Nuggets of West Bengal

Some pics from the last few days in the intoxicatingly exotic post capital of the British Raj---Kolkata, in West Bengal. After a 35 hour jam-packed train ride up the eastern coast of India--through rural Andhra Pradesh and Odisha, I arrived here with colleagues from MCCSS to help reintegrate a woman who had been trafficked with her family, whom she hadn't seen for 9 years. These images capture the dizzying alleyways, spicy Bengali cuisine, vibrant markets, and crumbling edifices of British reign.

Rice paddy fields in Odissa--views from the train

Channa masala and yummy train snacks

A trafficking survivor and her family after reintegration

Fruit markets in Kolkata

Queen Victoria Memorial--Kolkata

Yummy Bengali thalhi

Street wanderin--Kolkata

New Market Square--Kolkata

Queen Victoria's gate

Waitin for the train

Alleyways upon alleyways

College St. second-hand book market

books for days

More Bengali food!!!!!--dhal bhat n' subje allllllday

street capture

check-out the cabs

Beautiful Women Unite

This day was full of firsts. I walked with trepidation to the Perambur Loco train station, clutching my purse and covering my head with my dupatta. I missed the first train because I didn't see any identification as to its destination--little did I know that trains in India hardly have physical cues for where they are going, most of the time you have to count on strangers to tell you the way. After riding to Central Station in a men's cart, seeing as I didn't know there were women only carts, I had my blank poker face on like I knew what I was doing, but there's nothing more unnerving than 100+ eyes following your every move when you aren't sure of where you are headed. I traced my zig-zagged way from Central to Park--the suburban train track, called Devi numerous times to make sure I was in the right direction, and finally found her at the Egmore bus stop. 

Cities can be so overwhelming when you have no earthly idea of where you are or how to get around. I am very pleased to say that I feel comfortable getting just about anywhere in Chennai at this point via public transport and if all else fails---there's always auto-rickshaws. And hey, even if you get ripped off, at least you aren't getting groped on an over-capacity city-bus. By the way, there is a women's side on the bus as well--when in doubt, find the huddle of ladies and they will most certainly be glad to protect you and help you on your way. Every woman in a saree will most likely treat you like a demanding mother, correcting your posture or removing pieces of jewelry she doesn't approve of, even if you are a stranger! That said, women's camaraderie extends especially to foreigners here. Most ladies are just concerned that I am so far away from home, my family, and they want to show me hospitality and ensure my safety. 

One time, on a bus, which looked like a mechanical centipede, with a melange of human limbs and carry-ons poking out of every door and window, I saw a woman being subtly groped by a greasy dude, who was taking advantage of the crowd to rub up against her. I tried to make room and motion for her to move closer to me, away from this dude. My attempts caught the attention of some ladies in front of me, who immediately understood the situation and seethed. They started shouting and beating the man off the bus with their tiny purses, shuffling the young lady under their silk wings. I've found this to be such a contrast to my society, where women see every other female as a competition or simply cast strangers off as 'dumb bitches' because of their outfits or mannerisms. 

This was my rumination as the 27D bus roared down Chennai's streets with unsettling speed. Devi put her arm around me, "I am glad Kand, to teach you these ways so you can go freely," she smiled broadly, turning up her Hindi-jams on her tiny Nokia and did a mini-shoulder dance, "I'll show you all the tricks, na? And when I come your place, you show me all the things. So we can go happily, isn't it?" 

"Without you Devi, I dunno what I would do," I said in between jarring stops, the bus slamming on brakes, missing pedestrians by a arms length.

"And me too, without you Kand. We make it a cheerful life, na?" She was interrupted by a lady who dropped her purse in Devi's lap, for safekeeping. "The women at the Vigilance Home will be so glad to meet you." 

The first time I went to the Vigilance Home, a woman's prison in Chennai, I was nervous. I was about to interact with women who had been arrested for sex work, most of them trafficked into the trade. I didn't know what to expect. I had prepared in my head a list of games and activities in case things got awkward. I spent the whole morning practicing my key Hindi phrases, since Devi told me many of the women come from North India. 

We walked down the tree lined driveway leading to a dilapidated building, with bars lining the walk-ways and cats everywhere.

"The warden treats her cats better than the women," Devi whispered, nodding to a gang of kittens devouring a giant plate of pongal. I smiled and observed some women peaking through the bars on the second floor, giggling. After taking my prints, passport sized photo, and letter from the Executive of MCCSS requesting my passage, the gates were unlocked and we entered. Devi led me upstairs to the common room, where the women spend most of their day doing crafts, sleeping, playing games, or primping each other. 

All of the ladies greeted Devi, a group of Hindi women fluttering around her, "Devi-didi! Devi-didi!" For many of these ladies, Devi is their sole hope, as the only social worker in Chennai who visits the Vigilance Home who speaks Hindi. They were all prying here with questions about court dates, petitions, if she could contact their boyfriends and babies. 

She introduced me, "Kendall se mi-li-ye." And they immediately flooded upon me, pinching my face, stroking my arms, asking me questions too fast for Devi to translate.

"Ye larkee bahut sundare naa? This girl is so beautiful, no?"

"Which country bahen?" 

"Tum ka kaam kyaa ho? What is your work?"

"Kyaa tum hindi le-tee ho? Does she speak Hindi?"

"Paribar? Family? Marriage? Boyfriend?"  

  They pulled me down and engaged me in a game--the Indian version of checkers. We all clicked immediately. Over the next few weeks, every Tuesday and Friday, Devi and I would bounce our way to Santhome to visit with these ladies. We would play games, share life-stories, teach each other songs, make up silly dances--sometimes I would listen to their pains as we held hands, sorrow never needs to be translated. They spoke of their babies left in the brothels, their boyfriends far away, their sex-work, their sicknesses, their girl-fights, their loneliness--how their broker calls them in jail, how their parents were murdered in religious riots, how they bribe the guards to use their mobiles to call home, how they hate the prison food, how they are beaten, how they feel like dying. 

"Life achaa naheen bahen, life is no good sister" one woman, Lakshmi lamented, "come prison, life stop." Lakshmi had been in the Vigilance Home for almost two years. She got into sex-work in Mumbai when she had limited options to help get her crippled father out of debt with some slum-goondas. 

Every time I came, she would have some new infection or scary high fever. She can't walk properly anymore and has lost half her weight since being there. Despite her problems, she was more worried about her pregnant sister, who recently joined the  VH and was due soon (no one knew exactly when). Lakshmi and her sister had to deal with their health problems on their own since doctors never came to visit. They would bribe the warden and guards to sneak them tablets; I would often inquire on their behalf, telling those in charge how sick these ladies were and how pregnancies need to be carefully watched over, especially in the last trimester, but to no avail. The ladies stayed sick, and the wardens stayed indifferent to their pains. Devi told me that Hindi girls are treated the worst in the prison because of widespread prejudice Tamils have against Northerners. 

One day when I was sitting with Lakshmi, she was telling me about her boyfriend in Mumbai, how he was the same color as me.

"He's American?" I asked, grinning. 

She smiled, "Amereecain naheen bahen. But white, bahut sundare! So beautiful!"

I continued by telling her how beautiful she was, and she shook her head in disgust,

"Naheen sundare, not beautiful" She tugged at her skin. "Me black-- you white. Black--bad, white--good." The women around her clucked in acquiescence. "Me, thin. I want be fat, naa? Thin naheen sundare. Thin isn't beautiful." 

At this point I called Devi over to translate for me. I continued to tell the ladies how women in the west try to darken their skin, and how they starve themselves to be thin--because they think this is beautiful. Giggles and tisks resounded; they would ask again and again, "Kyoo? Why?" They were incredulous as to how women would actually want to have darker skin or not love their curves.

On our way back to MCCSS, I couldn't help but ponder the true malleability in societal conceptions of beauty. Coming from a woman who used to have an eating disorder, and whose close friends and family members have also struggled with self-love/body acceptance/eating and weight issues, I was literally flabbergasted by the polarity of my culture compared to theirs. Think about how ludicrous it would sound to a group of 20-something American girls if you told them that being pasty-white, having love-handles, and wearing at least three layers of cloth over your breasts was considered exquisitely beautiful. Think about how much easier our lives would be if we wore moo-moos every day and eating carbs wasn't sacrilege. 

Every morning when I open the paper, over a pot of sweet chai and biscuits of course, I am fascinated by the ads and Indian tabloids. There are ads for skin-whitening cream and snapshots of hit-movies, with voluptuous dancers lined up around a greasy hero-figure. The articles speak of how Bollywood stars are hounded about being too thin. That this or that lady is always told by her producers to eat more. "She couldn't walk the catwalk because she was swimming in her saree. A woman has to have some substance." Don't get me wrong, Indians aren't into obesity, they just like a little substance on a lady. I have a theory that it is because this is a country where people still do literally starve everyday and having the means to have a little pudge in your belly is a signal that you are well-off. Plus I have heard personally from Indian men, who are all thin as sticks, that they want something soft to cuddle up to. "See Kand? Bones aren't beautiful," a friend, Dinesh once told me while we were watching a Hindi movie.

I recollect having a conservation about ideas of beauty with Rachel, a lovely lady from Arkansas who was working at Premavasem, the orphanage earlier mentioned. We were on the train to Bangalore, sitting across from a muslim family. The mother in her black dress with her head covered in a colorful scarf, her daughter fully covered except for her eyes, even with gloves and socks despite the tepid heat. We were talking about how some folks back home view conservative cultures or religions as oppressive towards women. And certainly there is a part of me that advocates free-dress for all! Come on, man. I'm a feminist, I'm all for owning your body and working whatever club-wear you rock. But being in a place where the more covered you are, the more respect you receive, I have come to appreciate the reasoning behind modesty. 

"I mean think about it, when we 'dress-up' in the West, we don't leave much to the imagination," Rachel mused amidst the roaring train engine and intermittent wallah-drawls for dosai or masala chai, "but women here, they keep parts of themselves sacred--its like their own beautiful little secret." She continued to tell me about an article she read where a burkah-clad woman was questioned about how it feels to be oppressed by her religion and she wisely replied,

"Frankly, I feel that women in the West are oppressed in that their are treated like sex-objects by their society. People view woman in terms of their bodies and clothes instead of who they really are as humans. I will take being modest in public any day over being objectified by those around me." 

At that very moment, the little muslim girl sitting across from us who had been sharing her hot-ground nuts with us and inquiring about our countries, lifted up her black overdress to reveal an vibrantly beaded hot-pink kurta, with chiffon and intricate flower designs. She pointed to herself with pride, communicating that she did the bead-work. She was startled by the conductor calling out the next stop, sweeping her fashionable secrets up in her traditional covering--she waved with her black gloves and smiled with her eyes, following her mother out of the carriage. 

Being in a culture where the norms and expectations of women and sexuality are so mind-bogglingly opposite, where women save the most intimate parts of themselves for their private life, and being around such amazing women in the Vigilance Home who inspire me with their strength and resilience, yet who are dissatisfied with the very skin and figure that would land them on the cover of Elle magazine in the states, has made me realize, however cliche this sounds, that beauty is something you create in your mind--it is something you own. If you look outwards for validation, you will always find something to dislike, because everyone is so unique and different. Random societal norms, which cause so many awesome women to hate themselves--literally loathe their god-given figure and form, should not be the fucking baseline from which you measure yourself. So many of the internalized beauty ideals are deleterious to self-love. You have to surrender to the idea that beauty is something that you live, and practice, it is not a goal or destination and has to be embodied by your very own unique self. 

In Memory of My Feelings- Frank O'Hara

My quietness has a man in it, he is transparent
and he carries me quietly, like a gondola, through the streets.
He has several likenesses, like stars and years, like numerals.

My quietness has a number of naked selves,
so many pistols I have borrowed to protect myselves
from creatures who too readily recognize my weapons
and have murder in their heart!
though in winter
they are warm as roses, in the desert
taste of chilled anisette.
At times, withdrawn,
I rise into the cool skies
and gaze on at the imponderable world with the simple identification
of my colleagues, the mountains. Manfred climbs to my nape,
speaks, but I do not hear him,
I’m too blue.
An elephant takes up his trumpet,
money flutters from the windows of cries, silk stretching its mirror
across shoulder blades. A gun is “fired.”
One of me rushes
to window #13 and one of me raises his whip and one of me
flutters up from the center of the track amidst the pink flamingoes,
and underneath their hooves as they round the last turn my lips
are scarred and brown, brushed by tails, masked in dirt’s lust,
definition, open mouths gasping for the cries of the bettors for the lungs
of earth.
So many of my transparencies could not resist the race!
Terror in earth, dried mushrooms, pink feathers, tickets,
a flaking moon drifting across the muddied teeth,
the imperceptible moan of covered breathing,
love of the serpent!
I am underneath its leaves as the hunter crackles and pants
and bursts, as the barrage balloon drifts behind a cloud
and animal death whips out its flashlight,
whistling
and slipping the glove off the trigger hand. The serpent’s eyes
redden at sight of those thorny fingernails, he is so smooth!
My transparent selves
flail about like vipers in a pail, writhing and hissing
without panic, with a certain justice of response
and presently the aquiline serpent comes to resemble the Medusa.

Some gems from along the way

Step-well in Hampi

Me, Guru, and Akbar

The crew in Bangalore

Crazy Kannada language

View from Hanuman Temple, Hampi, Karnataka 

Rice paddies in full swing--Hampi, Karnataka

Kelsey roamin atop the Hanuman Temple mountain

Virupaksha Temple, Hampi- Karnataka

don't ever trust the monkeys

Virpaksha Temple--Lakshmi getting a bath in the right hand corner

Temple elephant--Lakshmi!!!

Lotus Mahal--Hampi

Miss Trupti rockin the ray-bans

me and Guru <3

Here, With Honey

we're standing in the middle of a sprawling bazaar 

outside central station where worker bees vibrate 

between platform-fields and city-hives 

all with tickets 

with times, and destinations, and plans. yet we have 

no ticket; we have no plan. we have a few tricks, 

a few cells left over from college with their stamps 

of approval. 

we have one million eyes and velcro palms--like beggars 

who greet us, singing on the train with a gouged gaze, 

feeling their way through honeycombed carriages 

with bony ankles

and blossomed hands, until faceless drones toss them

a coin from purses fat with societal honey.

we are no beggars, we're simply 

en route. 

perhaps the only ones willing to acknowledge our own buzz-- 

while they assiduously fly from bed to pot to stair to platform

 to chair--and back again, so that no one sees 

their empty palms. 

we reach that point when were told to fill--the belly, the time, 

the mind itching for senseless purpose that we're headed 

somewhere, ceasing to realize that we're 

already there. 

Chastity & Gold

Late one evening, in the damp belly of crooked city-canyons, I strolled hand in hand with Devi, my Indian guide and new bahen-- 'sister in Hindi'. We jumped over sludge puddles and darted out of rickshaw paths in sync, hips swaying, kicking our feet out in that subtle Indian saunter. Street goats hopsped out of our way as we stopped at a street vendor to buy ropes of fresh jasmine to braid in each other's hair in the morning. 

I watched her haggle with the wallah (vendor), she is a very slender woman-- probably the height of my 10 year-old brother and half his weight. She swims in her bright, double patterned salwar kameez, hiding her birdlike arms and legs. Despite her stature, she demands a presence in the honest, no-bull shit way she carries herself. I would imagine Taylor Swift or Dakota Fanning to have a similar voice, with such pure open heartened intonation that no one could ever wish to do them ill. She shows the world only love and when it does not reciprocate, her thin eyebrows and button nose crunch up on her specs in utter disbelief--a countenance so charming, no human is impervious. 

The jasmine vendor surrenders to her contagious goodness, offers her the right price for a handful of perfumed white blossoms--  "theek hai, challo bahen" she smiles at me, pinches my cheek, "okay, let's go sister." We hop off the crumbled sidewalk over some discarded coconuts and continue meandering. A few paces down, Devi grabs my forearm to cross the clogged street, we snake in between rickshaws and carts and camels and cars, I glance back towards the jasmine-wallah and could only make out the faint spectrum of sarees circumventing his street tarp amidst the honking and the smog. 

Devi is a staff member at MCCSS who has embraced me into her life, treating me like a long-lost friend from the moment we met. She giggles constantly and strokes my hair and lays her head on my shoulder in the train and feeds me too many chappatis and teaches me hindi and sings butchered Rihanna songs and plucks lice out of my hair--a true friend. 

Indian affection is a beautiful thing. It needs no incubation period, there is no guise-- merely honest, exuberant expression of love for human connection, the oneness that brings us all together. Once you expose your nuggets of vulnerable humanness to an Indian, showing them that you are the same at your core, they express their affinity in a deluge akin only to sisterly or motherly love in the West. 

She was walking me back to the train station, as she always did when I stayed at her apartment past dark, despite my knowing the way and it being only two blocks down. "Alone nihi bahen," she adamantly replied, wrapping a shawl over my head and shoving a third serving of rice on my plate, "finish and we go, theek hai?" Stubbornness is another ubiquitous trait of Indian woman--there is always an opportunity to impose their 'right' way of doing things, whether it be with eating, sitting, speaking, drinking, or wearing your dupatta. The pushy interferences that westerners would view as appallingly rude are just avatars of that intense affection mentioned above. 

We reached the train station and merged into the current of bodies being funneled up and down staircases to various platforms. "So much rush, na?" Devi shouted. 

"Bahut!" I replied, "too much!," shoving a man beside me. We struggled through the nightly wrestling match and perched ourselves near the 'ladies only' platform. 

Just then I heard the booming echo of the railway chai-wallah's chorus reverberate off the steel blue tented awning. "Chai garam! Chai! Chai! Chai garam! Masala chaiya!"---"Hot tea! Tea! Tea! Hot tea! Spicy tea!" I find it hard to pass up that baritone catchphrase, immediately scrummaging for my last 10 rupee note as I followed his voice down the crowded strip of cement between parallel tracks where vermin feasted. 

When I found Miss Devi again, she was squished between two plump older women busting out of their neon sarees with jaundiced skin and too many gold chains, South Indian style. They quickly made space for half my butt-cheeck--which is considered beyond ample room. I squeezed in and handed Devi her scalding paper teacup. She was in a daze--said nothing but sipped her tea slowly, holding it like an expert, with fingertips delicately fastening top and bottom lips of the cup so you don't get burnt.

"Kyaa baat hai bahen?" I asked, "What's the matter sister?" 

She sighed and murmured with tea in her cheeks, "Your Hindi makes me very happy Kand," using her new pet name for me. Indians very much struggle with the pronunciation of my name--it is either Kandle or Kenol, there's no middle ground. 

I stayed silent, observing the clucking ladies around me with faith that Devi would reply in due time. There is no place like India to teach you patience. The train was already 20 minutes late, yet no one was bothered. People drank chai, sat cross legged on the dusty ground to read the paper, tied knots of jasmine flowers in circles of silk and slick black braids, and caught up with those around them--leave it to India to find a sense of community in a city of 6 million. While it was obvious that everyone was waiting, there was no urgency in the delay, almost as if they understood this to be out of their hands. 

Things happen when they happen-- there's a bead of Hindu culture for you, the value of process, not destination. And it is true, that something I am truly learning is how to be in the present moment; Mother India demands this of us. And it seems irrationally constraining at first, the way in which your choices are limited-- you have to eat all your food, you have to cover your head and tits, you have to endure the heat, you have to wake up at 4:30am when the call of the Mosque invades your sweaty sleep. But in reality all of our life is boiled down to the simple choice of opening your heart up to new experiences or hibernating in fear. 

"You can't forget me when you go home Kand," Devi whispered as she lifted her head off my shoulder, interrupting my rumination and meeting my gaze with those caring onyx eyes. 

"Of course I won't," I replied, caught off guard by her quivering tone, "how could I?"

"We're family, na?--sisters," she cackled and slapped the back of my hand, "You come to my wedding, okay?" 

She burst out, rolling in laughter as she often did, even when the situation wasn't particularly humorous. I caught on and sputtered between giggles, "and just when is that going to be Devi-didi? Are you and Anandh going to elope?"

His name took the breath out of her--quieted down and eyes cast aside, she solemnly recounted her recent issues with her boyfriend. They had been 'seeing' each other for around 6 months now. Recently Devi took him up North to her home state, Odisha (Orissa), to meet her family, which is a very serious move in Indian relationship talk. The two hadn't seen each other in two months. He no longer called or texted; she was heartbroken. Like most Western women I know, she automatically blamed herself, "I don't know what I did wrong Kand, I thought we would get married," Devi said with a click of the tongue and a roll of her watery eyes. She twisted my hair with her bony fingers; "When we love, we give the whole heart." She paused and sniffled, "s'not so easy to find one to take it though, isn't it?" 

You must understand that the term 'boyfriend' in India is a hop, skip, and jump from the term 'fiancee'--so much so that the terms are often intermixable. When two people enter into a courtship, they seek marriage partners, that's it. And a boyfriend/girlfriend relationship entails meeting for coffee or strolling on the beach (most likely with parental chaperones) or texting each other the lyrics to a Bollywood love-song. Pre-marital one-on-one time is rare and often frowned upon if it doesn't occur in very public places. As another one of my colleagues chortled upon my inquiry with this subject-- "in India, people love chastity almost as much as they love gold," as he took a drag of his beedie, a sip of his chai,  "which is saying a lot my friend." 

For Indians, marriage is the apex of life. It is all they dream about, search for, work towards. Their penchant for familial expansion is a fascinating phenomenon; once you've had your marriage and given birth to a boy, you can practically retire socially because you have 'made it.' And until that point, every fluttering female in a saree will badger you, try to fatten you up or spread skin-whitening cream on your cheeks for beauty and consult the stars for guidance until you are happily settled.

Speaking of consulting the stars, I cannot touch on the topic of love and marriage in India without going into the common practice of arranged marriages. When Westerners hear the term, I think we envision some form of forced child marriage or people having no say in with whom they are matched. And while this more traditional version of arranged marriage is certainly still practiced in rural parts of India, as with everything in this transforming country, there is a modern, more fluid version of this concept emerging. 

"Things just kind of came together for us," a friend, Vijay, explained to me over a breakfast of aloo parota, sweet curd and masala chai. Vijay was very recently engaged, and I felt comfortable enough to ask him about the subject of arranged marriage. "We started communicating online, on a website for people looking for marriage, kind of like your dating websites in the West." He was always good at making these sorts of comparisons; as a Tamil Brahmin, the most prestigious Hindu caste, he was fortunate enough to study in the UK and is familiar with the cultural idiosyncrasies. "I checked out her profile, our stars matched and our parents were happy with the family backgrounds," he continued, stirring more sugar into his already tooth-achingly sweet chai, "so we met for coffee and now we are to be married in November." 

Arranged marriage for more affluent Indians is not as strict as we would imagine. Earlier Vijay had told me how he had met with other women before, and recognized that they were not a good match. And although his parents and family were very much involved in the prospect of marriage, with their approval meaning the world to Vijay, in the end the choice was his. He felt that this match was meant to be. His ecstatic energy was palpable, but my head was swimming with questions.

"So, does it not bother you that you guys have only known each other for such a short time? I mean you've hung out like twice. How can you be sure she is the one?"

He bobbed his head and smiled, looking at me like a naive child, not out of condescension, but with a sincere  desire to make me understand. "This is not America-- marriage is not so complicated. We both want a companion; we both want a family; we are both committed; our families get along; she is beautiful enough; that is all that matters," Vijay stated matter-of-factly with a wave of his hand. He finished the gesture by tearing off a piece of his parota, scooped it into the sugar sprinkled curd like a spoon and ate it with the expert grace of someone who has been eating with their right-hand all their life. He looked into the distance,  observing the view from the rooftop-restaurant, contemplating his decided future. 

Above us loomed a grand hindu temple dedicated to Lord Shiva, the tip of the step-wise edifice slowly emerging from the morning fog. Monkeys swung from the chipped arms of sexy-lady statues lining the temple facade down to the terrace level, strategically perching themselves above overflowing fruit stands, waiting for their chance to swoop breakfast. "Everything else we will work out in time," Vijay started again, "with guidance from our parents, we will make a happy life."

The Indian conception of marriage is obviously quite different from that in the West. They understand it as a long term, life commitment, and not a flurried, passionate romance; marriage comes first, and then, if you're lucky, love will blossom out of mutual respect. It is understood that wild romance is a thing for the youngsters, puppy love if you will. And it takes a different caliber of relationship, a more mature, realistic and grounded relationship to make a marriage. With that lens grounded in real facts of married life, they're process of arranged marriage and ornery family intrusion makes more sense. 

The truth is that modern day arranged marriages cover a lot of bases which end up unraveling many matches in the West. Once a young adult has grown out of his or her puppy love phase and they are ready to make a commitment, they seek someone who is on the very same page, ready to take that leap into the next phase of life. They make sure the two families get along, that the in-laws accept the spouse, that everyone is making money in the same playing field (cause lord knows the epicenter of cashflow, and all its refracting quarrels, can also be the nascence of a deal breaker), and most importantly, that you don't have to be wildly fanatic about your spouse because in the end, all that matters is the commitment, the willingness to get through the tough times after the honeymoon fades.

  

India lays all her cards on the table in this way-- all of her uglies and vulnerabilities and raw humanness is exposed in such visceral manifestations that it can be overwhelming and seems almost ludicrous. Because it is a crazy way to go about life, especially for someone from a culture that makes a living out of shuffling pain under the rug, to say, ' hey this shit gets rough so lets be honest about it and stake out a support network.' And every genuine Indian countenance I have encountered speaks that life is brutal but beautiful, so we should trudge on with bright smiles, compassionate heads and light hearts because it's worth it. And in this willingness to be vulnerable, India has taught me the true meaning of courage. 

I believe our fear of shame, guilt, and ugliness in every sense of the word, is the bane of many relationships and other facets of societal functioning in the West. How can we expect to live a life full of light when we can't confront the dark?  The truth is, we can't. So we fill our time with surface routines and relationships, without ever diving into murky waters, out of fear--of being rejected, of being found out, of being a vulnerable, imperfect human. 

The common pattern with people my age in the States is to fill our lives with glittering career paths instead of filling our tank with long-lasting, meaningful relationships. This is a cop-out. In this routine, we get to keep to ourselves and never truly open up to another human--we stay safe in our own glorified quest for independence. I often find myself recanting the mantra, "only make decisions for yourself, don't let anyone infringe on your lifepath." But at what point can we decide to lift the strike, and widen our avenue of possibilities to include that of another whom we care about? 

Its the biggest game of bull-shit my generation faces. We all play it off like we don't care, like were only in this life to please ourselves and that we don't need another human to fulfill us. Granted, in college, this is easy-- an almost necessary adaptation to survive in the environment of erratic interaction savoring something of romance (when I say erratic I mean belligerent).  

I can recount numerous instances when I have been talking with my girlfriends in college, or even during my internal tete'a'tete, when a chic will be brought up. We will peel back each layer, starting with her fashion sense, overall demeanor, any embarrassing drunken stories, and finally to the topic of sex. And when it is found out that she has a long term boyfriend, perhaps from high school or since freshman year, even a few months, collective sighs will billow in between clicks of judgement, always masking resent. 

Being in a relationship in college is almost like a death sentence. In my experience, all of my girlfriends who got boyfriends, except one who is a badass (you know who you are miss jack daniels infused turtle-tatt), were practically unheard of from that point forward. Either because they had no interest in going downtown, because who really wants to go downtown when you have a wonderful person you can cuddle up to all night, or because they were subsumed by his friend group. 

And it becomes a part of the single gal's pathetic superiority complex--like "I don't need a man to validate me," and "those bitches who do are insecure or weak or too scared to fend for themselves and to feel the bitter-twinge of lonely soul-searching." But deep down, we all want the same thing---to be heard, to be accepted, to have someone who understands us, who knows us and wants to be there despite all of the bullshit; someone who is willing to explore with you in this terrifying realm of commitment. 

I think a part of me hung on to the idea that college, or just my twenties in general, should be this time of great personal development. Like there are caverns only I can explore, which is valid and bears definite truth. But after all the personal, psychological spelunking, one has to come back to the surface and share what they have found in the depths. I am coming to recognize that there are some things you just can't learn about yourself until you see them reflected in the eyes of another who accepts you for you.

Devi crumpled up her teacup and tossed it on the rail-way tracks in front of us. She then glided over to the rusty faucet under a sign, 'Water Good Drink,' rinsing the masala sweetness out of her mouth and hands. She came back and instinctively linked my arm, "Puah Kand," she fluttered, readjusting my dupatta and slicking stray hair behind my ears. "Even though the men they cause us the pain, we will have it a happy life, no? Because the man and the woman--we need each other, isn't it?" She grinned brightly, throwing her head back as her bellowing cackle was swallowed by the noise of an approaching train. 

I shoved my way into the ladies coach and staked out a seat with Devi shouting Tamil commands at her fellow sareed akkas from her perch on the platform. "And Kand?" she shouted. 

"kyaa bahen?"-- " what sister?" 

"God-willing, you bring your musician-man to my wedding too, theek hai?" 

And a smile from deep within my chest tugged at my cheeks. I nodded and waved goodbye as the train lurched forward, enveloped by the tepid Chennai evening, with that contagious courage to believe in happy endings wafting into the carriage with the dust and the street chatter and the eternal smell of jasmine. 

Being Different

Being different is exhausting. Some days I would kill to simply walk down a street and blend in, not draw attention from anyone. I feel every gesture, gaze, and glare, however blatant or nuanced--seeing as I have taken on a role of expert observer. Everywhere I walk, every seat I occupy, every bead of sweat I wipe off my brow, every cup of tea I sip too quickly, every time I readjust my dupatta, every time I awkwardly ball up rice and miss my mouth with lack of skill--I am acutely aware of their acute awareness of my presence, of my being. And I haven't figured out whether it is judgement, or curiosity, or disgust, or approval or all of the above. But the guessing, and the lack of reassurance, lack of validation that I am a normal, good human-being is torturing for us all-caring souls.

My energy to maintain a smile when I feel so alienated is draining as swiftly as my taste-buds began to resent the taste of biriyani and as strongly as the daily bath of judgmental ethnocentrism with the bucket shower of water that smells like deviled eggs streaming down my scalp and back. Lately I have been ending the days with belly flops on my bed, on the border between exasperation and frustration that all international sojourners feel when they truly contemplate the motive behind their journey. The big questions: "why am I here?", "what did I want to achieve?", "how did I think I could make a difference?", "what did I expect?"--all badger me like ornery students who won't put their hand down until they speak their peace. 

 In the beginning, all those quirky cultural differences and communication mix-ups are more interesting than aggravating. But the longer I try to integrate myself into a truly Indian work setting, I encounter even deeper barriers. Language, for one, is truly a huge barrier. There is nothing more alienating than going through your whole day hearing your mother tongue only from the ramblings of your own mind. And while I feel I am becoming an expert at body language, I feel inadequate as to how much I can learn or even do since merely observing or interacting requires a mediator. 

Feeling like you have nothing to offer is every social worker's deepest fear, but one that we maybe have to confront since our roles sometimes are better served in simply bearing witness. Why is it that we can't be satisfied with simply affecting change in our personal experience? I read in Shantaram the other day a poignant line, "Sometimes in India, you have to surrender before you succeed." Perhaps India is stripping me of my interdisciplinary, progress-oriented agenda to open my heart to a new type of practice--one that is focused on relationships, and reciprocal exchange, and accompanying a process as opposed to measuring a goal.