A Useless Saturday

Eughghghghghghghh

Today's Saturday.  

It seems to be slightly cooler now, but it's still incredibly hot.  My face is still drenched all day long.  I still feel the first drip of sweat run all the way down my back by 9:30.  It only gets grosser from there.  I won't go into details.

I've been feeling like an outsider lately, ever since the "hair recommendation" incident.  I'm so self-conscious, and I feel like everyone I work with doesn't know what to do with me.  My clothes are slightly off.  I wish I could blend in.  I also really wish I could speak Hindi.  Most of the time I'm in the slum, I sit quietly since I can't understand what anyone's saying.  Later, the Health Promoters accuse me of being shy and demand that I talk more.  Which I understand, but I'm trying not to be an asshole by interrupting their discussions.  I'll work on being more social.

The Health Promoters also say I'm going to be part of DIR's cultural event, and I need to learn the dance they're going to do.  Sounds like an embarrassing experience for me, but it might be pretty cool.

I don't have a whole lot to do on the weekends, which is bad for my productivity, but I'm also dreading going back to work on Monday.  I'll be starting full days then (not just 9-1 like I've been doing).  I've been upgraded to an entire day to feel horrible about myself!  Great.

I'll write more later.  I'm too worn down right now.

First Day on the Job (Originally written Sept. 7)

I just got back from my first day on the job!  This morning, my grandma, grandpa (Pop), and I went out to the slum, or "basti."  

I forgot how thrilling the drive there is.  Chandigarh was designed on a grid, which has really impacted the culture of the city.  Everything is more spread out, perhaps a bit less chaotic.  It’s a nice city, but doesn’t meet certain expectations of how an “Indian City” will be.  Five to ten minutes from Pop’s house, right outside the city border, the grid dissipates and culture shifts.  Taking the right turns brings you to Janta Colony, where my grandfather’s project is established.  Twisty streets pop up, and little pockets of shops line the uneven road.  Lean animals sit in empty plots, and if you’re lucky, a cow might block your path for a minute or two.  This is the India a visitor imagines, and I really value the opportunity I’ve been given to experience it.

Every morning, the staff does a series of exercises.  A portion are done on the roof - for a bit we even get to use broken bricks as weights - which would be lovely, if the outdoors didn’t feel like Satan’s sauna.  Then the Health Promoters prepare paperwork for their day of house visits.  My grandma and I sat in on this, and the women told me I look like “Kat Weenslet from the Holeywood movie ‘Titaneec.’”  Some of them pulled up pictures on their phones of me from my last visit in 2011.  They were embarrassing photos.  We all shared a cup of delicious sugary tea before embarking on our day of house visits.

The health promoters always spend the morning checking on the families they council.  Today, I accompanied Sangeeta, a beautiful young woman who is the only health promoter today to wear leggings (as opposed to salwars) and active, Choco-style sandals.  I can’t understand what she says to passersby in the slum, but it seems like she’s often wittily teasing them.

Today, Sangeeta was meeting many new families she’d be advising.  Fortunately for me, several of these homes had young babies.  In one of the first houses (huts? Rooms?  I’ll describe the housing later at some point), there was a sweet tiny little baby boy that I couldn’t keep my eyes off of.  He was so little!  If I’d had to guess, I’d have thought he was a month or two old.  Three at the very most.  His thin wrists and ankles were wrapped in strings of beads, and even though they were incredibly small, his little shorts slipped down a few times revealing his bare bottom.  The mother looked very young herself, probably in her late teens.  There was another woman there too, probably the grandmother, who held the baby much of the time.

After 5 minutes of listening to Sangeeta speak with the woman in Hindi, she told me that I could hold the baby.  The grandmother held him out to me and I could have started crying.  I got to hold him for the rest of our stay (another 5 or 10 minutes).  There were times that he looked as if he might start fussing, but it was like he didn’t quite have the strength to do so.  It was heartbreaking.  He stared and stared at me while I cooed to him.  The two women said I will be a good mother.

When we left the house, I asked Sangeeta how old the boy was.  “Five months,” she said.  I couldn’t believe it.  When Ansel was that age, he was army-crawling around the living room.  I don’t think this baby could have even intentionally moved his head.  Sangeeta explained that the mother is having trouble producing breast milk, which is making the baby very weak.

I can’t even think of anything to follow up that story with, it’s just so sad.

Later, I saw a green parrot in a too-small cage, a newborn wearing eye makeup (as they all do), and a half-naked baby with a cleft pallet.  I got to hold him too.

Arrival (Originally written Sept. 6)

Hello from the other side of the world!  If you’re friends with me on Facebook, you probably know that I’ve arrived in Chandigarh, after a somewhat grueling 24 hour journey.  

The morning of my departure, I spent half an hour dying my hair to a deep brunette, in the hope that it’ll help me blend in slightly better in India.  I was doing well in getting my bags ready, but I scrambled in the last five minutes with filling my water bottle and shuffling toiletries between ziplock baggies.  It was in the car on the way to the BART that I realized I left my insulated water bottle (which I had spent weeks thinking of how useful it would be in the hot climate of India) on the counter.  I’d spent so much time focusing on keeping my shit together, I had to breath through my frustration to keep from tearing up.  A couple minutes later, I realized that I’d also left all my liquids on the table.  God.  DAMN IT.  I kind of lost it at that point.  I was so pissed at myself, and I was also saying goodbye to my aunt and uncle at the BART station: my last “farewells” in America.

I was fully crying as my grandma and I rode the escalator to the platform.  When the train pulled up, the car we were presented was packed.  I rushed to get in line for the car to our right.  My body was through the threshold when the doors closed on my arm, my suitcase and grandmother outside.  I was able to push them open again to get my case though, but they shut before Grandma could squeeze in.

So there I stood, blotchy-faced with a full audience of commuters who’d watched my poor nana knock on the window as the train pulled away.  A nice woman assured me that I could reunite with her at another stop.

On the first flight, I watched Maleficent and The Secret Life of Walter Mitty.  I think I only liked Maleficent because Angelina Jolie's lips were so mesmerizing.  The Fannings always annoy the crap out of me.  And Elle’s hair was far too clean and bouncy for the time period.  Walter Mitty was pretty good.  I always forget how much I like Ben Stiller...  I was glad I watched it, because it got me excited for my trip again.  At that point, I was too focused on what I knew would be uncomfortable about my stay, and forgot how much I’ve wanted an adventure.  Most of my trip will be really exciting and enriching.  And it’s important to remember that bad instances often make good stories.

On the second flight, I sat next to a man who ate and drank very loudly.  There was a storm outside and I got to look down at lightning.  That felt weird.

When we arrived at the airport in New Delhi at 1 am, we had the good luck of meeting a man also catching the bus to Chandigarh.  He even knew one of my grandpa’s colleagues.  He helped us take the shuttle to the bus stop and get our tickets.  I was able to sleep for a bit, but buses always make my nose really itchy (???) so it wasn’t very restful.  The driver was heavy on the horn, as most Indian drivers are.  In my dream, the honking became a man playing the accordion.  When I woke up, rain was pouring across the window, and my backpack at my feet was drenched.  

My grandpa picked us up at about 8, and we got settled at his apartment.  I have a nice little bed in the living room, on which I took a nap that turned into an epic five-hour slumber.  

Last night, my grandparents and I went to an Indian choir concert.  It was great, but my grandma and I both kept falling asleep.  I feel really bad about it, but the concert was like two hours long, and jet lag has such a grip on me!  We’re almost a full 12 hours from my normal timezone.  It still has me all off-schedule, making me wake up at 5:30 this morning with no hope of falling asleep again.  It was one of my most productive mornings yet.

Tomorrow I’m off to the slum or basti, as is the local term.  I’m surprised we’re going out there already, but I’m also glad to get started so soon.