just cook.” Ed laughed and said, “Wow, Ariel, you’ve been in India too long!” and only then did I realize what I had just said.
With so many people there we weren’t able to go around the table and have the traditional “things I’m thankful for” talk with everyone, but as I was cleaning up after all our guests left I thought of many things. I am thankful that I was able to celebrate this, my favorite holiday, with all of the other students of this program, who have become like my family here. I am thankful I got to cook with them, clean with them, and have gotten to experience so much more with them. I am thankful that I have so many people to go to for help or humor or anything else I might need here. I am thankful that I have that and so much more at home in Wisconsin. I am thankful for every email and letter I get (and the ones I don't get, I know they are out there somewhere), and for all of the people who fill my thoughts every day. I am thankful that I have my health, and so many opportunities in my life, and especially that I have been given the opportunity to be here, now, learning to love a new place, a new culture, and so many new people. Mostly, I am just thankful in general.

Terrorism
As we were on a train with all nine of the students from our program, heading to Jaipur for our Hindi teacher’s niece’s wedding, we heard by word of mouth that there where terrorist attacks underway in Mumbai. Word of mouth on a train is generally not the best source of information, and even just between us nine students the story just kept getting worse. Sarah heard from her friend that the terrorists were targeting foreigners, checking passports and killing all the British and Americans that they found. The Taj hotel was on fire, and there were hostages there and in the Oberoi. We found out later, when we were able to watch the news and read newspapers, that the terrorists weren’t so much targeting foreigners as they were targeting the extravagance symbolized by those hotels, but none-the-less we were pretty shaken up. It seems every time I get on a train there are terrorist attacks in India. I should stop taking trains.
The day of the attacks, for us, was Thanksgiving Day. As we sat at an extravagantly priced Italian restaurant that night, we talked about what we were thankful for, and Allison said that she was thankful that she doesn’t ever feel like she should worry about her friends and family’s safety in the US. Amen to that. I am also very thankful that I rarely have any reason to worry about most of my loved ones’ safety (except for you, Orian, you are always freaking me out. Don’t die in Africa. Karen, Nate and MinWah, that goes for you too.)

Now...I'll have to finish the rest of this post later. My internet time has once more expired. I'm not sure when I'll be back at the computer again, as my vacation has started and I'll soon be setting off to Delhi to pick up my first visitor, Mausi ji. I can't wait. Life is wonderful, despite terrorist attacks. I promise I'll say more about that later...

Happy Winter to you all. I'll be in touch!

LOVE
Ariel

OBAMA!

Hey everyone!

I can come back the the US now!

McCain just called to concede to Obama.

I will not be able to concentrate in class now.

I watched CNN India this morning, and it was awesome.

We are sitting in the computer room right now all freaking out about election results.

HOORAY!

That's all I can say.

Have a happy day.

Diwali Mubarak Ho!

Varanasi, India

October 31 Happy Halloween!

I was woken up again this morning by monkeys quarreling on the steel roof above my bed. It was good that they chose this morning, since I had promised some American girls I met the other day that I would walk down the ghats with them early this morning. I haven't been getting up early lately, since I still have a lot of sleep to catch up on from Divali, which was Tuesday.
Divali is the biggest festival celebrated in India, and the main components are prayer to the God Hanumanji and the Goddess Lakshmiji for wealth and prosperity in the coming year, and lots and lots of fireworks. For me it was only a three day affair, but for many people the celebration starts two weeks earlier when Nowratri ends. There are so many fireworks. Did I say that? A lot of fireworks.
On Monday evening, we had a very nice Divali Puja at our program house. All of the staff set up the altar with all the statues and such, and I did Rangoli with some of the other students in the program. Tradition says that on the night of Divali, Lakshmiji flies around to all of the houses in the world (much like Santa) and when she sees ones that are nicely decorated and cleaned, she will visit. If Lakshmi visits your house, you will be very very prosperous in the coming year. For this reason, people clean and whitewash their houses before Divali, and then paint little footprints coming into their houses, representing the footprints of Lakshmiji entering. This is called rangoli. At our program house, we painted the feet with spices and rice flour made into paste with water. We also painted a flower on the floor in front of the altar. After all of the rangoli was done, Shashankji led Allison in performing the puja, everyone else watching and touching things and offering things whenever they were told to. It is extremely entertaining how clueless we all are, especially watching how natural all of these things seem to everyone here. I often feel like an alien. Luckily, aliens are quite well recieved here.
After our program house puja, we had a concert in what is usually our dining room, sarangi, tabla, flute, and another instrument I don't know the name of. Then we set off fireworks for an hour in front of our house. The best were the gelabi, which spin shooting sparks in circles at anyone who is too close. None of us really like the bombs, which are not pretty at all, and exist purely for the deafening noise they make. Finally, we all went out to dinner on Assi ghat at the pizzeria. All around us there were loud explosions and millions of grasshoppers. Even though I had never celebrated Divali before, the world seemed to be changed for me that night, like the anticipation on Christmas eve.
On Divali morning, I did more rangoli with my host sister, this time just using powdered colors so that it was easier to clean up. I went to see puja at my host fathers sari shop (very important for businessmen to pray for prosperity in the coming year!) and was fascinated by the whole process. I have participated in many different puja ceremonies, but this one was very different, and long. The priest who had come painted hindu swastikas (symbols of peace and prosperity, not fascism) in the front cover of all the new account books that will be used in the coming year. Then a bag full of coins was counted into a bowl, and one new shiny coin added to the pile. In the bowl of coins, the priest poured milk, yogurt, rice, saffron, flowers, and a bunch of other stuff, then my grandfather (owner of the shop) mixed them all together as the priest chanted. Eventually they cleaned and dried each coin, and put them all into a new bag which they will open to do the same thing to next year. This was in addition to all of the usual puja things, offerings to statues of gods and goddesses, etc.
After the store puja, I went with my friend Sara to get henna done on our hands, a traditional way of preparing for festivals. It took a little longer than we expected, and we ended up being the only customers left in the big store where the henna artist sits, and all of the employees spent almost an hour waiting for us and making fun of us over the loudspeakers in the store... until they realized that we understood some of what they had said. It was delightful, really. Then I went to spend the night celebrating with my friend's family and friends. We did puja, again, this time having a bottle rocket fall into the courtyard as we were doing our offerings and such, exploding about four feet from us. We set fireworks off on the roof, having explosion contests with the neighbors on adjacent roofs, until 3 in the morning. I slept late the next day, ate breakfast at about 2:30 in the afternoon, and returned to my host family's house to go visit my teacher and bring sweets with my host father, as is tradition around Divali. The city was completely shut down the day after Divali, since that day is supposed to forcast what the rest of the year will be like for you. If you spend money, it means you will spend or lose lots of money in the coming year, and therefore there isn't a lot of business...so when you open your shop, you don't make much money, which forcasts very bad business for the next year. It's just better to have vacation, in that case. The streets were empty as I walked home, stores shut, no traffic, no honking. I felt like I had stepped out of India, into some wierd, creepy, surreal silent film. It was sort of relaxing, actually.

So now, it should be back to normal, though I know I keep saying that and then something else turns up to distract me from my paper writing. I really need to get to work...

I hope that you are all well and enjoying yourselves wherever you are. Keep in touch!

The Varanasi Daily

People have been asking for pictures lately, so I decided that I would make a post based purely on pictures. There will be very little order to this post, but it should be fun...

To the right of this writing, you will see Shri Vijay Khanna, my Indian host father. This picture was taken on the day that I went with all of the other girls from our program to see his Sari distribution business' inventory. We are all going to a wedding at the end of November, so we decided that we should do the wedding thing right and dress in ridiculously fancy beautiful silk saris. Our (ha) family business is called Atmaram Harishankar, named after my host fathers great grandfather and his grandfather, who started the Benarasi sari distribution business 135 years ago when my family moved to Benaras from the Punjab region. Benarasi weaving is famous all around India. Most of my host family's customers are stores in Bengal. My host grandfather still manages the business.

The next picture is of a gecko, or chipcali as they are called here. Geckos live everywhere, in every house, behind every piece of furniture, and underneath every painting. There are two that live behind a painting of the Goddess Durga on my wall. They have the ability to lose their tails, if it will help them escape predators, so I often see little ones with half tails. Sometimes they surprise me when I go into the bathroom to shower in the morning, and they scatter all over the walls. They may be some of the cutest house pests I can imagine. Unfortunately, the poop all over everything also, but I will always be thankful for them because they are the reason that one of the students was inspired to ask how to say poop in Hindi. Goo. Yes. Goo is the word for poop in India. Every time we leave for a trip, we come back to our things covered in little dried pellets of chipcali goo.

Here is the illustrious Shri Virendra Singh. Our main Hindi grammar guru, (Vimalji is our spoken Hindi teacher, also a legend in his own time, but I don't have a picture of him yet...) He has taught Hindi for our program for over 30 years, and his love for Hindi instruction is shared by all of his children, several of whom teach Hindi at Universities in the US. He is a legend in his own time, and it seems that every person I meet in this city and outside of it knows who he is. They all say "Virendraji bahut accha admi han, bahut accha admi," Virendraji is a very good man, a very good many. It's true.
Virendraji thoroughly enjoys filling every moment of our lives with Hindi instruction and tough love. He makes at least one pun or food-related joke every day at lunch. He has promised several of the students that he will find us suitable matches so that we can marry before leaving India, and maybe never leave after all. Having spent so many hours with him, he has become like family to us.

Introducing Panditji. Panditji's job description in our program handbook is "an indespensible part of the program." That's it. Nothing else need be said. Panditji runs all sorts of errands, takes students to visit people, buys vegetables, organizes things, and greets people. He sits and drinks tea and reads newspapers, and forces us to practice Hindi. His most beloved responsibility is the keeper of the bikes. When we all arrived, Panditji distributed program bicycles to each and every student. Apparently last year not all of the students used bikes, but this year, each and every one of us used one. I was the last student to get a bike, since I had been sick when everyone else got theirs, so after giving me my bike Panditji proudly told me that every one of the students now had a bicycle. As we walked to get my tires filled up on the corner, Panditji sang the praises of bicycles, exclaiming that he had been riding one for at least 20 years, and that it was by far his favorite mode of transportation. I agreed wholeheartedly, and came to the conclusion that Panditji and I would get along well.

To any Indian, it would seem strange and maybe slightly inappropriate that I am including this picture in my writings, but I am very sure that my bathroom will supply much wonder and entertainment to many of you back home. Just know that I mean no disrespect to any of the people mentioned in photos adjacent to this one. This is a squat toilet, and a rather westernized one with a big flush tank instead of just a bucket of water. The bathroom is arranged in a way that when I shower (with a bucket and a cup) all of the water drains into the toilet. At the end of my shower I squeegee the floor and all the water off the floor, and I feel like there could be no better way of keeping a bathroom clean. Some will notice with great interest and maybe some other thoughts that there is no toilet paper, only a cup of water. If you want to know more details about this, ask me in person, and I will be happy to describe to you in great detail how things are done.

This is one of the rooms that I rent from my host family. I live in what would be servants quarters if I didn't live there, so I pretty much have my own house: two rooms, three beds, a refrigerator, a bathroom, and a kitchen (which I don't use, because I always just hang out in my host-mom's kitchen). One of my rooms has a corrugated metal roof, and since that is the one that has a fan that runs even when the power is out, that is where I usually sleep. I loved the sound of the rain during the rainy season, and now I am often entertained by waking up to monkeys scuffling loudly above me. Generally, though, I spend time that I am home with my host family, especially my host grandmother who I love chatting with. I gauge my Hindi progress by how good a conversation I can have with her, and I am happy to say our conversations are getting much more meaningful. The other day we discussed the family tree of Lord Ram.

Meet Sharda Didi and Champa Didi, our program house cooks. They have both been working for our program for many, many years, and they are wonderful cooks. Every morning when we arrive at the program house they have already put breakfast on the table (porridge, toast, jam, NUTELLA, fruit, juice, etc.) Then as we wait for class to begin, they bring us chai. They also bring us chai during class, and as we study Hindi they prepare lunch. It is slightly torturous towards the end of class, as the kushbu, delicious smells waft up the stairs to our classrooms and we wait for the bell to call us down to the table. They also love to make us western (Indian style) food. Sometimes we have "pancakes" which are more like crepes for breakfast, and often they make pasta with amazing sauce from scratch and wierd canned cheese for lunch. Delicious. Pasta day is so exciting. Our usual fare, though, includes roti, dal, vegetables (potato-cauliflower, or okra, or something like that) and yogurt. I have never found reason to complain about the food here at the program house, thanks to these two lovely women.


Meet Sanghamitra, our program's resident coordinator, who taught us how to survive in India during our first weeks here. She has spent hours and hours teaching us how and where to shop, organizing our cell phones, explaining how to deal with Indian bueaurocracy, and helping organize research assistants and tutorials. She is one of the reasons that I love India. Without the people at our program, I'm pretty sure I would be angry almost all the time. With their help and friendship and conversation, I am very very happy here. Thanks University of Wisconsin Year in India! It seems that 40-some years of operation has helped a lot to make connections and identify glitches. Shabash!

Upna Kam Karo

October 14, 2008
Varanasi

This morning my host dad brought me to class on his scooter, so I could more easily bring the big package of saris which my fellow students and I bought at his sari shop. We went last week to see his inventory of amazingly beautiful silk Benarasi weaving, and each chose one that we will wear to Virendraji's neice's wedding in Jaipur in November. We sat in his shop for three hours, being fed tea and gulab jamun and samosas and gelabi every half hour as we oogled over the textiles. My host family's business is the distribution of Benarasi weaving, which is famous all around India. It has been run by our family for 135 years, since they came to Benaras from Punjab. They have been here in Benaras for 5 generations, but still they are considered to be from elsewhere. If people thought like that in the US, there would be no Americans.
Yesterday I called the Andersons as I was walking to class, and described the entire walk to Eric. It really made me realize how much I've fallen into this routine. As I walked and told about the beautiful bull eating out of a smoldering pile of garbage, and the dullit's slum area where the kids all run out and ask for money, next to the huge beauifully manicured temple, and the guy pissing in the gutter...I remembered how different it was, and how foreign it must sound. I arrived at the narrow walkway through to the program house just in time to meet a mob of monkeys who were quarrelling. I waited for awhile for them to move, and continued on towards class. These are the kinds of things that happen every day, and constantly entertain me.
I hope you are all well. I'll add more pictures soon.

Ah, yes, the title of this entry means "Mind your own business." We learned this to say to the random men who try to talk to us because we are white. Turns out it works quite nicely.

Peaks to Plains

October 6

Varanasi, India

Our two weeks in Mussoorie were like a dream. Actually, they were sort of like those dreams I used to have about being in school and having forgotten to study for a test and sitting at my desk dreading what would be on the paper. So much Hindi! We would spend the entire morning then some of the afternoon in class, then when I should have been doing homework, I would go for long walks exploring the surrounding foothills and hiking up to the store where they made cheddar cheese to buy more for our class snacktimes. I would start my homework at 10, study until 1, then go to bed and get up early and do it all again. The clouds floating past on the streets added to my sleep deprived confusion.
One of my favorite expeditions of our retreat was a Saturday when most of the students, one of our Hindi teachers and our program director decided to go on a picnic. We had found a trail several days before that connected Mussoorie to several villages a ways out on one of the mountain sides. The trail was not big enough or smooth enough for any sort of motorized vehicle, so it was purely foot and hoof traffic. It wound all along the edge of the mountain, past spring-fed streams, and through beautiful and surreal forests. We stopped at a grassy clearing for our picnic of tuna, mayonnaise and cheese sandwiches, accompanied by cheese puffs, bananas and peanut butter, and snickers we had found at the same western-food store. Vimalji our Hindi teacher especially appreciated our painfully and deliciously American fare. We spent the rest of the day making stone sculptures and trying to climb unclimbable trees.
A couple of days before we left Mussoorie, a group of students went with Virendraji to meet one of his old Hindi students from Madison who works at an enormous international boarding school nearby. She gave us a three hour fascinating tour of the place that made us all really consider what we think of boarding schools and cultural attachment. I'm not really sure how I feel about kids growing up in a place so international that it doesn't really have any cultural identity. It was a fascinating place, and I think it would be the perfect place for the children of ambassadors, at least. Anyway, one of her students had recently given her a puppy which she couldn't keep, so Virendraji decided to take it home with us. I was the lucky person who got to take care of the puppy on the train, where we weren't supposed to have a puppy. Virendra thought that having a white girl who could pretend she didn't know any Hindi take care of the whimpery contraband would be better than him. I spent one of the most adorable sleepless nights ever keeping the puppy entertained and trying to prevent her from making noise or escaping my bunk.
We arrived back in our dusty, sweaty, beautiful home of Varanasi last Thursday evening. It felt oddly comforting to get off the train in a familiar train station, walk across a familiar dusty parking lot, through familiar herds of water buffalo to our taxis. Mussoorie was dazzlingly beautiful, with breathtaking views from everywhere, and wonderful places to hike and good restaurants and shopping if that is your cup of tea, but it was so touristy much of it sometimes felt fabricated. Here in Varanasi, everything is real, and despite the fact that it means the smoke and dust sometimes make it hard to breath, and the children follow me around begging for food or money, I think Varanasi is the place for me.
This weekend was a wonderful welcome back to Varanasi, filled with excitement around the current festivals, and overwhelming hospitality. I went to see Ramlila, a reenactment of the stories of the Ramayana, with my friends Denae, Sarah, and Sarah's friend Ash on Saturday night. The reenactment happens over the course of 45 nights every year before Deshehera, the festival that will be celebrated this Wednesday. It takes place in Ramnagar, a place across the river from Varanasi, then a ways down a highway. The action is in a huge field, which fills up with food vendors and pilgrims and elephants and thousands and thousands and thousands of spectators. I understood very little of the actual story that was going on, since my background in the Ramayana is very weak, and my Hindi not all that much better, but it was a fantastic thing to see. Afterwards we went to meet Ash's family, and were completely attacked with hospitality. As I was trying to call my host family to tell them I would be later than expected, I was actually fed khir by Ash's mother. I've never seen anyone so distressed that I wasn't eating at all times. Actually, even when I had food in my mouth they were distressed that I wasn't eating more. We sat and chatted for a while, and after a broken Hindi conversation with Ash's mother she had already declared that she felt like she had adopted three more daughters.
Yesterday I called my friend from Madison Venkatesh's cousin, who I had never met or talked to, but lives in Varanasi. I said who I was, and that I would love to meet him sometime, and he said "sure, how about lunch today. I'll come pick you up!" Within half an hour I was riding side-saddle on the back of his motorcycle to his house, where I sat for three hours talking about Madurai, the city in south India where he and his wife is from. His wife made an amazing south Indian lunch for us, and I looked at their recent wedding pictures. I wasn't able to communicate very well with his wife, since she doesn't speak much Hindi or English, but I learned a few words in Tamil, and she showed me how to make the food that she was preparing. After lunch I went to study with Sarah, walked to Ksheer Sagar, an amazing Indian sweet shop, bought some sweets, then went and ate them at Assi Ghat where we chatted with a bunch of overwhelmingly adorable ghat children, and ran into my weaving ustad. I am so content.
Now it is time for me to begin my research, so I've got a lot of work ahead of me. I'm excited to dive into it. I can't imagin a better place for me to be right now.
I hope that whoever you are reading this, you are enjoying yourself where you are right now. Keep in touch!

Writing from the clouds

September 20, 2008
Mussoorie, India

First things first: I was on a train from Varanasi to Dehradun when we heard about the blasts in Delhi. We didn't go through Delhi, and have no plans to do so anytime soon. I hope you will all keep the victims of those attacks in your mind, and send them good thoughts. Stupid terrorists.

Now,
While waiting for the train in Benaras, we attracted an enormous crowd of people who watched us study our Hindi. Once we got through all the flashcards, Shashankji got up and told everyone to disperse, the show was over, and we would have another in half an hour.
I am sitting in a second floor internet cafe watching the rain fall from clouds that are not even really above me. I am in the clouds, in Mussoorie, a hill station at the base of the Himalayas which was originally built by the British so they could escape the oppressive heat of Indian plains in the summer. I haven't sweat for a week. In fact, I wore long underwear yesterday, and I've been sleeping under a blanket and a down sleeping bag. It is magnificent.
It has been pretty rainy and cold for three days, which is putting me into my fall nesting mindset. I taught the two kids, Sibam and Yogish, who cook at our hotel, how to make pancakes this morning, and was on top of the world (more than I already am here in the Himalayas) in that kitchen. It was the first time I've been able to cook since arriving in India, and it was exactly what I needed. We topped the pancakes with American pancake syrup which Shashank and I bought at Prakash Brothers store. We have been hearing about it all week. They make cheese there. So, we went on a cheese and syrup pilgrimage, hiking up the breathtakingly beautiful mountain for 2 hours all the way to the very top, where we found all sorts of western amenities. I also bought balsamic vinegar, which I can't wait to use. I think I'll make french toast tomorrow so we can use the rest of the syrup.
We are in Mussoorie for a two week Hindi retreat, which means 4 hours of class and about that much if not more work to do outside of class every day. It has been wonderful, if a little bit overwhelming. I can feel my Hindi improving every day, so the inspiration trumps my tired mind and I keeps studying. We'll be here for one more week now, enjoying the cool temperature and amazing scenery, then it is back to Benaras where we will all dive into our research projects and tutorials once more.
I think it is time for lunch now, and I can practically taste the pakoras that are waiting for me, so I'm going to get going. I'll put some new pictures up once I get back to Benaras. I hope everything is well wherever you are reading this from!

Home sweat home

Last week a raucous mob of monkeys pulled the phone line down in front of the program house, so we haven't had internet access for awhile. I can't think of any better reason for not reading my e-mail.
Here are my journal entries for the duration of the monkey fiasco:

August 31st
Varanasi, India
Here we are in Varanasi, a city so holy people come here from hundreds and thousands of miles away for worship, pilgrimages, and also just to die. My first glances of the city were enrapturing- beautiful bustling streets colorful with saris and vegetable stands, pottery, flower sellers outside temples decorated to the hilt, along with garbage heaps on the streetside where old vegetables and any other refuse is thrown. I saw a man just lifting his kurta to pee on the heap, and cows eating plastic bags with food scraps in them, just like they reported on NPR. I really enjoy the cows on the street. The difference between street cows here and all cows in the US is that here, the cows are so used to being constantly surrounded by people, rickshaws, motorcycles, and cars all honking and dinging and yelling that nothing at all phases them. I could accidentally trip over one, and it probably wouldn't even bother to get up and move. It would just question me with those beautiful deep eyes, then go back to sleep. Our first day here we got our cell phones (my number from the US would be 011-91-9369022973 and I would suggest using a phone card for Indian Cell phones) and exchanged money. I spent some time talking with Panditji, our extremely entertaining and endearing everything man. His job description in the program handbook just said "Panditji is an extremely important part of the program." It's true. He is probably 70, with a little wrinkled head and small dark bright eyes. I was drinking chai and chatting with him as people decided to change money, and when I got up to go with them, he said in Hindi, " No, no, no,finish your chai! Relax! They can wait!" And so, 8 people sat down to wait patiently for us to finish our conversation. This is how things are done in India, and that is why nothing is ever on time...and I think it is great.
Yesterday I went for a little walk by myself to start orienting myself. The program house is closest to a big red temple called Durgakund temple, but everyone just refers to it as Durgaji. After lunch and a lecture, I went to go see Assi Ghat with the boys, and we ran into Mangla-a kid who has known other program members for years. (He is like the lord of the flies, leader of the ghat kids, and since that day we have come to know that he will protect us from scams and dangerous situations, show us anything, teach us anything, and also call us about every twenty minutes if he has our phone numbers. He is certainly an interesting fellow...) Mangla gave us a tour of the ghat area, a bunch of temples, and took us to the place where Donovan, a guy from last years program who we've met a few times, used to go to do kusti, wrestling, every morning. A bunch of guys were just lounging around in the shade there, and Mangla asked us if we wanted to try doing some of the exercises, like climbing 25 feet up a rope with only our hands, which Chris and Sam tried and failed, and lifting a huge round weight over our heads. It was surreal and beautiful. The whole time two little boys were following us, and Chris was joking around with them, the loud, crazy American clown that he is. We also taught some kids on the side of the alleyway to pound. They were very confused, and Chris and I just kept doing it for them, saying "Bahut Accha!" (Very good!) and then trying to get them to do it. They figured it out after a while.
I slept on the roof last night slathered in deet, and had the best sleep I've had for awhile. It is so much cooler up there, and still pretty quiet, too. I just hope I don't get malaria. I am not taking malaria prophylaxis, since I only came with two weeks worth of it, and it doesn't seem that there are that many mosquitos right now. I'll take them during the rainy season, I think.

September 5th
Varanasi, India
It seems that the rainy season has in fact started. Very early this morning the wind picked up, and I kept thinking someone was trying to get in my window (turns out many other students woke up thinking the same). At first the rain was like pebbles being thrown at my sheet metal roof, then buckets of water poured down, some working their way through the seams in the metal above my bed, and dripping in a line across my floor. I sat by my window with the curtain wrapped around my face to keep the bed from getting soaked. Lightning flashed and filled the red sky with glowing raindrops. I felt the air change temperature by at least ten degrees in minutes. The heat finally broke, if only for a little while. Rain has never felt so sacred to me.
The sound of rain falling encouraged me to visit the bathroom, where I found that a drain pipe from the roof empties into the floor by my toilet. Ingenious. The water poured in at steady pace, and despite the sand collecting on the floor, I feel like the forceful stream of water is probably the best cleaning that a toilet can have. I also feel like, if people could or would collect rainwater here, they could probably provide themselves with most to all of their water needs during the rainy season (and prevent quite a bit of flooding!)
The other day, Ed asked Panditji if it would rain soon, to which Panditji replied with a chuckle, saying "Uparwalla jante he," The guy up there knows, gesturing to the roof of the car we were in. I've come to see weather forcasts as a silly western invention, man trying to take control of what he can't possibly control. Sure, sometimes forecasts are great, but just about s often they're not. I'm beginning to like this laid-back attitude that used to bother me so much in Ecuador. Only God knows what will happen, and the most we can do is work well with the results.
Later...
I am sitting in the shade near Salim Sahab's house waiting until 3:00 for my first weaving lesson to begin. I bought him some sweets from the local famous sweet shop, Ksheer Saagar, which is very close to his place, for teachers day. It is very rare to see someone sitting in the middle of a gully (as they call the little road things here) writing in a journal, so people are giving me very strange looks as they pass. A little girl named Nafeesa is standing in front of me waiting for me to give her some of the sweets I got for Salim Sahab, though I tried to explain to her were for my teacher. I shouldn't have left them visible. She just keeps standing here anyway. How ridiculously adorable.
...My first class was a wonderful success. I sat at Salim Sahab's loom for an hour and a half, completing maybe 5 inches worth of work. I struggled with getting the shuttle to either go all the way from one side to the other, or otherwise I shot it too forcefully and it flew out the other end onto the floor. The loom takes up the entire room, which opens to the gully with two folding wooden doors. The weaver sits in a hole in the floor, pushing the bamboo/rope pedals, right, left, and machine for the pattern work. There are rolls of punch cards which are used for patterns, each time having gone through one part of the punch card/pattern, it changes to continue with the pattern. I still don't quite understand how that works, but I've got plenty of time ahead of me to learn. As I worked, between tidbits of weaving information, I chatted with Salim about his family and mine. He is a bachelor, and lives in a shared house (I think) with his brother and his brother's family. A bamboo ladder goes upstairs from his weaving room. At one point, Salim Sahab's neices Ruby and Baby came down the ladder, and he shared the sweets I gave to him with them. He then proceded to share more with Babu, a kid who lives across the street, and maybe Babu's sister. I'm not sure Salim Sahab even ate any, but he obviously enjoyed sharing them, and thus I enjoyed watching him share. I told him about Orian and Karen's Wedding, and he asked if it was a love marriage. I said yes, in the US you barely find arranged marriages. He though for awhile and said that here, love marriages are not very well understood, though they are happening more and more. I asked him what weddings are like here, and he said, " You'll see." I asked what he meant, and he said that his niece would be getting married soon, and I could go to the wedding. AWESOME! I asked him more about it as we drank chai after class, and he explained that they were currently in the process of looking for a husband for her, using a paid mediator/matchmaker. She doesn't yet have a fiancee, so I'm not sure when the wedding will be, but if I am still around I will be so very excited to go to that wedding!
I realized the other day that since Salim Sahab has only one loom, and it takes him 15 days 8 hours a day to weave 6 meter sari, and I'll be coming for a lesson 3-5 hours a week, and you can't take things off the loom and put them back on to keep working, Salim is getting paid basically only to teach me to weave for the next 8 months. The salary paid by my program has to be as much as he makes working 50+ hours a week in order to teach me for 5 hours a week. Good deal? I think so, for all parties involved. I hope so, at least...

September 6th
Varanasi, India
Yesterday, Saturday morning, I woke up a litte sick, but determined to to go to meet Salimji for cutting the scarves off the loom, just like he said we would do at 9:00. I rode my bike there for the first time, in the rain, which was great because the roads were practically empty. I found my way there, to Sonarpura and Ksheer Saagar with no problems, except that Salim Sahab wasn't there. Babu was, though, and he invited me to sit in his storefront out of the rain while I waited. I met his sister Priyanka, and his mother, and ate some cookies, and half an hour later Salim showed up. I thought it was no big dea, as I have been warned time and time again that I might wait for an hour before someone shows up for a meeting, but Salim said he thought I wasn't coming because of the rain, and I should call him next time he's not there when I arrive. I ended up staying for 1/2 an hour in the morning, and coming back at 3:00 to weave for 3 hours. In the evening afyter weaving, Salim and I had some tea, then Allison and I went to Godaulia to pick up our Salwar Kamiz suits from the tailor. We ran into Saroj and Deepika there, and all went to the Japanese resaurant together, doing some harsh rickshaw bargaining on the way. We actually sat in, then got out of one, since he was price waffling. I unfotrunately have to go back to Godaulia since the tailors gave me one too few drawstrings, and one purple one that doesn't match any of my pants. Alas, I'm in India. I hear that's just how it goes.
One of my proudest moments yesterday was when a Rickshawvalla asked us for 20 rupees for a 10 rupee ride, and I said 15, and he said "20 rupees indian price" and I said in Hindi, "No, I live here, I know the price is 15" and he shrugged and said okay. It feels silly arguing over ten cents, especially getting out of a rickshaw to find a new one over 10 cents, but it is the principle of the thing- just as it was in Ecuador over the extra 50 cents the taxistas always tried to charge me. Here that is 20 rupees. More than I pay for the entire ride.
It is uncomfortable being so rich. If I was poor, no one would try to use me, like it seems many people do here. It is hard to find people to really trust. I have been so protected by being associated with the program that I don't think I really understand the divide that my social status really makes. The maddening thing is, I understand why people would be this way. I asked my host dad how much money a weaver makes in a day. He said probably about 80-90 rupees. Two dollars. Just the fact that I am here means I have more money than Salim Sahab probably makes in two years to spend on a plane ticket, just because I want to. I'm going to buy a camera soon, because mine broke. The sweets I gave Salim Sahab the other day cost about as much as he makes in 8 hours of work. He asked me if I had any rechargable batteries, and I said I didn't, but maybe I could have my mom send some. He seemed pleased. Later, today, I went on a walk with a friend and he talked about being ripped off by his landlord, and I got started thinking about how, if I wasn't here with this amazing program, I would certainly feel like everyone was ripping me off, too. In the last few days, everyone and everything has become much more real to me. Up to now, though, the program house and my home still seem like safe havens of non-rip-off and full of people who I can trust, and honestly want to help me.
I think the first little bit of homesickness is setting in, but I'm impressed by how tolerable it is. I just need to keep reminding myself to stay lighthearted and understanding (most of the time). I can't really help but live in a world apart from most of the people I meet day to day, but I try to live as much in this world as possible.
My grandma is great by the way.
There are so many dragonflies in India.

Go past the cows in the trash heap on your left, then turn right at the trash heap with the monkeys, and we'll be just straight ahead...

This morning I was woken by the hot sun on my skin. I slept on the roof last night to catch some breeze and avoid the oppressive still heat in our bedroom. I was surprised that the growing clamor didn't wake me before the sun did, but I was sleeping like a baby, better than I have inside a building, even with a fan on me, for the last week. I suppose staying up late discussing the intricacies of life and baby elephants with Allison encouraged me sleep in later than usual.
Since last I wrote, we have been in Varanasi, one of the holiest cities in India, one of the oldest inhabited cities of the world, and one of the most vibrant places I've ever seen, for 4 days. We were greeted getting off the train by our Hindi guru Virendraji, one of our program staff Panditji, who placed a garland of marigolds on each of our necks in welcome, and a mob of red-shirted kulis ready to carry our luggage to the cars. I was entertained as I watched them hoist our luggage onto their heads, balancing backpacks and suitcases as they walked in a red antline through the throngs on the train platform. No Indian in their right mind seems to ever put a backpack on their back here. Balancing it on my head now even seems to me to be a better idea, to avoid plastering my shirt to the sweat on my back.
We drove in airconditioned comfort to our program house, where we were to stay for four days while getting our bearings on the area. Along the way we had broken conversations with Panditji, a tall, lanky cheerful and talkative old man in a dhoti and a long kurta. We talked about everything we passed, asking what the vegetables were called, which temple we were passing now, and which one we were passing five feet later, and then five feet after that... There are more temples per capita in India than anywhere else in the world (or so I'm told), and I think that Varanasi pulls it weight in that statistic more than many places. Varanasi has a wonderful, small, personable feeling. It has none of the huge city 1.4 million people scary easy to get lost feeling that I feared. I know that if I am lost, I will always be able to get back to the program house on a cyclerickshaw, and there will always be hundreds of friendly people who I can ask for directions to Assi ghat or Durgaji to get back home.
The highlight of our time in Varanasi so far has been going to the tailor. Leaving our program house to get out to one of the main roads for a cyclerickshaw, we all followed Sanghamitra like ducklings, left at the trash heap with the monkeys, through the meter-wide alleyway we shared with cows and motorcycles, past the barber and to the tree where all the rickshawvallas were resting in the shade. She arranged four rickshaws for all 9 of us to fit in, told us how much we were to pay them, then said to meet by the bank where we got off, if we got separated along the way. It was inevitable to get separated, weaving through the pulsing traffic, swerving to avoid potholes and oncoming vehicles, and the rear end of an enormous, beautiful brahma bull who was standing perpendicular to traffic, tenderly licking the fingers of a man who was feeding him sweets from behind his sweetmeat counter. Once we arrived we all met at the set location, then resumed our duckling formation attempting to cross the bustling intersection. Here you don't wait for a space in the traffic, you just step out into it. If you give anyone space, they will take it, but if you step in front of the motorcycles and rickshaws and cars, then they will move for you. I still havn't mastered the art of fearlessly stepping into a busy intersection, but I'm working on it. We walked through a narrow roofed market area, squeezing through the shoppers and shopkeepers to get to a less-crowded alley-like thing to a set of stairs. I have the most difficult time remembering to pass people on the left, not on the right. I have walked head-on into many people forgetting which side to stay on. I guess I have walked head-on into people going the right direction also, though... Anyway, we walked up the narrow stairway, took off our shoes, and were ushered into a small room with an enormous cushion covering the floor, and the walls completely covered in stacks and stacks and stacks of fabric. We all sat down along the walls, facing Sunilji and his two assistants who sat in front of the door, and then the show began. Our program has been working with Sunilji and his tailoring business "Ganga Handlooms" for over 30 years, and I believe it is for good reason. He spent almost two hours explaining to us how the cotton for his fabric is picked, spun, combed, woven and dyed, spreading out examples of extremely light, extremely nice, extremly beautiful and colorful fabric for each sort of dying, each sort of weaving. He told us how they make their clothes, and showed us examples of what he could make, and by the end of the explanations, the cushioned floor in front of him was a mountain of fine cloth. He then asked us to decide what we'd like to try, discuss our ideas with him, try on samples, choose colors, and just go crazy. We did. I've never liked clothes shopping so much in my life. We were there for over 3 hours, and had to rush at the end to make sure that we would still be able to get a rickshaw back to our program house. We returned in the morning, despite Sunilji's apologies that there would be no power for any air conditioning on Sunday at 9:30 in the morning. Amazing. I can't wait to have a few more pairs of clothing to add to my sweaty wardrobe rotation!
Virendraji has just arrived for our first day of class, so I should go get ready for that. Today we'll have a short class, individual meetings with Shashankji about our fieldwork projects, then move into our new rooms in host families and apartments, which we went around visiting yesterday. I'm sure I will have much more to write about next time I get the chance! I can only imagine. Just like in Krrish. "Just imagine!"
Namaste
-Ariel

It has only just begun...

Here is my journal for the first days of my journey...
August 26th, 2008
New Delhi, India
Last night as we got off the plane a wall of thick, hot air hit us, quite a shock after 14 hours of the artificial-feeling cold air of the plane cabin. Outside we were greeted by Sanghamitra and Shashank, our program directors here in India. They guided us smilingly outside to the clamour of cars, motorcycles, autorickshaws and taxi drivers. I was happy to note that steering wheels are on the right side here, and therefore cars on the left side of the road. Without Shashank and Sanghamitra to guide us, we would have been impossibly lost and overwhelmed...sort of like when I was trying to flush the toilet in the airport, and instead of flushing I turned the nob for the bidet (thanks Kendar), and it splashed out of the bowl all over my legs.
We found the driver Shashank had called, piled our bags in a mountain on top of the van, and squished our sticky bodies into the small cabin. Practicing our weak Hindi all the way to the hotel, I was reassured that this group I am with will be great to lean on for support and humor during the coming year.
Once at our hotel, we registered quickly and were lead to our rooms. Shashank and Sanghamitra must have been tired, being 11:30 already, but having had a 14 hour night on a plane before arriving at the hotel to sleep, I decided to call home quickly, then take a cooling shower before attempting to sleep more.
This morning I woke at 4 am after a night of restless dreaming, which seemed more like daydreaming than sleep. I read "Nectar in a Sieve," the book Laurie gave me for the plane, and now I am sitting on the balcony of my room joining the birds in welcoming the day. The air feels, smells and sounds much like what I remember of Portoviejo, Ecuador, hot and humid and delicious, and sitting here eating Anne's bagel and cream cheese, wearing light shorts and a t-shirt, I don't feel at all in a strange place. I have not yet been shocked or surprised, though I know I will be soon. For now, I imagine this 20 hour night I've been living in will help me get up early, or at least earlier, now that the nights will be back to the usual length.
As I flew through an accellerated night, over Canada and the Atlantic, then an accellerated day over Copenhagen, then the mountains near Kabul, I looked out the window, with my scratchy airline blanket over my head to maintain the artificial nighttime in the plane, the bright sun shone down on the Caspian Sea, then the mountains I have heard so much about in news of war and searching for terrorists, and thought of how unassuming and peaceful it all looked. I thought of the reality of existence down there, trying to imagine the language spoken, the every-day goings on, but I found that seeing the world from a plane is no different from seeing the pages of the National Geographic magazines. Maybe that is how people can bring themselves to drop bombs from way up there.
The sky is bright now, and with luck, it will soon be time to meet in the dining hall and begin the adventure that this day and so many more before me will hold.
I hope that throughout it all I can remain open-minded and light-hearted.
Here goes...

August 27th, 2008
New Delhi, India
New things are beginning to pop up here and there. Yesterday we visited Qutb Minar, the first mosque built in India, and along the way saw people carrying enormous loads on bicycles, and beautifully sareed women carrying multiple children riding sidesaddle on the back of what currently appear to me to be suicide motorcycles. The cows and bulls in the street surprise me less than I expected they would. The most difficult things for me have been the heat-I sweat through 2 pairs of clothes yesterday- and crossing ridiculously busy streets. Crossing streets, I know, will come to me eventually, and Sanghamitra helped me buy- or more accurately bought for me- a kurta which hopefully will be cooler or at least less obvious when my sweat soaks through it. The heat bothers me less than I expected. It is the unflattering sweat-soaked clothing that makes me slightly uncomfortable. My goals for today are to not comment on the heat unless asked about it, to speak Hindi shamelessly, and to get Shashank and Sanghamitra to tell me about their lives and families. Yesterday I learned that Sanghamitra came to Varanasi from Assam when she got married, but she is now separated from her husband. She lives alone and works for our program, a very strange thing for an Indian woman, and not always well accepted.

August 28th
New Delhi, India
Yesterday held more sightseeing, and I dare say more sun and more heat. Luckily, I was more appropriatesly dressed, so my sweat barely showed through (not to say it didn't show through-it was literally pouring unfettered down my back under my baggy shirt.) We saw Jama Masjid in Old Delhi, with smaller streets covered in people on foot and in cycle rickshaws. We saw Humayan's tomb, an enormous castle-like thing with extensive, beautiful gardens and trees and a huge pool and a mosque. All were beautiful, but none too eventful (except for the girls in short-sleeves being forced to wear big bright floral printed abayas to go into the mosque). I spent lots of time asking Shashankji questions about life, and grammar, and Hindi vocabulary, and with a head waggle and a smile he would answer everything. That man is my cheerfulness superhero. He is also a softy, which brings up the main point yesterday emphasized. Traveling in a group of loud, cackling, table-pounding Americans (I admit to be one of them, and place no blame on anyone for this), we attract attention, most impressively attention from beggars, who grab at our sleeves and tap at our arms if they are tall enough, and play with our toes when they are too young and tiny to reach beyond our knees. I have watched my fellow students be reduced nearly to tears by their pleading eyes, trying fruitlessly to have a conversation with them, and show them they are valued without giving them money. The thing is, we know they don't want, and have very little use for our friendship. We are rich beyond their wildest dreams, and just a weeks worth of our spending would last them months or years. And then what? Would it change the cycle of poverty? Would the children go to school? Would they eat well? How many would it go to feed, and how long would it last for an entire family before they were back begging on the streets again? Do I even have the right to ask these questions? Is there any way to help beyond tonight? Gret Mortenson, you are my hero (Anyone who hasn't should read Three Cups of Tea), along with Shashankji, who gives the children candy to get them to go away and protect us, his bacche (children) from the heartbreak he sees every time they cling to us.
I feel immensely guilty every time I don't finish a meal, which is every time I order anything at a restaurant here. There is no longer comedy in saying "eat your vegetables, there are starving children in Africa." Now there are starving children on the street outside of our posh restaurants, and I can only imagine that our leftover food is not getting eaten by them.
Today is our last day in Delhi. We will see the national museum, have a few free hours, then board the train to Varanasi, which promises to be a very good time. I am continuously pleased, entertained, and horribly embarrassed by my travelling companions, but hey, if you are gonna stick out, why not do it withy style, laughing yourself to tears all along the way.
"I just don't want any table banging. That's all I ask." -Mary Beth
Today's goal: patience and boldness in speaking, bargaining, and unsmiling modesty. Smiling has been getting me into a little bit of trouble these past three days...

August 28th, 2008
Between Delhi and Varanasi, India
I am watching soggy fields and flooded villages go by as I lay in my posh air conditioned sleeper car. I just saw a peacock standing in one of the fields. I am considering how I still need to perfect the art of squat toilet use. It is 6:30 and the only people who seem to be awake are me, a litte girl a couple of compartments down, and the coffeewalla. My thoughts are not flowing just as I would hope...
Yesterday the National Museum was nice-immensely more bearable than I expected it would be, because I stayed near Shashankji and he told stories about much of the art and history of the displays.
This train keeps stopping, and I can't figure out why.
I tried again to buy some kurtas yesterday, but couldn't really get into it since there were people waiting for me with full bladders. Luckily, this train is air-conditioned, so my clothes dried and I am amazingly unstinky despite the days and days of sweat that have soaked and dried on these clothes.
This sleeper train is fantastic. It seems relatively secure, and it is very comfortable and masterfully designed. Last night before putting up the middle bunk, Shashank and Chris and I looked through my photo album, and it was wonderful. Shashank says, after hearing about my mom, he will touch her feet when he meets her. He is impressed at her superhero capabilities when it comes to gardening and working and canning, and pottery, and running and skiing and life in general.
Yersterday morning before checking out from the hotel, I went on an adventure trying to find the market. I failed, got lost, got a ride to the opposit side of Connaught Circus by a rickshawvalla who was getting paid for delivering me to a tourist textile shop, looked around inside just to be nice, then left on foot to find the market that never was, got lost more, didn't ask directions from the right people, had a fat little sleezy man try to pick me up, and a cyclerickshawvalla tell me I was completely lost, but he couldn't take me to Ashoka road with his rickshaw. Eventually I got back to the hotel, a little wiser and more experienced, but no better clothed for it all. Who needs clothes anyway? Not me!
Today my goal is to NOT SHAKE MENS HANDS or give any misinterpretable signs. This is going to be an ongoing challenge.