Multi-dimensional plots of change

Catch my sister's (Smita) beautifully-written article about the Pandey's theatre group bringing change to the children of the Saksham Vidhyalaya in the Nithari slum area. Published in the Hindu yesterday.

http://smitainasia.blogspot.com/

Saksham is a school that my family has decided to support in various ways. We are trying to gain more exposure of the school within the local Noida community, while raising funds and bringing more volunteers to the school. If you would like to help in anyway, please contact me!

Where have all the cows gone?

As far as I can remember, cows used to roam the streets of Noida (and Delhi, and every other city in India). However, this time, they were almost nowhere to be seen. Apparently, the government had put out a scheme to capture these cows - anyone who caught one and gave it to the authorities would get Rs. 3000. There began the rat-race to catch these cows - chasing cows, grabbing others', resulting in overall violence.

In Ahmedabad, my cousin, Saurabh, gave me an architectural tour of the old fortified area, filled with beautiful Pol houses from different eras (Maratha, British and Mogul eras). Each had intricately carved wood panels at their entrances and ornate interiors, although they were in crumbling conditions. In the tiny, meandering streets, obstinate, large cows could be seen everywhere. They are let loose by nomadic farmers, and are fed by local residents, who keep trays of hay and organic food remains outside their doorways, as per ancient custom. This co-dependence mystified me - after all, why would people want their porches to become a water-cooler for gossiping, nosy bovines? And why, now, after living in an urbanized, modernized Ahmedabad? Interdependence forms the very fabric of India,whether it is between men or animals - this is what reminds one that we are alive for a reason, beyond just for ourselves.

Sarika Sari Center

Sarika Sari Centre is the name of the store that my uncles and cousins own in a town in Bihar, one of the poorest and most corrupt states of India. Modest in size and selection by western standards, it is the largest clothing store in town, strategically located at the portal of the bustling ‘main’ market. During my many summers spent at this store, playing different roles, from cashier to salesperson, I learned the nuts and bolts of running a ‘sari’ shop. It was here where I met the keenest and most creative businessmen, who operated in a climate of minimal purchasing power and political instability, with deft and unwavering optimism.

The land where cable optic fibers intricately connect towns and cities and eBay is a standard business platform is a far cry from half way around the planet, where the train system forms the veins of commerce and loud, guttural bidding is the norm. I watch as my cousins travel tirelessly in non-air-conditioned trains from one corner of the country to another to pick out the latest clothing materials. Manish, my enterprising cousin with a glint in his eye, had a new idea – why not make shirts that are ready-made? That way the purchaser doesn’t have to get his own shirt tailored? What could we call the label – 5^th Avenue? Park Avenue? But those shirt labels are already taken. And so thoughts about marketing techniques continued to develop in his mind.

It never ceases to amaze me how many lives are precariously tied to this one enterprise - from the busy tailor, to the bicycle-mounted tea vendor, to the wives and children making their way from school - this store is the life and blood of many; unfortunately, it is one of the few successful ones in a town with a dried out economy and low infrastructure reliability.

Yes, Prime Minister

It seems as if India's current Prime Minister, Manmohan Singh, may have it right. Whether PMs in the past have felt the same way, I really cannot say; but at least being able to speak about rural poverty in a non-technocratic way wins him some brownie points.

My trips into villages revealed a lot - that despite the growth that India has been proud of, not much has changed for the poor. The poverty level has remained the same, despite India's growth in the technology and services front. The concept of the trickle-down economy hasn't really worked, because almost 65% of the population lives in rural areas, where there are very few linkages with industries based in urban areas. Incomes for the poor seem have remained the same over the past 5 years, while the cost of living has increased geometrically each year. The debt trap is rampant; most poor people I've interviewed have no bank accounts and owe a lot of money to money-lenders. Finally, the government's policies are suppressive and implicitly support extortion and corruption at every level, particularly in the informal job sectors. In terms of equitable development, India has quite a long way to go.

The recent suicides of farmers throughout the country reveal the depth of utter despair of our rural citizens. The Prime Minister, during a visit to Sewa Gram where Gandhiji had set up his ashram to practice his 'Experiments with Truth', gave an impressive interview to the Economic Times. Perhaps one could presume that India is finally being led by a man who dares to not part with his principles while being progressive in his thinking, and who is smart enough to realize that 'Mahatma Gandhi was the most modern Indian'.

Asked about Gandhiji, the PM says, “This is where Gandhi becomes more relevant to our economic growth and prosperity. It is here in Wardha that you realise that austerity is a necessity that is built into our social and economic fabric. We cannot afford to have a situation of excessive and wasteful consumption. And that philosophy must be adhered to by our leaders of society, business, politics and other walks of life. We must adopt Gandhiji’s principles of simple living and high thinking.”

On the environment: "“By any yardstick, western levels of consumption lead to wastage and even the West has to cope with problems of excess consumption and wastage. Those consumption patterns are also damaging for the environment. In India, we cannot raise our consumption patterns to levels that cause havoc with our environment. That will not only prove costly for us, but by raising our consumption levels, we will also not be able to eradicate poverty even if we wish to do so,” says the original Sardar of reforms.

How much is your privacy worth?

Salaam Baalak Trust

I attended a very unusual tour this morning - that of the New Delhi railway station, through the lens of street children living on the platforms. The tour was given by two charming, young men, named Javed and Shekar, who were former street children themselves. In an animated tone, the duo described the lives and dreams of these children, and answered questions that had always plagued me before - why they run away from their homes, what they did for a living. Indeed, the stories were mostly tragic, including beatings from the police, gang wars, drugs, sexual abuse and forced prostitution (for the girls) - but they managed to squeeze in a few humorous tales about the children's small victories and their obsession with films. From their unique relationships they build with vendors (such as the Chemist, for medicine) or the fruit juice-walla (fruit in exchange for protection), to the sleeping places that they find (such as the tin roofs under the walkway in the picture), we we are amazed with these children' resourcefulness. Some run away from home because of poverty (the feeling of being a burden on their families), while others embark a train for fun, but find themselves lost forever.

Javed had come to Delhi from Bihar to see the historic monuments with his other 8 year old friends, but half way through the train ride, his friends had deserted him. Now, 12 years later, he has not been able to find his family, and has faced numerous tragedies along the way, including being stabbed by other children. This is where Salaam Baalak Trust came into his life.

Founded in 1998 by Mira Nair's mother, after the success of her movie, Salaam Bombay, this NGO has helped thousands of street children in one way or the other. From providing sheltors and counselling, to helping provide healthcare and education, Salaam Baalak has given these children hope - and even a sense of identity and the feeling of worth. They even help find the childrens' homes. The children are also part of the ChildLine program which provides a hotline service for street children.

Javed is now at Delhi University and is studying art history. He's also interested in social worker (he works at the Trust as a mentor), and has dreams of working at UNICEF to make a difference in rural India. Shekar is on his way to Bollywood, with a few films underway already, including one on how Salaam changed his life.

Tours are given 6 days a week, at 10 am. Visitors are to meet Shekar/Javed at the new Reservations desk at that time.

In the hearts of Rajasthan and Kutch

Bhirendria village, Kutch

Barefoot College - Tilonia, Rajasthan

Travel tips

I begin my travels with my companion, my ever resourceful and inquisitive cousin, Saurabh. The quest - find and document NGOs and grassroots organizations that are making a difference, particularly in the rural employment sector. Whenever I travel, I try to be as environmentally and socially responsible as possible.

The rules of travel are:

- Be as natural as possible in your personal product use. Use bio-degradable soaps, etc.
- Don't accept plastic bags!! Also, don't buy anything with plastic wrapping - no packaged foods, etc.
- Always travel by non-AC - how will you get to meet interesting people, otherwise?
- Travel by public transport whenever possible.
- Buy art from local artisans - support the local entrepreneurs!
- Respect the local culture - meet as many interesting people as you can. Be patient and make conversation wherever you are.

Plastic - Blight on India’s beauty

On a recent trip to Haridwar, someone had recommended visiting the Valley of Flowers. Although it was early in the season, I was secretly hoping to catch a glimpse of Uttaranchal’s known floral beauty. Taking the trolley up to the Mansa Devi temple, I looked down at the breathtaking view of Haridwar from the hill. Nearby, I was surprised to find the hillside carpeted with brightly-hued greens, blues and yellows. Seeing such splendor, a sudden joy rose up within me – until a closer inspection revealed that those weren’t flowers – they were plastic bags! What they were doing, covering the seemingly unreachable hills and dangling from branches, puzzled me.

The same vision continued to haunt me throughout my travels through northern India. Glimpses from the train window revealed lands filled with beautiful rice fields, shrubbery, languorous cows, and of course, plastic bags. From highly concentrated cities to remote dwellings, from lakes and beaches to sewage passages – India has been hit with a ‘plastic plague’. As I wrestled a bag out of a cow’s mouth on the ghat of the Ganga river, I was filled with an immeasurable sadness. In the name of convenient and cheap consumerism, we are destroying India’s environment, with one of the most unseemly potent weapons of all – plastic. Plastics, though convenient, account for much of our solid waste – and almost no method of disposal is environmentally friendly.

The urgency of the situation is clear. According to a recent article by Dr. R. Venkatesan of the National Institute of Ocean Technology, there exists a swirling pool of plastic the size of Africa in the Pacific Ocean. Nearly two million sea birds and one lakh marine mammals die each year due to this pestilence. Recent studies using autopsies on sea tortoises show balls of plastic in their stomachs, indicating their mistaking plastic to be jelly fish. The plastic which we consume invariably lands up into the ocean through various waterways, landing on beaches of islands with delicate ecosystems.

Plastic is a life-thwarting substance. Non-biodegradable in nature, it gets caught in animals’ intestines, prevents water from seeping into the soil, hinders the growth of seeds and releases dangerous chemicals through the leaching process into our water table. Plastics absorb non-water soluble chemicals such as DDT and PCBs, which turns them into second-generation toxics, meaning that they affect the progeny of the animal that has ingested them. They disrupt the hormonal functioning of the body by deceiving hormone receptors into accepting toxins over the natural estrogenic hormone, estradiol, leading to diseases affecting reproduction and brain activity. On burning, as is normally the method of garbage disposal in India, plastics release dioxins, which are known as “repeat offenders” – persistent pollutants which dissolve into our body fat and causes the impairment of liver functions and immune system, along with other vital life processes in our bodies.

Recycling of Plastics – Myth vs. Reality
We sometimes justify our use of plastic by saying that it will be recycled, or will, at least, make its way to a proper disposal site. The truth presents quite a different story. Globally, we produce nearly eight million metric tonnes of PETs (poly-ethylene-terepthalate) a year for making bottles, of which, only one-and-a-half million tones gets recycled. Recycled bottles and bags do not usually yield products of similar nature – they usually end up as non-biodegradable materials such as car bumpers. Methods for garbage disposal in India are mostly landfilling and burning – in which plastics yield dangerous by-products, either way. Recycling plants are far and few in between, and a lack of a nation-wide, systematic garbage disposal system ensures that much of our garbage is not properly disposed. For several millennia, India had relied on natural forces to decompose our mostly organic waste. Until a few decades ago, the bulk of our solid waste was carried to farms for composting – unfortunately, this is no longer a reality, as the presence of plastic bags in the garbage renders the waste useless. The garbage then ends up strewn around cities and sewages – the Bermuda Triangle for our municipal waste today.

What can we do?
Recent legislations banning plastic bag usage have not, unfortunately, been too effective in their execution. The recent Delhi Plastic Bag (Manufacture, Sales and Usage) and Non-Biodegradable Garbage (Control) Act 2000 has affected very little change. Until February this year, not a single notice had been served to an offender. The use of biodegradable plastic bags is being touted as a solution, yet very few vendors have little incentive to switch over, finding it to be an economically unviable option. It is time for the civil society to take action, determining that we are ready to follow an informed method of responsible consumerism.

As consumers, we can do the following:

• Bring your own bags when shopping and refuse to accept them at stores.
• Bring back the tradition of using jute or hardy plastic baskets when shopping for groceries. Place all vegetables together, not using individual bags.
• Accept paper packaging whenever possible – incidentally, these keep fruits fresh longer.
• Avoid eating or drinking at places that serve plastic ware. Also, avoid buying soft drinks and the like, which come in plastic bottles.
• Help educate your children, friends, household help and shopkeepers about the harms that plastic cause for the environment whenever you can!

Hindi 101

I lost my Indian drivers' license years ago, amongst other semi-important documents that I figured would resurface when I needed them. After much searching, I conceded that it was, indeed, missing; lost due to my carelessness. Several years ago, I used to drive around Madras and Delhi, fearlessly overtaking lorries and veering around stray cows and jay-walkers on narrow, busy roads. Now, after not driving for several years, I feel incapacitated.

My father and driver in tow, I began the long-winded process of getting a learner permit. Obtaining the form, a doctor's sign-off, photographs, and several notarizations later, I was waiting in the concrete courtyard of the RTO complex, enveloped in heat amongst men who chatted away in the seemingly chaotic environment. After half an hour of waiting, I was summoned.

I entered the room, crowded with zealous test-takers, ready to pass the test in a breeze. I received the form, and to my surprise, it was completely in Hindi. That too, in a language that I don't use regularly. In Chennai, the forms are in English. I didn't know what left and right is in Hindi - after all, doesn't everyone use the English words? After asking for a clarification, the official began laughing about my anglified ways. Shameful, no doubt, but could I not have the form in English, please? After all, India is a country with over 200 languages - having a form in English is only fair to non-natives. Behind me, a local boy asked me what left and right in Hindi are - he didn't know! I stared in confusion, reading the questions and subsequent multiple-choiced answers, deciphering the possible meanings.

I looked closer, and it appeared that the answers in the multiple-choice test form were already ticked. And they looked correct. Yes!! The attendant had inadvertently helped me. The inefficiencies in the system were helping me out. One question had a sign about parking, and when I looked at the board with signs, that particular one had a bullock cart with a cross through it. What?? Sweat trickled down my back. After much consideration, I asked the gruff official what this could mean - he said that the question was wrong and clearly marked out. It was a brownie point. In the end, I proudly handed over my test paper to the official, passing the questions over to the attendant - he smiled and put the paper away. 10 out of 16 - I can drive, once again.

Sick with indignity

I was whisked into the local government hospital, with my learner permit application in hand. The task before me was to get a doctor to quickly sign off that I am capable of distinguishing between the colors of green and red, and that I wouldn't faint on my way to the local grocery store. I envisioned that I would need a full-body check up.

Upon entering the spartan premise, bumping into somber patients and attendees, I was directed to the portal of a room where the doctor was seated. There were four to five women in line, toting shabbily dressed children, all silently waiting for the doctor. Suddenly, I became worried about the prospect of unsterilized needles and of waiting endlessly behind these sick patients.

Of course, I was wrong.

My ever-so resourceful driver took Rs. 50 from my father, and led me to the doctor's desk, seating me on a grass green-steel stool. He explained my situation to the attendant, who took the grease money and brought me to the doctor's attention, who was attending to a patient. The women in line looked at me, neither with envy or disgust, rather, passively, quietly understanding that I was clearly next. My upper-classness helped determine this. I suddenly felt ashamed, and I averted my eyes as they continued to look on beseechingly at the doctor, quietly awaiting their turn.

Of course, there was still the lady with a miserly child in her lap, her other child peeping from behind her black sari. She was explaining her childrens' situation to the doctor in a respectful tone. I watched in curiosity is he furiously wrote up illegible prescriptions on tiny papers with jagged edges, torn from the corners of a notebook. The doctor, a middle-aged man with black hair and glasses, had an impatient and domineering aura about him. I looked around, absorbing the environment - pale yellow walls with chipping paint, a few old almirahs, a sluggish fan, another table, some plastic chairs - and on the doctor's desk - a pad, and a briefcase. I suddenly realized that this office had no medical instruments. The doctor didn't keep a stethoscope in his briefcase - it was filled with several old books and stationary. How was this doctor diagnosing these patients? Is it true, that Indian medicine is so advanced (due to our ancient knowledge of medicine), that we don't need modern day equipment to diagnose diseases? This is what I had once heard.

My ears suddenly perked up as the woman described in a single sentence, "When my son eats, his stomach starts to swell". Before she could even finish, the doctor interrupted, "Take these two tablets, and he will be fine", scribbling rapidly as the woman looked at the paper in confusion. She meekly enquired about the medications and the infection that her son was suffering from. He once again answered, condescendingly, "Like I said, give these two tablets and he will be fine." He was ready to take on the next patient. A stream of questions began to fire rapidly in my mind. Didn't this mother have a right to know what disease her son may have, what these tablets did? Did she not take a day off from work and wait her turn for her son to have a proper check-up? Did she not have the right to describe her son's symptoms to the depth necessary? Was it right, that she had to cower in respectful fear of a man who was clearly making premature diagnoses? It made me realize that the depth of poverty goes beyond money - it reaches the core of a person's self-respect, quietly shredding her dignity away, into tiny bits and pieces. I was reminded about the many stories of missed diagnoses, wrong prescriptions and debt-causing hospital stays from the poor people I had met. Sangeeta Ma'am, a teacher at Saksham, is still paying monthly interest payments of Rs.1000 (her monthly salary), for a Rs. 10,000 loan that she took a year back for her son's hospital stay. The loan - 120% APR. And her son is still sick. Sachin, a student of C. K. Prahlad, had recently told me that in India, 40% of hospital payments leave people in debt. Does being poor strip one of the right to fair and correct medical attention?

To my relief, the doctor then spoke to me a gruff tone, reprimanding me for using circles instead of tick marks in the Yes/No sections. My feeling of induced-superiority was temporarily brushed aside. Within a few minutes, he had gone through my form, asking me some basic questions, finally signing off his affirmation of my medical fitness. As I left, however, I felt the hair on the back of my neck prickle, as unfortunate eyes followed me to the door.

Hauz Khas - a tiny taste of ancient Delhi

Built around 1300 AD by Khalji Sultan Ala al-din, this structure was created as a water tank for the kingdom. Despite its crumbling facade, this monument maintains an aura of grace through its corridors, tombs, gardens and the surrounding jade-green lake.

It was a cousins day out, with Saurabh and Surabhi (and us three sisters).

Kashmir - No Room for Newspapers

For years, we dreamed of making a family trip to Kashmir. We argued, read avidly about reports on terrorism and looked around for opinions. We finally determined that the propitious time had arrived - Kashmir, the mother of Indian natural beauty, was calling us.

Having 5 days at hand, we left Delhi by train at night, and arrived in Jammu the following morning. My father negotiated with a driver to take us to our much awaited for destination - Srinagar, some 300 km away. Without much hope for reaching by evening, we decided to stay at the Patni Top hillstation for a night, on our way there and back, as the driver informed us that the mountainous route was better to be attacked slowly, during daylight.

We then soon left the hot and sticky city of Jammu, climbing the slopes to reach Srinagar, the summer capital of Jammu & Kashmir. We were greeted by beautiful panoramic views, fresher, nippy breezes and delicious 'Vaishno' dhabhas along the way. I watched in awe as military trucks passed through, carrying sleepy, yet heroic-looking Border Security Force personnel.

We rented our own Boathouse for two nights, in tune with our Kashmiri dream. Watching the microcosm that exists in and around the Dal Lake, particularly amongst the boat house residents, was greatly intriguing. The fact that all goods and services were a mere shikara ride away left me nonplussed. All goods - except for newspapers! Asked why there were no newspapers, our hospitable boathouse owner told us that newspapers played a very small role in their lives - tragedy had become a way of life, and reading about them was of no use.

We visited the gardens and made a trip to Gulmarg, relishing the natural beauty every minute. Horse rides, treks, shikara rides - the utopia had its new followers.

On Wednesday night in our boathouse, we learned of a tragedy. That evening, at the Dal Gate, two tourist buses arriving from Gulmarg had been bombed. We were shopping in Lal Chowk, and had been at the Gate just an hour before. We had spent the day at Gulmarg, no doubt having passed the victims by horseback.

The media was ablaze, and people all over the country were shocked. My sister and extended family desperately tried to reach us. The Gujurat government placed a moratorium on tourists traveling to Kashmir. Yet, we remained unperturbed inside the seemingly peaceful Srinagar, adopting the local fatalistic attitude of accepting tragedy as a part and parcel of life. We continued sight-seeing, trusting in fate and the ever present BSF.

So is Kashmir worth visiting? Yes, it is, despite the news of violence that abounds in the papers.

Kashmiri mirch

The Jain Clan

At last count, our family numbered 88 people in the house. That is, my home in Gaya, Bihar - the holy city where Buddha attained enlightenment.

We have two homes, each with four stories, and a courtyard in the middle of each. In the mornings, you see people quietly emerge from their rooms, stretch, and begin their daily rituals of brushing, chasing children out of bed, getting breakfast ready and bathing. The responsibilities of the men and women are carefully defined, with no roles overlapping each other. Bread-winning and child-rearing are distinctly different roles - and the customs and habits have been practiced to perfection over centuries.

Being a daughter of the house has it's benefits. My brothers (my cousins, that is), pamper me and allow me to practice my business skills in the shop (Sarika Sari Center). My bhabhis (ie, their wives), make me incredible food, making sure that I can't possibly be hungry or thirsty for even a minute. My uncles and aunts show me old photo albums and recount tales of the house. The daughters of the house are slowly married off, leaving room for new wives and offspring. They leave behind old memories and carefully framed photographs of their childhood, wedding. My Babuji (my dad's eldest brother), is the patriarch, ruling over family matters in a wise and just manner. He showers an unending stream of love towards the youngsters, and we all listen with deference when he speaks.

My bhabhis are beautiful, always elegantly dressed in saris, carefully covering their heads when an elder enters the room. Their faces glow with good humor, their eyes and noserings gleam, and their voices sing as they call out to the children and husbands. They scurry around the kitchen and rooms, taking care of the household for 17 hours straight. My male cousins work, rain or shine, taking non-AC trains across the country to fetch new cloth for the shop. My nieces and nephews are each talented, witty, and of course, pocess plenty of naughty qualities. At night, we sit on the terrace, evading the heat of the rooms, sharing humorous stories about quirky relatives and the family business. The house rings with old traditions, some good, some bad - but surprisingly, always unchanged.

Such is the family visit, the one I look forward to each time I arrive in India. My romantic dreams of my medieval home, while I am a thousand miles away in the US, becomes a reality. There is no anti-climax, no false expectations of what my visit will bring.

Born to inspire

The kids of Saksham Vidhyalaya are an indefatigable force. Their quest to learn, despite unfavorable conditions at home, continues to inspire me. Saksham is a school set within the Nithari slum in Noida, providing education for free.

In the picture: Pandy's Theatre group, having identified the children to be untapped talent, has offered to run a workshop for the children for a year.

Pandy's focuses on social issues, and their innovative theatre integrates such themes as gender, communalism and civil rights.

Life on the fast track

Who are these children, and where do they belong? Gaya train station.

Haridwar - Rishikesh - Chilla Lake

When I was finally over my jetlag, Smita, my dad and I set off for Haridwar. This holy city represents the meeting point of the giant Himalayas and the plains, and is a major pilgrimage site for Hindus. The city is alive at night, bustling with street stalls selling glistening trinkets, bright powders and garlands of marigolds. The beautiful, tiny streets, breeze from the river, sounds of chanting emanating from temples, transport you into an utopian era, one existing several lifetimes before. The peaceful Holy Ganga site is a microcosm in itself, inviting locals and travelers into its waters, promising purity despite the human emissions into its body. Leaf-made plates, toothpaste, soap, sweat, ashes - all make their way into the waters. The giant statue of Shiva near Hari-ki-pairi (feet of Shiva) overlooks the faithful bathers, turning into a majestic shadow into the evening, providing security and comfort to the city's sleeping inhabitants.

Rishikesh is our next stop - another holy city, this one, teeming with hippy-like foreigners, but equally enthralling. Camping, white-water rafting, and a mini safari in the Chilla forest are next in the itinerary.

On being phlegmatic

Rahul Brown, an inspirational friend whom I recently met, had recently written a humorous, yet powerful anecdote about his experience with the ragpicker community and his first encounter with unabashed nose-blowing commonly seen in India. I encourage everyone to read about him and his amazing work that he is doing in Ahmedabad.

Since I have arrived, I've once again begun to quietly watch people cough out their phlegm with great gusto every time they feel a slight onset of thickness at the back of their throats. I watch in wonder at the reverent tolerance that passersby display as a piece of translucent phlegm passes diagonally in front of them on a footpath. Or how it is incorporated into the morning bath (most gutturally) and the daily yoga ritual.

I find myself using innumerable reams of toilet paper to capture the ongoing phlegm, a symptom of being in a dusty environment and moving between scorching heat to AC environs. But for those who think of paper products as a luxury, or haven't ever been exposed to that concept, blowing into one's fingers is almost necessary. Phlegm, as I have learned from my yogic family, leads your body to diseases of every type, getting trapped in your lungs, stomach, intestines, leading to gradual, slime-like build up, causing resistance to your internal bodily activities. It is, overall, a disgusting, life-thwarting substance. To understand this, and many of the seemingly unpleasant aspects of Indian life, and its juxtaposition to incomparable grace and beauty, is to understand the complexities of India. To accept these habits and view them as part and parcel to the harmonious threads making up the national fabric is what makes it seem only natural. I now cease to look at spitting and raucous throat clearing with disapproval - I too just look away and let the person continue in their routine cleaning with privacy, making sure to not step into the target destination.

An Indian Summer

Arriving on April 17th, right on my sister, Smita's birthday, I decided to surpise my parents about my visit to India. After all, it has been three years - what greater surprise could there be! My parents arose at 3am, not believing my presence. At the moment that I entered their bedroom door, I felt a surge at the back of my throat, wishing that I had done this years earlier.

I decided that I am going to spend my summer in India, revisiting my roots, meeting inspirational people, writing, learning about development projects that work, and simply being myself. This, I believe, is vital before I begin business school in August.