Lighting a path...

When I entered one of my 8th standard classes this week the students were poring over yellow cards that the teachers had handed out. I asked my co-teacher what they were and she told me that the students had received their result cards from September exams. “Are they happy?” I asked her. She gave me a smile that said neither yes nor no. “In this class 10 students have passed.” This is a class of 64 students. Confused, I asked “You mean passed their English exams?” This would make sense to me because this is one of the lowest classes; most of the students come from very rural areas and have received poor English training prior to entering Madhi High School. “No,” she replied “ten is the number of students who have passed all subjects.” I was floored. Here I am trying to teach English, and they aren’t even able to pass exams in Gujarati or Hindi, their native language. “These students have a difficult time learning” she added. I had suspected just that and now it was made evident.

I went on with class as usual but I couldn’t stop thinking about it; 10 out of 64! The common belief of the Indian teachers is that the students in C, D, and E classes are backwards and dull. To me that is unacceptable. These students are not dull, even though their test scores may tell a different story. If anything, these students are the victims of an education system gone bad; the cracks in the system have widened and more and more students are falling through them. I know my students are smart and capable; they just haven’t been given a chance.

The students must take the result cards home to show their parents, who must then sign the card in multiple areas so the school knows they are informed of their child’s progress. As the students handed them back to the co-teacher she scanned the cards to make sure all the signatures were there. On some of the cards there was no signature. Instead, there was a thumbprint; a sign of an illiterate parent. I was surprised at the number of thumbprints on the cards and I mentioned this to my co-teacher. “Many parents are farmers, they have no need to read, and therefore they cannot help with homework.” Again, I felt another blow.

This cycle of illiteracy has been spinning in some families for generations and it may continue to spin unless something is done to stop it. I have no illusions that in ten months I can overhaul the system, but I do know that I can make a difference, even if it is only one student at a time. What I hope is that I can slow the spinning down enough to give these students a chance to grasp something, to learn something that can pull them out of cycle and hopefully not only change their lives, but also the lives of their children.

On the wall of my room I have a small card with a quote by Buddha: “Thousands of candles can be lit from a single candle and the life of the candle will not be shortened. Happiness never decreases by being shared.” It reminds me of something my students in China told me; A teacher is like a candle; they burn themselves to give light to others.

I want to be their candle.

Delusional in Delhi

On September 17th I returned from my trip to Delhi, and I couldn’t have been happier to be back in my tiny village. There were some highlights, but the trip to Delhi was mostly riddled with frustrations, difficulties, sicknesses and scams. Let me tell you my tale…

Our trip began on the Paschim Express, train number 2925 to Delhi. We left at 4pm on September 10th and arrived in Delhi on September 11th at 10am. The craziness of Delhi hit us as soon as we stepped off the train and didn’t let up until we boarded our train home 6 days later. Rain had descended on Delhi the day we arrived and the city was coated in a grimy film.

Delhi is a patchwork quilt of humanity and the vast disparity of economic status and social class collide in the bustling city of 12.8 million people. Delhi’s wide variety of people can be attributed to the turmoil of Partition when it became a refuge for many who were displaced during that period of history. The majority of people living in Delhi are not native to the city, one of the largest groups being the descendants of refugees from Punjab. In Delhi you can find the privileged and the disadvantaged, the over indulged and the ignored, the obese and the starving. The city was such a dizzying array of sights and smells that I often felt bombarded and over stimulated. If you aren’t prepared, Delhi will consume you; it sucks you in and spits you out.

Our first concern was finding a place to stay. The New Delhi Train Station is located in an area of Delhi know as Paharganj which is regarded by Delhilites as being a breeding ground for seedy activities, especially when night falls. Main Bazaar, across from the train station, is the heart of Paharganj and was where we headed to find a hotel. We price shopped several places and finally settled for a 400rupee ($8.50)a night room complete with cockroaches, no hot water, and a broken toilet. Home sweet home.

After showering and unpacking we hit the streets in search of a tourist office to plan some trips, a decision we would later regret. We ended up at a travel agency located in Connaught Place, a landmark shopping district laid out in concentric circles in the heart of New Delhi.I was skeptical of this agency but went along with the other girls. We booked three tours, our first being a day trip to Agra to see the Taj Mahal. The Agra tour was booked for the next morning and we were scheduled to be met in the lobby of our hotel at 6:15am. The other two tours were a day tour of Delhi and a day trip to Jaipur. After painfully handing over our hard earned rupees we headed to Café Coffee Day for a cup of real coffee before heading back to Main Bazaar to get ready for a night on the town.

Two other teachers from our foundation were also in Delhi and we arranged to meet at an upscale lounge called Q’ba in Connaught Place. After a drink we determined that we needed to find a more economically feasible place to enjoy ourselves and so we jumped into rickshaws and headed out to the Defense Colony, an area developed during the British rule. On the way we passed the New Friendship Colony and a sign that said “New Friendship Club (members only).” It seemed a little oxy-moronic to me, but that’s Delhi.

We settled into a more rupee friendly bar and enjoyed exchanging tales of our travels to Delhi. When the bar closed Meghan, Kirsten and I weren’t ready to head home so we talked to some locals and headed to an upscale club in a nearby neighborhood where we were the only foreigners. It was a little shocking to see so many Indians in a context we never see in our small village. These were the privileged; people with disposable income and with time to spend it. The Indian girls in the club were dressed in the same manner as can be seen in Western clubs; a drastic difference from the modest salwar kameez that dominates our area of India. Our night of dancing finally ended at 2am and we jumped into a rickshaw for the twenty minute ride back to our place.

We had only slept a few precious hours when our alarm woke us up; the Taj Mahal was waiting. We were in the lobby at 6:15 when a man entered and motioned us to follow him. He took us through the twists and turns of the confusing back streets and alleyways of Main Bazaar, and I hoped we wouldn’t have to ever navigate this area alone. Finally we popped out on the other side of Paharganj and were standing on a busy main road. We waited awhile before a rickety bus finally pulled up. We were told that we would arrive in Agra at 10am, but as the clock ticked away, so did my patience.

Finally, at 1pm we pulled into the heart of Agra and my excitement was growing when the bus suddenly pulled over and a man boarded. He looked at us, the only foreigners on board, and spoke in broken English saying that we should get off the bus and follow him. I knew something was up because none of the Indians on board were being asked to get off. The four other teachers started to get off the bus, accepting what he said without any questions. I hesitatingly remained in my seat until they had all jumped off the bus. At this point I knew we were being scammed and I was torn; should I get off the bus and risk not seeing my friends, or stay on the bus and risk running into problems alone? The girls started calling to me from outside and I hurriedly grabbed my stuff and reluctantly jumped off the bus. The scam was off and running and we were the unlucky victims, literally along for the ride.

There were two rickshaws and two drivers waiting for us. The drivers spoke good English; obviously, they have done this before. They explained to us that our tour bus was in fact not going to the Taj Mahal because it was an Indian tour bus and Indians were not interested in the Taj. They said they would be taking us around to the different sights, and that at 4pm we would meet back up with our tour bus for our trip home to Delhi. I was already annoyed with the drivers at this point and I could see where this scam was going; I had seen it before in China and other countries. Memories of being taken to the endless factories and shops on these types of tours flashed through my mind.

They zipped us around the city, whipping in and out of traffic. We stopped outside the entrance of the south gate of the Taj and were told we had about 1 hour and 30 minutes before we had to meet. At this point I was already in and out of arguments with the drivers. Early on I established that we had absolutely no intention of paying them anything at the end of the day. To this they responded with feigned hurt, as if they were offended. “Listen Madam! I am doing this for you! It is my job to take you.” I wasn’t buying it or letting up with my obvious annoyance. Later Kirsten told me that the driver kept asking why I was so difficult and it made me laugh.

We paid for our tickets and excitedly headed to the metal detector where I got an intimate pat down by an unfriendly female guard. The Taj is surrounded by a large wall that resembles the Red Fort in Delhi and it takes about a five minute walk through perfectly manicured grounds before even glimpsing the Taj. As I walked closer I could see the Taj looming in the distance and I caught my breath. My eyes were taking in the one of the most beautiful things in the world, but my mind couldn’t grasp it. The perfection made it look fake, as if it was a painted backdrop. The Taj is symmetrically perfect, as tall as it is wide, and I was awestruck. I stood for a minute just looking at it; I contemplated the immense undertaking of building such a structure without any modern technology and the kind of love that moves a man to build something of such beauty. Then I started my thorough photo documentation.

The marble used in the Taj is smooth and milky white but when the sun is setting it takes on a slight rose tint. It was so smooth and I liked the feeling of the warm marble on my bare feet. Throughout the Taj there are inlaid flowers made from a shinier, multi-colored marble and verses from the Koran are scripted onto the marble above the door and arch ways. Some of the marble is cut into intricate lattice work and is unbelievably detailed. The Taj is a spectacularly amazing work of art made quite literally with love.

We met back up with our drivers and the perfection of the Taj was soon forgotten as the scam continued. We drove for a bit and pulled up to two shops; a “marble works factory” and a leather store. I knew it! Now the drivers were going to get some commission for bringing us here and I was going to have no part of it. I was so annoyed that I marched up to the driver and said in an abrupt tone “We do not want to see a marble factory and a leather store. We want to eat lunch.” To which he replied “Why are you never listening to me!? Your problem is you never listen! We are not going to marble factory and leather store! We are going to marble factory!” Ugh! I refused to go in and spent some time in the parking lot counting to ten. We then piled into the rickshaws and pulled up to a restaurant; it was lunch time and again they would be making money by bringing us here.

The restaurant was very run down and there were very few patrons inside, not a good sign. I was now in no mood to really eat, but knew I had to eat something and here is where a crucial decision was made. The other girls went about ordering chicken sandwiches, vegetable tikka, and curry dishes, but I was skeptical. I ordered nan, a flat piece of bread, and a Thums-Up, an Indian cola; my best decision of the trip.
It was now approaching 4pm and I was very concerned about meeting the bus. The drivers didn’t seem so worried and stopped once at a “cultural handicrafts shop” and became very upset when we refused to go in. No commission there. They then drove us to where the bus would be meeting us, but of course, it was going to be an hour late. They suggested going into a sweet shop that makes a famous Agra treat to kill time. How convenient.

At 5pm the bus did show up and I happily said goodbye to our scamming guides and took my place next to the Bangladeshi man. “Where did you go!?” he asked with concern. He then told us that they had indeed gone to the Taj, and they spent more time there than we did! They also got to see other famous sights that we did not. I was so angry, but then I realized I had to just let it go. I had just seen the most magnificently breathtaking building and I should be happy with that.

The ride back to Delhi took a painfully long 9 hours! We stopped at two different temples along the way and made various other stops at roadside restaurants, which is where Kirsten started to feel sick. We boarded the bus and began to drive and she began to throw up out the window. As we continued on Meghan began to feel sick as well and she threw up into a bag.

Finally, we pulled into Delhi and the bus started to drop passengers off at their pick-up points. We said goodbye to the two other teachers and soon it was the three of us and an Indian couple on the bus. We stopped where we had been picked up, got off the bus, and watched it pull away. We were left on the side of the road to fend for ourselves; this is what I had hoped would not happen. The Indian couple quickly disappeared into the complicated alleyways and soon we were completely alone at 2am in one of the worst areas of Delhi, and we were lost.

We walked for a bit unsure of where to go until we saw a light shining from a doorway. We were so relieved to have stumbled upon a police station and two police men on duty. They called someone from another station to walk us back to our hotel where we collapsed, utterly exhausted, into our beds.

Even though I was not afflicted by food poisoning like the other girls I was still feeling very sick. My head was pounding, my body ached and it was radiating heat even though I was freezing. I slept from 3am until about 7am when I forced myself out of bed to call the agent and cancel the tour of Delhi slated for that day; we would not be going anywhere. The next day we took it very easy while we tried to recover. We met up with a friend and visited Old Delhi. We saw the Jama Masjid, the biggest mosque in India, took pictures at the Red Fort, saw the Lotus Temple and rode cycle rickshaws around the crazy streets. On our last day in Delhi we met our friend at a mall to watch an American movie and then he took us to his house and cooked us a delicious chicken dinner.

The next morning we packed and got ready to say a cheerful goodbye to Delhi. We boarded our train, settled in to our beds and breathed a sigh of relief as we left the chaos of Delhi behind us. This trip was not the enjoyable trip we had envisioned, but there were some patches of good hidden among the bad. I’m willing to give Delhi one more chance, which will happen next week. Hopefully that trip will show me the better side of Delhi.
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