I don’t think I’ve ever questioned the position my gender puts me in more than here in India. The condition of women in this country is obvious when I walk down the streets yet questions remain unanswered and once again I am left with India’s quintessential ambiguity. For every woman walking down the streets of Mumbai, there are fifty men. The invisible lives of women haunt me to some extent. It is difficult to interact with my feelings towards women in this country when I can only rely on the assumptions I have of how they lead their lives inside their homes. The sexism, however, is evident. From the Bollywood screen that depicts a scantily clad woman committing suicide after years of sexual objectification (thanks to The Dirty Picture– a film well-worth seeing for many reasons) to the men who answer for the women I specifically direct a question towards to the significant lack of mosques that leave Muslim women without a place of worship to the decisions regrading my clothing I must make on a daily basis here while the men in the group can dress more or less how they dress at home to the impenetrable and biting stares of men on the streets to the article I read in the Hindustan Times regarding the increase of violence against women in Mumbai to the significantly better treatment I receive when I am accompanied by a man on a rickshaw to the atrocious practice of sex-selective abortions– India is a difficult place to navigate as a Western woman and I can only imagine what it would be like to be born and raised in such an environment. What I have been most surprised by is the paradoxical nature of gender relations in Indian. Inside the caves at Ellora, the woman is depicted as a force that completes the man and is the source of his power. All women, our guide told us, are seen and should be treated as goddesses. It surely did not feel that way especially when he proceeded to discuss the tradition and importance of a woman dressing only for the husband and burning her garments once she becomes a widow. I find it complicated that the one organization working towards improving the standard of living for Indian women residing mostly in slums was channeling the very domestic art of sewing, ultimately selling clothes to satisfy the Western demand. I found myself, however, impressed by the efforts of SHARE but do not understand why the bosses of these talented women must be men. And then there are the women in Pune donning full face veils, possibly creating the largest physical and mental barrier I have ever experienced between myself and another woman. Then I see some of these veil-wearing women riding their own motorcycles, moving along in their bejeweled designer sandals, and even letting their bra straps fall off their shoulders in the wind. From an early age, the girls are taught to be tame, docile creatures and perhaps these women are making their own statement of individuality and liberation despite the forces that oppress. During the field day with House of Hope, the boys played soccer and only one girl was brave enough to tap the ball a couple of times before retreating to female company and games of patty cake. As I entertained the children in the nursery, I was surprised by one girl’s aggressive nature as she demanded, in Marathi mumble, that I take photos of her and kept trying to grab my camera. I soon realized she was wearing shorts– it was a Sikh boy. Whoops. In every Indian classroom we’ve visited besides Bright Star Education, the girls and boys sit on opposite sides of the room. Separation between gender is learned at a young age. Even during our dinner at Hotel Shreyas, a large family sat separated by gender, the grandmas and aunties on one end of the table and the grandpas and uncles on the other. This Indian gender divide ingrains a large lack of communication between men and women– even in the Teach for India playground, the boys and girls are not allowed to collaborate on creating new games or participate in the others’ fun. The differences become immense and I feel lost and saddened, returning favorite childhood memories spent with the men (then boys) in my life. As a Western feminist, I am confused. What does global feminism look like? Is believing in Western feminist values as global feminist values another version of colonialism? This is the question I will grapple with for a long, long time. However, I will leave with this: I find the power, however silent, a woman in India has over her family quite beautiful. I love the freedom with which men hold hands with one another. I am grateful for my rights as a woman in America but the battle isn’t over. I believe the fragile gender moments I have witnessed on this trip will inform a deep sense of empathy. I believe more than ever that healthy relationships between men and women is the only way to create change and see the other as human– not on a goddess-like pedestal, not as a sexual object, and not as a violent and intrusive male authority. Blurring the line drawn by gender norms, a sense of reciprocity can emerge– men helping women, women helping men, men learning from women, women learning from men. As I leave India, I remember the caption of one of the only pieces of public art in Mumbai. It is a statue of a woman in labor. Underneath, the words read, “a child gives birth to a mother.” Equality is best served through discovery.

-Clara

Where I come from, I am an apex predator, constantly on the hunt for some edible animals. In India, however, many people choose to be vegetarian, and many of the restaurants we visited only served…plants. Now, if you have visited India this may not surprise you, but I was extremely confused and frankly a bit disoriented. As we inched through the endless cities I saw animals everywhere (something not normally seen in American cities) so naturally I assumed this surplus of meat would eventually end up in my stomach. I mean, the dogs looked pretty inedible but there were cows and goats and pigs eating garbage and lounging around everywhere you looked. As we walked down the street we were given a sort of urban safari, an excursion into the concrete jungle if you will. Being a semi-educated individual I came prepared to forsake steak for a few days, cows being sacred and all, but I was unaware of how widespread this vegetarian epidemic was. The classic phrase commonly reserved for angsty mariners can be adapted to serve a carnivore in India: Cows, cows everywhere, but not a steak to eat. That’s not to say that there was no meat, on the contrary Indian food often features some delicious varieties of animals served in a variety of equally dubious looking sauces along side their varied and rich vegetarian cuisine. I respect the vegetarian culture, I understand its health benefits and why many people prefer to leave animals alive. I know Hinduism preaches non-violence and that many Hindus consider eating an animal to be an unfavorable act. Even so I am still a sucker for some tasty, tasty meat. We decided to immerse ourselves in Indian culture, meaning, to my chagrin, that we would frequent vegetarian restaurants. Now here is the carnivore’s dilemma, what do you eat when nothing is meat? I stoically held out and tried these plants but in the end I came to realize that, in my heart of hearts, meat is the only main course for me. My peers ridiculed me, and even on one occasion told quite simply I should have been born a lion. An apex predator does not need fear these snarky comments, because the extra protein coursing though my veins obviously gives me a physical edge. Many of my classmates enjoyed these vegetarian meals and they were admittedly interesting, sometimes even tasty. I didn’t mind them too much, but the lack of a readily available meat source was at times a bit troubling. Dan especially capitalized on my sense of loss, maliciously forcing me to eat some cauliflower, a vegetable I normally avoid like the plague. I may be healthier for it, but I’ll never admit it.

-Cole

I stepped off the air-conditioned bus onto the rabbled pavement, to be immediately thrust into a sea of locals on their way to the Ganesha Temple, located in Pune’s downtown shopping area. This temple, shoved between two sari shops, was a sight to see. It’s white washed walls, intricate designs and garish lights evoked a sense of spirituality and pureness. We removed our shoes and entered the temple to give and receive offerings. As we left, we made our way to the lassi stand. Now, I consider myself a health conscious person, perhaps to the extent of deeming myself an exercise addict. But, the mango lassi I had was irresistible.

For 25 rupees, I ordered my first, and definitely not my last, chilled lassi. I took a bite, hesitant to eat food off the streets of Pune, but I was pleasantly surprised. It’s thick, fatty, creamy texture stuck nicely to the roof of my mouth as I savored another generous spoonful. Then another, and another, and another. The ripe mango flavor mixed with the thick, white curdled cream blended together nicely, to create the most phenomenal flavor. And just for this moment, did the chaos of Pune disappear. I was longer being shoved from left to right, or hassled by sellers on the streets. Instead, it was just me and my mango lassi. I was in a state of heavenly mango bliss. I reached my spoon to the bottom of the cup, determined to devour the entire contents of this mango lassi, but it was gone! I looked around and was immediately shoved back into the chaos of Pune.

I realized that it is moments like these that I appreciate most on this trip. Although it is not a good feeling to be consuming an infinite amount of food, while my exercise is limited to walking the streets of Pune, I learned the importance of letting go and embracing the experience of being daring, because there is always a possibility that it will be a positive experience. I believe it is important to let go of feelings of guilt, sadness and frustration that may be provoked by the poverty and find the time to just enjoy the little things that make me smile.

-Christina

In Pune our group volunteered at the House of Hope orphanage and school funded by Bright Star Education. This home sheltered HIV positive children and provided them with healthcare, an education, love and individual attention. Although some of us were troubled by the strong prevalence of Christianity within this orphanage, the aid and support it offered to the children heavily outweighed the negative aspects of imposed faith. Children who live in the House of Hope mainly abandoned by their parents, or their guardians died from AIDS and other family members did not have the capacity, desire, or resources to raise the children. After getting to know the children I discovered how intelligent, caring, strong, and kind they were. How could their parents have given them up? It is not as simple as that. Maybe their parents or family didn’t have the money or time to provide for them and wanted to ensure that they were properly taken care of. I realize that I have no idea what struggles the children’s parents must have gone through to give them up. However, I cannot help but feel a strong sense of anger for the terrible sadness of these amazing kids’ stories. I cannot imagine the feelings that would accompany abandonment by parental figures. To help each other through this unimaginably immense struggle, these kids formed a support system and cared for each as if they were family. Rather than sleeping alone in separate beds, each night the children would remove their mattresses from the frames and create a dog pile in the center of the room.

Before leaving for India I went to Sport’s Basement in search of some soccer balls to give to the kids within the orphanage. An employee at Sport’s Basement kindly donated a few scuffed up soccer balls, that were still in good shape. I deflated them and brought them with me to India, along with a pump to ensure that the balls would have a long lifetime at the orphanage/school. When the kids saw the soccer balls, huge smiles filled their faces. We then spent the afternoon playing soccer (boys vs. girls). It felt so amazing to run around and play with these kids, who often are denied of the individual attention they need. I felt so happy that the kids were having such a great time playing. It is awesome to know that although we only volunteered for a few days, we were able to connect with the kids through sports and have a fun, lighthearted time filled with smiles and laughter.

-Amanda

At House of Hope I made some great friendships with the children there. I met Sonaton, Presanna and Anush, three boys who all lived at House of Hope. On the first day of our services I helped Anush make Christmas ornaments and he, in return, gave me a Marati name. He named me Hawah, meaning “Eve” from Adam and Eve. I think it also means wind. He talked about a lot of things, but mostly his obsession with cheeseburgers. He’s 11 years old, just like my brother Leonard, but he was so much smaller and seemed so much younger. He held my hand on our field trip to the “zoo” and would stay by my side. Sonaton (11) and Presanna (9) are brothers and are wild. They reminded me of my brother in the way that they were just young boys who were funny and didn’t really have a care in the world. They would goof around, teach us some Marati words and would make fun of me when we played soccer. They would copy phrases that we used and we would practice the secret handshake that Sonaton made. When we were playing soccer on the first day Presanna decided that it would be funny to untie my shoes and by Wednesday all the boys in the school were in on the joke. I had to triple knot my laces and tuck them into my shoes to make sure they wouldn’t get untied. At the end of the day I taught them about pinky promises, and pinky promised with the boys that I would be back the next day. They were thrilled.

On our third day, I rode in a rickshaw with the 2^nd and 3^rd graders to the “zoo” which ended up being a really nice park with a few animals in extremely dirty and small cages. The boys were kind and would lead me to the different animals. They borrowed my camera and ended up taking tons of pictures of the animals there. After we got back I ate a delicious lunch with my right hand (eating with your left hand is rude) and hung out with the brothers. I told them I was leaving and in English they told me that they would miss me and that we were leaving too soon. Anush begged me to stay until Christmas so we could open presents together. If I had it my way I would stay longer. I told them that I had a great time and several of the younger kids didn’t understand that we weren’t coming back the next day. Right before we left the school Sonaton held out his pinky and said “I go to America and come visit you in your house. Promise?” I promised. Sonaton and Presanna did the secret handshake with me with their sticky hands coated with rice and curry and we left.

The kids made me so happy because they were happy. I didn’t even remember that they were HIV positive and that they were orphans. I felt that they gave me and helped me by making me happy and thinking about the simple things. The kids didn’t let their situation get in the way of being happy and they really inspired me. It made me angry at myself for wanting extra things like bags, magazine subscriptions and music for Christmas while the kids wants new shoes because their shoes were ripping or shampoo because they ran out. I really wanted to help all of them but I feel like no matter what I give, I can’t change their situation. However, what I can do is remember them and be grateful for the time I spent with them.

- Leah

Driving at people isn’t kind but rickshaws still do it anyways. The reality of India and the traffic that is found here is so vastly different from what we experience at home. In America we have to yield to pedestrians, to be courteous and kind, it’s almost required by law. However in India though we still see smiles and grins the rickshaws drive at you expecting you to fend for yourself instead of being protected by the law. Vroom vroom, wahhhh, wahhhh, eeeeeek, eeeeeek. These are the sounds found on the street, adding to the deep chaos that unfolds every day. Though several honks may seem irrelevant, as the day drags on the chorus of honks, beeps, skids and screeching breaks build up to create a harmony sounds unfamiliar to us but merely an addition to the Indian soundtrack.

Now back to the rickshaw. To understand the rickshaw you must understand its purpose and place in India. It is a small compact machine which burns the dirtiest, releasing a thick black line of smoke as it putters along. The rickshaw is so convenient in a place like India because it has the ability to weave through tight places, to maneuver around any obstacle that it may encounter.

The act of getting into a rickshaw and bridging the language barrier can be especially challenging because there isn’t a single rickshaw driver who knows where every place is. To put it simply, google maps do NOT work in India. Street names are also unmarked adding to the confusion of the classic rickshaw ride. Once you are finally able to procure a rickshaw you must enter the disarray of the streets, the speeding pint sized cars tossed in with many mopeds and motorcycles all attempting to reach a location as fast as possible. These frantic travellers will get as close to the vehicles in front of them, only centimeters away from a collision. They will travel off roads, using shoulders as if they were an additional unmarked lane. As the rickshaw travels faster its passengers are subject to sudden jolts, near crashes and occasionally hitting the crossing passenger. It is an experience like any other, filled with fear, excitement and above all astonishment that anyways could ever drive so frantically and continue to survive day in and day out.

The rickshaw, like India seems dream like, impossible in any other setting.

COME AND RIDE ONE!!

-Zoe

“How is the poverty we are witnessing hitting you?”

Hitting being the operative word. Its violent undertone immediately irks me; it does not comport with my emotions. I do not feel “hit” by what we are seeing. I do not get that wrenching, twist-in-fingers, crushing stomach pain that so often overcomes me. I am surprised by this to say the least; my emotions tend to be extremely visceral.

I am instead possessed, demon-like, by an inexplicable silence and sinking. It is as if I have been standing in quicksand for all this time, feeling the waves of tiny stones enclose and trap my limbs. I am not screaming. I am not wailing or fearing death or even furrowing my brows. Perhaps a single tear escapes my duct to streak down my cheekbone and hover at the precipice of my upper lip before rolling into the quicksand to become part of what is provoked the tear in the first place. I cannot look away, sick sadistic self-deprecation and guilt gluing my gaze. It is close to soothing, the slow ascent of ground. My calves are almost gone.

I perhaps grab some to examine. The eerie way it drips over and in the crevices of my palm is beautiful. Like art. I want to take a photograph and hang it in a gallery and be told how raw and organic and revealing my work seems.

I do not take the photograph.

I am sick with my own lack of luster; I am letting myself silently observe the ravenous sand. Would someone come if I called? No use, there is no mending the situation. It is surrounding me, not consuming me. It is on me, not in me. So it is not me.

I stand like the band on the Titanic, my mind playing a lovely tune to drown out the silence.

-Hannah

I was warned before coming to India about the fabled “head bobbing” phenomenon: a seeming combination of the “yes” and “no” head movements, but I laughed it off. What type of society might invent an absolutely meaningless gesture?  Indian society, apparently, decided to take this challenge on.

The ultimate in vagueness, the Indian head-bob is widely engaged by the shopkeepers, security guards, rickshaw drivers and children. It is a very frequent occurrence to receive such a response when asking questions such as “how much for the ride” or “is this for sale”.  Of course, originally, it was vital to maintain cordiality.  India is a new country, a new culture on the other side of the world.  It seemed likely that we simply did not grasp the intricacies of the bob, but it has quickly become apparent that this is not so.  The head-bob is clearly a tactic with all the complexity of a bludgeon.  Beyond the occasional apparent meaning of “I am listening”, the head-bob is usually employed not to express any particular meaning, but to avoid expressing any kind of meaning at all.

My experience is that people in this country hate to say anything that could be considered at all confrontational. One of the most pleasant aspects of this country is that the populace is so courteous and hospitable. I find that this warmth, though, comes at the expense of convenience.  Back in the states, we have a society that is less welcoming.  Obviously, we have a good amount of warmth, but efficiency is prized far more than it is in India.  In the short time I’ve spent in this country, it seems to me that daily interactions between people are personable. In America, one never barters for one’s purchases, as it’s an inefficient system.  The United States, in this way, prizes its time more than its money.  In India, though, the poverty on display every day makes poverty in US seem like a walk in the park.  Indians have more patience for inefficiency when they have less money with which to trade for their time.  It seems to me that the poverty tends to favor inefficient systems, which tend to encourage human interaction, which promotes friendliness. Then friendliness invites indirectness.

Such an environment invites head-bobbing. Those that I see engage in the most bobbing are those that I have trouble communicating, or have to negotiate with.  Children, who are still learning English, shopkeepers, with whom I negotiate prices, or rickshaw drivers, whom often reflect both realities, all bob incessantly.  Sometimes they mean yes, sometimes no, sometimes even “I’m listening”, but based on their responses, it far more often means “I don’t understand what you’re saying” or “I don’t want to have to decide.”

-Duncan

Smoky rings of kohl surrounded bright and welcoming eyes. The vibrant colors of their saris and the petals they’d placed decoratively on the floor contrasted with the bleak whitewash of the walls. The hum of ceiling fans accompanied their musical, tinny Indian accents and I felt comfortable sinking into the smooth feminine energy of the room. And when I say energy, I mean it. The enthusiasm with which the women detailed the mission of female empowerment through fair trade work and wages was incredible. After seeing/hearing/smelling so much poverty, this successful attempt to employ women and give them a supportive, safe community was at once relieving, thrilling and perplexing. Someone asked how many women worked with Marketplace. “Two hundred.” That is when I realized; the need in India is so widespread, so deep and far-reaching, that an organization doing such great work can only go so far.

We left the room.

Striking out in two groups, we made our way through Venice-like alleys weaving around small, colorful buildings to reach the entrance of one of Marketplace India’s workspace. The staircase before me was made up of a few rusting iron rods placed at a vertigo-enduing angle against a thin plywood floor. The ascent was of no consequence, but I could foresee the difficulty of the coming descent in my nearly-ankle-length skirt.

The low ceiling of the muggy top-floor room made the stacks upon stacks of saffron, purple, gold, pink, blue, black, ect printed shirts loom larger than I expected. The nest of cloth lent an intimacy to our seated conversation with a handful of employees. Beautiful women, young and old, told of crippled husbands and the important safety of this place where they could let loose with other females. One girl had both a mother and sister working at Marketplace India. Unlike some other meetings we have had, the conversation was easy and natural. Questions built upon one another and the women answered with thought-provoking honesty. They inquired about our backgrounds and purposes as well and giggled and bobbed their heads in the uniquely Indian style when we complimented their stunning saris or showed our reverence for their bravery in finding employment and (in some cases) becoming the primary bread winners of their houses.

I walked away that afternoon with a bag full of Marketplace products and a deep stirring of warm inspiration in my chest. I do not know what I will do with this feeling and desire yet, but I look forward to whatever it is.

-Hannah

Seventeen students  from the US get into a rickshaw in India…

It sounds like the opening line to a joke. This, however, was serious. This was a rickshaw race through the congested Pune streets. In teams of three, we hired the worst contraption known to the human race. First of all, a rickshaw has no doors. It’s very easy to fall out if your balance is off. Secondly, there is nothing resembling safety equipment. If you get in a crash, it’s all over. Third, the drivers are all typical Indian drivers, which means that in the US they would be considered almost homicidally aggressive. They swerve between cars, hug the shoulder, dart between lanes, move at high speed within inches of pedestrians (I think someone’s rickshaw actually hit a pedestrian. As I understand it, the driver just kept going.). To add to the insanity of the rickshaw drivers is the insanity of every other driver on the roads. I used to think San Franciscans drove crazily, but Indians are about a million times worse. Horns blaring, the rickshaws recklessly try to get from Point A to Point B faster than humanly possible given the terrible traffic and abysmal road conditions. You sit, coughing in the exhaust fumes (rickshaws are also excellent at producing large quantities of smog) and trying not to fall out of the sides.

Rickshaw drivers also love to rip tourists off. They are supposed to use a meter for pricing, but would rather have Westerners pay an exorbitant flat rate. The first rickshaw driver we encountered told us that “the meter is corrupt.” We wound up negotiating a rate of 100 rupees, which was far too much, but less than he demanded at first. Our team got into the rickshaw, only to discover that he didn’t know the way. He followed another rickshaw full of Urban students going to the same place, but that meant we couldn’t win the race.

On the way back to our hotel, we didn’t recognize the route. To make a sordid story short, certain people had been watching the movie Taken just before we left, and therefore jumped to the conclusion that we must be getting kidnapped for ransom or prostitution. That turned out not to be the case. The driver was simply going another way.

The next night, I was in the rickshaw that won the race to the restaurant. Our driver became even less safety-concerned than usual once he figured out it was a competition. Afterward, I couldn’t stop coughing from all the Indian traffic exhaust.

I have to admit that there is something good about traveling in the worst contraption known to the human race. The speed, the way the drivers can all but thread needles with their vehicles, the inventiveness of their driving style. With the fear is exhilaration, especially when it’s a race. All in all, a rickshaw ride is a very Indian experience: a mixture of fun and danger, good and bad.

-Kell