Tabassum

Tabassum and I have a funny friendship.

I don’t recall ever being in the position before as the “corrupting” friend. Yet, with my friend Tabassum of Calcutta, she is one of the most sheltered, naïve 28-year-olds that I have ever known—so I am the liberal, radical, rule-bending one. Well, come to think of it, my Mormon friends probably view me that way as well She is Muslim, a religion more conservative than my own, which is rare.

She makes me laugh.

For example, she asked me, “Do you cover your head when you greet your brother-in-law in the morning?”

I broke into laughter as I imagined wrapping myself in a shawl to be properly attired for Luke. I explained that  women don’t cover their heads in America—not even some of the Muslim women there.

We walked around the park one day, holding hands. In most cultures around the world, it’s very common for people of the same sex to hold hands. She was oblivious that this might be awkward for me. She kept elbowing me and pointing at couples and giggling. It took me a while to figure out that she was scandalized by the physical displays of affection going on on the benches, which didn’t consist of much more than hand holding and sitting close.

I felt obligated to explain to her that in America, it doesn’t mean you’re a bad person if you do those things in public—even unmarried. I told her Jacob and I actually kissed before we got married. She couldn’t believe it. She didn’t know I was capable of such a thing. Somehow she accepted it but it really stunned her. In her mind no one with morals would do such a thing. I tried to tell her that women don’t hold hands in public; men and women do. And it’s all not a reflection of being a bad person. I’m not sure she really understood. And how could she? Her marriage was arranged.

She insists on paying for everything when I am there because I am “her guest.” She probably lives on 1/100 of my salary.

She laughs for a full minute when I describe what poverty in America looks like (because she asked if we had slums similar to India). “We are the American poor!” she keeps repeating (because she has a house and a refrigerator). But not really—she doesn’t have a toilet or a.c. which I imagine most American poor do.

She takes me out to eat at a little hole in the wall, not realizing how unappetizing the fly-infested dishes look to me, and I take her out to eat at the nicest restaurant in Calcutta, not realizing how unimpressed she would be with how slowly the food was brought out.

Precariously tied together bleachers at the circus

Tabassum (in blue) with sisters and mom

The gifts Tabassum’s daughter Humaira, who calls me “Auntie Kalli” so generously presented to me.

Tabassum and I have a funny friendship. But it’s one, I have a feeling, that will span our whole lives.

Rahul’s requests

I tutored Rahul, the sharpest boy at Daya Dan, for the month we were there.

He made me a list of countries which Jacob and I should visit, including dates.

He asked me to sign and date the document, and to give it to Jacob to sign and date as well.

He also asked me, when I went home to America, to see if there was anyone who could be his tutor for longer, more than a month. He doesn’t like going without tutors, and he doesn’t like switching to new ones all the time. He wants a permanent tutor.

My heart broke a tiny bit for him, so I’m passing the message on:

Rahul, age 14, very smart, would love a permanent tutor.

While I was there this time, another girl came back from Japan who had visited when I was in Calcutta in May. She missed the boys and had to return. So you see, the boys at Daya Dan are very special. It’s not just me who thinks so. Many of the volunteers who visit return again and again. Come and see for yourself.

Jacob came with me one day and was fascinated by the repetitive hand movements one of the blind boys does (wave the hand, touch the nose. Wave the hand, touch the throat). He sat there and tried to mimic it, and the head nun came and watched him do it. Jacob was oblivious anyone was watching him. I burst out laughing when he realized Sister Jonafa was watching him copy the handicapped boy. No offense taken; it was pure inquisitiveness on Jacob’s part.

Indian wedding

The reason we returned to Calcutta so soon was because Arnab invited us to his wedding.

Arnab is a friend of ours that we met last time we were here. He gave me a gift of earrings (the same ones he gave his girlfriend, he told me) as well gave Jacob and I as a statue of the Hindu elephant god Ganesh for a wedding gift. He would hand me the phone sometimes to talk to his girlfriend, who lived in Mumbai.

Naturally we assumed Arnab was marrying the same girl.

So imagine our astonishment when we came to Calcutta to find out it was a different one!

Because his original girlfriend’s family forbade their union since she was a Brahmin and he only of the warrior caste, it turns out we were to attend an arranged marriage, not a love one.

Somewhat of a sad story, no?

It was an honor to attend, but we didn’t expect the amount of attention that we received. We were invited to all close family functions and were next to Arnab during some of the most important rituals. As always, we are overwhelmed at the hospitality of people from Calcutta.

The rituals included things like lifting the bride and carrying her around in a circle 3 times, having the groom try to spear something with the point of his hat, and incense and burning. While we didn’t know what was going on, neither, we were assured, did the bride and groom.

Sounds like my own wedding, actually.

The ceremony took place at 3 am. We were all so exhausted, but that was the auspicious time for that particular date.

I had no idea astrology was still so important in India until this trip.

The last wedding we attended in India was much more raw. This wedding, the people were more well-to-do, and rituals were performed because it was tradition. Last time, it felt they married that way because they knew no other way.

So I learned it was a huge faux pas to not wear a necklace with your sari. I made sure to wear one at the reception.

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The tradition after the wedding is over is for the bride’s friends to bargain aggressively with the groom for him to give them a sum of money for their troubles in helping the bride to prepare for the wedding. Jacob got closer to observe the foray.

I haven’t mastered eating with my fingers yet…nor do I really have any desire to.

They have similar feeding each other rituals to ours

 

We were also invited to the groom’s family luncheon, the bride’s family luncheon, and gift opening. So honored

The gifts Indians give each other are so cute. Like saris folded into cannons, and a ship with the list of who gets what inside

This little boy made up a rap about us, that began, “Jacob and Kalli ran in a rally…” hilarious kid.

These girls asked for workout advice. It’s really amazing to me the lack of physical education awareness for women. Like women just don’t have much opportunity to be active.

And of course, trays and trays of sweets as gifts from the bride’s family to the groom’s.

It was a great experience and we were glad to get to be a part of it.

One of my regrets is that I didn’t attend more of my own friend’s weddings from back home, and that I didn’t make more of an effort to include my loved ones in my own wedding. So I’m going to try to attend as many weddings as I can from now on.

Return to Daya Dan

I’ve missed the boys at Daya Dan so, so much.

So it was with great anticipation that I returned to Nimtala Ghat Street.

I took an auto rickshaw to Kankurgachi, then one to Maniktola, and finally walked the length of the road to Nimtala Ghat Street because I was early and needed to pass the time.

A typical scene…

One man on the auto asked me some questions, and after every answer he said, “Thank you. Thank you. Thank you so much.” I tried not to laugh at his gratitude.  The men on the auto started arguing. Their curiosity stemmed from how I seemed to know my way around. It’s true that Calcutta has ceased to astonish me and no longer gives me culture shock. I feel at home.

I had to wait until 3 pm. When I entered, I saw Joy with a straw in his mouth, no doubt stolen from some empty bottled drink. You may remember him from this story.

To my surprise, he ran to me and gave me a hug. A really long, tight hug. And then he ran away again. And he hasn’t interacted much with me since, except to steal a package of biscuits from me, but I have to say it was an incredibly rewarding welcome back. Because Joy isn’t exactly what I’d call affectionate.

The boys haven’t changed. I just sat on the floor with them crowded around me, sitting on my lap, leaning against me, and I know I’m going to have to come back and see these boys again. Again and again and again. I want to make sure they’re well.

Bernard was there. I got to sit and talk with him. He’s in school now. His hair is longer and curlier. He didn’t say “book” or “Kalli” like I thought he would, but he makes a motion of writing to show he wants to study with me.

It’s just a few short weeks I’ll get to spend with them, but this time I will be able to confidently say to them, “I’ll come back.”

Because I know by now that I think about them too often not to.

Going back to Calcutta

To have returned to Calcutta is both strange and familiar.

It’s not the way I remember it, and I attribute it to four things.

One, the weather is so much more comfortable here in January and it affects everything: now young boys are out playing cricket; people are bustling about with less sluggishness; it no longer bothers me to see someone napping on a sidewalk when it’s so balmy out.

Two, Jacob and I have been in sub-Saharan Africa which is much lower on the scale of human development. Here in India, it is possible to live a posh lifestyle; not so in Accra.

Three, hope and optimism are in the air. People are working hard. There’s a lot going on…Calcutta is westernizing and developing at a fantastic rate. It seems less polluted, less trafficked, less crowded than I remember. Ghana is not changing at this kind of pace. India is supposed to surpass the USA in a few decades. Between China and India, Jacob and I are rooting for India. We think they’d make pretty excellent world rulers.

And finally, my views on poverty have changed.

To feel sorry for someone can mean you are putting them on a lower level than you. It’s slightly supercilious, and as these people don’t pity themselves, I don’t see what business I have pitying them. When I see people sleeping on sidewalks, I remember what Jacob told me about someone he met in Fiji: when given a choice between a bed and the floor, the man picked the floor--he preferred it.

Besides, I envy Calcuttans. Their city’s soul vibrates with mine, and maybe I will live here one day.

Caste

To explore a little more about this idea of the sense of contentment in Calcutta…

I’ll preface by saying that I have read travelers who have been around the world, traveled to Africa even, and never seen the extent of poverty that can be found here.  I have no idea what it is like in central war-torn Africa—I actually expect it would be worse there because no one would have money, unlike India where there are definitely wealthy people and there is a healthy tourism industry— but it’s enough to say that Calcutta has one of the most impoverished populations on the planet, if only because of its huge number of people who are living in such a small space.

Jacob and I have only met and talked with mostly Brahmin and warrior caste people which is probably limiting our perspective.

The four castes are these: Brahmin (priest), warrior (Kshatriya), merchant/businessman (Vastriya) and artisan/labor (Huiti). The bottom isn’t really a caste—they are the Untouchables, the Dalits.

This is the sorrow of Hinduism and karma—while it might provide a neat, packaged explanation for why there is such inequality, it also means there is a universal feeling that “you deserve what you get.”

Caste system has been outlawed in India. Everyone assures us it no longer matters, and I think each generation it matters a little less. But it is telling that we haven’t befriended anyone of the lowest castes. The reasoning being that they are less educated and less likely to speak English.

We meet people who live on the streets but they can only speak Bengali usually. Nevertheless they are friendly, want us to meet their families, want to know where we are from.

Our guest house

 

The caste system persists in that there is a servant culture. We have servants here. It’s like we normally would if we were in a hotel. The difference is, our cook and housekeepers are living in the house we live in. They don’t live with their families. It is one more sort of tragic situation that it seems a majority of low-paid people do not get to see their families but once a month or twice a year.

Our friend in Turkey, Ali, had a similar situation. He loved his wife and kids and talked about them often. But he had to live in Istanbul because there was no way to make money in the town he came from. He worked in a dirty little shop gluing Nike shoes together. India is full of stories like that. And so it goes.

But it doesn’t seem tragic to them and here’s why I think this is so:

It’s an improvement from their situation. Calcutta is actually one of the better places to be in comparison to its neighbors. Hence, the reasoning behind the lack of despair that I feel in the people of the city.

For example at a home we visited last night, the servant girl was from the Sunderbans, home of the Bengal tiger a bit south from here. She was very young and sent to a wealthier family to work. Is it sad that she is growing up away from her family and having to work as a maid? Or is it sadder that in her home there is no food and no hope for a better life? Here in her work place in Calcutta she actually gets clothing, plenty of food, and even a little schooling.

  Or take the people who live on the street. Most of them are from the poor surrounding states of Bihar or Orissa, or refugees from Bangladesh. Those places are worse than here, I’m told. Here there are public fountains where you don’t have to go far to get water. Here there are places to beg, and the Kali temple gives a bowl of rice every day to the city’s poor. There may be employment opportunities. Or take the boys at Daya Dan. They come from lying unattended in the streets. Their parents probably viewed the birth of a child with disabilities as bad karma and were ashamed of them. Now they get regular meals and tutors and books. It is an improvement—every person we see whose situation looks bad, there is always someone next to them whose situation is worse. Maybe this helps the feeling of optimism.

The Kalighat Kali Temple

Confusing

Calcutta is the first place I have cried myself to sleep from thinking about someone else besides myself.

Don’t worry—I don’t cry myself to sleep often. But when it has happened in the past, it has always been about my own personal woes.

But I have cried myself to sleep here both when I think of the loving, smiling boys at Daya Dan, and when I think about the thousands of strangers who I have seen doing the most shocking things I have ever seen in my life.

On any given day as I travel to the orphanage or go out with friends in the evening, I might see a man the age of my grandfather brushing his teeth with his finger with the water gushing out of a public fountain…a wizened old woman sitting in 100 degree heat on the side of the road, her arms bare and wrinkled…a woman with a terribly tiny baby begging for milk who probably would just resell the milk if she got the chance…a man retching into the gutter…people sleeping on traffic medians at nighttime…the smell of defecation greeting my nostrils because so many people here have no access to a toilet…naked barefoot toddlers playing on the sidewalks with nothing but a string tied around their waists…the piles of trash that line the sides of the streets with children, crows, and lean dogs picking through them, the buildings covered in black grime, the one long honk as taxis and buses and autos belching pollution slam by, and similar images and senses kind of just hitting me one after the other.

But as tough as those images can be, that’s not why I cry.

I cry because I’m confused. When people ask how I like Calcutta—the way most people still say the name of the city— and I assure them I like it very much, they smile knowingly.

“That is because Calcutta is the City of Joy,” they say.

This is why I cry. I am totally disarmed. The people here are happy. The boys at Daya Dan are happy. What a tremendous struggle that causes me inside myself to see that. What a mind-boggling dilemma. I know not everyone here is equally happy. I have no doubt many of them would love to see an improvement. But the level of friendliness here, the absence of crime, and the seeming lack of resentment towards me, a clearly wealthy Westerner, is undeniable. I’ll be honest when I say I don’t quite understand it.