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!