At 8:45 I go out to
find an auto. I stand on the side of a busy road and wait, and wait, and
wait. There are plenty of autos—but they
already have passengers. I’m the kind of
person who hates being late, and REALLY hates it when I have to wait on people
(when it’s habitual). But, it’s
India. What’s being ten or twenty or
thirty minutes late? Heck—what’s being two hours late?
So, an auto finally slows near the place where another lady and I are waiting. I have the advantage of the autowallah choosing to pull up next to me because of my Gori disadvantage in what it will cost me.
I tell him the neighborhood & section where I’m going. When we get there, I say “C-Block” and we drive through K block, and J block, and then finally he decides he might not know where he’s going. So while we’re stopped on a two lane road, one of the 3 autos that are lined up next to us tells us we need to turn around. This means that immediately after the autowallah that gave us directions moves forward an inch or two, we turn so that our auto is perpendicular to the oncoming traffic, let a few motorcycles and “scooties” pass, and then finish the u-turn.
When we arrive at C Block, I am utterly amazed that there is a billboard-esque sign that gives a map of the B and C block, WITH the numbers of the houses at the appropriate places. Don’t worry though—it’s still India! The sign tells us that while C block is in face a big rectangular block, B Block is about 4-5 blocks in sort of a U shape. They wouldn’t want to be too organized…
We finally arrive at the home of my new teacher, and I sit through the world’s worst class ever. She said my hindi is good for having been here only a short time. THEN she taught me how to say “I am a girl. I am from America.” Now…I can say (slowly) “If I would be in Egypt this month, an Egyptian woman would teach me how to make Egyptian food, and if she is like Indian women, she would say ‘EAT! EAT!’ and I would become fat.” So, why was I “learning” this? Pata nahi hai… Additionally, every time I started a sentence and tried to figure out how to make the postpositions and verbs correctly, she said the sentence for me. It was never what I wanted to say, and she doesn’t listen very well. In short, I think I got a taste of what Indian schoolteachers are like—as well as the line of Indian authority and respect. I now understand why expat kids are homeschooled or go to international private schools. Lesson learned for any potential children I may have or adopt. J
After the world’s worst hindi class (kudos to my engineering friend who tutored me with no teaching experience and did 100x better) I agree to come back tomorrow. After all, she’s the friend of my hostmom and if I don’t come back at least once, I’m probably going to cause some issue between them. But I make an excuse for tomorrow being my last day with her, because I dread coming even tomorrow.
Immediately after, I go to a not-so-cheap coffee shop and order a mango frappe—that should make up for the rough morning class. Mango is “aam” in hindi, but I guess they thought I said “um…frappe” so I got a real coffee frappe. I would rather cuddle with the rat that haunts my bedroom than taste coffee ever again. But, knowing it was my accent that caused the order and that I’ll go to the shop again, I drank it politely while my barista watched me work through presumptive verb tenses.
Thankfully, the day got much better as my teacher at the academy reviewed my verbs and only made a few corrections on the 10 worksheets I’d done over the weekend. After the other morning class, I have now learned to appreciate the $25 per hour I spend at the school J I feel like in the past week I’ve really progressed—which is an encouragement to keep up studying those impossible verbs.
My teacher has had an arranged marriage, and my heart reaches out to her because her husband is just not interested in trying to bond. I pause being a student for a few minutes and become just a friend with a willing ear. She doesn’t know I’m praying for her heart in more than one way.
Class ends on a good note and then the world’s most beautiful nap happens in the midst of my homework. I tend to sleep much better when I know the rat is probably asleep or at least hiding from the sunlight.
I decide I need to go for a walk—which is really just an excuse to eat ice cream—so I head out into the beautiful humid weather. My hair is an absolute disaster, but really, is that going to mean any less stares happen on the street? Nope, so there’s no reason to fix the mess my pillow created atop my head.
I order a scoop of kulfi ice cream, and again, I somehow got coffee ice cream. I give up. I have learned to actually enjoy tea AND olives since I’ve been here, so maybe this is God’s way of teaching me to not despise coffee, too.
Then I continue my walk to the market. My sari blouses will be two days late, but that’s expected. Because it’s India.
A woman passes me. Only with the package on top of the five gallon bucket on her head is she taller than me. Another woman who’s about that height passes me with her chubby 7 year old son. I can’t help but chuckle at the likelihood that he’ll never reach my shoulders.
I buy a red rose for all of 20 cents. I’m sure it’s probably twice the going rate for Indians, but the flowerwallah was cute as he was wrapping it with ribbons and some flair, and giving me a really big smile with an attempt at not-so-discreet eye contact. Bollywood has captured this perfectly.
At a construction site a woman (who has this indescribable strength/beauty/intriguing features that I’ve found in many Indian women of lower status) makes eye contact with me as she carries 10 bricks on her head to the worksite.
My patialas (harem pants) at this point begin sticking to my legs because it’s REALLY humid. I stop at India’s version of Starbucks, Coffee Café Day (it’s everywhere) to study and relish the world’s best caramel brownie. I listen to a guru counsel a girl who seems to be struggling in her arranged marriage. His advice is off, and I can’t help but yearn for her to know the Truth, as his advice just isn’t good enough to fix the situation.
At this point, I head home, not really sure that I’m heading home. Some men start to walk a little too near me (for the time of it being dusk) and I begin a phone conversation with my imaginary husband, who makes me practice my hindi. The conversation lasts awhile as the men were not really increasing in distance from me. It’s a good thing my imaginary husband is really sweet and VERY patient with my hindi when we talk on the phone J
I passed P block and then W block, which I’m not sure how, but is next to E block, which is one of three places from which I can find my home. I smile at an aunty on the street, catch myself staring at the other white people I see, and crane my neck to see the cricket games through the trees.
In my neighborhood, I head bobble hello to the man ironing clothes next to the park, hold my breath while walking past the overflowing dumpsters, and admire the gorgeous, sleek, and fit cats rummaging through the garbage. I scoot to the side of the road only once out of the 20 times I am honked at, smile at the cutest, most serious four year old boy carrying a backpack that must weigh as much as him, and open the gate to our building.
I walk in the door, take off my chappals, and almost immediately step on the pieces of a chicken bone that the dog had sometime earlier been enjoying. After washing my feet, smiling at the maid who will not talk to me, and grabbing some purified water, I come into my room, switch on the A/C and my laptop, and rip off my long pants in exchange for the much preferred shorts. I cringe at my fluorescent white legs, plop down on my not-exactly-soft bed, and write this—so that maybe you can picture my beautiful India and see why I want to come back.
So, an auto finally slows near the place where another lady and I are waiting. I have the advantage of the autowallah choosing to pull up next to me because of my Gori disadvantage in what it will cost me.
I tell him the neighborhood & section where I’m going. When we get there, I say “C-Block” and we drive through K block, and J block, and then finally he decides he might not know where he’s going. So while we’re stopped on a two lane road, one of the 3 autos that are lined up next to us tells us we need to turn around. This means that immediately after the autowallah that gave us directions moves forward an inch or two, we turn so that our auto is perpendicular to the oncoming traffic, let a few motorcycles and “scooties” pass, and then finish the u-turn.
When we arrive at C Block, I am utterly amazed that there is a billboard-esque sign that gives a map of the B and C block, WITH the numbers of the houses at the appropriate places. Don’t worry though—it’s still India! The sign tells us that while C block is in face a big rectangular block, B Block is about 4-5 blocks in sort of a U shape. They wouldn’t want to be too organized…
We finally arrive at the home of my new teacher, and I sit through the world’s worst class ever. She said my hindi is good for having been here only a short time. THEN she taught me how to say “I am a girl. I am from America.” Now…I can say (slowly) “If I would be in Egypt this month, an Egyptian woman would teach me how to make Egyptian food, and if she is like Indian women, she would say ‘EAT! EAT!’ and I would become fat.” So, why was I “learning” this? Pata nahi hai… Additionally, every time I started a sentence and tried to figure out how to make the postpositions and verbs correctly, she said the sentence for me. It was never what I wanted to say, and she doesn’t listen very well. In short, I think I got a taste of what Indian schoolteachers are like—as well as the line of Indian authority and respect. I now understand why expat kids are homeschooled or go to international private schools. Lesson learned for any potential children I may have or adopt. J
After the world’s worst hindi class (kudos to my engineering friend who tutored me with no teaching experience and did 100x better) I agree to come back tomorrow. After all, she’s the friend of my hostmom and if I don’t come back at least once, I’m probably going to cause some issue between them. But I make an excuse for tomorrow being my last day with her, because I dread coming even tomorrow.
Immediately after, I go to a not-so-cheap coffee shop and order a mango frappe—that should make up for the rough morning class. Mango is “aam” in hindi, but I guess they thought I said “um…frappe” so I got a real coffee frappe. I would rather cuddle with the rat that haunts my bedroom than taste coffee ever again. But, knowing it was my accent that caused the order and that I’ll go to the shop again, I drank it politely while my barista watched me work through presumptive verb tenses.
Thankfully, the day got much better as my teacher at the academy reviewed my verbs and only made a few corrections on the 10 worksheets I’d done over the weekend. After the other morning class, I have now learned to appreciate the $25 per hour I spend at the school J I feel like in the past week I’ve really progressed—which is an encouragement to keep up studying those impossible verbs.
My teacher has had an arranged marriage, and my heart reaches out to her because her husband is just not interested in trying to bond. I pause being a student for a few minutes and become just a friend with a willing ear. She doesn’t know I’m praying for her heart in more than one way.
Class ends on a good note and then the world’s most beautiful nap happens in the midst of my homework. I tend to sleep much better when I know the rat is probably asleep or at least hiding from the sunlight.
I decide I need to go for a walk—which is really just an excuse to eat ice cream—so I head out into the beautiful humid weather. My hair is an absolute disaster, but really, is that going to mean any less stares happen on the street? Nope, so there’s no reason to fix the mess my pillow created atop my head.
I order a scoop of kulfi ice cream, and again, I somehow got coffee ice cream. I give up. I have learned to actually enjoy tea AND olives since I’ve been here, so maybe this is God’s way of teaching me to not despise coffee, too.
Then I continue my walk to the market. My sari blouses will be two days late, but that’s expected. Because it’s India.
A woman passes me. Only with the package on top of the five gallon bucket on her head is she taller than me. Another woman who’s about that height passes me with her chubby 7 year old son. I can’t help but chuckle at the likelihood that he’ll never reach my shoulders.
I buy a red rose for all of 20 cents. I’m sure it’s probably twice the going rate for Indians, but the flowerwallah was cute as he was wrapping it with ribbons and some flair, and giving me a really big smile with an attempt at not-so-discreet eye contact. Bollywood has captured this perfectly.
At a construction site a woman (who has this indescribable strength/beauty/intriguing features that I’ve found in many Indian women of lower status) makes eye contact with me as she carries 10 bricks on her head to the worksite.
My patialas (harem pants) at this point begin sticking to my legs because it’s REALLY humid. I stop at India’s version of Starbucks, Coffee Café Day (it’s everywhere) to study and relish the world’s best caramel brownie. I listen to a guru counsel a girl who seems to be struggling in her arranged marriage. His advice is off, and I can’t help but yearn for her to know the Truth, as his advice just isn’t good enough to fix the situation.
At this point, I head home, not really sure that I’m heading home. Some men start to walk a little too near me (for the time of it being dusk) and I begin a phone conversation with my imaginary husband, who makes me practice my hindi. The conversation lasts awhile as the men were not really increasing in distance from me. It’s a good thing my imaginary husband is really sweet and VERY patient with my hindi when we talk on the phone J
I passed P block and then W block, which I’m not sure how, but is next to E block, which is one of three places from which I can find my home. I smile at an aunty on the street, catch myself staring at the other white people I see, and crane my neck to see the cricket games through the trees.
In my neighborhood, I head bobble hello to the man ironing clothes next to the park, hold my breath while walking past the overflowing dumpsters, and admire the gorgeous, sleek, and fit cats rummaging through the garbage. I scoot to the side of the road only once out of the 20 times I am honked at, smile at the cutest, most serious four year old boy carrying a backpack that must weigh as much as him, and open the gate to our building.
I walk in the door, take off my chappals, and almost immediately step on the pieces of a chicken bone that the dog had sometime earlier been enjoying. After washing my feet, smiling at the maid who will not talk to me, and grabbing some purified water, I come into my room, switch on the A/C and my laptop, and rip off my long pants in exchange for the much preferred shorts. I cringe at my fluorescent white legs, plop down on my not-exactly-soft bed, and write this—so that maybe you can picture my beautiful India and see why I want to come back.
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