Only Real When Shared

Love Lessons

2012-02-14T19:13:00.000-08:00

Today my dance teacher gave us these instructions at the beginning of our warm-up: "Fall in love with yourself in the next hour." I tried to reconcile this with the hideous pink striped workout pants I was wearing, which was hard. Anyway, the cheesy exercised helped out later when I walked home down Columbus , warmed by the couples in restaurant windows and people walking down the street with flowers and wine.

But that kind of love is only one iteration of what Valentines Day celebrates. Love comes with so much other stuff, some of which I learned today. Warning: This isn't Cosmo:

1. No More Social Climbers
Marriage in America has changed from an emphasis on religion and background to -- yes, you guessed it -- money. So before, it was more important for a Jewish guy to find a Jewish girl, now it's more important that bank accounts match. Rich people are more likely to marry rich people, poor people more likely to marry poor. Of course there are confounding factors, but economic mobility via marriage, for better or for worse, is no longer what it was.

2. Damn
Conversation Hearts all taste the same.

3. And they thought we were prudes.
My friend Ashley sent me this Reuters article about the kiss Apparently, the first documentation of a kiss was from the ancient Indian text, the Mahabaratha in 1000 BCE: "She set her mouth to my mouth and made a noise that produced pleasure in me," the poem said. Then, when Alexander the Great showed up in the motherland he picked up the custom and took it back via horse/elephant to Europe. Before that people just sniffed each other. This is especially funny to me, because it took so long for actors to kiss in Bollywood movies, and it still continues to be awkward. But come on, there are 1 billion people in the country, of course we invented the kiss.

4. Yes, that is a picture of Gandhi and Kasturba up there.
In terms of unconditional love, we're not scientifically sure if it exists, at least in the form of altruism. I personally have no doubts that it does, but here is more justification for expanding your idea for love: it makes you give of yourself, and that, in turn, makes you freakishly happy. Dr. Anthony Youn on CNN, after a long diatribe about how he hates V-day, mentions "Helpers High", a buzz you get from spreading the love.

5. Something in the way Pattie Boyd moved
We have this book at my parents house about George Harrison, and it mentions that "Something" is described as the perfect love song. A bunch of people seem to agree, and it certainly has had a permanent place on my play list for years. Harrison wrote the song for Pattie Boyd, who also later finagled the song "Layla" out of Eric Clapton. I guess she's like the Helen of Troy for classic rock even though neither guy ended up with her.

I leave you with this, the Greatest Love of All.

The Bob Marley Poster, and other things

2011-12-21T07:36:00.000-08:00

Coming home to Florida this time was different. The suburban roads were memories, not boredom -- the time my car slid across a highway in a hurricane, the trail where my friend Kent and I biked across the county on a hot day. Within hours of landing, I lay on a hammock in my backyard by the river, listening to wooden wind chimes, appreciating the details.

And I'm back in my room -- it's garish, orange and pink -- looking at photos of prom, my corsage from homecoming, snapshots of reggae night in Gainesville with a bottle of PBR. Diplomas, poems, bucket lists. I try on old clothes and make a Goodwill pile, hanging on to an ugly pink strapless dress from 8th grade.

A precocious high school friend always quoted this Spanish poem. I don't remember who wrote it, I think Neruda, but it essentially said that you don't know how far you've traveled or who you have become until you come home again, seeing your country with new eyes.

I read diary entries dating back to 4th grade, and realize that some things haven't changed. Some of the things I hated about myself are still painful insecurities fifteen years later. Recurring themes of hating my reflection, not knowing what to say. Crushes that still make me feel a little bitter, "best" friends that were never sincere.

Then there are the dreams -- I wanted to be like Mother Theresa and I wanted to be a writer. I guess halfway there isn't so bad. On my list of Things to Do (when, at what timeline, who knows?) there are things I've crossed off: "Publish a Photograph", "Live abroad alone", "Go to a temple that requires lots of hiking", "Be somebody's role model". I have India to thank for so much of that -- I always have India to thank.

In a box of letters that I've saved I found a passage about education that my dad sent me in college. I didn't know then how my ideas would change, how I would come to see education as something completely separate than a school or university. How much I would support the subtle buzz of revolutions -- trying to find the "yes" in the Occupies, the Tahrirs, the anti-development movements.

There are things missing at home -- the sound of the tag on Louie's collar, clinking when he drops his head to the floor. A blueprint of Frank Lloyd Wright's Imperial Hotel is replaced by a striking black-and-white of a cobbler at a temple, taken by a friend in Chandigarh. Everybody is a little older, a little more anxious from economy, health, jobs. The bathtubs are leaking, and the faucets are quirky.

And yet, I've never been happier to hear the rush of wind in the huge Jacoranda tree, or the steady waves against the dock. After living in so many homes in the past two years -- whether out of backpacks, or second-hand dressers -- my house is a reminder of the continuity, of the connected dots.

Soham

2011-11-01T16:02:00.000-07:00

Sometimes all we need is a reminder.

For me it's the subtle scent of lavender essence, a lit incense, the resonance of an Om. And within moments, I'm back -- my breathing is deep, and my eyebrows unfurrowed. I get a tingle of energy, like when you're excited to see someone.

I remembered this today when I sat down for a meditation at Sivananda Yoga Center in Chelsea. The matted oranges and yellows that mark yoga instantly flooded me with reminders from my yoga training, India, friends I've practiced with, songs. It was more a sampling of energy than of memories.

And I thought, "How could I have waited this long?"

It's so easy to know what is good for us, what we need. For me it's this -- a mat to stretch, to sit, and to let go. A kid to learn from. Enough space outside to feel like a human, and not a pinball in an underground subway mechanism, or a space case in front of a screen.

I wonder why I forgot, so quickly. I knew as soon as I put my bags (bag?) down in New York that I needed these things, but three months later I still struggle with their deliberate addition into my schedule. I make time for wine and beer, for commenting on photos, for trying to find a dress at H&M, and I don't make time for this? The only thing that sustains?

Instead I succumb to being angry at people, and myself. I join the rat race and forget what made my pen, my fingers, move in the first place. I'm not careful to connect positively, and surround myself with people who want the same things. Not all the time, anyway.

Our instructor today reminded us that all of these seemingly passive, quiet actions stem from courage. I've lost that recently in the form of defining success, telling the truth, giving and serving. The courage to take the tingling energy into every situation.

But in any case, the small steps -- the kids I get to read with every Thursday morning, the feeling of a good stretch, the hum of silence -- are being made. And you can call me out on not doing them any time -- that's why it's only real when shared.

How not to get a story.

2011-10-07T12:14:00.000-07:00

Last Thursday I went out to immerse myself in a new community -- the Garment District. I've been tip-toeing around the real stories for a few weeks now, figuring out how to write without being intrusive. This time I had a different motive.

As I walked along the District's streets I poked my head into at least 10 shops, chatting with shop owners selling fabrics and samples. I was kind and friendly. I joked and laughed, tried to find common ground. Instead, my conspicuous Canon and I were greeted with irritation, paranoia and hostility.

I finally found a nice Bangladeshi man to speak with. He sold spandex, liked Indians, told me about immigration. I spent hours in the store taking photos, making friends, being asked about my Facebook name. Two and a half hours later, I was asked to leave. Turns out undocumented workers are not okay with their photos taken.

The rest of the day followed suit. I climbed up many stairs to get a door shut in my face by a psychic. A Jamaican man picking trash literally ran away from me and said he didn't like "publicity". Another guy collecting recycling laughed in my face, a Yom Kippur event with no good lighting. The shoe cobbler didn't like to talk and the donut guy was too busy. Even my attempt to turn a night at a bar into a photo story revealed only a cluster of blurred, shaky snapshots.

I trudged into a bookstore the next day. I always feel at home in a bookstore, especially the ones like this one with stacks of books in every nook. I began to shoot photos happily, following the light and the frequent visitors. Half an hour later I asked to do a quick interview with the owner. The snappiness in his voice made my heart sink. I got about three questions in and ran away.

For the past two weeks I've been likening myself to an awkward guy in a bar. The rejection when you're a journalist, especially an unaffiliated one, is immense and consistent. We're told not to take it personally, be thick skinned. But if you know me, that's impossible -- my skin's about as thick as chiffon.

Maybe I lack chops, or maybe it's a cold, busy, overwritten world. I prefer my position in the corner, watching the universe spin and letting my fingers follow. Good connections, like good boyfriends, I suppose, can't always be found on a deadline. But maybe I need to be more open to the blind dates of journalism and show up every time with renewed hope and stories to be swapped.

The Creepy Guy

2011-09-28T20:46:00.000-07:00

This morning I was scrambling to get to the subway (because you have to rush in New York, even if you're not late), when a broad-shouldered man in a white-T leered over and whispered "Hey beautiful, have a nice day." As usual, I averted my eyes awkwardly and quickened my stride -- getting hit on at 9 a.m. is neither flattering nor discriminating. But as I walked away, I had a big smile on my face.

If you've read my ode to rickshawvallas you know that I have a big time affinity for strangers. I like them less than my friends, but more than my acquaintances. I like the lady who held her umbrella over me for three blocks, and the guy in the laundry room who got all of my quarters out from under the machine with a pencil when they fell out of my hands three consecutive times. And I'm a little bit in love with a Moroccan cab driver who drove me home at 2 a.m., laughing the whole way.

Living in a city for the past couple of years has made me more susceptible to these chance encounters. Personal space gets compromised, even with those weird wooden separations on the train station benches. You get forced to do crazy things like read someone else's texts (guilty) and make a whole line of people wait to help bring a stroller up the stairs. But you also end up having to share things -- compliments and laughs and nervousness.

And if you're lucky, umbrellas.

Something in English

2011-08-18T18:24:00.000-07:00

I was supposed to close out Chandigarh. I was supposed to write something inspiring, uniting, encompassing -- something that could pay homage to all that India has given me. It would be about the kids and those last moments that I spent with them in the library. The last song they sang to me, the threads they tied on my wrist, and the gifts and foods that they packed and sent off in my backpack. That was a month ago.

Then I was supposed to tell you about the transition. The first moment I stepped out into American sunlight. The uncontrollable tears at the airport when I realized I was back here, and I didn't want to be. The bigness of everything -- of the cars and the roads and of New York. The strange feeling of being in school again. I meant to sit down and pound out a few words about the small talk and the formality and the beauty and the makes-sense of it all. That was a couple of weeks ago.

But I can't write any of that. Because my feet are still formed to rubber sandals and dusty roads, and my voice and mind still oscillate between Hindi and English. I see my new classmates and potential friends and old friends, but I don't always feel like I am here. Nor that I'm meant to be there. It's a limbo of sorts.

So I'm giving myself space and time for what may be the first time. I take long walks near the river and sit on swings and do things that have nothing to do with working hard or giving or making the world or myself better. I'm eating Sour Patch Kids and spending nights at home, knowing that New York waits. The adventures will come, and I will welcome them. But for now, I'm just going to let go.

Paise

2011-07-09T20:49:00.000-07:00

I'm not that good with money. I save it, try not to use it, but end up spending everything I have on travel, art supplies, food and pens. I run out of cash constantly and end up eating khichri every day until the next months stipend rolls in. Maybe this is why I'm studying business and economics next year.

Trying to live simply this year tested my idea and use of money. Being surrounded by poverty, which may or may not mean lack of money, has made me hypersensitive to the value of the rupee.I think ten times before buying a Maaza bottle, and have walked home many times to save 10 bucks. And this is still cushioned by the fact that I do have access to money if I actually need or want it.

As with most grassroots organizations, the past twelve months has also meant working with very little money in the community center. Everything from pencils and erasers to scrap paper can be scarce, and resourcefulness has taken on a whole new meaning.

Not having enough money can make you feel deflated, as if all ideas are grounded until you raise funds. My stomach drops when I postpone the monthly library birthday party for lack of funds, and I want to punch something when volunteers ask why we don't have enough supplies for everyone. I still have times when I meet IS officers or socialites and become harshly aware of the tears in my salwar pants.

In the community, I've seen the glazed look in my students when they find out that a music class costs 600 rupees a month ($15) or that our next field trip will cost 50 rupees.Simultaneously I see thousands of rupees wasted on smoking, drinking, cyber cafes and flashy clothes or technology -- things that seem to cover up the gaping holes in opportunity and quality of life that actually do exist.

Once a student asked me how I wanted to help poor people in our community. I told him that I wanted to help them realize that they already have much of what they need.This was said just a few hours after we had given away some donated clothes, a process that always turns into a hair-pulling cat fight with people fighting over some used sweater. And I still agree (with myself) -- so much of this poverty is a mental state that could be easily mitigated by the right information, budgeting and family education.

I think that poverty of the mind exists for the haves just as much as the have-nots. We give money a power -- we think it gives us choice and freedom. And then we somehow end up surrendering to it by settling for a job we don't like or spending so much on investing to make more money that we don't have enough for right now.Inadvertently we keep disadvantaged people in the status quo because we're too scared to lose our third savings account.

In the end I want to find a balance where I only have enough money for it to not interfere with my life. Like our body gauges when its full or hungry, I want a gauge for my bank account, and an internal cue that I have enough to keep me living and thriving.

Autorickshawvalla Salaam

2011-06-28T00:27:00.000-07:00

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.

Losing Myself

2011-06-05T22:20:00.000-07:00

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.

Chalo Dilli

2011-04-29T05:49:00.000-07:00

Last weekend felt like a cumulative test -- a tough exam that could make or break me. I was taking seventeen kids to Delhi. Not kids, but teenagers. Teenagers with hormones, with money to lose, with a strong independent streak.

The mission was to take our budding dance troupe with their flashy clothes and skinny jeans to Tiny Drops, an organization that believes in a hip-hop/Bboying as a transformational art, a way of life and expression.

Our music group, with their Sufi-driven vocals and classic style would be teamed with the Manzil Mystics, a completely youth created band that I have had some kind of cosmic attraction to since I sat on that terrace with them 2 years ago during Inspire.

The plan was simple enough. It had been drafted, erased, redrafted for three months, but involved some touring and visiting and workshopping. Under the guidance of my NGO I had arranged for rooms at a gurudwara and had in my file a back up plan, and a backup-back up plan. I had just enough funding, but little wiggle room for mistakes.

But from the second I woke up on the morning of our departure, it was clear that Delhi, like my year, had jumped out of my hands and promised to wring me from inside out. Let me make this quick and painless:

At five a.m. my cell phone -- my lifeline to the workshops, hotel managers, and our staff, decided to call it quits.

The train ride went smoothly although we had one seat less than normal. "I can handle this," I thought calmly, eating some biscuits and running off of two hours of sleep.

Our accomodation was overbooked and overpriced. It was 100 degrees outside and the kids refused to drink the salty Delhi water or leave their shoes to eat free lunch in the langar hall. The music kids were already two hours late so I paid the extra cash and took them to the taxi, leaving 11 kids in the unsuspecting hands of the wonderous Kaval.

It took 45 minutes and a double-expensive auto ride to drop off the first batch of kids in the music workshop and come back only to find out that our second accomodation idea gave us one walk-in-closet sized room with a rug. The neighbor was a stoned sardarji. There was no way we were staying there.

Almost to tears I left to take the dance kids to their workshop, an hours metro ride away. Kaval teamed up with two teenage kids to find us a room in Pahad Ganj, reluctantly giving all extra money away. We showed up one hour late to the dance workshop, this time with my extra cell phone stolen from my bag. Luckily our hosts at Tiny Drops were gracious and enthusiastic and a couple of BBoying battles improved everyone's mood.

I spent the two hour workshop with one ear on my student's phone with Kaval, wondering where 19 people would sleep in this dangerous city if we found no place to go. Luckily, every good deed we had every done manifested through the one and only Buddha -- Kaval scored us a splendidly calm set of rooms and a Buddhist Temple where we practically passed out upon arrival.

Before sleeping we had a reflection circle where every child proved inspired and without complaints. I slept relieved and grateful for Kaval and Archana, two friends who had given up a leisurely outing in Delhi to make my plan work.

The next day, I thought, would go smoothly. I woke up at 4 a.m., only one hour before my kids who stirred on their own at 5. They spent the morning, with absolutely no coaxing or hints, cleaning up the temple grounds -- weeding and picking up trash.

But the beating sun was not about to let us relax. Even the Delhi metro, my favorite sign of "development", proved to be a nauseating carnival for sensitive stomachs, and the Bank of Ankita had to shell out some extra cash for our misadventures.

Practically wilting in the sun, we made our way to India Gate, the National Museum, and to Saket for our next dance workshop. Meanwhile the music group was composing their own songs, learning guitar chords and rapping in Sarojini Nagar with Manzil thanks to Archana's guidance.

For an added bonus, my American stomach decided to remind me of its lack of immunity in the worst possible time and I lived on water and Maaza for hours and hours of trying to remain upbeat and yank the kids safely through the city as we scoured for dhaba food and water.

By the time we found our BBoys in Saket, the kids were hardly ready to do headstands and break dance. But their stubborn passion found its way to their veins and they continued to defy gravity with new rhythms and teachers.

At end of the day we stumbled, exhaustedly, into the Habitat Centre to meet the music group and watch Manzil perform. The kids' eyes were shining, their faces bright -- it was the look of inspiration. Every next conversation was about possibilities, about what could happen at our center, about guitar and keyboards and performances.

On Sunday we finally had the chance, as a group, to visit India Gate. The relentless sun seemed friendly this morning. We sat in the gardens and ate ice cream, happy to be together, inspired to sing and dance.

We followed up the trip with a music session with Manzil, the most gracious of hosts who just continued to give and share. Only one mishap was counted that day -- a stolen wallet, but even that seemed to just blend in with the theme.

That evening we went back on the train as a family. We lay on each others shoulders and the kids shared their dreams and their love stories and their exhaustion. I recognized that there was no other group of kids I knew that could have endured the craziness, the uncertainty, the heat without complaints and with a passion for the arts that kept them going.

As for me, I don't know if I failed or passed that test. But I know that I have never felt more supported by the universe, by the surprising strength of love and friends and family, than I ever have before. And I feel at once powerful and powerless in the wake of one of life's many unexpected exams.

Karyakarta

2011-04-08T19:52:00.000-07:00

In an effort to get some clear headspace I've started taking 5:15 a.m. morning walks to nearby Sukhna Lake. In the morning the air is still cool, and the rush nearby the industrial area has only just started to buzz.

On the way to the lake there is a golf course -- something that to me still belongs in Florida, but has somehow become popular here in Chandigarh. It seems to me that the stereotypical golf demographic in the U.S. has transferred here along with the ridiculous-to-maintain soft grass. Even in Chandigarh it is the rich, elite who come to the greens in the morning.

As I passed the course one day I took notice of the caddies -- scrawny, browned men, obviously still half asleep, carrying the bags of the portly gentlemen. I think of caddies that I have seen back in the States, usually teenagers who want some extra pocket money. Again I am reminded of this part of the Indian system that I have a hard time digesting: manual labor.

In the past year I've come to appreciate the strength of my body since it has much more of a role in my daily activities. From washing clothes by hands to carrying water from the nearby temple, I feel like I am healing from the years where desk-computer-gym has been the usual cycle.

But here, more so than at home, I feel that physical labor has come to connote a certain socio-economic class. When I tell my students I once worked at a clothing store, they get confused because no "rich girl" should do that. At home it's not strange to work as a waitress or bartender or salesgirl, but here these posts seemed to be societally reserved for the lower class.

It is obvious that our machine-supported life in America makes it much easier to clean and work independently, without maids or cooks. But even so, and this may sound about as colonizing as I get, there is a level of respect given to most (not all) people in service related positions in the U.S. that I don't always see here in India.

One of the values that Indicorps has instilled in me is to always do the work that my host family or community does, no matter how foreign and hard it may seem. This simultaneously strengthens my own endurance and demonstrates equality in the simple act of sweeping the library floor or carrying huge pots of boiling water for bathing in the winter.

Punjab Di

2011-03-21T04:54:00.001-07:00

I wake up one morning in my new host family's home, a few doors down from our community center, and am immediately handed a steaming plate of makki ki roti and sarson ka saag.

As I eat, the live broadcast from Amritsar's Golden Temple plays on TV in full blast -- thousands of turbaned Sikh men walking by the camera as they pray to the Guru Granth Sahib. My host grandmother, just back from the local gurudwara, hands out ghee-filled prasad to the whole joint family -- stopping to shout "Wahe guru" to the holy men on the screen.

Manjas, the rope cots, are plenty around the house, and sitting on one to eat, and sleeping on one at night has made me especially love them for their versatility and ability to put up with seven people at once. Above our heads is a marble picture of Guru Nanak, the first guru of the ten Sikh gurus, craftily settled into the wall.

Yes, this is Punjab. I forget that sometimes since Chandigarh is a city of migrants, a union territory, a place where North Indian culture prevails more than any strong state culture. But the symbols -- from the corn-flour rotis to the cots to the turbans are constant reminders.

Just as Punjabi culture has come to symbolize India in the West through all its colorful, blaring glory, I have come to adore this big, rowdy family. They embody everything I ever thought of Punjabis -- the loud, passionate shouting, the dairy-rich foods, the long hair on men, women and child. They are built, as my host mother says, to fight, the boys over six-feet, the girls with broad shoulders. My host dad even drives one of those colorful trucks that you can find on an Punjab Pride t-shirt.

The family's connection to their village, where they swear the fields are postcard green, is strong, as is their love for all things shiny and big. My new sandals, my cotton kurta, those just barely pass their test. But a picture of my pink, sequined sari from my cousin's wedding wins me parantha points.

While I was worried I would burden them by staying in their home, I find that this family, more than most, knows how to adjust, how to move just a bit to the side to accommodate another person or ten. "It's a joint family, we're used it," they say, having grown up in households of 18 or 25 people.

As I watch my youngest host brother flip his waist length hair upside down and comb it tediously, I decide that Punjabis have real soul. Just by the nature of their bloody, discriminatory history, and their loud dhol drums, they possess an identity that is hard to miss. And becoming one with them, although never one of them, has been latest blossoming of my fantastic Indian spring.

Mis-education

2011-03-02T07:54:00.000-08:00

Last week, prior to my debilitating bout with the plague, I visited Shikshanter in Udaipur, Rajasthan.

I fell for Udaipur before I even got off my overnight train, still soaked by a dirty Delhi rainfall. The Indian things I miss living in modern, planned Chandigarh -- the ancient, arched mosques, walls, and tiered temples on high hills -- were alive in the relaxed "city of lakes". There were still quiet, tree lined streets, but the bustling Old City could make you forget about those with its stalls of hot gulab jamuns and mirrored skirts and bamboo bowls.

I identified Shikshanter by it's Zero Waste board at the gate and the colorful painted wall on the terrace. Within hours of setting down my backpack, it was already working magic on me. My mind, usually wondering, worrying or working on my fellowship project, started to unfurl.

I'm not really sure how to explain Shikshanter. It's not an NGO, or a school, or community center. It's like an un-NGO, a de-school -- a big experiment. People there were using the space, sunny and colorful, as a sort of spiritual, social laboratory. They were making earrings out of sim cards, drinking their urine, grinding local grains by hand, planting coriander in manure in a halved water bottle, solar cooking rice, and editing films.

As I examined the teeming bookshelves, filled with provocative titles about de-colonization and unlearning, I started to think about my own education, both past and future. At what level, I wondered, had I been given choices when learning? What did I actually love to research and find out more about, and what did I just feel like I was supposed to know?

The questions continued to flow, getting to harder stuff about how I was choosing to live my life. I wonder, many times, if I am living as fearlessly and as close to my ideals as I want to. I know the kind of open mind I hope to have, the constant curiosity I want to nurture, but was applying to graduate school or thinking about my next job in line with that? Was taking antibiotics or watching Bollywood movies part of the process?

One of the directors at Shikshanter was open about his opposition to the work I am currently doing. I've started hating labels like development, NGOs, and service, but it was good to be pushed on something that I have been dedicating my time and energy to this year. He mentioned that he thought working within a wrong system, even doing something right, was harmful, especially as an American-abroad. I personally felt that helping children express themselves under any circumstances was progress.Was this a good-intentions-to-hell situation?

During the course of my five days, I made many local foods and raw dishes, learned about urban gardens, painstakingly turned waste into jewelry, climbed to a hilltop temple, danced to Bob Marley, met new friends, and played with some really cute kids. I also didn't sleep for many nights because the questions seemed to get louder, although not faster or more aggressive.

As I saw myself tossing around the ideas of not getting married, not studying more, not moving back to the States yet, wondering what more I could create and learn, I realized that there really was something to be said about a space infused with a strong enough energy. If Shikshanter's goal was to make people think, and to resist, and to act, and to question, it worked.

Chalta Hai

2011-02-12T04:01:00.000-08:00

Do not think that love, in order to be genuine, has to be extraordinary. What we need is to love without getting tired.

- Mother Teresa

I've been wondering a lot lately what passion actually means. It's so easy to love writing, or love teaching children, or love yoga. But practicing any of these things every single day with an unwavering positive attitude and energy is something I still can't understand, or embody.

Some days I wake up here and I don't feel like doing anything. I want to watch TV and I want to sleep late and I miss college where I was allowed to do these things. Even a normal 9 to 5 working day seems soothing when I think of the tasks ahead of me.

Then I read about people like Paul Farmer or Gandhi and think about how all of my excuses -- from lack of sleep to stomach gadbad -- are pathetic. Sometimes I actually guilt myself into waking up, conjuring up visions of my kids sitting in the library with nothing to do.

And this is just one year. Only 12 months of trying to be my best and give all I have without regard for comforts and lack of experience and inconsistent support. How the hell do people cure Haiti of TB, build toilets, design clothes, head MNCs, or even make gourmet food every single day for decades?

If you have any suggestions on how to change the world, at least the one we know and feel, let's have a chat.

Hum

2011-01-23T19:14:00.001-08:00

Outside the metal sliding door there are sounds from the slum colony that I’m still not used to -- the shouts of a drunken brawl, the sweet voice of a small girl taking care of her even younger brother.

My host family and I are lying on one bed, snuggled under a woolen blanket to combat Chandigarh’s coming winter. A dramatic Punjabi serial plays on the television, something about a man marrying a woman for money.

“Tell me the truth, didi,” my 17-year-old host brother says. “You thought I was a bad kid when you first came.”

It’s hard to say now, especially after days of cooking chole with his mother, having conversations about spirituality with his father, and sleeping comfortably in their home.

But it’s true. Before I heard Advait sing soulful Sufi songs, or saw him help his semi-paralyzed mother wash dishes, all I saw was a lazy teenager who seemed overfriendly with girls and boisterous with friends in our community library. In fact, I immediately complained to a coworker that this group of boys were trouble.

When I came to Chandigarh, my values of social justice and equality were intact. For years I had struggled with the fact that I was living in the same world as children who slept in the medians of highways, or sniffed correction fluid to forget their future, or present. I didn’t know that the expansive chasms in the economic classes were just as present in my mind as in Indian society.

My fellowship year seemed to be the perfect opportunity to understand this dichotomy. I have spent the majority of my time here laughing, stumbling, living and teaching, armed with the mission of establishing a creative, empowering learning center.

Since then, my year with Indicorps has been serving as kind of a “myth buster”, a challenge to every judgment I have ever made about poverty and slums from my home in the U.S., or through the windows of my cousins’ car in Hyderabad.

As much as I wanted to tell my students that it didn’t matter that their father sold pani puri on the road, or that their mothers could not read or write, I knew that it did matter. It mattered to employers, and school teachers. And it mattered to me.

Four months into my stay, the same teenage boys that I judged so harshly have become my friends. They poke fun at my Hindi, and cook for me after they taste my trial-and-error alu ghobi. In turn, I make sure they know that Americans don’t go to college drunk in bikinis, or buy laptops every month.

And since they have watched me adjust so quickly, and practice simple living through food, clothing, and lifestyle, they know it is true -- the assumptions just don’t hold up on either end.

At the onset of an English and computer class we created, I asked the boys why they wanted to learn these skills. Most of them answered with career opportunities and education. But one normally mischievous 16-year-old sighed and said, “Because I’m sick of people seeing me on the street and knowing what colony I came from.”

Immediately, a photo came to my mind, a photo I haven’t seen for four years. In the late photojournalist Dan Eldon’s journals, a young black man in Africa stands in front of a wall. Above his head are the words “I hate what you think of my life”.

It is only now that I understand, harshly, what he meant.

If I hadn’t met this particular group of guys in the library, would I have placed them all in the category of the same lecherous, loitering men who stare on the local bus? Would I peg them as the youngsters who would grow up to be lethargic, perhaps abusive, husbands and fathers?

I’ve been lucky this year to experiment with my own mental barriers, and they have proven stubborn and deep rooted. But the solution has also been just as obvious. After days of rolling rotis with mothers and creating nataks with the kids, I am unable to separate my new home from my old life, or my new friends from past relationships.

This is a column I wrote for Indicorps. It may or may not be published in an Indian magazine.

Do Raaste

2011-01-15T06:42:00.000-08:00

Bus 1: I catch the local, sarkari (government) bus from Chandigarh to Delhi. It's 160 rupees and relatively empty. I brush some peanut shells off my part of the four-foot seat and sit alone, strategically, in the middle. It's 30 degrees outside so I force the rusted window shut and start eating a pack of Hide-and-Seek biscuits. My backpack is stuffed under my legs. A thin, dark man in the adjacent seat is wrapped in a tan colored woolen shawl. He adjusts a bundle of boxes, bigger than him, and turns just to stare.

Bus 2: I wait in a line for a 350 Rs. ticket onto the semi-deluxe Volvo bus from Chandigarh to Delhi. The girl next to me tucks and re-tucks her blow-dried, highlighted hair behind her ear and asks me if there is a women's line. There isn't, but we make one anyway.In the queue there are college students, businessmen and a handful of skinny-jean clad 20-something women. We get a ticket with a number -- there are two cushioned seats on each side. A man stands behind the bus, loading the luggage into a trunk.

Bus 1: The window is not staying shut. A biting wind makes me tremble so hard that my muscles get sore. We stop every half an hour. Stop is misleading -- the bus coasts as men jump on and off with heavy bags. The previously empty seats fill up with five in each bench, and a column of passengers stand in the aisle, eating roasted peanuts. The bus is loud, from the cursing driver to the whistling ticket conductor to the men who are comparing notes about their shops, their goods, their next stop. My leg is pressed against my neighbor's, but I'm too cold to move.

Bus 2: The bus is like an airplane with the sealed off windows and the personal AC vents. When the college kids start to laugh, they get an angry stare from the businessman in front.. Laptops are out, iPod earphones are in, and various McDonald bags have started to appear. The girl next to me reads Cosmo (India) and snacks on french fries. I eat more Hide-and-Seek biscuits (yes, an addiction) and drift off to sleep.

Bus 1: The fog and pollution is thick, and a ten foot visibility is reason for screeching, constant honking. The journey is stretching past the promised 5-hour mark and I'm starting to get nervous about being in Delhi alone later than I thought. When my friend calls to find out where I am I can hardly hear her voice amid the chaos. As I ask her what stop to get off at, the man next to me listens in. "No, beta, get off at Kashmiri Gate," he tells me, saying it's a shorter route. A few surrounding passengers chime in with their opinions, promising to show me the quickest way home.

Bus 2: It's getting late, but we're making good time. The bus pulls into a Haveli, a faux-Punjabi-village scene that serves as a ritzy rest stop. There is a long line of food stalls, from hot jalebis to veggie burgers to a chocolate shop. I get a sandwich and hot almond milk in a clay cup. Tourists shop for graphis t-shirts with pictures of the Indian lorries (trucks) and dholkis. My neighbor and I walk together, and she asks me what part of Delhi I'm from. Proud to be mistaken for a local, I grin and say Florida.

Bus 1: We stop at a roadside Dhaba. There is a tea stall where hundreds of cups of garam chai in steel cups. A man with a cart sells chole bature, steaming with butter and fragrant from 20 feet away. I buy some chai and a packet of puffed moong daal and climb back on the bus to stay away from the cold, and the men.

Bus 2: We pull into Chandigarh right on time, and climb of the bus in a sleepy, quiet row. There are drivers waiting at the door to take passengers' bags and lead them to a row of Hyundari Santros and Honda Citys. I cross the road to hail an auto and am lucky to get one within minutes. I climb up the stairs to the apartment, where everyone around me is asleep. I put my bags down, change my clothes, and rest.

Bus 1: There are six people now concerned with my travel plans. They know I'm not a local and they know I'm scared, but assured me it will be fine. They give me bus routes, auto rickshaw rates and even their own mobile numbers to make sure I make it home. The metro is closed by now, but my friend is come to pick me up. When my stop comes, the conductor whistles and the bus makes a complete, actual stop for me. It's warmer on the ground without the wind, and I sprint across the road to go home.

Mubarak Mubarak

2010-12-31T18:37:00.000-08:00

Staying for one year in India means I get to celebrate a complete cycle of festivals. And if you know anything about India, that is a lot of celebrating. So far I've watched Ravan fall during Dussera, lit diyas during Diwali, listened to the Guru Granth Sahib read at Guruparv, and eaten Sevaya for Eid.

I didn't expect the American holiday season to be a festive time here, but as globalization would have it, the last month has been chock full of reasons to eat and dance.

For Christmas there were at least four distinct events with my library kids. The holiday is much like the US version -- more cultural than religious in the community. In fact, not one of my kids is Christian to my knowledge.

A wonderful group of 20-somethings from eMagzin, a local internet collaborative, came to grant 50 kids their Christmas wishes. The presents ranged from pleather jackets to handheld video games. Luckily the miniskirt and toy gun wishes were exchanged for something else. Later on, a local discoteque (read: nightclub) hosted a sober, daytime dance party for the kids, with our own volunteer becoming a reluctant Santa Claus.

On actual Christmas Eve I upheld my own tradition of visiting a local church for mass. The Hindi-English ceremony transplanted "Prabhu Ishu" for Jesus, and half of the carols sounded like bhajans. While there are few Christians in Chandigarh, the massive Sector 19 Catholic Church was packed for midnight mass. A brown Christmas indeed.

My birthday celebrations also seemed to last all week. I distributed a less-than-perfect trifle pudding to coworkers and friends, and some chocolate biscuits to the kids. In turn, they were much more creative in their intricate cards for me, with poems such as "Rose is a red, Blue is a Blue, Hey teacher, I love you." I even got a little pop-out Taj Mahal, and a couple of toffees.

Later in the evening I gathered with the teenage boys group at my host family's house for a mini dance party and some cake. Even my host dad joined in with some Bhangra moves.

For my actual birthday my wishes were granted as it was the start of my only three days with my mom, dad and sister this year. Coinciding with my cousin's mehendi ceremony for a wedding, I got to cut a rich chocolate cake with my entire extended family around. Even though I've felt loved and supported all year, it was especially wonderful to be with the people who know me the best of all.

New Year, on the other hand, passed through my dreams. I fell asleep after writing reports at around 10:30 in the head of my NGO's house. At 6 a.m. I was woken up for a peace talk with Afghani youth, part of my organization's peace initiatives.

The first words I heard in 2011 were message of hope, of pain, and of the future.I don't mind trading in champagne for that.

Kanya

2010-12-16T09:38:00.000-08:00

Being a woman in India comes with a lot of warnings -- don't even tap a guy on the shoulder, wear your dupatta in a modest and precise way, don't make eye contact.

Most of this advice comes from scary stories, and some from experience. But as my friend Kam mentioned in a piece she wrote, a lot of it comes from Fear.

Fear is the reason that almost every conversation I have with my aunts has nothing to do with my work, and everything to do with my safety. Fear is the driving force behind Indian newspapers -- effectively making this country sound overrun with lawless gangsters.

I was thinking of this the other day on a long bus ride from the hills. As soon as I climbed on, the conductor pointed me to the front two seats which were reserved for women. Not only was I protected from wandering eyes, I had a big screen view of the foothills of the Himalayas.

I know there are huge women's rights violations happening all the time. In fact many of them -- prostitution, child marriages and lack of education -- exist openly in my community. But my own experiences in India have been empowering and comforting, giving me hope that there is room for tremendous growth.

I continue to get in heated discussions, but my delivery has changed. I live and travel independently, but usually surrounded by women. I support girls who want to be educated and strong, but no longer discount their desire for a family life.

Here, aunties (yes, they are a genre) have been my guardian angels. Women who sit outside of my community center have pointed out wardrobe malfunctions and sensed my need for chai and chatting. Others have taught me to add tadka to my daal, and dress for freezing weather. One of my host mothers even got rid of a guy who was calling me too much.

Spending more time in the house translates to deep relationships with families, including fathers and sons. The societal idea that I am innately peaceful and nurturing has served me well with my students who have no problem wrapping their arms around my waist in the middle of an English class.

In another country, in another mental state, I might have been frustrated at the rules and stereotypes of being a girl. But at this moment I am almost relieved to be a woman. Not because I've stopped pushing the limits, but because I feel that India, or at least Chandigarh, has become the mother that knows just when her daughter is about to touch the stove, and pulls her hand away.

Dheere

2010-11-28T07:57:00.000-08:00

In the past few months I mistook exhaustion for satisfaction. A night where my feet were tired and my head was spinning with things to do was the mark of a good day.

But then the last two weeks happened. Weeks where my mind and body refused to come to any kind of agreement about how to take my project forward. My mind wanted to add three new classes to the kids' schedule, to hold book sales, to create lesson plans, to recruit teachers. And my body, well my body wanted to sleep and eat chocolate. (Okay, the chocolate might have been my mind, too).

I wasn't ready for this black hole of energy, especially not after being inspired during our first Indicorps workshop. But it came, and I'm trying to figure how I can be so de-motivated, so frustrated, and still be hell bent on fulfilling my community needs at the same time.

A past staff member at our workshop said something that resonates with me. He said whenever he was angry at Indicorps, or didn't see value in what he was doing, he reminded himself that he had a ticket home.

A ticket home. I have a freaking ticket back to the United States where my family will welcome me back with open arms and I can sit on a couch and eat cereal and watch "13 Going on 30", and all the other little bits of America that hit me once in a while.

But the kids in my community don't have that ticket, do they? I recently went with a couple of them in an auto to our office, and one of the girls had never been past "Sector 8". Sector 8 was less than 5 kilometers from her home.

Forget the distance, some of my teenage kids can't count more than five "good" jobs. Success for them has somehow been limited to five routes.

In a Comparative Politics class I took at UF, we learned that poverty could be defined not by lack of money or water or a home, but by lack of choice. I'm not sure that the "rich" always have a choice either -- there sure are a lot of identical pathways created, anyhow. But of this one choice I am sure: I don't have to be here.

And for some weird reason, in this limbo of energy, that is the very thing that keeps me going.

Tyag

2010-11-16T08:27:00.000-08:00

At the risk of sounding unappreciative and self-righteous, I feel downright uncomfortable when family and friends (and sometimes strangers) praise me for the sacrifices I'm making this year.

I'm not sure where this idea came from. How does moving across the world to explore something you love count as a sacrifice? Honestly, I'm lucky, and not just in a grateful-because-I-work-with-the-poor kind of way.

I realize that the path I chose isn't easy. It's sometimes physically uncomfortable (example: 30 hour train rides with unconfirmed seats).And it's almost always a mental roller coaster. But what did I give up?

Throughout the day I get to learn. I learn how to form relationships with people from all stratas of society. I learn how to cook foods that remind my of my mom. I learn the boundaries of my patience, and the depth of my love. I learn what to do when 100 kids are all crowding around you with their hands stretched out for want of something to do, or have.

Then, as I learn, I am constantly receiving love. I get loving messages from friends who I haven't spoken to in years. My students (teachers?) can tell when I'm sad or frustrated, and somehow know how to make me smile. I constantly get invitations to dinners and weddings. And my family calls me just when I am starting to miss them so much it hurts.

If it's about the material sacrifice, I can't digest that either. In the past few years I've struggled to have less of an impact on the environment. I've tried to become a producer rather than a consumer.I almost cried over plastic bags once, and I tried to convince myself I was strong enough to bike everywhere in my town.

Then suddenly, I don't even have to think about sustainability. I take a bath with one bucket (2 if I wash my hair). I get my fruits and vegetables from the farmer's market, which is cheaper than the store. I try to use the local bus, and if it doesn't come, I share an auto with three or four strangers.

I have less clothes than I ever have had -- I started with four pairs, but was given three more during Diwali. If anything, this has proved a blessing. I spend about 2 minutes getting dressed, and twenty four hours being comfortable. And somehow, despite the fact that my kurtas are loose and faded and my hair is wild, I've never had more attention or compliments on my appearance.

So I live in a slum part-time. Still, not a sacrifice. In fact, it might be a journalist's dream situation to be part of a community where you are both an insider and outsider. I have friends that I honestly connect with. I have host parents who care more about my comfort than I do. And after a few days of adjustment, I have a new place to call home.

I'm not here to experiment with poverty, or see how far I can go until I get sick. I'm here with a mission of inspiring some amazing children, and the rest of the lifestyle just seems to make my mission more clear and strong.

Everyday, it seems, someone is either overestimating me or underestimating me. Some people tell me that what I'm doing is amazing, when I know how much more I can do.

Then, others tell me that my efforts are misguided, ridiculous and extreme. They say I can do service without living simply, or challenging my needs. I can handle that criticism, too.

The truth is, in my everyday life here, I don't feel like I've lost anything. When I really want something, I have it and enjoy. But the wanting is much less, and the enjoying is much more. If this is sacrifice, I'll take it.

Ghar

2010-10-28T20:58:00.000-07:00

"We met before, in another life," my host father tells me, a beedi smoking from his mouth. He stretches out his arms, both severed at the elbows from a farm accident.

"That's why you've come to my home, as a daughter."

It's been a week now, and I'm beginning to believe him. There was only one day of the awkward guest stage, and soon I had my hands busy in sweeping and cooking and sitting around with the host mother as she sold trinkets and snacks.

The family lives blocks from our slum community center in a government subsidized building. Uncle, Auntie and their son live in two rooms, one of which I have inhabited alongside a cumbersome washing machine and stored items.

Uncle wakes up first, at 5:30 am, and sweeps the house.

Auntie is up next, starting of the day with a few gali directed toward her sleeping son. She is paralyzed from the waist down due to a childhood accident, and uses a small platform on wheels to maneuver around the house.

I wake up to the sweeping and start boiling chai. A small yellow rug serves as my yoga mat and my meditation is somehow easier amidst the morning noise. I try to ignore the mice, and the water that seems to always be running.

My host father leaves for duty by 7:30, just as his teenage son, a volunteer at our community center, reluctantly wakes up and switches on a religious television show.

Uncle's livelihood involves cleaning the health department. Before that he used to drive a cycle rickshaw, and before that he collected trash. There is nothing in his manner or attitude that suggests disability. And because of this, I have honestly stopped noticing it too.

Auntie and I grill some bread for breakfast and eat as the morning store customers, mostly little kids who want gumballs before school, come to the door. In one day she collects about 300 Rupees, 200 of which goes to the next day's supplies.

In the colony, there is no time when people are not outside. They loiter until late hours in the night in the park, and wake up early to talk walks or meet with friends or greet the family members coming in from night duty.

My host mother screams at me as I do morning dishes, telling me to leave them and go to work. When I refuse, she relents and tells me stories of Haridwar, where she is from, and about living in a hut before the government gave them this home.

She tells me how she is ready to sell her home or take on another job or loan if her son needs more to pursue studying. She and uncle are clearly focused on his future, proudly displaying his certificates or awards on a shelf.

As I leave for work, she gives me a banana and a stern command to come home from lunch. "Don't work too hard," she says as I leave, smile, and hop over the cot full of candy and red painted diyas for Diwali.

Parosi

2010-10-14T21:56:00.000-07:00

At eight o'clock this morning, our doorbell -- a shrill bird-sounding thing -- rang three times. The woman from downstairs called through the grates: "Shower and come down for breakfast!"

For one month now Archana, Megha and I have been been wondering about our neighbors. They've never called us for chai, or said more than namaste when we greeted them. Especially in India, where people have no problem asking me my salary, weight or caste, it seemed strange to have that kind of isolation.

In that way, Chandigarh is a strange, albeit beautiful, city. As the first planned city of India, there are ample green gardens, neighborhoods organized by numbered sectors, and pudgy ladies taking group walks in their kurta-salwar and a pair of sneakers.

When I first arrived, I almost felt the urge to turn back. Was this still India? I could hang out in my veranda without honking and vegetable selling in my ears. I hardly saw ragpickers, and everybody seemed to have their own car or scooter.

It was only when I came to the colony (the word they use for slum areas) that I saw the India I knew and loved. People bumping into each other, carts of fruits and fried foods, children in blue and white uniforms all over the street. And only because the poorest people of Chandigarh had been pushed to the edges of the city.

"Nobody knows their neighbors here," an old auntie complained to me one day. And I was reminded starkly of Florida suburbs and DC apartment buildings where moms had to set up "play dates" so their kids could get together safely.

But not this morning. This morning we walked into our neighbor's home and they instantly washed our feet with water. Today was the eight day of Dussera, a ten-day festival that celebrates the triumph of good over evil, and specifically Ravan's defeat to Lord Rama.

On the eight day of Dussera there is a tradition here called Kanchika. After days of keeping a fruit fast, the mothers call girls (or in this case, 20-something women) to their homes for channa, fried puri and halva glistening with ghee. The father tied a red mauli thread on our wrists and handed us money and a banana.

We ate to our stomach's max capacity, thinking of the toast and chai we usually scarf down, and went happily back to our house in a food coma. But we didn't know this was only the beginning.

Neighbors were hanging out, almost scouting for girls to feed. When they caught sight of us walking around we got three more invites. We were called from house to house and handed plates of food which we respectfully sampled and then kept in our fridge.

By 9:30 my ride to work showed up and I practically rolled into the auto, a tupperware of puris in tow, a big red tilak on my forehead, and several red threads and bangles on my arms.

But more than my full stomach I recognized another satisfying feeling -- the fact that we had finally met our neighbors, eaten with them, played with their children, and planted our feet a little more firmly in the community.

Galti

2010-10-06T04:00:00.001-07:00

I make a lot of mistakes here.

I forgot Hamid Karzai's name in front of a bunch of Afghanis. My kurtas are always getting torn and held up with safety pins, and my chai is either 90% water or 90% milk.

Some of the mistakes I kind of like -- mixing up the Hindi respectful "aap" with the informal "tu" so I end up talking to kids like they're my boss. They probably are.

But one of the sweetest things about my community here is that I'm usually forgiven, and the space gives me room to grow. People keep drinking my chai, and encouraging my Hindi.

One time the girls in our sewing class noticed a problem with my salwar pants. In minutes they wrapped a sari around me, made me take them off in the middle of the room, and tailored the problem while laughing at me.

Every day that I stumble, pay too much for an auto-rickshaw, or act like a weirdo in somebody's home, I'm reminded of how lucky I am to be supported, welcomed, and somehow, loved.

Ek Din

2010-09-22T22:12:00.002-07:00

I wake up in the morning, if all goes well, by 6:30.

I'm starting to look forward to this half an hour before anyone else wakes up. I do ten surya namaskars and use the straw jadoo to sweep the ants out of the living room.

Soon the water is running and we take cold bucket baths and make milky, ginger chai. By eight thirty Megha, Archana and I are ready, standing outside in the balcony over our peaceful street.

The auto rickshaw pulls in downstairs. Neelam,the sewing teacher at our organization picks us up in the morning since her brother drives a rickshaw. He likes to tell us about Chandigarh like we're taking a tour.

When I arrive to Bapu Dham colony, the area that houses a 50,000 person slum community and transport hub, Neelam and I walk down a small alley to the Yuvsatta building. For an hour the staff -- about eight regular people and teachers that float in and out -- sit around a table and inspect each other's lunches and talk about life and friends and work.

By 10 the girls of the Sakhi project arrive, saying "Namaste, didi" as they pass. The project is comprised of female teenagers who have dropped out of school, usually not by choice. Yuvsatta offers vocational classes in sewing, English, yoga, dancing, and how to open bank accounts and start self help groups.

Five girls from the class are in the education-themed drama Archana and I have prepared for an upcoming event, but one of them hasn't arrived. "She's not coming, didi," the girls tell me, "she has to stay home and wash clothes."

We only have one day until the performance, and the girls only get a few free hours away from home. I'm instantly stressed out, even though no one seems to worry about last-minute delivery here. The responsibility of the program has been handed, quickly, to me.

"Take me to her house," I tell her friend.

I'm led through the slum, stepping over running water, avoiding groups of smoking men. The city's tastiest food stalls originate here and there are women frying puris and samosas to fill their husbands carts before they head to the main markets throughout Chandigarh.

The air quality has turned suddenly thick and smoky and the houses have turned from ramshackled buildings to small huts. We're slowed down by a crowd standing outside someone's home.

I hear a woman wailing inside, but the crowd is unreadable.

"Someone died there," a girl tells me, completely unfazed. I find out later it is a fourteen year old girl who suffered from anemia. Apparently this has become increasingly common as girls reach their adolescence.

We find our missing actress washing her family's clothes. She promises to come on time, and our mission is complete.

Back at the community center there is much to be done. A minute-to-minute schedule has been made for the esteemed guest's arrival, but gets changed every five seconds.
I try an explain in my pathetic Hindi what needs to happen, but words like advocacy and women's rights don't come naturally from my childhood vocabulary.

The next four hours seem like a minute. The girls read their lines, giggling and forgetting, and worry about what they will wear.

And then the kids arrive at the library, kicking their shoes in the balcony and turning on the radio to Bollywood music. Their after school lives are my main project, so the television is now off limits, and their shoes have to be realigned.

Today also marks the last day of the Read Bapu Dham campaign, which honors the two best readers with new bicycles. The librarian, sweet and quiet against the chaos, tells me that we have to test them for their comprehension.

We set up a room for the examination and I'm instantly against this idea. The girls are literally trembling with fear of being tested, and hold on to their books as long as they can.

"Relax, this isn't school," I tell them. But the tears have already started to fill some eyes. Only two kids are completely confident, and they don't end up with the bikes.

Back in the library it's time to clean up. The kids are enthusiastic about helping, and we spend two hours taking down 5000 books, making sure they're in order, and wiping down the shelves. The kids balance from all kinds of wobbling surfaces to reach the top of the shelves.

Archana and I have a meeting to attend so we walk to the bus stop at 4. The bus doesn't show up, so 30 rupees later we are at the meeting place, my legs aching as they've been doing a lot here.

Three hours of discussion later, we are ate home, scrounging to make some daal and rice and scrub at least one kurta for tomorrow.

Sapna

2010-09-17T06:27:00.000-07:00

In Delhi's fabulous Khan Market, a cluster of high-end boutiques and delicious food, there is a hidden treasure called Manzil.

This is where students of all ages and socio-economic classes come to learn.

It works especially well because it is in no way a school, and from what I see, everybody is somehow a teacher.

Here I sat in a room last week, faced by two guys who created a community radio program, and was asked the question: Do you believe in education or learning?

Somehow these have become separate entities, and India's government schools often highlight the disparity in plain colors.

In the past month I've met children who can recite their numbers in three languages from one to one hundred. But if you suddenly ask for the numbers out of order, or backwards, they're completely thrown off.

Similarly, as I work with Yuvsatta in Chandigarh, I notice that when I give the children a creative activity, they are aching for rules and guidelines.

Rote memorization is not just a method here, it is a lifestyle. And a problematic one.

I think back to my own education -- 18 years of free, public education.

I was a terrible student. No one believes me because I always scraped by in the top 5% of my class. But you should know that I was lazy, I hardly studied, I read at least three non-school books for every one that was actually assigned.

In fact, it took 20 years for me to realize that I wasn't an idiot just because I was the only Indian who wasn't in super-duper-advanced Calculus or Biology.

Most of history and psychology class was spent daydreaming, and writing stories in my mind or on paper. Any textbook I have is filled with sketches, and any notebook filled with short stories without endings.

So when I whittle down social issues -- poverty, gender inequality, environmental catastrophe -- the only solution I ever see is through education. Not that this thought is monumental, everyone knows that awareness is key for change.

But when the word education has lost it's true meaning, the solution is also foggy.

Abdul Kalam, one of India's premier scientists and national leaders, wrote a book for developing India called Ignited Minds. In this book he writes: Dream, Dream, Dream. Dreams transform into thoughts. And thoughts result in action.

This spoke to me especially because I spent eighteen years of taxpayers money doing exacty that.

Appropriately, then, my first activity with the "impoverished" children I'm working with was to create Dream Books (Sapne ki Kitab). I asked them to write their goals, their dreams, their desires.

Some kids sat down for the entire two hours, sketching and writing. They drew rainbows and skies and doctors and teachers. They drew gods and money and houses.

Some of them asked me what their dreams should be and I just smiled and gave them another oil pastel to draw with.

Until I figure out how to make learning and education synonymous, I've decided only this much. This year I am not going to measure our impact on children through exams or English skills or public speaking.

This year, I'm going to measure these children only by their dreams, and how far they will allow them to grow before they turn into a thought, and eventually, an action.

Kachra

2010-09-13T03:55:00.000-07:00

Mother India has been good to me.

In the form of her daughters and granddaughters -- the women who have opened their doors and kitchens and farms to me without question -- she has taught me patience, kindness and how to make rounder rotis over a fire.

In the tekra, the largest slum in Ahmedabad, I was welcomed into a woman's home at 7 a.m. on a humid August morning. She was already cleaning the shower area behind a stone wall, clad in a thin sari and rubber sandals. Her two grown sons and grandchildren were still asleep in the small room, equipped with a television and fan, that constituted their home.

I had made a conscious decision the night before to not only observe her life, but to take part, to help, and to learn.

After a few hours of playing with the children, a 7-year-old boy and 2-year-old girl, and teaching them hindi letters, it was time for my host mother to go to work. Like most of the women in her economic class and condition, she was a trash collector, or rag picker.

The work of a rag picker in India might be the hardest labor of all. Coupled with inadequate pay and no stability, it remains an anomaly how this livelihood supports entire cities. We took enormous canvas bags and started down a busy Ahmedabad road, stopping once in a while because she thought I would get tired.

When we came to a hotel we were led past the stagnant water drains to the kitchen, where the cooks and helpers stood leering at me and trying to figure out why this obviously healthy, confused looking girl was following around a 50-something woman who wore her years of work on her face and frail body.

My host mother proudly announced that I was sleeping in her home, and eating with her family, to which the men laughed and stared harder. When I finally convinced her that I wouldn't just be watching, we started with the dirty work.

We hoisted crates of the hotels waste to a side alleyway, the juices dripping in between my toes and making me gag. I hesitated before putting on some latex gloves, since my host mother had none.

Outside we had attracted a crowd as we sorted through the trash to separate organic matter and plastic. The plastic is the most valuable, and my host mother would later sell it to a less-than-reliable middleman for money.

As we worked, sometimes casting aside used condoms and tampons, I could hear the men start to talk about my presence. But now, instead of laughing, they were wondering: why would a girl from America be here? Why doesn't she think this is beneath her?

The questions, regardless of the answers or action, were satisfying enough. I knew my host mother did not need me, and I knew my time was limited.

I helped my host mother hoist a huge bag of trash on her head, a task she would not let me do at any cost. We walked back toward the slum, weaving through oncoming traffic, auto rickshaws stopping because they thought I needed a ride.

Back at home, her out-of-work son cooked potato sabzi and I helped roll out some rotis. I spent the rest of the day playing with the granddaughter, and trying to ween the grandson away from the Bollywood songs on television.

At night I slept on a rope cot, wedged between children and my host mother, listening to the drunken snores of the son outside. I wondered of her strength -- her body still working and intact. I wondered of her heartbreak -- apparent in her words and eyes. And once again, I adjusted my view of reality, and my place in it.

Dear Air India

2010-08-11T09:54:00.001-07:00

Air India, please change your name so you don't represent this country. I don't care for your surly, middle-aged stewardesses or your inefficient touch-screen TV. Your bathrooms made me sick to my stomach -- a vicious cycle, I might add -- and every connection was delayed and announced only through mumbling. Not to mention, your scrawny check-in guy hit on me.

I wish I could say that the body odor made me nostalgic, or the pee-drizzled bathrooms reminded me to be tolerant. Maybe the greater purpose of a turbulent, gritty flight was to end any sugar-coated ideas I had of my journey. Whatever the message, flying for twenty hours on Air India was an experience I could've skipped. I even stepped on my glasses, broke them in half, and almost skipped immigration as a result of my blindness. And I lost my copy of "The Last Song", but I don't regret that.

While "Incredible India" posters start to peel off of your walls, and the Hindi announcements drag on at least two times longer than the English, I have to remind myself of the impeccable hospitality that pervades Indian homes, stories and people -- the glasses of coke as you gaze at sari silks, the overfeeding of sweets glistening with ghee.

Dhanyavad.

Desh-tination

2010-08-09T15:51:00.000-07:00

In fifteen hours I will be in India. In five days I'll be at Indicorps orientation. In one month I'll lay my backpack down at my new home in Chandigarh, India for an entire year.

All of this and how am I feeling? Largely normal with a dash of nerves and a handful of achy sadness after leaving my family in Tampa. Not bad with my history of freak-out-stomach and spiraling thoughts.

I know it will catch up -- probably the first night that I sleep alone, surrounded by strangers, in a city that I can only picture on Google maps. For now I'll take the calm.

Mental gymnastics is what my grandpa calls my wanderlust. Studying in Italy, yoga training in New York, assignments in Brazil, internships in Pennsylvania and DC. And now 355 days in India.

But my mind has never felt clearer. First, because India is not a new, romantic land of opportunity, a city to push my resume, or a class to workshop my writing. My friend Nithya and I stayed up last week talking about our connection to India -- a weird, deep, ancestral fulfillment. A comfort in a sea of faces like mine. Tasting and smelling and touching without personal space or metaphorical gloves.

And second, because of my task at hand. That daunting title of "slum development" seems removed, impenetrable and hopeless from an air-conditioned room in Florida. But last summer dealt me just a sliver of the love and hope that moves and evolves in the harshest of homes, and I can't give up on that feeling.

Months of answering questions about India, thinking about India, talking about India, getting yelled at by my sister for going to India -- the day has come. And I am unsure, and I am a little scared, and I am excited, but my expectations have bowed humbly to the knowledge that this year has no blueprint.

Hopefully you will join me in my adventures, and hopefully I will tell them with as much truth and heart as I can. And at last, hopefully they will prove my decision fruitful.

Love.

I wonder as I wander

2010-07-12T18:43:00.000-07:00

With six days left in DC I have to ask myself: did I make the most of it?

What does it mean to soak up a city, or place, to its maximum? Is it the number of nights you don't sleep? The weekends with so much packed in that you lie awake Sunday night, thinking of the memories you made? Is it the work you leave behind, the progress you've made? The people you've met?

Or maybe its the days you get lost, alone, discovering row houses you want to own someday, or brick alleys to stain glassed churches. Maybe it's knowing where to get the best organic cookie, or the strongest cocktail.

My months in DC were all of these things. I learned that a long commute can make your bright eyes dull. I learned that if you don't ask, you don't usually receive. And if you do ask -- persistently, patiently, politely -- you might have a chance to get your idea published in a city paper, or famous website. Or you might get turned down so many times you just shrug and go on.

I made friends on the elevator, enemies on a Metro ride, reunited with people who connect with me on levels that I didn't know possible. I felt awkward, I felt confident. I relied on my feet more than I ever have -- replacing buses, cars, trains with my own power.

Our country's capital is truly a place where passions collide. I've never heard so many arguments that evolved into dialogue and understanding. The lobbyists can be vultures, but they breathe their cause to the bone. Whether it is education, immigration, religion -- someone is DC has decided that their perspective should have a voice, an organization, and an audience.

But of course, as the inefficiency of politics pervades, so does the frustration of an economic chasm. From the homeless man in a red sports jersey who paces across Chinatown, to the pervert who followed me for three blocks talking about my assets, there is a poverty in DC that seems especially stark with the White House as a backdrop. It doesn't help that the public schools are the worst in the country, with stories of murdered teachers and teenagers too often in the headlines.

In the end, DC will always be a place of transition for me. I came here weeks after my graduation and learned to live out of one suitcase, on a shoestring budget, with a regular job.

I froze in the worst winter of 100 years, soaked up the spring that I never got in Florida, and melted through a summer so hot that I was stuck in a 110 degree train car for an hour and a half.

Next time, I'm staying for autumn.

The Melted Pot

2010-07-01T15:50:00.000-07:00

Indians are a GREAT target for laughs. We eat particularly pungent foods, watch the cheesiest movies, and have the thickest accents. Indian men have a weird talent to grow ear hair, and Indian women can hold grudges and gossip beyond a normal life span.

And yes, the kids, namely my generation, are just as hilarious. A third of us think we're White, a third think we're Black, and a third win the spelling bee. We all want to be doctors and lawyers -- at the same time.

My non-Indian friends sometimes tell me, "Indian racism is bullshit, you guys get all the good stereotypes." We get called smart, rich and tan. Not exactly fodder for the Anti-racist Alliance.

But something is rotten in the state of New Jersey and Indians are pissed off.

Not because Bobby Jindal and Nikki Haley converted to Christianity, or because yoga was secularized. Not because Sikh turbans are compromised at airports or because the only TV show we have is about outsourcing.

Indians across America are mad because one article by one semi-funny columnist has somehow catapulted minds back to the 1960s, when many of them first crossed into the West and found a new home despite a culture of segregation and intolerance.

Joel Stein, a regular humorist for Time magazine, published a clearly racist, insensitive and largely pathetic piece last week called "My Own Private India".

I came across the piece because someone was citing my own article in India Currents as "burn cream", an oasis after the fire that Stein created. When I clicked on the Time link I was hoping it would just be a case of oversensitivity. Funny guys often get cheap laughs by derailing other people. And honestly, I hardly get offended.

Basically, Stein is whining because his hometown of Edison has become "Little India". Once a slightly rundown spot where he could get away with stealing shit and lying and saying racial slurs, now Edison is a bustling baby-Delhi.

If you've been to Edison, you will know that this is true. My family goes there to work (dental and medical practices, go figure), wax nostalgic about eating bhel puri, and buy the lentils and spices that you don't get at A&P.

But this article was not just a lame joke. In one fell swoop, Stein managed to offend me on political, social, cultural, religious and academic grounds. He was anti-Hindu, anti-immigration and anti-intelligent all on one page. Not one line of his screed applied to me, but it was clear that these were the rantings of someone who couldn't handle change -- not to his hometown, his country, or his obvious flair for wanting to be a badass.

The only redeeming moment in the entire piece was quoting the mayor of Edison, NJ, who said flat out that Indians had brought prosperity to an otherwise dwindling economy.

C'mon Stein. I chuckled along plenty of times as if you were that obnoxious guy in the back of the classroom. But this was ridiculous. Would you say this about Black people? Or White people? Or Jewish people?

We shouldn't have to prove ourselves to America, because we are Americans. We shouldn't have to be smarter or richer than others just to claim that we have the right to be here. We shouldn't have to tout the beautiful things from our culture so that people understand why we're an asset to this country.

Regardless, at some point we did prove all of these things. At some point people got right off the airplane and went to work so that I could feel comfortable in my own skin, with my own background, in this country.

Guess what Joel Stein, you belong here, or in Edison, only as much as I do. Not more, not less.

Well, maybe a little less because you're a pain in the ass.

No News Is Good News

2010-06-17T12:47:00.000-07:00

I've got a lot of causes. I want to save the earth and the women of the earth. I want equal rights for all sexual orientations, races, religions and Avatars (kidding). I want animals to be treated well and tummies to be full. And I want my mountains topped, rivers pure and government transparent.

Somehow this makes me an idealist and a liberal and all sorts of labels synonymous to a sensitive softie. But it also might be a direct correlation to the amount of news I've been consuming.

How can you NOT have a lot of causes reading/watching the news? Not just these days, all days. No news out there is good news. There's always someone being shot, suppressed, jailed. There's uncontainable oil, unregulated big business, uncapped spending.

So for a while I thought the answer was to run around trying to protest everything and get things fixed and get mad at people. Now I think its this: 1)be empowered enough to help in your capacity 2) look for happy news.

There are enough people helping, nurturing, thriving, to fill a newspaper. We hear of the naughty priests, but never about the ones who inspire entire congregations. For every car crash, there are tons prevented by cautious drivers. There's deforestation, but classrooms are building greenhouses and planting gardens.

To make it easier, some friends and I have been talking about launching a Web site or at least some kind of news feed that is all good news all the time. So yeah, the sea turtles are choking on BP's mistake -- but there's got to be something good happening there too. And I'm going to find it.

Amici

2010-06-04T11:12:00.000-07:00

Now for a post about how my friends are awesome. Keep in mind that I'm only highlighting those that are Web-friendly in their adventures and honors. Believe me, there are many more.

On Foot
If you think I have wanderlust, check out Ankur Shah. He traveled through India on foot with one bag and little money (actually, I don't think he believes in money), to discover the Gandhian path. Lucky for those with desk jobs, he wrote a book of his journey called Sometimes We Walk Alone. He also opened up a restaurant in Brazil with some friends, the fruits of which are in his cook book: Cooking Com Bigode. He heads out to Liberia this week.

Snazzier Snapshots
My buddy Abhi, who we dubbed Abu a decade ago in 7th grade, is powering a startup called Fracture with a business partner. After figuring out how to print pictures directly on glass, Abu and crew are planning to change the bulky, expensive framing industry with these sleek new pieces. I got a couple for my mom, and they look pretty fantastic.

Desktop Dance Party
Sammy Tarantino, a high school friend and musician, is the CEO of Grooveshark. Ask any government employee how they listen to music at work, and they'll usually cite this sly guy. It's like Pandora, but actually gives you what you want. With folks like Vishal Agarwala, it's a recipe for smash-hit success.

Free Food
If I haven't plugged Karma Kitchen enough, I'm doing it again. Aparna Kothary -- who pretty much everyone in DC knows and loves -- was a co-founder of this little gem in DC. But the idea stems back to Karma Kitchen in Berkeley and Seva Cafe in Ahmedabad, India. Food tastes better without a bill.

Risky Business

2010-05-20T11:59:00.000-07:00

What if your food came with no price tag? What if you were the CEO who measured his profits by the amount of people you helped?

It's not idealism. It's happening, and not just in the free love world. It's happening around the corner and down the street.

Last Friday I was lucky enough to see Muhammad Yunus speak. If you haven't heard of Yunus, or Grameen Bank, then you must have at least heard of microfinance.

Yunus is a brilliant economist, scholar, businessman (D: all of the above), and has literally led kids to the light with his idea of Social Business. In his world, you don't make companies to make money. You make companies to help kids regain vision at night, or to empower women so that they will be their own type of CEOs and CFOs.

Yunus, in all his homespun-cotton-wearing glory, asks more from his partners than out of the box thinking. When he partnered with Dannon to make yogurt for malnourished kids, he asked them to go one step further than a biodegradable yogurt container: he wanted a container that they could EAT. And no, an ice cream cone will not do.

Moving on to smaller, but just as inspiring initiatives. I've been lucky enough to be involved with Karma Kitchen since I moved to DC. Every Sunday the team takes over the Polo Indian Club restaurant in Dupont Circle and serves delicious Indian food. The bill at the end says $0.00 and all donations are anonymous. Serving at Karma Kitchen gives me a new appreciation for waiters, and a fuzzy feeling that people walk away with more than a fully belly.

And this idea, the idea that not everything has a price value, seems to be catching on. The CEO of Panera, Ron Shaich, stepped down from his post, and then stepped up to the plate to help introduce a non-profit version of the yummyness. Think paninis and muffins for whatever price you feel like paying. Not too shabby, especially for the college wallet. Now if we can just get it to be local produce...

Three Things

2010-05-11T08:13:00.000-07:00

One of the basic tenets of yoga is chitta vriti nirodha. Basically, it means that the practice of yoga stops the endless cycle of thoughts for clarity of mind.

This might have subconsciously influenced me, but I often ask friends who I haven't seen in a long time, or friends who are going through a hard time, to name the top three things they are thinking about.

For me, right now, they are the following:
1)Certain situations in my family
2)Moving to India
3)Health

I think we are wired to let our minds spin around and around just a couple of recurring topics until we get frustrated or obsessed. Like how many times have I thought about going to the gym today, or planned what will fit in my backpack for Indicorps.

In any case, it is fascinating to step outside of yourself for a second to see what's going on in your head. Maybe I should make some space for new ideas.

Why.

2010-04-18T08:52:00.000-07:00

As per usual, ruminating on what to "do" in life (see last post) quickly became a reality. Two interviews, one acceptance e-mail, and a conference call later, I am a 2010-2011 Indicorps fellow.

So this post will be dedicated to explaining to my friends, family and visitors exactly why I'm choosing to move halfway across the world, and answer some questions that have been coming up a lot in my phone calls.

A few months ago I was sitting on an airplane, going back home from New York. Somewhere between getting a cranberry juice and landing in Tampa, I had an unshakeable urge to move to India. This wasn't new for me -- I had been creating and disbanding plans to move there for more than three years. Other schemes included working for magazines etc. But the breathtaking, ovewhelming feeling on the airplane was telltale: I couldn't ignore this anymore.

So that part was taken care of, I had to go. So now, how? I had succesfully interviewed with a big fashion magazine, passed along some applications for reporting, considered working at a yoga ashram, but for some reason, none of them manifested. Then I happened to get a message from a former Indicorps fellow in my Facebook message box -- I had met him in a tribal village during my Inspire trip last summer. I'm kind of on the fence about seeing signs, but this was definitely one of them. The funny thing is, his message was just a congrats for graduating. I said thanks and then immediately looked for an application.

Deciding to do development/social/service work is a tricky decision. I've heard the best of arguments against going to developing countries to "help". I've considered that helping here in America is of equal value and necessity. I know that long term, sustainable change can not be done in a year. So for the skeptics, yes, I see your point.

But what if the development I'm looking for is internal? I don't want to go to India to teach English so that kids can leave their hometowns and countries and families. I don't want to go so that I can build my resume. I want go to learn how to live as simply as possible, to push myself beyond my comfort zone, and to cultivate skills that span the borders. I want to go so that I'm not scared to be a pair of helping hands. I want to go so that every time I see a documentary about little Indian girls, I no longer have to stay up at night wondering what I can do. I just want to do it, for me.

And now for the career stuff. I want to be a journalist -- that hasn't changed. I have no plans to be a lifelong social worker or aid-er. So where does this fit in? Well, I personally feel that my favorite writers, reporters, journalists etc. have something much greater than a huge stack of clips, and that is perspective. Rather than find perspective from calling hundreds of people from an air-conditioned office, I want to hit the ground running. And maybe this will help my career, or maybe it will look like an odd blip. But as a friend explained to me via Steve Jobs, this year will be one of my "dots" in this huge game of connect the dots. Hopefully in a few years, I will look back and see that the dots are synced. For now, I'm just going to focus on this year ahead.

The Earth is Hiring

2010-04-07T10:16:00.001-07:00

I love what I do. And if I don't love what I'm doing, I stop. So right now, I'm at a temporary job, loving it, and looking for the next, more permanent job. The compass spins.

Sometimes, as I scroll through job listings and Web sites, I stop and think: What the heck do I want to do? As a career, as a lifestyle, as a human. Here is what I've come up with:

1. I want to write: I want to write words that are true, words that are pretty, and words that stick.
2. I want to serve: I want everything I do to serve a purpose, to help, to sustain, to resound.
3. I want to be away from a desk and computer when I am not writing: Yeah, barefoot would be nice, too.

It's easy, especially when writing cover letters and tailoring resumes, to forget. But then I read something like this commencement speech from Paul Hawken, and the sun is out again. Here is an excerpt:

When asked if I am pessimistic or optimistic
about the future, my answer is always the same:
If you look at the science about what is
happening on earth and aren't pessimistic, you
don't understand data. But if you meet the people
who are working to restore this earth and the
lives of the poor, and you aren't optimistic, you
haven't got a pulse.

District of Funk

2010-03-30T06:51:00.000-07:00

So the title of this post has little to do with the following content, but sounds like a sweet band name, right? At least for DC street music.

I've been living in Washington, D.C. for three months now, but it took a few touristy friend visits for me to fully appreciate the city's offerings. The last few weekends have been a test of my Metro and hostess skills, and wonderful, sunny (except for last Friday -- ugh) expeditions. So I thought I would do a little pseudo-travelogue to point out some highlights:

SULU DC
Abstract poetry verses frustrate me, and if I don't get the gist of a poem on third try, I'm going to pick up some chick lit. I told my friend this as we settled into SULU DC, a showcase of underground Asian-American performance art held at the Ethiopian restaurant Almaz.
But then Michelle Myers from Yellow Rage came to stage and taught me how to get angry -- fists-clenched-teeth-gritted pissed off by listening to poem about a wronged immigrant or stereotyped women.
And after that, it was Sahra Nguyen, a woman whose heartfull, touching poetry delightfully pervades an cute, funny image. Example: describing her tiny, fierce Chinese mother in a poem "My Momma's So Gangsta".
Conclusion: My friend leaned over to me and said, "Now do you get poetry?"
I did.

Good Stuff Eatery
A crowded fast-food restaurant of Top Chef fame -- Imagine my surprise when one of my favorite vegetarian meals in DC took place at a burger joint. But when your "Vegetarians Are People Too" burger is actually a stuffed portabello mushroom with fresh cheese, flash-fried in Panko bread crumbs, well yeah, it's pretty freaking delicious.
Top that off with my first milkshake in about five years and an end to the grumbling tummy after a Capitol Hill tour, and we've got a winner.

A Loop Around the Mall
Even if you hate running, walking down the straight line from the Capitol, amid the Smithsonians, around the Washington Monument (WashMon, if you will -- I won't), through the World War II memorial and right up to Lincoln's lap will make you wish you were a DC jogger.
Springtime in DC is savory, and the Kite Flying Festival dotted our horizon like mass confetti. The famed Cherry Blossoms bow gracefully into the Potomac, and everyone's cutests dogs and children stroll around the mall. Tourist or not, it's a worthwhile walk.

Capitol Hill Books
Unlike what the name suggests, this rowhouse-turned-bookstore is an allergy-inducing mish-mash of stacked books, organized vaguely with post-it notes and rooms, and narrow enough for one person at a time on the stairwell (which is lined with World War II books).
So basically, it's perfect.
I read a couple of chapters of a novel, and looked up to find two of my UF creative writing teachers' names (Padgett Powell, David Leavitt) on the bindings in front of me.
If that doesn't call you name, browsing the surrounding Eastern Market's local crafts, hippie imports and fish counters, will.

Letting My Hair Down

2010-03-14T12:19:00.000-07:00

A more enduring battle than Me vs. Job Market has been Me vs. My Hair.

Since I was four (I blame Florida water), I've had this mass of rebellious corkscrews on my head. And not the soft, bouncy Shirly Temple type, or the funky Lauryn Hill coiffe, but a frizzy mop that defies the blow dryer, good weather and any Japanese straightening system that wages war against genetics.

When I was eight, I attempted to de-volumize and had it all chopped off to a couple of inches. The end result was a full on square-shaped 'fro that earned me nicknames like Don King, and plenty of bawling sessions in the lower bunk bed. Then when I was 12 I discovered a straightener and have since spent hours with 430 degrees applied to my scalp for parties, interviews, or any time I needed to feel, yes I am saying it, empowered.

At age 13, an age when you will do anything that will make you look like everyone else, I succumbed to a $500 burning ointment that changed the chemistry of my locks, and continued to shell out atrocious amounts for just a few months of normalcy over the next eight years.

But things change. I went through a couple more battles with Self, and then to college, where I watched this one guy in the Plaza of the Americas hang out in the grass with incredibly tangled and mangled blonde hair, sticking up and coagulating into dreadlocks and probably washed less than my car.

And I met Lynsey, whose own hair liberation inspired me to question why I was constantly suppressing, straightening, stressing out what was rightfully my version of beauty. She called it "going natural", and while I touted going natural in all other aspects, I never considered how vital it could be for my hair.

Fast forward to last weekend when I sat in the chair at the hairdressers. Every hairdresser except for one (who quit) tells me to straighten and relax my hair. Last Saturday was no different and I started my usual apologetic shpiel for the difficult situation I had burdened my stylist with.

On her third insistence that I pay her hundreds to relax my hair, I got straight up angry. With a smile still on my face I said, "I like my hair. I like it curly and I don't want to straighten it." So she made a face, she shrugged, she kept cutting. At the end, she said, "I'm glad you like your hair."

Sometimes I read articles about how straight hair is taken more seriously and how to buy the perfect straightening iron. And it's true that the click-clack of heels and a shiny blow-out helps me face an employer or potential date with more confidence. But on just any day, like a misty March Sunday, I've got my hair down and free and in absolute defiance of any glossy ad, and I'm reveling. Isn't that what it means to grow up?

My name is Ankita and I'm a Vegetarian

2010-03-05T07:17:00.000-08:00

I try hard not to be evegangelical, even when the menu has no vegetarian options except french fries. I don't see the point in being pushy and sometimes I wish I could just give up all my economic-social-spiritual-health views that make me a vegetarian -- they are at once liberating and limiting.

But this week I packed a product that I think deserves to be called out: Wegmans' Organic Super Yogurt. I thought I was safe with yogurt, especially organic, especially Wegmans. But instead of ranting, I'm going to give you a break down of the ingredients:

Cultured Pasteurized Grade A Organic Nonfat Milk - hopefully from happy cows
Organic Sugar, Organic Cream, Organic Corn Starch, Organic Vanilla Flavor, Organic Vanilla Beans, Organic Lemon Juice Concentrate - hopefully from happy farms
Inulin (Dietary fiber) - my research tells me this is plant based, usually from roots
Pectin - gelling agent extracted from citrus/terrestrial plants (sounds like aliens)
Organic Locust Bean Gum - luckily not grasshopper-based, but from carob trees
Fish Oil (Anchovy, Sardine) - NOT vegetarian, at least neither are on the overfished list
Kosher Gelatin (Beef, Tilapia) - Seriously? Beef? That doesn't even fly with the pseudo-veggies (pescatarians). If we were in India -- class action lawsuit.
Vitamin D, Contains a Blend of Live and Active Cultures Including: L. Acidophilus, L. Casei, Probiotic Bifidobacterium Lactis - I personally don't count bacteria as animals, so we're safe

I'm not sure the blame here goes to Wegmans. In fact, I thank them for their transparency and lack of HFCS (which despite the ad campaign, is terrible). But I'm not a fan of crossing another item off my list, and I doubt the other 7.3 million veggie Americans are either.

On Being Cliché

2010-02-21T18:28:00.000-08:00

Watching New York, I Love You, I observed myself labeling some story lines as overused, trite-- New Yorkers in cabs, New Yorkers obsessed with sex, New Yorkers.

Cliché is possibly the most popular word in creative writing workshops, and the most useless. When somebody writes about a meet-cute, or a suicide, or a teen pregnancy -- how ridiculous, how contrived, make these people seem real.

Or I've heard news stories being turned down by editors because who wants to read about another kid who triumphed over the odds of the ghetto, or an immigrant adapting to a cold America?

I even hear of people being called cliché. Because they are Indians who want to be doctors, black guys who want to be ball players, poets who want to be...poets.

But then a short story lands in my hands. And it is simple, and it is a love story, and the girl is emotional and the guy distant, and I secretly breathe relief that I can put down my pen and analyzing and just read.

Or I find an article tucked in the folds of The Washington Post, and it's about an athlete who can't see, and I'll cry, right there on the metro, in the morning, when everybody is machine-like and giving annoyed glances to anyone speaking.

The idea that every story -- on paper, in film, in paint, set to music -- should spontaneously appear and be unlike anything before, is twisted. If we can Reduce Reuse Recycle our trash, we can definitely be inspired by the artists before us.

If Annie Proulx had been scared to add to the stack of love stories, we wouldn't have "Brokeback Mountain" (in Close Range), and if Bob Dylan really minded, we wouldn't have ten versions of "All Along the Watchtower".

By the time an idea travels through one person's cauliflower maze of a brain, it will never be the same as when it entered. So here is my vote for free reign of your art -- and as many Romeo and Juliet's as you can possibly imagine.

Slooowww Fooood

2010-02-09T09:13:00.000-08:00

My roommates and I were living steps from Santa Croce in Florence, Italy, when we saw a circle of red and white tents pop up in the piazza. Our excitement peaked when we realized the tents housed samples of the freshest mozzarella, warm bread and pastries.

The big sign advertising Slow Food was quickly passed by -- I didn't know at the time that this was a movement greater than a few free bites. I figured it referred to the Italian way of waiting hours for meals to arrive at your table, and even more hours spent enjoying each sip of Chianti and bit of tagliatelli. Even my cooking teacher in Italy said the reason the population was so healthy was because they ate good food, real food.

Nowadays, it scares the heck out of me when people haven't heard about Slow Food -- a non-profit concept that counters fast, tasteless, traditionless morsels that we've gotten so used to. Instead, over 100,000 people and 130 countries are advocating the return of the responsible and delicious palate.

And while the Slow Food movement speaks to all of my ideals and values and economic views, it speaks even more to my stomach. That mozzarella was the best I've ever had, and the thought of eating the shredded kind in a Sargento ziploc bag is not even an option. What I like about Slow Food is that instead of hitting people over the head with guilt, it plays up to our simplest fantasy.

So eat and cook on, friends. But do it slowly.

But I am not a hater.

2010-01-24T15:06:00.000-08:00

This Thursday marked the end of my metro-read, The Sunflower. In the vein of Elie Wiesel, the author, Simon Wiesenthal, is a Holocaust survivor who is summoned to the deathbed of a 21-year-old Nazi soldier asking for forgiveness.

The story ends with a question from Wiesenthal to us: what would we do in his shoes? And answers to his question in essays by activists, politicians, Bosnian refugees, the Dalai Llama etc.

Three days after I tucked the paperback into my shelf, I visited the Holocaust museum here in D.C. with a friend. It was weather to reflect my mind -- cold, wet, with a harsh wind. I trudged through the exhibit, reading and watching what I could, allowing my mind to wander when I need a break.

There were photos that made me sick to my stomach, and charts that made me glower at everyone -- the American government, the Italians, the civilians, myself. There were so many names and faces and locks of hair. There were scrolls of Torah that conjured up some dear friends. And there were shoes. So many shoes.

I thought about the Holocausts going on around the world right now. I thought about the swastika I drew on an art piece in 2nd grade -- a symbol I only knew to be part of my own tradition instead of skewed and slandered on a hideous flag.

At the very end of the exhibit there was a remembrance hall with candles lining the stone walls. Most of them flickered, most of them danced. But a few of them had blown out and there were no matches to relight them.

This American Life

2010-01-11T13:57:00.000-08:00

I know I've moved to D.C. because I had my first dream about Obama -- in this scene, going to a Roman Catholic church (?) with my family.

I know I'm a writer, because I woke up at 4:30 a.m. from said dream and knew I was going to blog that sentence.

My first working day in the city and I'm feeling equal parts recharged, excited and daunted. As a naive Floridian, the metro is still exciting, the diversity surprising, and the hills and snow welcome.

Vienna, Virginia, where I'm staying, is possibly the perfect American town. This might be an overstatement -- especially to anyone stuck in Tysons Corner traffic. But the libraries overflow and the rec center and bike trails are full, and after 18 years of flat, suburbs-of-suburbs Florida, I relish the dynamics of the community.

Also there is a vegan restaurant, Trader Joes and Whole Foods within a couple of miles.

Among my news years resolutions are to sustain my blog weekly,write more for SAJAForum, and read more while IPod-ing less. And with a new city at my fingertips, I know I'll have plenty to share.

Green means Go

2009-11-05T06:06:00.000-08:00

As the sun set too early on my organic garden plot yesterday, I noticed the first fruits of my labor -- green beans. Almost camouflaged, a little scrawny, but there they were in all their glorious beanness. I plucked one off, split it in thirds and shared with my neighbors. Crisp, tasty and only dirty from actual dirt.

This week I interviewed an entrepreneur growing gourmet mushrooms out of coffee waste, and listened to Blake Mycoskie speak about his revolutionary (and kind of 'duh') idea of founding TOMS shoes. I spoke to some Gainesville goldens about carving vases and goblets from discarded wood and traipsed through the farmer's market sampling kim chi and banana bread. Last night, during my job search, I read an article about non-profit newspapers faring best of all in this economy.

When I open my eyes wide enough, life is always speaking to me in patterns, ideas and messages. Despite my recurring itch to get out of the country every couple months, the power of local food, journalism and art is a seductive concept. And while it seems like a modern trend to embrace the "Think Globally, Act Locally" idea, Gandhiji knew the only route to real wealth was from sustainable communities -- not state or national governments.

I've got more ideas than I know what to do with. So for now, I'll focus on the green beans.

Cachaca, Canoa and C.O.O.L - Brasil

2009-10-03T02:23:00.000-07:00

Me and translator/friend Diego

I'm sitting in my sandy hotel that is not actually on the beach, drinking my last cup of Guanabana juice. My bags are packed, and I have that sinking high school graduation feeling.

"I think maybe you are part Brasilian," my new friend Priscilla told me yesterday, and I couldn't have asked for a better compliment.

From this trip I've learned that the Brasilian wax is a misnomer, not to ride a mototaxi in a miniskirt, how to understand (but not speak) Portuguese, and that being vegetarian in the countryside is not the best of ideas.

Our last days in Icapui were spent swinging in hammocks in homes in the hilltops and restaurants on the beach. I hugged my new little sisters and gave them small gifts and knew it was not enough. A pink notebook or candy is no match for eating tapioca, bayon and coconut biscuits at Niete's home, and nothing I can stammer in Portuguese is like the stories, tears and laughs these women have shared.

My Mac is on the last sliver of battery and I prefer to spend my last hours with my Fortalezan friends. Ciao.

Ultima Pregunta - Brasil Day 3 & 4

2009-09-29T14:22:00.000-07:00

photo courtesy of Diego Moreno
Fifty years ago the neighborhood of Ibicuitaba was flooded by sand, and the roofs peeked out. The wind eventually blew feet of red sand away, and only the church and one other building survived. Freitas, a local historian, looks like a surfer but speaks of Icapui's history as if he were another grandfather in his porch hammock. He takes us from the oldest -- the grave of a communist rebel, to the youngest, a secondary school.

Watching children climb trees and jump elastics (extreme double dutch) I can't tell who is descended from negra, branco or indio. And when we talk, I don't think they know either.Their hair is blonde, brown and black-- tightly curled or silky straight. Their features tell of their Portuguese great grandfathers, but sometimes of natives and sometimes of Angolan slaves.

Lynsey and I came to Brasil armed with textbook definitions of racism, but they dissolve in the playground noise within hours. When a young theater group pulls on fake afros, sequins skirts and performs a play on slavery and African ancestry, their painted faces, their voices transform from mischevious and shy to confident leaders of an ancient rebellion.

I interview some of the teenagers and soon our chatting turns to dancing, and I am learning the Forro, awkwardly watching my feet and trying not to step on the feet of my 15-year-old partner, Rodrigo. When we are done he ties a braided bracelet on my wrist.

I thought that I would run out of questions after back to back days of 8 a.m. to 5 p.m. conversations, but my curiosity runs strong and I continue to discover the heart of the beach and hills.

Bom Dia - Brasil Day 1 & 2

2009-09-27T18:13:00.000-07:00

photo courtesy of Diego Moreno

Icapui, Ceara, Brasil.

It's the end of the day and my cheeks are well kissed, my arms tanned and my hair tale-telling of a day in the wind. Our story has gone from a couple Word documents and library research to real faces, and dancing and homes. The theatre groups that comprise our sources have handed us a story, their chubby babies and a deeper look into this spirited town.

Our Brasilian translators are fast friends, and we've spent the day sharing meals and stories. Since Diego and Natalia are from Fortaleza, a major city, the dusty, fisherman's Icapui is new for them too, and we discover together with our notebooks and cameras and wide eyes.

I try to blend in and sometimes it's not hard because my hair and my skin could be native. But then I open my mouth and try to answer rapid Portuguese and I am suddenly, obviously American.

I wake with music playing in our hotel -- an open and sandy row of simple rooms. The Brasilians in Icapui dance like me, anytime and anywhere. They smile and hug and tell us stories because they think we should know. We should know why their fishing industry is in trouble, and what stories their mother told them in the womb, and why chicken hearts on a stick are a delicacy.

But the end of the day feels like the end of four. Boa Noite.

ETA

2009-09-22T12:10:00.000-07:00

I was sitting in my Florida FlyIns class (group that I'm going to Brazil with) and listening to Professor Machado tell us about the Brazilian concept of time, and how one hour can mean three.

Well, I'm used to that, I thought. Indians have their own IST (Indian Standard Time) -- some kind of inherited trait that requires that we arrive at 9 p.m. to a 6:30 p.m. dinner party. For some of my friends, it's more than the usual hour -- they ring my doorbell at midnight and then leave for another party after hanging out for a while. And I remember a Jewish friend saying that his family has some form of this too.

When I was staying in Florence, Italian stores would pull down their aluminum shutters for lunch and return sometimes three or four hours later without notice. "American's work too much," a vendor told me one time when I asked about their inconsistent store hours. "They work all year, all day for just one expensive week in some exotic place. We Italians take these little vacations all the time, every day."

So if Brazilians, Italians, Latin Americans, Jewish families and Indians all see the clock like the ones in surreal Dali paintings, and time as relative, who exactly is getting places on time? An Irish friend I met in Barcelona told me that he loved German trains because they were on time, all the time. One of my high school friends spotted me rushing into the movie theater late and said, "Oh don't give me that culture crap, the movie started already." The 9-to-5 job schedule seems to have been written in the American Constitution.

I'm thinking about this today because my application for a Brazilian tourist visa was supposed to come to me two weeks ago and after many palpitations, e-mails and post office visits, should be in the mail tomorrow. But I have to admit that if my friends and family were running a consulate, it might have taken another year.

My Summer with Inspire

2009-09-07T10:20:00.000-07:00

I feel like my summer with Inspire is only valid with a soundtrack.

Backpack to Bridesmaid

2009-08-22T15:37:00.000-07:00

It's wedding time in the Rao/Ratkalkar family and that means chaos.

As tradition goes, the wedding will last from Wednesday to Saturday and for that I have been stuffing gift bags, writing name cards in calligraphy pens, and generally following my cousin (kudos to the calmest, sanest bride I've ever been around) back and forth to Edison outfit alterations.

The house is full of silk saris and colorful bangles and pounds of Indian snacks in boxes. The phone rings constantly and the television is always on. Family members are trickling in slowly from Hyderabad, from Milwaukee, from Brooklyn -- by Wednesday there will be thirty of us here, scrounging for mattress space.

Gone are the days of washing my clothes by hand on the ground and wearing two sets of salwar kurta. And though I have mysterious cravings for the rice and daal of the villages, I eat peanut butter and jelly or spinach salad and convince myself I'll cook when I get back to school. The closest thing I've had is the Buddhist Delight from a local Chinese restaurant.

I knew about reverse culture shock coming back from India, I prepared myself, but the shock is more of a dull frustration. As happy as I am to hug my family and make Bollywood playlists on my IPod, something feels off. I walk around turning off lights and researching alternative education and wondering what to do when I graduate that will make me and my family happy.

I may have underestimated the power of change to throw me off balance. How can six weeks have an effect on me that twenty years didn't?

But I'm just being whiny. In three days, when the oil lamps are lit, the garlands are strung and uncles, aunts and cousins sit around with plates of biryani and glasses of beer, I will probably never stop smiling.

A nice cold Bir

2009-08-01T23:13:00.000-07:00

Our last hours in the mountain village of Bir and I'm surrounded by monks at the internet cafe. I'm trying not to think about all of these "lasts" -- the last time I get to hug this family at Inspire that we've created, the last time I eat a Momo (Tibetan dumpling), the last time I crouch for hours on a bus that swerves treacherously between cliffs and falling rocks. But that time has come, the Walrus said.

I've been so spoiled the last ten days staying at a former Buddhist monastery and eating amazing food and Cadburys. It's hard to remember that for a few weeks I was sweating so much that I never had to pee, and that the ground had become as good as a mattress. Yesterday evening I sat at 9000 feet, clouds moving through me, thinking of every home we had been welcomed into and every meal we had cooked or served. Maybe it was the altitude, but there was a lightness on that grassy patch that I could only call divine.

There are so many things about India that I will never understand -- disparity, hunger, politics, and the way women survive through alcoholic husbands and intense labor. But so many more things that I love enough to stay and return -- the raw reality, the fields of crops, the little girls who follow you and scream "Didi" and hold your hands.

So here it is, the last day. At times it felt so far away, mostly when I sick or covered by welts from mosquitos. But mostly it was a day that I tried to avoid and push away until it came time to buy my ticket to Hyderabad. I'm so grateful that I get to go from this family to more family and a wedding and love. But until then, I am Inspired.

How Bazaar

2009-07-22T00:48:00.000-07:00

On the terrace of the building 13 in Khan Market, the smog lifted and I was happy.

Our last night in Delhi was a jam session. Students from Manzil, an education based NGO, played Hindi songs with acoustic guitars, tambourines and a rhythmic dhol drum. My entire body responded to the frequency of the beautiful music and I sang and tapped my feet and danced with a presence that had left me since our night walk with Jamghat (what I described in my last post).

Over the past few weeks our own group of 21 (we picked up some people) had become a traveling orchestra in its own right. We visited a flute maker and now about 10 people practice the raspy bamboo flutes on our train rides and during meetings. There are also guitars, ukeleles and goosebump-worthy singing voices within the circle.

Last night wasn't about the Indians or Americans or the technique or our education -- it was about the absolute joy that came from a bunch of young people wanting to get lifted. And I got there fast.

Now I embark on the last leg of this journey. I have learned more in the past four weeks than I have in years of college and I'm hoping this week in the mountains will help me start to absorb and digest everything I've seen and done.

I know now that so much of what I thought was backwards and regressive about India is actually its saving grace. I feel like the girl who got off of the airplane on June 22 was some breed of hippie-colonist who thought if only those tribal kids would learn English and the government would transform slums into proper living areas, everything would be just fine.

But now I know that a farmer's adamant refusal to leave his land helps India's soil and fabric more than teaching calculus will. I know that those squatting toilets in the ground are the reason that people still have enough water to drink.

Last week I was wrist deep in cow dung and I have never felt more American. But it's just grass, and we are all just people.

Warning

2009-07-20T08:49:00.000-07:00

If there is a hell worse than the drugged, midnight streets of New Delhi I don't want to know about it.

The past few weeks in the tribal villages and organic farm have been creating fire within me, but not sorrow. I played with smiling children whose parents were miles away rallying for the right to the land that they've lived on for years. I cooked a meal for twenty people with ingredients grown on the few acres we were living on.

But right now, as I stand in this hostel, I feel far away from the encouraging notion that there is good energy and work. Instead I feel a weight and a pain from seeing so many faces, ravaged by cocaine and marijuana and sniffing white out and falling asleep in the medians of busy streets while namaz plays over loudspeakers from Jamma Masjid. And I am physically and mentally sickened and trying to remember my power rather than the open palms I have held out in hopelessness.

But the line for the internet is long and I don't have the energy or clarity to explain more. Know that I am healthy and hoping to share more with you soon.

Shanti Shanti Shanti

Athithi Devo Bhava

2009-07-05T02:01:00.000-07:00

At night the heat is a little less and you don't feel the mosquitos because you are so tired. I sleep on a cot in the small garden of a village family. I hear them breathe deeply around me, I hear the dogs that don't stop barking and the buffalos next door. I wonder how they sleep through the noise, but after a day of planting trees in the beating 110 degrees, I don't have the energy to wonder.

In the past ten days I've bathed outdoors with buckets, slept on the floor in the center of a slum, and been welcomed into families that sacrifice their daily water so that I can bathe. The guest is god, the Hindu scriptures say, and I am treated as such until I plead to do some work and to use my hands. I scrubbed the floors of a grocer who makes just enough to give his daughter a toy on her birthday. I bathed children who have no running water and can only shiver from the lukewarm bath because they are not accustomed.

I'm pushed every day, from 5 a.m. until midnight. I feel dirty, sweaty all the time. I handwash my clothes and they never feel or stay clean. I haven't felt AC or toilet paper since I was at home. The food disagrees with me and fights and usually I sleep with hunger and cramping. I eat food that is chopped on the floor and cooked in pots that are washed with mud and sand from the ground.

But then I wake and do some yoga on any patch of grass I can find. I spend the day with people whose entire lives are dedicated to walking through these slums, teaching children to face the world with knowledge. These men and women are fearless -- they visit houses infested with tuberculosis and check on everyones medications and hug the old grandmothers and play with the children. I can only wonder of their strength.

I feel conscious in a way that I am still figuring out. I laugh all day and cry once in a while and feel kindred with the seventeen other sisters and brothers that I sleep, travel and eat with. And it has only been ten days.

New York to New Delhi

2009-06-22T05:49:00.000-07:00

My stomach usually figures out that I'm nervous before my mind does. My thoughts have been on smaller things -- buying a pocket knife, the weather in Helsinki for our 10 hour layover. But my stomach tells me that these next six weeks are something I have no way to prepare for.

I've been to India nine times now. I've been in the mountains and stood in sweaty lines at temples. But I've never slept in villages, tilled the soil of desi farms or spent hours with children that have swollen bellys from malnutrition. I've never stood in 108 degree heat if it was not in transition from house to shopping.

And while I've studied about corrupt Monsanto seeds and Gandhian philosophy in the air conditioned auditoriums of UF, the practice of something so simple yet intense is going to be much different. How will it feel when I see the weathered faces that result from greedy multinationals?

So here I go, with less luggage than I've ever traveled with and less sure-footedness than I'd like to admit. With two days of internet in five weeks and a cell phone that will only work sporadically, I will be connected in an entirely different way. Stay tuned.

India Intinerary

2009-06-13T14:25:00.000-07:00

Ahmedabad, Gujarat

Introductions of participants and of the program. Introduction to ‘education’ in India. Introduction to ‘Gandhian’ thought. Experiencing the reality of the slums of Ahmedabad. Experiencing the ‘spirit’ of service being lived and feeling the power of relationships, love, and positive thought. Becoming inspired.

We will be staying at the Environmental Sanitation Institute (ESI) campus.

Baroda, Gujarat

Agriculture and farmer issues in India. Organic farming. Potential of naturopathic treatment. We will be staying at the Vinoba Ashram where our meals will be provided.

We will be staying at the Vinoba Ashram where our meals will be provided.

Sakad/Sendhawa, Madhya Pradesh

Exploring alternates in education. Create your own project. Active participation in farming, teaching, cooking, health treatment, etc. Experience of living in a village and exploring rural life. Adivasi (tribal) rights. Session with inspiring leaders pertaining to social justice issues and people's movements. Exploring various notions of development and progress.

We will be working with and staying at Adharshila Learning Center

Melghat, Madhya Pradesh

Helping doctors fight malnutrition and disease during the monsoon season. Building toilets and running water system. Being introduced to a grassroots development organization.

We will be working with and staying with Melghat Mitra

Delhi

Interactions with college counterparts involved in social work. Glimpse at social, environmental, and developmental concerns and inspirational work by people within their own communities. Experience of the reality of living on the streets.

We will be staying at the International Youth Hostel where most of our meals will be provided as well. We will be working with the following organizations: Manzil, SWECHHA – We For Change, and Jamghat.

Ram Garth/Dehradun, Uttaranchal Pradesh at Bija Vidyapeeth Campus

In-depth look at farming issues in India through a series of workshops on India’s Green Revolution, farmer suicides, use of pesticides and fertilizers, the possibilities of organic farming and its benefits and environmentally sustainable living. Participation in organic farming, gardening, and composting.

We will be staying at the Bija Vidyapeeth .

Kempty/Mussoorie, Uttaranchal at SIDH

Interactive sessions about decolonisation and Gandhi, and further exploration of the self, the other, society, nature and the inter-relations of each. Introduction to Jeevan Vidya philosophy. Supplementing this with exposure to village life and re-looking at the purpose of education. Exploration of our own sense of responsibility and contribution through daily, hands-on work (shramdaan). Tuning into our senses through activities such as rafting and trekking in nature. Holistic picture.

We will be staying at the Society for Integrated Development of Himalayas (SIDH) campus, where most of our meals will be provided.

Delhi (August 1 – 3)

Debrief. Evaluation. Feedback. Planning for 'what next?'

We will be staying at the Scholar’s House of Jamia University, where most of our meals will be provided.

9 to 5

2009-06-08T19:56:00.000-07:00

As a part-part-time secretary, I have learned that my iPod must be charged to full in order to get through a day of shredding, filing, more filings, unexpected physical labor and other behind-the-scenes doctor office activities.

Nineties buzz ballads get me through the medical charts, and Thievery Corporation takes me from boxing Super Bills to filing insurance claims. I'm the only person in the office who dances at her desk, but I think the weary patients enjoy the weirdo temp girl as the leaf through Chemo Today and last years Time magazine.

Sometimes I turn the wheel left and tune in to the conversation of the other secretaries and office managers which usually consists of dieting woes, lunch orders and kid stories. Somebody's son is looking for an engagement ring, another is skipping school, and Amy's boyfriend is sending her Eminem music online. Everybody crowds around her desk to listen.

It's interesting to watch this schedule of waiting for Friday and moaning on Monday and getting drunk on Wednesday because it's in the middle. And by interesting I mean it motivates me to make sure it never becomes a reality for more than a couple of weeks in the summer.

In other the news, a weekend with Ashley and the beach and the pool and the sticky Floridian outdoors was delightful. It's nice that home base doubles as a vacation destination.

Seven more days and my backpack will be my office. I need to renew my Schengen Visa.

Simmerin'

2009-05-20T16:00:00.000-07:00

I'm sitting on the periphery of my kitchen watching a pot of channa masala bubble on the stove, scared to touch it lest it becomes any worse. This is the only Indian dish I know how to make without a recipe book, and now that my family dinner is looking pretty weak, I might have to take it off the short list (pasta, omelette, grilled cheese).

And then I start wondering (because it has rained for four days and what else can you do?) if this is the channa masala metaphor of my life. By my age my mom was seeing suitors, taking care of her sister's children, and making several much more elaborate dishes by hand. Now she can feed an army (seriously...and if it's a family of four, the same amount of food will be made) in such a way that every heaping teaspoon of turmeric or coriander seed is perfect down to the grain. And even if she's a fellow vegetarian, her chicken biryani rivals the pit stops in Charminar.

Not that I want to feed the troops. Or get married by 23, or cook any more than my future husband will.

But is this diluted version of the delectable favorite a sign that my generation is destined to be just as watered down with culture? If my Hindi is, excuse me for this, "ghetto", will my kids be pronouncing their own names wrong? And while I can recite a few mantras and do pooja, my grandfather can recite scriptures for four hours without glancing down at a book.

This is what happens when it rains, and remains grey and the clouds are so burdened they almost touchdown to the river -- you hypothesize and dramatize all sorts of worldly things that are so irrelevant in Tarpon Springs.

In just a few weeks I'll be strapping on my Tevas and backpack and coursing through villages in North India without internet, cell phone or shaved legs. I will grow vegetables, treat sick children and touch the soil of villages my parents haven't even heard of before. And then, maybe, I will tell you, whether the channa masala metaphor stands.

Good Newsweek

2009-05-17T19:00:00.001-07:00

In the last issue (or maybe one before) of Newsweek, there was an article tucked in the middle about how they plan to fight the fading away of ink.

Since every journalism class, conference and confidante has been pretty morose about the industry's direction, it was refreshing to hear a woman stand up for the publication and its place in the market.

The article said that despite how quickly and freely one can access news online and on IPhones etc., there is something lacking from the mobile uploading and twittering, and that is INSIGHT.

Newsweek's stars like Farheed Zakharia can offer a story well beyond 140 words (tweet), and well worth a few bucks. While any journalist can quickly offer up a blurb and snapshot of Swat Valley in Pakistan, someone with a PhD in Political Science and more than two decades of intense study can surely provide a deeper look at the Taliban in a powder keg country.

So while I plan to swim hard and fast with the current that is multimedia and fresh and innovative, I am happy to hear that our coffee tables will remain covered in essays and speculation as long as possible.

Suburban Blues (and Browns and Greys)

2009-05-05T12:19:00.001-07:00

Yesterday I found myself at the checkout line at the grocery store about to cry.

Because I had forgotten my reusable bag. Because the lady put one item in each plastic bag even though I told her it could fit more. Because my sister kept telling me, you are such a freak, it is not a big deal. All you have to do is worry about yourself.

I overreact. It wasn't about the plastic bags. But I've spent more time in a car in the past three days than I do in a month in Gainesville. I've been forced to carry a cell phone when I bike ride because my parents worry (and worry). I've wandered Target like a zombie from the sensory overload. And I can't go anywhere on foot because of US 19.

"I hate the suburbs," I told my sister as we wheeled out the cart to the car. She told me to move to NYC.

I know that freedom is in the mind, and not just in the caves and the hills. But it seems hard to find peace in the aisles of a super Wal-Mart. Coming back home just reminds me that my future must be different. That it isn't crazy of me to look for a job that will drop-kick strip malls and hubcap-sized hamburgers out of my daily routine.

Epilogue:

At the end of the day I bike a few miles, and come back and float in my pool while my dad plays Peter Gabriel and grills chicken. My dog sits on the brick and watches me lazily backstroke. And then we all set the dinner table together and eat and clean up and digest on our living room couches as the last track comes to an end.

That's just the way it is...

2009-04-27T16:02:00.000-07:00

Things will never be the same.

Until this year I've been a baby-- skipping 1st grade, using fake IDs, getting rides when I everyone else had a license, graduating high school at 17.

Now I'm graduating one semester later than my peers, finally becoming the appropriate age. And my "super senior" time has proven to be a blessing. I knew I skipped long division for something.

I feel blessed to have felt the ticking clock. Being a senior made me do what panic does best -- appreciate and savor every moment in Gainesville. Especially since my bestest friends have been partying, tasting, experiencing to the max, I've been learning to love our college town with its bike lanes, flowing bars and quirky music scene. I spent the last three years thinking that sure this place is alright, but I can't wait to get to FlorenceHyderabadCorcovadoSanMarco. Not anymore.

Today, I woke up in my bed in my parents house and all I wanted to do was drive back and wake up late with my roommates, bike to Southwest for a workout and stay up until 4 a.m. listening to mismatched locals playing reggae with my friends. I wanted to eat another vegan shabbos dinner at Faryn's house, and drink tea at Maude's with Pallavi and Jason.

I'm feeling strangely emotional and nostalgic about the four years I've spent growing up without rules. From the freshman dorms with their hospitally smell to the beautiful house where I learned to feel my sunniest -- I'm so grateful for endings and beginnings.

Insomnia & Police Beat

2009-04-19T00:25:00.000-07:00

At 1:25 a.m. I drove downtown, partially asleep, to pick up a friend.

On the intersection of Main St. and 1st Ave. a red Volkswagon drunkenly crashed into a silver pick up truck, and then tried to drive away. In his alleged inebriated state, the driver ran over a couple of curbs and then turned back and parked next to the victimized truck, denying fault (don't ask me how I know this).

I left the scene to drop my friend at her apartment, but kept churning the driver's mental state in my mind. Finally, I dialled the GPD and reported the incident, just in case any of my (or anyone's) beloveds were hanging around The Top or Atlantic that night.

At 3:09 a.m. a thick Alachuan accent flooded my ear via cell phone. "Are you still waiting on 1st?"she asked. Of course not, it had been hours and I was tucked in bed. "Well, do you still want to report the incident?" asked the impatient policewoman.

It was two hours after I called. I'm guessing the drunk driver had driven (swerved/ricocheted) away. Pickup truck was left dented. Jaywalkers were left unprotected.

Doing the right thing can be so unsatisfying.

Coming Soon

2009-04-08T05:47:00.001-07:00

A post about about ULTRA music festival in Miami on March 20. It took me this long to get my hearing back.

Yoga Shakti

2009-03-27T07:15:00.000-07:00

Awww...my mommy and her yoga center are very cute.

Sexy

2009-03-21T11:52:00.000-07:00

but entirely unnecessary. Click pic.

Gimme that Guinness

2009-03-17T15:10:00.001-07:00

Four years ago I was at Heathrow Airport waiting for a flight to take off to Dublin. It was the day after St. Patrick's Day. It was 10 a.m. and a cluster of Irish men sat around the gate with glasses of Guinness.

"It's 10 in the morning!" I exclaimed to my parents. These were pre-UF days, and I hadn't seen sane people drink before nightfall.

I always thought that Irish/Guinness relationship was overplayed by Americans. We tend to do that. But throughout the week I saw the familiar black beer with the creamy inch of foam on top all around the country at any time of day.

For the first time, I enjoyed each sip I took instead of labeling it "horsepiss" and trying to find a juice chaser. I tried it in the bar of the Guinness factory, at a pub where sloshed 3-a.m.-ers sang Billy Joel's Pianoman with their arms around each other.

In the past few years I've heard stories of Ireland -- of the cold people, the crime, the dreary weather. But I went when the skies were gray too and I can still picture the dreadlocked Heath Ledger lookalike who basically put his torso in our car to help us map out a route. I remember the lilt on a cashier's voice when she told us to have a good day. I remember the way a local told us to take the "twistywindyroad" because we would like it better than the highway. When I hung upside down to kiss the famed Blarney Stone, the ageing Irishman hit on me right in front of my parents.

Little things. But with a glass of Guinness the country was a beautiful, beautiful place.

Cheers.

News Flash

2009-03-14T11:40:00.001-07:00

Pillsbury is now selling frozen samosas.

March-ing Along

2009-03-10T18:49:00.000-07:00

I spent the weekend in New Jersey, the extended suburb of New York City. There was still snow on the ground, but it was t-shirt weather. My family and I celebrated my aunt and uncle's 30th wedding anniversary by throwing them a surprise pseudo-second-wedding.

New additions to the family (fiances, boyfriends) reminded me how weird we are. We talk in baby voices, make up ridiculous nicknames for everybody and put chutney on our shmear. Everyone crashes on extra comforters and couches and in the basement with no issues. We have made a ritual out of the post-party breakfast -- fresh bagels, leftover cake and lots of masala chai.

Now it is the middle of my spring break, and I am back in Florida with more sunshine and my restless mind. I am forcing myself to wind down with a list (I know, counterintuitive) of things like pedicures, facials with Vibha, swimming, Hard Rock for a birthday and reading Pepto-pink paperbacks (I finished one today).

Love&Light.

The funny thing about the First Amendment...

2009-02-20T05:45:00.000-08:00

...is that it protects the Ku Klux Klan but not all high school newspapers.
...is that you can say a lot more in a newspaper than on television.
...is that a mostly Republican and over-60 crowd holds the reigns of balanced, objective arbitration.

Cool.

Footsteps and Thumbprints

2009-02-03T07:53:00.000-08:00

तीन महेने में कहा पर रहती में?

Frisking, Fashion Mags and Farewells

2009-01-04T21:18:00.000-08:00

My last day in Hyderabad.

I managed to stay healthy until this very morning when my stomach decided enough was enough. I think I jinxed myself by telling everyone how I hadn't fallen sick the entire trip.

It doesn't help that I do not want to leave. I feel connected to this city more than any in the world. As a Tollywood actor recently told me, the people of Hyderabad are like a small village transplanted into a developing metropolis. Everyone still knows everyone's name, family, lineage. The same troupe of young elite travel from club to club. The same men meet for chai at Nizam Club every Sunday.

Changes, of course, include the metal detectors and car searches and purse checks. To go into McDonalds you are awkwardly patted down by a less-than-perfumed security guard. It is at once comforting to see the extreme measures, and disheartening that the city has to accommodate for turbulent times.

My interview at a magazine I won't mention is tomorrow. I've been trying to prepare, while inundated by this sluggish internet connection. I literally get off an airplane in Mumbai, go straight to the interview, and return to the airport to fly to Newark. Ah, 15 hours of cramped seat and stale food await.

21

2008-12-26T19:23:00.000-08:00

Turning 21 in Hyderabad, India was as different from a Natural Ice keg party as possible. It started with about 100 strangers and 30 family members singing me Happy Birthday at the end of a Christmas party -- an outdoor Christmas party in the humid night of Himayatnagar. Not exactly Rockafeller Center, but the spirit was alive (as were the mosquitoes).

The next morning my cousins, mother and I went to the Devnar School for the Blind. It is a very poor charity school that houses blind kids until the 10th standard (like 12th grade). I decided months ago that I wanted to sponsor a child for my birthday and we were able to help a girl named Laxmi. I couldn't speak to her because she speaks only Telugu, but her tiny fingers exploring my hands and wrists were all I needed.

Straight from the blind school my cousins and I indulged in a day at the parlor. Indian service is about 1847 times better than back home, so we enjoyed the long massages that came with our pedicures and hair treatments. I wanted to trim my hair two inches, but Fery (owner) decided she could hack off about 6 inches instead. I'm not thrilled and I may or may not have a full on 'fro for the next six months.

Finally, the night ended with a family dinner at Haiking. We never visit Hyderabad without eating at this delectable Chinese restaurant. Since my family continues to expand, there were about 50 people present for a final cake cutting and simultaneous celebration of my cousins's anniversary.

And then I fell asleep.

What's the 'Holed Up'?

2008-11-30T08:44:00.000-08:00

Days after I schedule job interviews in Mumbai, terror rips through the beautiful city. It came to us first through a voice mail from my aunt who has lived there for 30+ years. Then we turned on CNN. Thanks to its partnership with IBN there was minute-to-minute coverage. I sat with my laptop and oscillated between SAJAForum, BBC, CNN.com and the Wall Street Journal.

For months now my mother has been warning me of the unstable situation. I feel that Indians everywhere have been tuned into the terrorism -- these attacks were at once depressing and anticipated. Right before the "Deccan Mujaheddin" stormed in via boat, the city had already gone on strike regarding the lack of national security. Indian people are jaded with the politicians and their extravagant spending.

With a slap on the wrist for online journalism I have to say I haven't seen such inconsistent reporting. Every Web site I went to had a different death toll or angle. It was the "get it out, then get it right" system. As much as we hunger for information now, I don't think we should settle for semi-correct reporting.

The city of Gainesville has more fire management than the 19 million+ population of Mumbai. Putting out the fire in the Taj seemed like a kid throwing a pitcher of water on a burning house. India is no longer a third world country. Why aren't these basic necessities secured?

Finally, my disturbance rests on the murder of the rabbi and his wife at the Chabad house. Maybe working for the Shpiel has made me sensitive -- but these two deaths really drove the painful situation home. As I watched their baby Moshe being carried away in a police car, my rage turned into sorrow.

Obama Curry

2008-11-08T20:48:00.000-08:00

I'm not sure that anybody followed Obama's campaign trail closer or louder than my grandparents. The television might have dabbled in Hindi sitcoms and Ram Dev lectures in the morning, but Zee TV gave way to CNN all day long for more than a year.

My grandfather staunchly refused to change his Indian citizenship. He grouchily mumbles "this is not my country" while praising Barack and criticizing every congressman with equal fervor. But my grandma's 50 years in the country have warranted voting rights.

My cousin Manisha read my grandmother the absentee ballot choices out loud and filled out her form. When she got to Amendment 2, my grandma wanted a simple version. It went something like this:
Manisha: So, should gay people be allowed to get married or not?
Grandma: What do I care? Let the gays be married.

My family can't agree on interracial marriages, belly button rings or whether we are Maharastrian or Kannada, but we did unite under the O. When our candidate of choice stepped into victory our entire family of Republicans, Indian citizens, hippies, government employees and plenty of doctors cheered along with the electoral college.

As for the question of a black president. According to my grandma: "It's about time...we're all black anyhow."

Ketchup

2008-10-28T09:03:00.000-07:00

I'm breathing life back into this blog. Let me first say what I've been writing for the past few weeks since school started.

I am now the multicultural blogger for our school's newspaper The Independent Florida Alligator:
Islam on campus
Buddhism on campus
Intro

I have also started to write feature articles for the another campus publication, The Shpiel. The Shpiel is an eclectic Jewish community newspaper where I provide an outsiders voice and perspective. Plus, the editors rock.

A Real Witch
The Art of Being Quiet

I spent a million and a half days coding to make my first Web site. It's very very simple, but I'm still proud of my first techie attempt.

Ankita's Homepage

Furthermore, I am now a staff writer for InSite magazine and a freelancer for the print Alligator.

Bye the Way

2008-08-12T05:20:00.001-07:00

Before you've given up on me entirely, I'd like to thank anyone who has read/passed by/scorned my blog this summer. It was a gorgeous and fulfilling summer for me. This page will now go into hibernation until future travels. And I see a trip to India on the horizon.

Rea of Light

2008-08-03T04:15:00.000-07:00

I was standing outside in a sunset, my bare feet on soft grass, rocking my hips back and forth and wondering what the heck is this new-age California surfer girl going to teach me?

Shiva Rea's workshop, Tending the Heart Fire, was my farewell to the institute this weekend. She is known for her intense Vinyasa-style classes, her windblown hair in her many DVD's, and is kind of like the celebrity Barbie of yoga teachers. Consequently, my cynical mind was ready to roll its eyes.

On the first day she took the clock off of the auditorium wall and asked us to go outside to experience the brilliance of nature while doing a flowing arms gesture and circling over our bent knees. When I started to walk outside, I turned to look for my friend and Shiva Rea looked at me with this look of surprise, as if she had seen me before. She peered intently at my face and then held her hand to her heart. My involuntary reaction was to bring my hands together into namaste.

The workshop turned out to be a sweaty, touchy-feely and awakening weekend. Not only is Rea thoroughly versed in the classical aspect of yoga, but she as down-to-earth as could be. We talked about her music after class one day (African drumming, temple sounds in Varanasi, you name it) and she joked with me as a friend. I guess I've been jaded by the "VIP's" that I've interviewed who usually make me "walk and talk" as their eyes shift and they move on to their next step.

Her asana (pose) class involved dynamic movements of Agni (fire), 108 pushups, 90 degree cobra bends and the like. My "heart fire" was definitely roused. Her background in dance was apparent but I enjoyed the variety. Today we will embark on three hours entirely of back bends.

A central idea in her workshop was the electromagnetic field of the heart. Scientifically, being within ten feet of someone else will bring your heart beat and theirs in a conversation, a sync. It's like when you're around a hyper person and you suddenly feel anxious or excited. A large part of the experience was holding hands and interacting with your neighboring yoga mat. We spent ten minutes staring into someone's eyes and laying on each other's laps while she read Rumi poems to us. It was like nap time at Montessori school and it felt so good. I'm so blessed to have friends and family who like hugging and kissing and squeezing.

It is my last day at the institute and I am going out with a bang. I wanted to devote this post to the workshop so I will write once again about my departure.

And by the way, for my 2 readers (mom and pop?), there is a huge drought in commenting on this blog.

Tibetan Truth

2008-07-29T08:37:00.000-07:00

All year I've heard anti-China protests and seen pictures of the Olympic rings as handcuffs underlined with "Free Tibet." But all of this dissent has been from us, from Americans.

Yesterday I had the good fortune of seeing Professor Samdhong Rinpoche speak here. He holds the highest political title of Tibet as Prime Minister of Tibet in Exile, as I mentioned previously. He has worked alongisde the Dalai Lama for over 50 years.

His speech's effect on me was that of a pebble dropped in a still pond. His limited English required him to speak directly and succinctly. He did not dwell on abstract philosophy but rather practical application of Buddhist teaching in world issues ranging from war and terrorism to environmentalism and the Olympic games.

To condense an already compact speech,his main idea was that we need to start with introspection. We have to fulfill our own ideals before we go forcing them on other. We need to recycle our waste before we try to clean up the oceans. We need to communicate peacefully before we try to stop war miles away. We need to eliminate the fear that every crowded place and airplane is grounds for a terrorist strike.

In reference to China and the Olympics he said that the Tibetan people do not hate the Chinese or communism. They don't mind being ruled by China as long as the policies are fair and not intrusive.

“We have no ill-feeling for the Chinese people,” Rinpoche stated. “In spite of terrible conditions, the strength of truth and compassion are with us. We support the Olympic Games hosted by Beijing … [and] wish all goes successfully.”

He concluded with a Buddhist chant that held the crowd in a contemplative rapture.

The Part Where I Lose Steam

2008-07-24T12:08:00.000-07:00

I just want to play outside, sit in the grass, read silly books on the hill. Six days of work remaining and my mind is a sugar-fed child in math class. I can't believe I will be home so soon. I will have to start doing my eyebrows and shaving my legs regularly...what a concept.

My father is here and it is glorious. We plan to walk to the waterfall later and his snippet of a vacation ends tomorrow morning. Luckily, my cousin Nikhil will be arriving from New York City to slooow down.

This weekend is my editor's wedding as well as the arrival of the Tibetan Prime Minister of Exile Samdong Rimpoche. Our grounds are being manicured and tended like a "bride on her wedding day."

My lack of camera cord is frustrating...I have many images to enhance my thoughts. Perhaps I will go back and put the pictures in for all the back posts when I go home. So the pictures you've seen so far are from friends.

Prospect Park

2008-07-21T13:15:00.000-07:00

Another weekend in New York City revved up my too-low blood pressure and brought me to normal world pace. A 6 a.m. Saturday wake up was followed by 3 hours in the ice-cube bus, a visit to Washington Square park, a light Japanese meal at Dojo, a rendezvous with my cousin, shopping in Union Square (bought fuchsia lacy shirt), dinner at African/French/Belly dancing place in Soho,a $5 psychic reading and some early morning crooning at a Japanese karaoke bar.

A whirlwind, in short. We fell into our beds in Brooklyn at 3:30 a.m., too close to being awake for 24 hours. My cousin Nikhil's apartment is on a beautiful leafy road on St. Marks and it made me reconsider my nevereverlivinginNYCthatplaceiswhack rule. The city has actually started to whisper its call into my ear, something I did not think was in the cards.

The next day we strolled in the sultry summer heat through Prospect Park, wiping off our foreheads and sipping on fresh orange juice. We didn't get back to Manhattan until 3 when we picked up our one meal that day at Whole Foods and rushed back to Port Authority for our bus. The ride home was less than fun with my tumultuous stomach instability and the winding hill roads.

The psychic reading was easily the most entertaining portion. Five dollars has assured me a life of money, fame and romance (does she know I'm going to be a journalist??). I also sport a bright red aura, so make sure your next birthday gift to me matches. I guess another 10 would've got me a celebrity husband and dog.

Future Career?

2008-07-16T09:23:00.000-07:00

In my office I hear French, German, Hindi and Wisconsin daily. The song on the video is a young girl singing the words of Tagore's Gitanjali.

Measuring Up

2008-07-14T18:03:00.000-07:00

For the first time, I'm feeling antsy. Exhausted. I haven't slept well in days. But enough of that.

I was thinking recently about how calculated our society has become. We use numbers to determine our health, our prosperity. If a doctor looked only at a patients chart to diagnose them, there would be much more malpractice. A person's height, weight and heart rate can't tell you how they relate to their family, or how competent they are at work. So why do we still hold these numbers as our sole method of evaluation?

There is a reason we use a clock to tell time. Because living is circular and not linear. What if we pretended that every day was the same. Kind of like Billy Murray in Groundhogs Day. Would we wake up happier if we knew that no matter what happened that day, the next day would be the same exact amount of opportunity? Would we feel less overwhelmed by ambition?

I know that my own linear thinking is a trouble maker. As soon as I got the idea in my head that I only had 3 weeks left here, my mindset changed. I started thinking of the end. I started becoming aware of all the things I needed to stuff into my remaining time. And that's when the antsy-ness entered.

I think this is why I don't like math. There was a quote from Albert Einstein in my Religion, Nature and Ethics book that goes like this:

It would be possible to describe everything scientifically, but it would make no sense; it would be without meaning, as if you described a Beethoven symphony as a variation of wave pressure.
-- Albert Einstein

So That's Where My Polly Pocket Went

2008-07-11T08:25:00.000-07:00

Good news...we may no longer have to cut down trees to build our house. We can build a neighborhood, homes and a school on our own island of trash in the Pacific Ocean.

In the Pacific Ocean there is a Texas-sized mass of plastic floating between San Francisco and Hawaii. The 3.5 million ton manifestation of our ignorance even has a name: The Great Pacific Garbage Patch.

This particular part of the Pacific has a weak current and winds that surround the area in circular motions. Therefore, the flip-flop you lose in the ocean is pulled into the patch and unable to float out.

Over 257 species suffer every year from this ocean-fill. Thousands of mammals like dolphins and sharks have died from swallowing the debris. The magnitude of the situation would require billions to clean up and therefore is not on the government's agenda.

So next time in the grocery store...paper or plastic? (Hint: the answer is Tote Bag)

The Right Action

2008-07-10T06:04:00.000-07:00

I had a massage yesterday. Half an hour of soothing hands and dark room and aromatherapy. It was the most painful 30 minutes of my summer.

A combination of car accidents and headstands has thrown my cervical alignment off kilter. You know when kind people come up behind you and massage your shoulders? For me that feels like a 300 pound bench press.

In short, one more lesson I've learned with yoga...don't just do the pose, do it right. And if you don't know how, ask.

I can assure you my ego has gotten in the way of my healthy spine. I would never tell students in a class I was teaching to do headstands so recklessly in grassy fields like I do. I also have stubbornly refused to use props, but you better belief that those blankets and foam blocks will be my friends now.

The right action is a phrase that has been entering my mind a lot. Yesterday I spilled water in the hall and half-heartedly wiped it up. I started to walk away and then a flash of "the right action" made me turn around and dry the floor thoroughly.

A silly example, but it's the little things right?

Cutting the Cord

2008-07-07T06:24:00.000-07:00

I fasted this weekend. I cut electronics out of my diet. No computer, phone, IPod. Other than an alarm clock, I was unplugged.

Friday:
On the Fourth of July we celebrated our bountiful nation with bountiful Mexican food and an "Asphalt Party" commemorating our newly paved parking lot. I spent my time keeping sparklers in the kid's hands and listening to our trio (guitar/fiddle/tabla) jazz up the lawn.

Our modest fireworks ended in about two minutes and we trooped up to the Sound of Music hill and watched the colorful bursts from neighboring towns over miles and miles of dark forest, fireflies twinkling all around.

Saturday:
Instead of sleeping and waking up groggily to rush to breakfast, I broke my weekend routine by attending Hatha Yoga class in the morning, exploring the overgrown trails with bees buzzing in my ears and abandoning my book to play Go Fish and charades with two energetic children in the lounge.

After an intense dinner serving shift in the evening I attended a Prayer and Meditation lecture with a wonderful spiritual teacher based in New York, Rolf Sovik. We discussed the topic of having no preference and remaining even-minded and unattached so truth can flood your mind.

Rolf drew inspiration from Buddhist monks, St. Teresa of Avila and the Vedas among other things. It reminded me of the first day of my Introduction to Religion class when my teacher asked us why we wanted to study different religions. I answered "To reaffirm my theory that we are all essentially the same."

We ended with a remarkable meditation where my usual discomfort from tingling, falling-asleep legs was replaced by a non judgmental awareness of every sensation in my body.

Sunday:
On Sunday I felt a little antsy in the morning. I wanted to call my sister and I wanted to watch a movie on my laptop. Instead I sat in the sun after lunch and was invited to go to Skinner's Falls with two residents.

The trip was a joyously twisty, windy drive to the border of PA and NY. We walked down a narrow mud path and then hopped over rocks (okay, I crawled) and lay out over a big flat rock in the center of the river. We dipped into the cool water and swam through rapids that threatened to take us their way downstream. I played with a beautiful golden retriever. My friends and I talked about books and life and whether or not pee is clean.

On the way back I watched the trees fly by and dreamily wondered if my weekend with no modern-day stimulation had made the green brighter, the sounds more vibrant.

Hugsy Comes to Town

2008-07-03T06:47:00.000-07:00

My momma came to visit me for two days. She slipped into the institute with that adaptable ease that makes her comfortable in most any space. She took full use of fresh air, fresh food and yoga. Yesterday she left as I stood up to my elbows in gray dish water with a sinking feeling in my stomach.

When I was younger I had what could be described as separation anxiety on speed. If my parents had put one of those creepy kid leashes on me, I probably would have rejoiced. Then in high school, I loved to leave home, travel by myself and take trips, joyously savoring each mile that took me further.

Nowadays I've re-sensitized myself to leaving my family. Since the first day of college when my parents left me in that grimy dorm room, I've felt a strong (but fleeting) pull to go back home and stay. After brief pangs I am usually restored. My wanderlust and solitude reenter. But there is a moment when I see that the old tradition of living with all of your family, extended family, and family by marriage is practical and appealing.

I have this theory about big families. I feel like it's a built in psychotherapy system. If you are surrounded by any tight knit community, you are forced to talk through every bad mood, tear and moment of grief. None of your thoughts have too much time to coagulate and become toxic and stagnant inside you. Now Angelina and Brad make total sense, don't they? Free therapy.

To Do List

2008-07-01T11:40:00.000-07:00

1. Inhale
2. Exhale
3. Repeat

Choc O Block

2008-06-30T08:26:00.000-07:00

I am now a weekly writer for www.sajaforum.org. Your link to everything media, masala and hm...Mumbai?

This is my most recent article: http://www.sajaforum.org/2008/06/yoga-magazines.html

I know, me, yoga magazines, what? The funny thing is, I didn't even pick the topic.

Just got back from a splendid weekend with 25 family members in one gi-normous house. It was wonderfully fulfilling (or maybe just filling). I got to celebrate two birthdays, one graduation and finally setting my eyes on the most beautiful baby boy. I absolutely love my crazy family and the conversations (ranging from SSRI's to baby-talk) sparked a lot of new ideas. Like this title, for instance, which is a British/Indian word for traffic jam, but so much better!

Now I'm slightly grimy from the drive and back at work. My mom and Manisha are here for a few days to get a taste of the H.I. Wahoo.

Stray Birds*

2008-06-26T05:40:00.000-07:00

Sometimes when I'm meditating I pop open an eye and see the person next to me looking at the clock and think,"Man whats the point of meditating if you're going to keep looking at the clock." And then I realize I'm looking at the person looking at the clock.

When I don't feel like figuring out whether to use a comma, period or semi colon, I use an ellipse (...). So now you know my secret...

I've been wearing a payal (anklet with small tinkling bells) on my left ankle since I was twelve. When it gets oxidized I switch to a new shiny one. I don't think people have commented on any part of me more than my payal. It's like a warning that I'm coming.

Can soap get dirty? Where does that other sock go? Does a British accent make you sound smarter?

Americans at the H.I. pronounce my name perfectly (Un-kee-tha) but at school it continues to be butchered.

*Stray Birds is one of my favorite collections from Tagore. It is just a smattering of his thoughts. But they are much more eloquent and meaningful than mine.

Matri-moan-ial

2008-06-24T08:56:00.000-07:00

I'm exploring the splurge of Indian "marriage" novels in bookstores.

I was looking through a list of books by Indian authors and I felt that 90% of them had names like Arranged Marriage, Love Marriage, A Good Indian Wife... It seems like a Mt. Kailash-sized step backward in comparison to the progressive laws against domestic violence and women's rights in a rapidly developing India.

I'm a big fan of love, and a bigger fan of spectacular 7-day elephant-riding, drum-blaring weddings...but I'm also a proponent of good writing. The churning out of frothy books about nuptial disasters makes me want photocopy the Elements of Style for every author daring to pen a novel about Sapna's affair with spontaneous photographer Rajiv while her parents make a deal with the serious (but eventually lovable, parents know best) lawyer Nitin.

Of course there are blaring exceptions that pretty much knock other modern writers out of the water: Rohinton Mistry, Arundhati Roy and Kiran Desai, for example.

The topic of marriage can be handled with intelligence and truth. I'm not the kind of person who will only read books about war, strife and social change. But the last few books I've read on the topic have basically been modified screenplays to cheesy Bollywood movies. I would like to see some more books that actually reflect my culture. Unless this is my culture, in which case I am mistaken and should gladly accept another 100 versions of Bride and Prejudice (shudder) on the shelves.

Back in the USSR

2008-06-22T20:11:00.000-07:00

An interview, brunch, subway ride, bus ride, car ride, hot shower later...I'm back!

My weekend in fast-paced, lecherous and wonderful New York City was an eye-opener. I'm operating at high-frequency from the inspiring journalists I met at the convention. The sounds of screeching subways, bold honking and "aye mami" still pulsethrough my mind. But I'm slowly winding back down to yoga-pace and soaking it all in.

Alongside the motivation to throw myself into the job came a big "uh-oh" for the news industry. The dwindling of newspapers, budget cuts, workforce cuts--not exactly what I need to hear as a budding writer. I can just hear my dad telling me not to think about all of things out of my control and just work on crafting my skills to their full potential. Anyway, the economy is bound to change before I get out there...it's not like we can re-elect Bush.

I am ready for a good sleep, a long yoga asana class and some muesli with soy milk.

And also...don't hesitate to comment. Good, bad, silly...let me know what you think, what you want to hear etc. I like comments, I feel like the cheerleader at school when I get them...instead of the kid who gets picked last for kickball, which is a lot more accurate.

Sleepy, slippery journalism

2008-06-21T10:32:00.000-07:00

Having a great time in NYC. Running on free food, borrowed laptops and bits of sleep. I'm posting the links for first two of my articles for the blog. I have two more today and one today...not used to writing with a one hour deadline, but it's more than worth it.

Celebrated Caity's 21st at kitschy Indian restaurant Panna II at St. Mark's Square on Thursday as soon as I came in from Jersey. Yesterday I stumbled after the conference to Broadway to see the raunchy/dark Broadway show Spring Awakening with Ashley and crew yesterday. We even got to meet the stars after the show. Wish I would've been a tad less unconscious.

http://www.sajaforum.org/2008/06/diversity-where.html

http://www.sajaforum.org/2008/06/amar-bakshi-and.html

Okay, I am off to write about Kevin Negandhi, first Indian sports anchorman in America. Currently, he is working for ESPN and premiers on Sports Center next Friday.

2008-06-20T14:02:00.001-07:00

www.sajaforum.org

Finding Fire

2008-06-17T18:13:00.000-07:00

I'm sitting on a silk couch in plush Holmdel, New Jersey. The TV is yelling about Barack Obama. Manisha is saying "I don't do internet dating," to her father. I'm in transition.

This week I am attending a journalism conference at Columbia University. It will be four days of chaotic New York, networking and workshops to rock my writing. I'll be staying with my generous Ashley at her apartment on Mulberry Street.

As a pleasant bonus to the conference, my application to be a blogger for the convention was accepted. I will be interviewing keynote speakers, covering South Asian topics and throwing some more words out there into the Web world for the professional blog/site. I'll be sure to let you know how to check that out.

I'm still feeling a little strange being away from the quiet of the institute. Before I left I had a thorough evaluation with the ayurvedic/medical doctor on campus. I am learning (slowly) to be more compassionate toward this physical body. I haven't exactly been the kindest mechanic for my vehicle, but I'm working on it. I'm trying to create a dialogue with myself that resembles one with my friend or a family member. I've been cultivating self-talk that deals more with constructive truth and less with negative criticism.

Tomorrow we are going to Little India (Edison) to eat chaat and saturate our pores with the sweet smells of masala. Then I'm going to try to balance my wardrobe of yoga pants and t-shirts with some collared shirts and dressy skirts. I don't even think I know how to wear heels anymore.

Cheatin' Weekend

2008-06-15T05:45:00.000-07:00

I'm feeling uninspired today and I'm attributing it to the past three days. A schedule that would have been acceptable (maybe even productive) in past summers felt like pure lazy. Eating in restaurants, skipping yoga class and sleeping late made me feel tired and a little agitated.

Last night we had a great time at an impromptu "Sacred Link Office Party." We cleared the furniture in one of the office buildings, put on some of the worst rap songs created, and danced for hours. We had John doing the robot, Ethan acting out scenes from Umbrella, and Khushi and Varuna doing the Macarena. It was silly and wonderful and satiated our young spirits.

My dear cousin Vivek is about to throw us out of his room since Manisha and I have taken a three hour nap, watched Dan in Real Life and eaten all of his graham crackers since we woke up. He is now threatening to marry his sister off to a less than ideal boy-man at the institute.

I can't take credit for this...

2008-06-13T08:54:00.001-07:00

But man is it beautiful.

Photo taken by a woman here of Anthony playing his sitar.

Sankhya very much

2008-06-11T09:02:00.000-07:00

I'm attention-deficit when it comes to lectures. Something about figures of authority talking at me in fluorescent lighting doesn't appeal to me. So when I enjoy a lecture, I know the speaker was good. Damn good.

Last night Manisha and I trudged half-heartedly to a Yoga Philosophy lecture by a visitor here. We didn't really want to go and we planned to leave in half an hour. Then our lecturer began to speak.

In perfect detailed clarity, he explained the anatomy of the mind (buddhi, ahamkara etc.) and the atman (soul). No tangents, no ridiculous metaphors, just straight-forward Sankhya and Vedanta philosophy. The whipped cream of the lecture was his impeccable pronunciation of every Sanskrit word, which for some reason is intensely important to me.

Halfway through the lecture, a severe thunderstorm barreled into the institute. The windows slammed open and shut, the lights went out. There were rumors of hail, fallen trees and tornadoes.

But the man walked the talk. Not bothered by any of this tumult or the gasps around the room, he continued to speak by lantern-light and everyone continued to listen in the mini blackout.

One of my favorite things he talked about was the difference in the Western and Eastern worldview. If a Chinese person looks at a picture of a city, they will notice a transaction happening, a conversation, a person with their dog. An American will point out a single car, a person or a building. I wonder what I would notice...probably the pizza stand in the corner.

He talked about the idea of freedom. The reason that we're not spiritually free is because we have decided that we aren't. Our only boundary for realizing this other 90% of unused consciousness is our own mental construct that says we have something to seek, something to attain, when it is actually already waiting for us to go "yup, got it, had it all along."

The lecture was followed by a never ending card game, a sticky hot night of sleep, and the reality that I was now working another job under yet another person and my title reads something like: Ankita Rao, Editorial assistant, public relations intern, marketing idiot, professional mail-opener, phone-answerer, Web-site updater, dishwasher and bringer of family members.

Why did I ever ask for more work?

Some cheese for your wine

2008-06-09T12:56:00.000-07:00

So I don't write poetry well. It is always lame and cheesy. But sometimes it is just time to rhyme. Here is something I doodled during our meeting today.

If in the cold of winter, you only want some sun
or wish for a snowfall when spring has just begun
If you ask for russet leaves amid a hot July
but stomp on them with hate as autumn flies right by
I ask you then, my friend, to open all three eyes
to ponder some rolling hills, or a warm sunrise
not with the mind of sages who have hidden in dark caves
but instead with the childhood that your soul craves
To smell and taste as if anew
And your right to happiness will return to you.

Rx for Rajas*

2008-06-07T16:46:00.000-07:00

One of my chief challenges is not cowering from criticism. I don't do well with orders, and I don't do well with scolding.

So when someone wants to give me feedback...I know I screwed up.

Yesterday, I was humming along, happy to be working and have family here. And then I was informed of all the things I was doing wrong including making calls to my family (once every two or three days) and checking my personal e-mail during office hours (guilty) etc.

My first reaction was to shut down. My eyes glazed over, the little flame inside of me was being fed with each word she told me. I stomped out with my new assignment and immediately felt the hot, annoying tears. Head down, strides long, I made it to my room before breaking down.

How could they do this to me. Nobody ever trained me like other interns. I was thrown into this, I do more than they ever ask and faster than they ever could. I come up with ideas spontaneously that they use every single day.

And the b.s. continued as I made it to work. Secretly wanting everyone to know that I was mad. The irrational thoughts continued with force and I told myself I would only allow myself to be mad until midnight. And then I would put it to rest.

Luckily, I only made it to 4:30. I went to asana class with my mat and my fury. As predicted, the fire began to subside with every breath. By the time I finished my first sun salutation I was smiling. And by final relaxation, it never happened.

It was almost embarassing how quickly I became rational again. Every time we get angry, we know exactly what can make us happy. Corny, easy things like bubble baths, puppies and friends. But we choose to lock ourselves up in front of our computers or stomp around with dumbells on our shoulders, becoming wrinkled and tight from the anger.

It's nice to have therapy built into the schedule. Whatever comes up must be dispelled quickly since I have asana class, meditation or dinner with friends soon after. As my friend put it, "Karma burns at double-speed here."

In other news, we went to a meditation lecture followed by a folk concert in a venue called the "Chicken Coop." The name was not one of those cutesy names...it seriously used to be a chicken coop. I love Honesdale sometimes.

* Rajas = One of the three gunas (qualities) that we have inside of us. It is the quality of fire, passion, anything active and variable within us.

Cuz of the Cousins

2008-06-05T15:08:00.000-07:00

Manisha and Vivek came to visit me for ten days! I feel like I won a prize. Showing them around the institute and introducing them to people made me realize how at home I am here.

Seeing their reactions to the lifestyle and everything was very interesting. I forgot how confusing this life can be when you have never lived in an ashram setting or anything like that. I could tell that their thoughts ranged from "why is she here" to "man, this is sweet."

They brought me cookies and Maaza, which is awesome. But the truth is, the simplicity and even some of the austerity has agreed with me. I like having three simple meals at the same time every day. I like not worrying about high fructose corn syrup or what the heck is in my food. Nevertheless, chocolate chip cookies are more than welcome.

Currently, Manisha is lying on my bed face down in sleepy stupor. I can't imagine how she'll be after asana class, meditation and "five hours of selfless service," tomorrow.

Yay.