On a particularly humid Tuesday morning I was standing on the side of a busy road, trying to flag down an auto for the train station. After eleven months in Chandigarh, I can do this task fairly quickly and within 50 rupees. But today, today was different. Today the dear auto-bhaiyas were being difficult -- 80 rupees, 90 rupees. Somebody even dared to suggest 100.
Why was this happening? I mulled over it as I reluctantly settled on a 70 rupees fare. And then, I realized with a start that this inflation must be because of a single, world-famous garment: MY JEANS.
Since I was going to a meeting in Delhi that day I had dressed up. This means I replaced my threadbare, holey clothes with the last untarnished, not faded article of clothing I had. And to make it worse, I had a leather bag with a zipper instead of my khadi sack.
A huge sense of disappointment mixed with the muggy, stagnant air, because of the simple fact that I love autorickshawvallas. I have strangely high expectations from them. They have been my saviors, friends, comedians, teachers and guides this year. They have taught me to navigate Chandigarh, to understand different perspectives, to adjust when the eighth person is about climb into your seat.
So instead of fixating on the couple of guys who tried to hike up fare, I've decided to highlight the guys who made this trust possible.
1) Disco-valla - On a nice summer night my friends and I were coming home in high spirits and decided to sing Hindi songs to pass the time, and so that they could make fun of my Westernized tuning of "Woh Lamhe". Being my super conscious self, I checked the mirror to see if we were bothering the driver, who probably had enough of noise at this time of night. As he pulled in front of our house and took money, I empathized for the guy, thinking how relieved he must feel now that were gone.
And then, then the magic happened. Discovalla turned on a flashing blue light, loud trance music and revved up his engine. We all looked back in shock as he tore away, cackling.
2) Bartender-valla - After fighting over 10 rupees with my auto driver, I decided to sit in the auto anyway as we were settled the price. Assuming I was just teeming with cash, he asked me my salary. He quickly found out that my stipend was less than his earnings, and inquired more about why I would take on such a job. Our conversation developed; we talked about where he ate, how auto drivers communicated and learning computer skills. He asked me about working with kids and in a colony area. Other passengers stared at us since we were chatting like old friends. By the time I got dropped off in Sector 35 I felt happier and lighter, like in movies when someone tells all their problems to a bartender. He refused to take the 10 rupees.
3)Respect-valla - This is a simple story. I was taking a 10 rupee shared auto down a long road. A drunk guy got into the auto. He smelled like house-made liquor and spoke like he had gumballs in his mouth. A few minutes down the road he asked the auto driver if he could give him money some other time, he didn't have any. The auto driver looked back in the mirror critically and suddenly realized the man's state. He immediately stopped the auto, threw the guy out and turned to me, palms together. Apologizing repeatedly he said, "I'm sorry I disrespected you by letting this man into the auto," and tried not to take my money. Of course I paid, said thanks and left with more trust.
4)Entrepreneur-valla- Last week I was waiting for an auto, drenched in rain and starting to worry that I would be late to a workshop that I was leading. Finally, after the rain had reached from my frizzy hair to the soles of my sandals, an auto pulled up. I got in and was suddenly jolted by my surroundings. A small chandelier adorned the roof, bangles hung on a bar in front of the wheel, and dozens of toys and decorations hung on strings. Then the driver flicked on a panel of switches and three mini fans started to blow, helping my clothes dry out. During the fifteen minute ride I noticed the intricate work put into this auto -- from the water bottle holder to the stationary cup to hand painted walls. When I reluctantly stepped out I gave the driver a thumbs up on his auto. He casually said, "I'm getting an AC and LCD player soon. Here, take my card." For no more money and no style left behind, Rajan Autos made a customer out of me.
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
Sunday, June 5, 2011
Losing Myself
ANKITA RAO
India Currents
I never wanted to be a teacher, especially the kind in a classroom. I might’ve even said, “I don’t really like kids,” probably when surrounded by the screaming-in-airplane variety.
Nowadays, my Indicorps fellowship requires that I teach at least ten classes a week to over 60 students. I have ma’am or didi permanently appended to my name. I make tests, projects, lessons plans, schedules, and rules. And as life would have it, I’ve never felt more at peace with any type of work, job or class more than I do my fellowship year, right now.
The thing about trying to change things—from corruption to education—is that you get turned inside out during the process. Everything I thought I was, from my personality to academic strengths, gets wrung like my khadi towel and laid out to dry under the hot Indian sun.
I thought I was patient until a student called me “Angry Ankita.” I didn’t think I was a leader until I heard a coworker quote something I said to inspire another staff member.
My strength, I presumed, lay in mediating, introspection and the ability to connect—backstage, peaceful kind of stuff. But when I got in a fight with my host brother over his laziness and lost my temper, I stopped to reassess.
Years of writing behind a computer screen and practicing yoga has made me a pro at being alone, producing alone. In India, and in our community center, I have to discuss and plan daily with at least ten other people. If I pick up a phone call or open an e-mail, eavesdroppers perk up. Even my meals are shared, down to a single roti.
Being a “people” person has taken on a new meaning, and I’ve had to adjust as a result. Now I can face a room of one hundred shouting kids and not just add to the noise. I talk to everyone involved when making a plan, and clearly see that successes are never, never just mine.
While my strengths are questioned, my weaknesses are too. I used to struggle with assertiveness, never sure of what I deserved or wanted. As a journalist I could ask for an interview through e-mail and maybe a phone call, but used my reporter’s notebook as a crutch to approach people.
Lately I’ve found that confidence is a simple recipe: one part knowing what you need and three parts enduring the challenges when you ask for it.
What I need this year is to give kids in my community equal access to the quality of life that other communities in Chandigarh have. As a result, I don’t think twice about approaching city officials, volunteers and community members to (gently) demand that we get more dustbins, iron supplements, English programs or funding. And I don’t mind doing it in a roughened cotton kurta and sub-par Hindi.
The interesting part about recognizing my personal evolution is the ability to clearly redefine my needs, just as I’ve done with my community.
Six months ago I was hell-bent on creating an artsy, expressive space in our community library that would be the opposite of the authoritarian school atmosphere. I established dancing, drawing and story writing as part of our activities. Then I saw kids struggling in basic writing, failing in math class and disengaging from higher-level courses when they switched to English textbooks. Hip-hop moves couldn’t directly address that.
The solution was clearly to balance the approach. We got a bit stricter and more traditional, but remained true to self-expression. Slowly, it has been working.
Realigning my own needs was a similar story. When I needed comfort back in the States I used a foolproof remedy: best friends, cheesy movies, and cookies.
But my childhood friends are not here to lounge on a nonexistent couch. I’ve been turned off of TV after seeing it suck life and hours out of the children’s days. And cookies—well, let’s just say a kerosene stove is not an oven.
After years of thinking I needed these outlets to relax and let go, it took a few tearful nights to look further into what gives me comfort. As it turns out, I’m pretty self-sustaining. A long, slow walk in the warm sun and a hot gulab jamun did wonders for my homesickness. Springing out of my self-pity and into teaching a yoga class gave no room for wallowing. And talking to my mom, even if it was through counterintuitive G-Mail chatting, was the final cherry on a pretty awesome Sunday.
People often talk about finding yourself and knowing yourself and defining who you are. However, I’ve found that this definition I’ve created of Ankita over the years—loving, creative, hesitant, a little bit on the hippie side—seems to be about as consistent as recent monsoon seasons.
I still don’t want to be a teacher, and not just because I hate being called ma’am. But this time I’d prefer not to take that role because I’d rather be a student. I’d rather be a student of India, of my family and friends, even of my own students, so that I can continue to learn and change. And that’s one quality that I can assure you will not go away any time soon.
India Currents
I never wanted to be a teacher, especially the kind in a classroom. I might’ve even said, “I don’t really like kids,” probably when surrounded by the screaming-in-airplane variety.
Nowadays, my Indicorps fellowship requires that I teach at least ten classes a week to over 60 students. I have ma’am or didi permanently appended to my name. I make tests, projects, lessons plans, schedules, and rules. And as life would have it, I’ve never felt more at peace with any type of work, job or class more than I do my fellowship year, right now.
The thing about trying to change things—from corruption to education—is that you get turned inside out during the process. Everything I thought I was, from my personality to academic strengths, gets wrung like my khadi towel and laid out to dry under the hot Indian sun.
I thought I was patient until a student called me “Angry Ankita.” I didn’t think I was a leader until I heard a coworker quote something I said to inspire another staff member.
My strength, I presumed, lay in mediating, introspection and the ability to connect—backstage, peaceful kind of stuff. But when I got in a fight with my host brother over his laziness and lost my temper, I stopped to reassess.
Years of writing behind a computer screen and practicing yoga has made me a pro at being alone, producing alone. In India, and in our community center, I have to discuss and plan daily with at least ten other people. If I pick up a phone call or open an e-mail, eavesdroppers perk up. Even my meals are shared, down to a single roti.
Being a “people” person has taken on a new meaning, and I’ve had to adjust as a result. Now I can face a room of one hundred shouting kids and not just add to the noise. I talk to everyone involved when making a plan, and clearly see that successes are never, never just mine.
While my strengths are questioned, my weaknesses are too. I used to struggle with assertiveness, never sure of what I deserved or wanted. As a journalist I could ask for an interview through e-mail and maybe a phone call, but used my reporter’s notebook as a crutch to approach people.
Lately I’ve found that confidence is a simple recipe: one part knowing what you need and three parts enduring the challenges when you ask for it.
What I need this year is to give kids in my community equal access to the quality of life that other communities in Chandigarh have. As a result, I don’t think twice about approaching city officials, volunteers and community members to (gently) demand that we get more dustbins, iron supplements, English programs or funding. And I don’t mind doing it in a roughened cotton kurta and sub-par Hindi.
The interesting part about recognizing my personal evolution is the ability to clearly redefine my needs, just as I’ve done with my community.
Six months ago I was hell-bent on creating an artsy, expressive space in our community library that would be the opposite of the authoritarian school atmosphere. I established dancing, drawing and story writing as part of our activities. Then I saw kids struggling in basic writing, failing in math class and disengaging from higher-level courses when they switched to English textbooks. Hip-hop moves couldn’t directly address that.
The solution was clearly to balance the approach. We got a bit stricter and more traditional, but remained true to self-expression. Slowly, it has been working.
Realigning my own needs was a similar story. When I needed comfort back in the States I used a foolproof remedy: best friends, cheesy movies, and cookies.
But my childhood friends are not here to lounge on a nonexistent couch. I’ve been turned off of TV after seeing it suck life and hours out of the children’s days. And cookies—well, let’s just say a kerosene stove is not an oven.
After years of thinking I needed these outlets to relax and let go, it took a few tearful nights to look further into what gives me comfort. As it turns out, I’m pretty self-sustaining. A long, slow walk in the warm sun and a hot gulab jamun did wonders for my homesickness. Springing out of my self-pity and into teaching a yoga class gave no room for wallowing. And talking to my mom, even if it was through counterintuitive G-Mail chatting, was the final cherry on a pretty awesome Sunday.
People often talk about finding yourself and knowing yourself and defining who you are. However, I’ve found that this definition I’ve created of Ankita over the years—loving, creative, hesitant, a little bit on the hippie side—seems to be about as consistent as recent monsoon seasons.
I still don’t want to be a teacher, and not just because I hate being called ma’am. But this time I’d prefer not to take that role because I’d rather be a student. I’d rather be a student of India, of my family and friends, even of my own students, so that I can continue to learn and change. And that’s one quality that I can assure you will not go away any time soon.
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