Pt. 3: In Which We Are Blessed With Rain By Ganesh; Thank you, Elephant-Head-Boy-God!

When I asked one of my colleagues why students at my school wore a different white uniform on Wednesdays, he shrugged. “Is it just tradition?” I prompted him further. He gave me the head bobble so typical of Indians, along with an enigmatic half-smile, and concluded, “I don’t know. But we really love our traditions here.” The morning assembly on Wednesday resembles nothing less than a naval boot camp graduation, circa 1943, replete with white dress uniforms for boys, and what look suspiciously like nurses’ uniforms for girls. The only difference is that some gray uniforms dot the class lines, evidence of participation of both boys and girls in scouting. Wednesday assembly is also the day for Mass Physical Training. In their class lines, students engage in 30 minutes of stretching, yoga, and calisthenics, while the few teachers committed, concerned, or sadistic enough watch from the shelter of several shade trees around the yard.

In the course of the exercise session, several students will leave the ranks before passing out. One or two won’t make it. Classmates will carry them into the shade to recover, then return to their places. It’s hot, and it has been since May, but the monsoon has not produced the kind of rains this agricultural region is used to, or needs. In some reports in the newspapers, farmers are selling their wives to cover the financial losses. More than 140 farmers in the state have committed suicide in the past 7 weeks, while rainfall was less than half the annual norm.

Despite the growing crisis, or maybe in answer to it, during the first week or so after we arrived, neighborhoods and communities around the region geared up for Ganesha Chaturthi, the Hindu holiday where the elephant-headed god bestows his presence and goodwill on humanity. Wikipedia explains the background of the myth thusly:

“According to the legend, Lord Shiva, the Hindu God of resolution, was away at a war. His wife Parvati, wanted to bathe and having no-one to guard the door to her house, conceived of the idea of creating a son who could guard her. Parvati created Ganesha out of the sandalwood paste that she used for her bath and breathed life into the figure. She then set him to stand guard at her door and instructed him not to let anyone enter.

“In the meantime, Lord Shiva returned from the battle but as Ganesha did not know him, stopped Shiva from entering Parvati's chamber. Shiva, enraged by Ganesh’s impudence, drew his trident and cut off Ganesha's head. Parvati emerged to find Ganesha decapitated and flew into a rage. She took on the form of the Goddess Kali and threatened destruction to the three worlds of Heaven, Earth and the subterranean earth.

“Parvati was still in a dangerous mood. Seeing her in this mood, the other Gods were afraid and Shiva, in an attempt to pacify Parvati, sent out his ganas, or hordes, to find a child whose mother is facing another direction in negligence, cut off his head and bring it quickly. The first living thing they came across was an elephant. That elephant was facing north (the auspicious direction associated with wisdom). So they brought the head of this elephant and Shiva placed it on the trunk of Parvati's son and breathed life into him. Parvati was overjoyed and embraced her son, the elephant-headed boy whom Shiva named Ganesha, the lord of his ganas. Parvati was still upset so Lord Shiva announced that everyone who worships Ganesha before any other form of God is favoured. So Ganesh is worshipped first in all Hindu occasions and festivals.”

From what I was told, the tradition of immersing painted plaster and mud idols of the god at the end of the 10-day festival was only popularized in the 19th century, both to unite different castes in Indian society, and also as a nationalistic rallying point against British rule. So the smallest statues of Ganesh (a couple of inches) to the largest (in Hyderabad, about 50 feet) are displayed by local clubs, organizations, or just interested neighbors under temporary tents and scaffolding in local streets, squares or lots. They are decorated with flowers, jewels, glittery stuff and bright paints, and communities gather nightly for chanting, dancing, making offerings of fruits and vegetables, and general celebrating. There are a whole bunch of other community events scheduled around these celebrations, including art exhibits, music performances, games and competitions, social service projects, and of course, lots of eating. We received many invitations to join in the celebrations, but to be honest, the kids were still a little arrival-shy, and just weren’t prepared for the crowds. We even had to abandon our effort to see the Hyderabad colossus due to the impenetrable mob of celebrants we encountered on the streets around it. But we wandered over to our neighborhood shrine a couple of times, met some new friends and neighbors, and were generally swept up in the joy and goodwill of the occasion.

At the end of the festival, amidst loud drumming and chanting crowds (something along the lines of “come again, next year), each idol is taken by truck or 3-wheeled auto to the nearest lake, or other large body of water, and ceremoniously dumped in. After the idol dissolves, the frames are recovered for reuse next year. The Ganesh in our apartment complex was about 8 feet tall, painted to look like it was made of wood, and was situated in a tent on the worn gravel clearing where the kids normally play cricket; there was another one, tended by students from the neighborhood, in an unfinished storefront across from my school. The big immersion day brought hundreds of thousands of people to downtown Hyderabad, where a large lake is a popular site for immersions. About 30 or 40 heavy construction-grade cranes were set up around the lake to conduct for-hire immersion services. We were told it was best to avoid downtown Hyderabad during immersions, even more so as it happened to coincide with the untimely death of the state’s Chief Minister in a helicopter crash, so Jen and Niko had to be satisfied with seeing off our neighborhood Ganesh in a parade of chanting, drumming, and fireworks as it made its way out of the complex. After its 15 mile drive into the city, it was taken to to an appointed crane for immersion. Each service lasts about the time it takes to secure cables to your neighborhood Ganesh statue’s base, lift it and maybe several others (if they wanted to share the cost and there was room on the platform), and then drop them into Sagr Lake. Yeah, there are some environmental issues connected with dumping 2000 statues of various sizes and materials into an already polluted lake, but let’s not allow that to get in the way of a much-beloved tradition. And within days of the holiday’s opening, almost 10 inches of rain fell in Andhra Pradesh. Thank you, elephant-head-boy-god! Come again next year!

Pt. 2: In Which I Am Treated With An Obscene Level Of Respect By Complete Strangers

Okay, so by now I have been teaching at the Kendriya Vidyalaya NFC Nagar in Ghatkesar for over a week, but the hype of my presence is still pretty high, especially among the little ‘uns. For those who care to know, Kendriya Vidyalaya means Central School, a huge network of government schools across the country that share the same curriculum and exist to support civil and military families who may be transferred around a lot. And the NFC, well, that’s for Nuclear Fuel Complex, but I have yet to find any evidence of such a place in the area. At least not above ground. Mostly the area is defined by small farms and punctuated by concrete farmhouses, budding apartments, light industry, and periodic villages of shops and homes crammed into small areas and spilling onto the local byways. The school itself is a relatively new facility (1996) with about 35 teachers and 750 students in grades 1-12. The hallways are open air, and most of the classrooms are, too, thanks to unrepaired windows. The unfinished concrete interior is an acoustical nightmare, and a class of 40 sixth graders can really push some major dBs.

After my evening arrival in Hyderabad, I spent my first night at the city home/clinic of my exchange partner’s physician husband, Ravi Kapoor and their 4 dogs. Also some mosquitoes. Early the next morning, he drove me out to our new abode at the state housing development formerly named Singapore Township, and now called Sanskruthi Township. I guess Singapore stock is down in India these days. The place is really nice. It’s a huge complex of 64 four and ten story structures, built only a few years back, and it’s less than 50% occupied due to the fact that it’s middle income and the economy sucks even worse here. Yes, it’s a global economy, but who knew? We have a view of trees and bushes and grass, and lots of butterflies and dragonflies ply the airways. Also mosquitoes, but if we close the windows by 6 PM and sleep under the netting we stay sucker-free.

So anyway, we get a call almost as soon as I get in the apartment from my colleagues who want to pick me up and bring me to school for The Big Welcome. Never one to shy away from pomp and circumstance (except when it comes under the category of Pep Assembly, that is), I figured “what the hey!” and accepted the invitation. This is where I first experienced the Indian double-take, which is really just a stare masquerading as a curious afterthought. It’s subtle yet effective; it’s also unnerving when, with the precision of Swiss timing, just about every head within a hundred yards registers the fact of my pale skin. But with kids, it’s open-mouthed, wide-eyed, delirious delight that greets me in the driveway up to the school building. I am ushered into the principal’s office, although he is away, and offered tea, cookies, and 50 handshakes with a procession of staff whose names I can hardly understand, let alone remember. There are smiles all around as greetings and job titles are offered and I am thinking, “this is so awkward for me but that is okay; it will not always feel like this; soon it will feel like home.” Then they lead me out to the students.

I am led out to the main courtyard of the school, between the primary wing and main building, and invited to the assembly stage, where I am greeted by 20 classes of students arranged by grade and then by height, wearing almost identical uniforms of blue pants or skirts and white shirts, and a hearty chorus of 700 “good morning, sirs” from students who seem to have been preparing for this moment even longer that I have. I am a rock star, at least today, in this neighborhood of Ghatkesar. There are three elements to every daily assembly: a Hindi prayer for learning, the national oath, and the national anthem. And then one of the classes gives a presentation. Today it was the grade 9 students who had the honor of welcoming me.

The welcome is beautiful, touching and heartfelt. I am presented by a student in a sari with a garland of flowers and a yellow tilaka, a powdered dot on my forehead to represent my third eye. The acting principal reads my application essay on why I wanted to come to India, including my educational background, which is obviously an important factor here. Then we are ushered to the side of the stage for several musical numbers accompanied by students playing tablas and Casio keyboards. There is a dance representing India’s struggle for independence. It is not particularly violent, but the choreographed movements suggest a kind of combat I never saw in Gandhi. Of course, non-violent civil disobedience doesn’t seem quite as suitable a topic for dance.

There is a welcome speech by the acting principal (Principal Isreal is away for the week, inspecting other KV schools in the region), and by Mr. Surya Prakash, Hindi teacher, who reads part of my Fulbright application essay aloud (how long ago did I write that?) and finally I am escorted back inside, shown a copy of my teaching schedule, given a tour of the school, and sent home for the rest of the day to relax. Good thing, too, because I had a lot of cleaning up to do before the fam arrived the next day.

Pt. 1: In Which I Learn My Nose Is The Coolest Part Of My Body

Even after all the time I spent in planning and preparation for this moment, New Delhi still managed to sneak up on me as I dozed through the last 30 minutes of my flight, bumping me gently awake as we arrived at Ghandi Airport. The thick airlessness of the aircraft ramp gave way to the heavily conditioned air of the terminal as we dodged through intersecting lines of passengers boarding other flights. James, my flying buddy since Frankfurt and fellow Fulbrighter, smiled incredulously at the intermingling throngs of arriving and departing passengers as we had our first taste of New Delhi-style traffic. The next impediment we encountered was an H1N1 screening that utilized infrared cameras to scan the passenger line for the telltale high body heat signature of the feverish. My nose stood out as the coolest part of my body, I noted. Judged healthy enough by a masked medical attendant, we swept through passport control and had only a short wait at the baggage carrousel before dragging ourselves almost unnoticed through customs.

We had both been flying all the previous night and day, but were buoyed by the smiling greeters and a host of ebullient young Fulbright scholars who had also been on our flight. We were led out the terminal into the thick air of the city and boarded a private coach for the hotel. New Delhi was in slumber; most of the buildings had no lights on at that late hour, and as we drove through the practically empty streets, the city seemed tame and unobtrusive. James observed, “well, at least there’s no traffic at 2 AM.”

The crumbling and stained façade of the 70s era tower that was the Hans Hotel belied the relative comfort and cleanliness of my room, and after staring out into the glowing gloom of the city from my 17th story room for a few minutes, I collapsed onto my bed and stirred only when my 7:00 wake-up call came. Breakfast brought cheerful greetings and reunions with the other Fulbrighters who I had met and left only a week before in DC. After a hearty and culturally mixed breakfast of bacon, eggs, donuts and curried stews, we were taken by bus to the capital for a special meeting with India’s new Foreign Secretary, Nirupama Rao.

I’ve always been a sucker for the monumental architecture of government buildings, and India’s capital certainly did not disappoint, but when we were allowed to meet with a top government official in person I have to admit I was star struck. We were led down an intimidating maze of corridors of stone and marble, trimmed with dark wooden doorways bearing the names of titles of the country’s leadership. After taking seats around a large boardroom table, Secretary Rao entered with several staffers and took her seat at the head of the table. For the next 45 minutes, she talked to us about her background, her view of the Indian relationship with the US, and her belief in the goals of the Fulbright programs. She asked for each grantee to introduce themselves and their project or placement, commented throughout with interest and encouragement, and generally charmed us all. Then she took questions and when I asked her if she had one wish of a teacher visiting India to take something away, replied “I hope you will learn about our oral traditions of storytelling, something I fear is disappearing. The oral tradition reflects the power of expression…how you project yourself…literature is preparation for life.” Pretty much she owned me after that.

Animals, Animals, Animals

Part 1: Bang Bang
The top of Bang Bang's broad forehead is in serious need of moisturizer and his sparse and bristly hair could use some conditioning, too. So whenever he reaches up with his trunk to work a spot, I help him out by scratching with the tips of my fingers, which is like scratching a rock face covered in eruptions of heavy gauge fishing line. At the invitation of his handler, I have slid down off the bench where Kaya remains warily, and am riding atop his neck with my legs dangling behind his generously flapping ears. As he strides gracefully forward, the rocking motion forces me to lean heavily on his forehead, and in this manner we make our way through the well-worn elephant tracks just below the falls at Namuang.

Part 2: Camouflage
While snorkeling on the reef on the northern end of Chaweng Beach, I discover the secret of the Octopus' success. Although I am told they live among the coral heads in profusion, in over of week of snorkeling morning til evening, I have yet to see one. So it is with mild surprise as I'm resting on the surface, looking downward at nothing in particular, that I see an amorphous black mass the size of a baseball glove gliding swiftly over a stretch of sand in the reef. I might have mistaken it for a piece of seaweed caught in the current if it was not also attended by two pesky midsized reef fish, who are darting and dashing around it apparently harassing it. The black blob settles on the face of some reef at the edge of the sand, and the fish become more aggressive as the weave around it, prodding and provoking. Occasionally a tentacle reaches out to meet the fish in an almost offhand manner, but the fish do not retreat. When I decide to dive down for a closer look, however, the octopus pulls an extraordinary camouflage trick, changing in an instant from a jet black to the color of reef, complete with virtual texture and variations of color. All that is visibly identifiable is its soulful eye peaking up at me. It slithers deeper into the ledge of the reef until it is essentially invisible. I decide to retreat behind the rock to see if it will recover its previous coloration, and after about a minute a black tentacle cautiously emerges from the ledge and the body begins to follow. The harassing fish have not retreated, however, and whether the octopus sees me or responds to the attacks, it once again falls back to its defensive position and color and disappears into the reef ledge. I dive down once more to try to get a better look, but all I see is the glare of one bright yellow eye, staring out at me from the reef ledge.

Koh Samui, baby!

Well, you get what you pay for. And the Amari Reef Resort is worth every penny. We have very nice adjoining rooms in a smallish building right next to the pool and a stone's throw from the beach. Aside from the amazingly attentive service (ALWAYS with a smile--Niko and Kaya are an especially big hit with the staff), an extravagant breakfast buffet and dinner menu, wonderful beachside views, and excellent weather to date (only one short shower to date, knock wood), we're still pretty sure that our segment of Chaweng beach is paradise.

The typical routine: rise at 7:30, or later, if the gods will it; engorge selves on assorted eggage, pastry, fresh fruit, breads, cheeses, sashimi, meats, exotic juices, and bottomless cups of instant coffee--okay, so even paradise isn't perfect. Then it's a brief respite to choose reading materials before selecting the most appropriate lounge chair for the day's goal. Mine has been to pursue ideal views, and avoid the intense heat of the sun, not to mention Russians. The kids opt for poolside but rarely emerge from the pool. Jen moves with the sun, as always. Then the day just seems to whoosh by until late afternoon, when an opportune high tide allows for sea kayaking and snorkeling unimpeded across the bay to an ancient exposed section of reef that the hotel must be named for. Nearby, the corals begin about 30 yards off the beach, quickly erupting into huge heads covered in a wide variety and color of corals and attended by dozens of species of fish. Niko and Kaya usually choose their afternoon ice cream from a trawling beach vendor who seems to know just when to show up for them. Of course there's also plenty of general lolling about in the soupy warm, clear waters of our sandy edge of the sea. A walk on the beach sets the afternoon just right. That gets us to dinner.

The first word...

...Packing.  What does it mean to you?  To me, it means trying to organize and put to a regimen that which I am not used to.  It means work.  And so back to it!