Francie's prayer is my dream; a dream that is happening at this moment as I sit at the Sambhavna Clinic in Bhopal, India, after yet another day of exploring India. This grant through the Center for South Asian Studies has made this dream possible, and for that I am grateful beyond what I can put into words. What once seemed like a vague possibility is now a reality that at times still has me pinching myself. I hope to explore some of that reality through this blog.

When I told my friends and family that I was going to India, they would ask how I felt. ‘Nervous' and 'excited' were the two emotions most often suggested, but ‘numb’ felt the most accurate. Though all the books I’d read, movies I’d seen, and stories I’d been told about India had built it up in my head to be a thousand things at once- inspiring and heartbreaking, filthy and yet impeccable, welcoming yet daunting- I couldn’t imagine how it would actually feel. I therefore deadened myself to expectations, and waited for that first glorious moment of MY GREAT ADVENTURE.

Some things I anticipated turned out to be accurate: yes, there are rickshaws, yes, I am stared at when I walk down the street, and yes, there are abundant mangoes. Never in my wildest dreams, however, could I have accurately predicted the exact sensations. And I suppose that’s what I came here to get- the precise scent of diesel, dung, and sewage that stings my nostrils as the rickshaw whizzes by… the eeriness of dozens of pairs of eyes peering through the fence around the clinic, watching my every move as I perform the most mundane tasks- eating, putting on my shoes, twiddling my fingers in my hair… the indescribable bliss of cool mango juice running under my tongue. There have been times in India I’ve felt gay (laughing over one of my many Hindi mishaps with Sambhavna’s custodian, Jameelabee), and times I’ve felt sad (watching yet another man with missing limbs pick through garbage on the street). I’ve been truthful about my life in America and about my intentions in India, and I’ve been a liar (of course I have someone to pick me up at the Bhopal station, I nervously fib to the men crowded around me on the train). True to Francie’s prayer, I’m trying not to lose any bit of living.

Regardless of my best efforts to get the most out of India, though, I sometimes have to continue to numb myself out of what I suppose is some kind of emotional self-defense mechanism. On one hand, the extreme poverty on Bhopal’s streets and the absolute lunacy of the politics surrounding the Bhopal gas disaster could throw me into a downward spiral of despair if I let it. The train ride from Mumbai to Bhopal as the solitary female in a compartment full of middle-aged men could have thrown me over the edge with fear.

So though in some ways I’m still numb, I’m loving every minute of my experience here. I’ll delve into the details later.

For the project I have chose to complete I was sent to survey two to three villages to understand the impact that primates have on the humans and vice versa. We (two fellow Wildlife Institute students and I) picked three villages to survey in the course of two days. In the end, we were able to obtain a total of 54 interviews. The questions we asked concerned things such as people’s attitudes towards the monkeys, how much and what kind of damage is done to their crops and orchards, whether they were ever physically attacked by a monkey and whether they feared an attack, as well as whether they were aware of any diseases that monkeys may carry. Many people at first found it interesting and even funny that we were only interested in knowing the problems they have with monkeys because generally the biggest problems they face are not from monkeys, but rather from bears, wild boars, and porcupines. Regardless, we found from these interviews that monkeys are in fact pests (94% of the respondents thought so).

There were several aspects of the interviews that I expected. For one, monkeys are a major issue for these people. They subsist primarily off of the crops and orchards that they themselves grow and when there is a common pest (such as monkeys) who constantly destroy they crops this results in major losses. People reported their losses in crops and orchards due to monkeys to be anywhere from 10% to an astounding 100%. Second, the people do not receive any compensation for these losses. The government compensates for damage due to leopards, bears and wild boars, but not for monkeys. As expected, we heard endless stories from the people we interviewed about how they filed complaints in regards to these losses but received nothing. One woman even reported to us that she was advised by the forestry department to kill the monkeys if they were causing such a tremendous problem. Finally, there was little aggression experienced from the monkeys. This is expected because these surveys were conducted in a rural area, and not in a city where the monkeys are reported to be highly aggressive and often attack people.

While many things were expected in the course of our interviews, there were a few surprises. I found it alarming that only two out of the 54 respondents were aware that monkeys carry diseases. Even though most people responded that they had never heard of any one being bitten, I believe this is something that should be highlighted to these people in the future.

Ksenija

On returning, I remarked to a friend that the Centre looked like a slightly modified version of a ritzy American conference center. He responded, "Almost. It’s actually a cheap imitation." I was taken aback by his bluntness, but with some reflection I have come to the conclusion that he is basically right.

Why is it that the Indian elite choose to construct a conference center in an Anglo-American style in a country with an equally rich architectural tradition? Why is it necessary to keep outdoor tile footpaths—which will never be touched by bare feet—free of the dust that is found literally everywhere in Delhi? I believe the answer lies in a pervasive culture of imitationism in India. To exemplify this point further, consider the eating establishments at the Centre. My friend and I, not being members, were directed to a fairly basic food court (which included, among other restaurants, "Western Willy’s"). The members—essentially the social and intellectual elite of Delhi—however, get access to the exclusive "American diner". A friend of my friend extolled the quality of this diner’s hot dogs and hamburgers. He seemed genuinely surprised when I told him that these are pretty lowbrow dishes in the US.

I am suspicious of this trend for several reasons, not least of which is that the concomitant imported institutional arrangements do not fit perfectly in the Indian context. For instance, about a week ago I found myself in Croma, an electronics chain store run by the Tata group. For all intents and purposes, a replica of Best Buy. However, I quickly learned that this outlet was out of about one third of its stocked items. How viable is the supermarket business model in a country where most manufacturing is carried out in unregistered factories employing 10-15 people, and where a large proportion of shipping takes place on thelas and cycle-carts? Or, for another example (which has some relevance to my research here), does the car culture work in Delhi? Since the 1980's, the number of cars in Delhi has more than tripled, but the infrastructure to support them simply does not exist. For one, there is no parking space in Delhi. Cars tend to park illegally on street-sides, contributing to the already ridiculous level of congestion. The municipal authority has adopted the band-aid approach to this problem (with some exceptions, notably the excellent Delhi metro system) of building a network of flyover highways while continuing to provide subsidized loans for purchasing cars. The already taxed busing system seems to have been largely ignored.

I should clarify: I am not criticizing India for failing to live up to some Western-centric developmental telos. Rather, I am concerned that Indian society has itself internalized this teleogical point of view at the expense of forming appropriate—and no less valid—institutions for the unique context here. I should clarify further that my distress is not limited to the realm of development. The imitationist vein of Indian culture runs much deeper than that.

To explain more precisely what I mean, I think it would be best to start some more examples. If you walk around Connaught Place (the central market in Delhi), you will not see a single brown mannequin. They are uniformly white, and usually blonde. For another, a younger boy once tried to chum up to me by explaining that, "American girls. I like them. They are good girls." Yet another, on the train ride back from Agra of which I wrote previously, a young man took a lock my hair in his hand and infomed me, "Aapke baal... is beauty" (I had to laugh at that one). It is episodes like these that lead me to conclude that this imitationist social phenomenon is not merely a manifestation of admiration for Western economic and political supremacy—though it certainly is that. It extends even down to the aesthetic qualifications of races, which is not even to touch upon the cultural significance of the English language. No, this is a deep and broad cultural inferiority complex, and in that respect these are "cheap imitations".

Visiting today, it is difficult to believe that just over sixty years ago there was a broad-based movement to eject Europeans. And in this era, when the type of Indian leaders who frequent the India Habitat Centre are falling over themselves trying to attract foreign capital, I can't help but feel like what they might need more is a little pride.

I'm not sure if it's as hard to make and execute a plan in Delhi as it seems, or whether it's just me (though honestly, I suspect the latter). Recently, I decided to take a day trip out to Agra--I don't think any self-respecting tourist in India can avoid it forever. Anyway, I made this decision around midnight the day before, so I had no chance to book train tickets or anything in advance. I figured I would show up a bit early and buy my ticket there, but it turns out that it's not quite so easy.

I arrived at the train station around 8:00, and the train I wanted to catch was leaving at 8:45. By the time I finally got on a train to Agra, I had missed not only this train, but the next one as well. All in all, I spent over three hours in the station. There is virtually no English signage at the station (a bit of an oddity in Delhi), and the organization of the place is still baffling to me. For instance, lines I was standing in would suddenly dissolve, and everyone would run (literally) to another ticket window where a new line was being formed. I could see no apparent reason why this was happening, nor any forewarning when it did. At some windows, there was no line at all: people would just form a crowd, and unless you were willing to physically push people out of your way there was no chance of getting a hearing.

Eventually, I did make to Agra. My time there was relatively uneventful. I saw Agra Fort and the Taj Mahal, and both were very nice, but I don't have much of anything else to say. My trip got more interesting on the way back.

This time, I went straight for the window that I had finally bought my ticket from before, but I was informed that it was impossible to get one there now, and was redirected to another window. This experience was not atypical, so at the time I thought nothing of it. At this second window, I did manage to get a ticket, and I was pleasantly surprised by how cheap it was. Turns out there was a reason.

I had bought a ticket for the so-called "general class", which is short hand for "the coach where we sell as many tickets as possible regardless of how much seating is available". Coming as I did only a few minutes before the train left, these were the only tickets still available. Moreover, the coach was as full as it was ever going to be. For the first leg of the trip (a little over an hour), I was packed in so tightly that I literally couldn’t put both feet on the floor. Moreover, in my rush to get on the train, I hadn't had time to buy a bottle of water, so I ran out just after the train started moving. After the first stop I bought a bottle and had a little more standing room, though I was still unable to sit until the last twenty minutes of the four hour trip.

Also, I believe that this was the most out of place I have ever looked anywhere in India so far, which is definitely saying something. From what I could understand with my (very limited) Hindi, the people there were quite amused at seeing a Firang on that train. I can hardly blame them. Some soreness aside, though, it was quite a fun little trip.

It wasn’t all easy for him to establish the Grameen Bank and he wasn’t very knowledge in banking system like professional bankers. But his passion and dedication worked him through to what he has accomplished so far in poverty alleviation. The fact that how he is an ordinary person, nor a brilliant banker or one of richest people in Bangladesh, inspired me even more to be passionate on the issues of poverty and assured my reasons to be in India. A few people asked me on the plane and at the airport, “What brings you to India?” Although many think it’s so cool that I’m going to India and a donor of the Center of South Asian Studies kindly granted me $3000 for this wonderful opportunity, some of my friends repeatedly tell me how they don’t understand why I would go to India. Dangerous, dirty, and poor. That’s what they have in their mind when they think of developing countries. But I see them quite differently. In those countries, I see courageous, hopeful, innocent people with a lot of potential in themselves.

South Korea was one of the poorest countries, incompatibly poorer than other developing countries, just sixty years ago in 1950s. However, it is now the 11st richest countries with the world's largest shipping industry and everybody knows many Korea companies like Samsung and LG. How could this happen? How this “Miracle of Han River” happened? Are Koreans just supermen? Do we (Koreans) have some special abilities that others in other developing countries do not have? I don’t think so at all. The only thing we were left with after the bloody war was passion, and this made it possible like a quote says, "a strong passion for any object will ensure success..." Although many people suffered, somewhat the government successfully mobilized the economy and people to bring the country back together. This miracle can happen again. Korea, Taiwan, China, Singapore. A number of countries has done it, and this also can happen in India, too, in a greater scale than any other countries. There should be a change that can mobilize and stimulate despaired people to live more hopeful life. This cannot be done by themselves, but can be done by some dedicated educated people like Professor Yunus and his student like they have done with innovative Granmeen system of microfinance.

This was one step forward for poverty alleviation and is leading to the right direction. However, there is a long way to go. Recently, there have been more notable opposing perceptions on the effectiveness of microfinance as a means of targeting poverty alleviation. An increasing number of scholars assert or agree that microfinance does not reach the poorest of the poor. How can we, or rather how can I really help the poorest of the poor, who are dying for not having 20 cents a day while my dad spends more than $40,000 on me every year for the education and living costs? On the very first day, very first few hours in India, on the way to the guest house from the airport, I already have witnessed people who sleep on the street next to a pile of rubbish, families living under a small tent on the street, and a gathering of teenagers at 2 AM. I’m not educated enough, I’m not rich, I do not have any power, but I came to India to experience the reality of poverty and write it in my senior thesis, which is on the topic of “Under what conditions, microfinance programs the most effective alleviate poverty?” So that I can share my experience and my thought on the issue with people, who don’t have this kind of opportunity that I have. Hopefully, I can use this month productively enough so that I will have more practical answers to my question. Hopefully, the microfinance institution, Hindustan Lvt Ptd., where I will be working from tomorrow, will graciously share some information and their thought on the problems of existing microfinance programs. I would be thrilled if they are willing to help me to conduct some field-research. FIGURES CROSSED. Again, BIG THANKS to the donor of the CSAS Summer in South Asia fellowship for this wonderful opportunity!

It seems that whenever I am in the states for a long time I forget to appreciate little things. One of the most frustrating aspects of India for me has been just how inefficient almost every aspect of (my) life is here. Making an international call, something my family does on a daily basis in the states, is a problem here in Dehradun. On the day I wanted to make a call the international lines were not working and the internet is not fast enough to support an adequate skype connection (i.e . I was disconnected several times and could barely hear the other person on the line). The power goes out so many times that it is difficult to keep track and while I am fortunate enough to be in an institute that has its own generator that kicks in as soon as the power goes out, I wonder about the people who live outside this institute that do not have this luxury. I do not know what I would do if the power went out for a longer period of time and I could not use my fan.

The wireless router on the second floor of the hostel, conveniently attached to the wall: https://mfile.umich.edu/?path=/afs/umich.edu/user/k/s/ksenijas/Private/2010_0625AA.JPG

Caught in a traffic jam one night coming back to the Institute with one of my friends I wondered how people manage to drive here. I thought Americans were aggressive drivers, but road rage is child’s play in the United States compared to the driving I have witnessed here. It seems that everyone is in such a hurry that any time the opportunity presents itself people will try to cut the person driving in front of them off. It’s easiest perhaps to pictures the driving with reference to a funnel where there is one small opening in the front and many cars trying to fit into that one opening. Even my friend who was born and raised in India her entire life commented on the traffic congestion and how there would be much less if people only drove in lanes. I agreed with her that it would be much more efficient, but the people are used to driving this way. But not only is this sort of driving inefficient, it’s also dangerous. That same night we witnessed an ambulance trying to get through this mass of cars, the drivers did not seem to heed to the ambulance (mostly because there was no where for them to go). I do not know the real reason why the ambulance was called, but someone’s life could have seriously been on the line. This is where the real danger lies.

One close call: https://mfile.umich.edu/?path=/afs/umich.edu/user/k/s/ksenijas/Private/2010_0624AC.JPG

One week after writing this, I do not feel much different. While I have become more acclimated I cannot say that I have become more used to any of these things that I discussed. I normally do not like the “things could be worse” mentality (mostly since, well, things could also be better), but I feel that this is one way that I will be able to get through the following few weeks.

Ksenija

And yet, the not-so-wired information systems here are hardly nonfunctional. Actually, it's quite interesting from an outsider's perspective to see how differently information is distributed here. To continue with the same example, signs visible from the street perform a much more comprehensive role than in the U.S. Whereas there a sign exists basically to broadcast what business is in a building in some visually appealing way, in Delhi you will often also find the owner's mobile phone number, hours of operation, credentials, specialties, etc. It seems that Delhiites actually store a good deal of this information in their memories. I recently stumbled upon a podiatrist in a barely reachable back alley of a local market. Later I inquired how anyone would ever know to look there in absence of some sort of public record of the business. I was informed that locals would just ask around, and someone would know where it is.

Another case that is particularly relevant to my work here has been the relative unavailability of books. Amazon does not deliver to India, and Flipkart (something of an Indian equivalent) leaves much to be desired. Moreover, the prices of many English-language books would be prohibitively expensive for most Indian salaries. I am fortunate to live within walking distance of several of the best social science libraries in India (one is in CSDS), but none of these allow you to check books out. However, I recently learned of an interesting practice. If you manage to find a book in a library, you can take it to a copy shop inside the library and have a copy of the entire book made for around 80 rupees (less than two dollars). You can even have it bound with a cover for another 100. Given that you are reasonably comfortable flaunting copyright laws, it's really quite an effective system.

I should note, however, that not everything works so smoothly. A well-informed friend of mine recently informed me of a veritable crisis of information in higher education. All across India, it seems, there are universities in which it is possible to obtain a Ph.D. essentially without studying by giving bribes, personal favors, calling in caste privilege, or similar corrupt practices. These "doctors" will then obtain professorships that require them to publish to be tenured. Since they are non-experts pretending to be experts, they naturally write absolute tripe (I've had the unfortunate experience of reading some of this—that means you, Basudeb Sahoo). However, there are publishing houses that exist solely for the purpose of publishing this glut of works that nobody else will touch. The publishing houses then bribe university librarians into buying the books. Apparently, some libraries are stocked primarily with this sort of material. It's a fully functioning corrupt industry that exists to perpetuate the availability of bad information. It's sad to think that these books would be the entirety of the exposure some students get.

If I had to explain I suppose I would say basically, people of all colors and creeds came together to celebrate Pir Vilayat Khan's initial love for humanity that inspired the Hope Project. In this way, the ceremony was a more glorified version of what happens at the Hope Project every day. Hindus, Muslims, Christians, and others work together to serve the disadvantaged community members of Nizamuddin.

In regard to my project here, progress has been made. I have acquired about 20 minutes of extremely valuable video footage of interviews with a few of the self-help groups that comprise the micro-finance institute here at Hope. By that, I mean Kamayani(the student fellow from GIEU India this year) agreed to ask the women my questions in Hindi and translate for me. And more importantly the women themselves agreed to answer very personal questions about their lives on film. And then had the nerve to thank us for asking them.

The remaining $4000.00 USD of the Goldman Sachs fellowship that former Michigan student Ruoda Yuan won (and was mistakenly written off as a donation to the Hope Project last year)is also finding its way out of the nebulous that is Indian Accounting Policy Regarding Foreign Currency for Non-Governmental Organizations...

By that I mean, it has been decided by The Hope Project and the members of The Navara Group [student led international development organization I am involved in at Michigan, (also brainchild of Ruoda Yuan)], that the money will be invested here in India by the Hope Project and the returns will be split into a revolving fund used to benefit the women of the Micro-Finance Sector, and a fund that remains under Navara's control for future investment.

But what to invest in? Mutual Funds, micro-equity, individual entrepreneurs in Nizamuddin? For now your guess is as good as mine. Our work is cut out for us,and I am excited to make this happen over many hot afternoons, and many more hot cups of chai.

On another note, three weeks have completely escaped from my calendar. Although I make sure to write a brief summary of every day's activities, successes, and frustrations, each day I find myself a little less sure of the India I understood one year ago, of the India I understood one week ago, of the India I understood yesterday.

Throughout the weeks, while I have been trying to understand the increasingly complex socio-economic inequalities that permeate India, I think the only thing I have begun to understand is that I really will not ever understand.

So now what, you may ask.

If I had 10 rupees for every time I have asked myself the same question, while the familiar sound of unfamiliar Hindi jargon resonates around me.

Yeah, so now what? Ab kya?

I guess I'll have to sleep on it.

Based on my reconstruction of the journey after returning, I believe I overshot Red Fort by another good mile or two. At this point in my life, I really should have learned not to trust my sense of direction too deeply anywhere, let alone in Delhi, where street names are often not marked, there are relatively few straight roads, and construction and closures in preparation for the Commonwealth Games are virtually ubiquitous. In any case, I eventually conceded defeat and turned back. Returning, I somehow ended up on a raised highway that had no exits near the guesthouse where I’m staying, so I had to overshoot my destination once again. Now five hours or so into my afternoon of supposed tourism, I defiantly boarded the metro toward Jantar Mantar and arrived just in time to spend the last 30 minutes before it closed there in the failing light and threatening rain.

Still, I would be hesitant to call the time I spent walking through the backroads of downtown Delhi a waste. I got a view of city life in Delhi that I suspect many visitors could easily avoid—intentionally or otherwise. For instance, I saw a hub of humble bike garages on a dirt road in the shadow of some Mughal archaeological relic. Each consisted of essentially a blanket with tools laid out on it in rows. Local bicycle riders and cycle rickshaw pullers apparently came here for replacement parts, small tune-ups, a new paint job, etc. I even saw one shop that seemingly specialized in autorickshaws. I suspect that if you know where to look, you can find most services in Delhi in small informal markets like this one.

On a more somber note, at any point on the banks of the Yamuna, I learned, you can also find small masses of homeless squatters, I assume so located for the availability of water. They are scattered wherever there is shade or sometimes apparently at random. The more fortunate have a cot and some scant possessions. Most do not seem to own much more than a blanket to sleep on. There are many children and disabled people. It was a tragic sight, and I won't pretend that it was even close to exhaustive.

While I don't want to relegate the daily deprivation of the millions-strong masses of urban poor in India to an "opportunity for growth" on my part, or worse, an "interesting experience", my unplanned excursion into the underside of Delhi certainly was both of those things. Witnessing it up close can easily make you feel shame at the privilege you enjoy so casually. My hope now is that this "opportunity for growth/interesting experience" can be used productively somehow. That is, that I don't shelve it away in the back annals of my mind where I keep most memories for use as stories at some later date. I suppose, though, that this will be up to me. On that note, I think I will sign off. Until next time.

The weather in Delhi is great. The new AC in the Guest Room at the Hope Project has been rendered useless the past few nights. Light rains have driven the temperatures down from 108 F to 85 F. This is possibly the best news I will ever write in my life, anywhere at anytime. Ha.

The first week at Hope Project went extremely well. Got to hang out in the Social Work room and help fill in account books for the 52 different Micro finance groups. The most interesting part is the differences in what each woman is able to save. Some save around 100 Rs a month (2 dollars) Some save 1000 Rs a month (20 $). Needless to say I am curious and very excited to venture out into the basti tomorrow with Zebabaji and Gulafshabaji to sit in on group meetings and have the chance to film some interviews.

I got sick on Sunday because I ate a pati that had been sitting out for a day. Fail. Big Big Fail. I have been sick since. Chris Luebbe (faculty leader from GIEU trip to India this and last year) didn't get sick though. Luebbe left last night. Sad. He is a great companion, and I am grateful to him for being the one to first expose me to India, and also for his contributions in helping me apply for the fellowship that allows me to sit here now and write this. Even if I have a cold sprouting black boogers (pollution!) and my stomach is screaming. "WHEN CAN I STOP DIGESTING THIS STUPID (but also delicious!) PATI!? " I am feeling better though. Pepto Bismol and rest to the rescue.

Will be a great day tomorrow. About to embark on my nightly stroll, which is really just an excuse to buy 20 rupee ice creams from the various ice cream wallahs perched around the basti. HUZZAH for ice cream, superb weather, digesting the Pati, an excellent first week and a half here at the Hope Project, and being back in India.

Phir Milenge! - see you later friends.

missy

I arrived in Delhi airport at about 10:00 at night and took a cab to CSDS's guesthouse. Or rather, I tried to take a cab to the guesthouse. Upon arriving where I believed the guesthouse to be, it quickly became clear that it was not going to be that simple. So, the cab driver and I drove around the area for an hour in the dark before we found someone who knew where it was. I've since learned that, at least in this part of Delhi, a building is not necessarily on the street where its address is. Only nearby. In any case, I found my way there eventually and, having been awake for the better part of 36 hours then, tried to get some sleep.

Adjusting to the work culture here has been interesting. I have a problem that has certainly never been an issue for me in the US: I can't seem to get my supervisors to give me any work! Having an unplanned chai break is no problem, but doing work seems to be. Another faculty member recently told me that the best way would be to corner my supervisor over lunch and pester him, so I suppose I will try that soon.

That's something I should mention too. The people I've met here have been been consistently and incredibly helpful. Even if I don't really ask, people don't hesitate to give me a lengthy explanation, to call over a friend, to draw a map, to show me a store, etc. to assist a clueless अम्रीकान.

So, for the time being I will continue to adjust to the new setting (learn the etiquette, where things are, how not to get ripped off--something I haven't accomplished once yet, I think). Next time I check in, perhaps I will have some more to report about my internship.

I really can not describe the hospitality his family showed me. I was given a room to myself and his mother even prepared a meal of chipati, dal, and lassi for us when I arrived at 2:00 am. I was thinking, Wow, my mother would never have gotten out of bed at 2 am to prepare a meal for a friend of mine she had never met. I was beyond grateful, especially because I was hungry. I slept well that night and spent the rest of the day with his sisters who are my age. We watched a tv show called Chak Chak Doom Doom. It is like a judged dance show for VERY talented Indian children. I enjoyed that show very much, it brought a lot of smiles and laughs to everyone, which was a relief from the struggles of the language barrier (which is especially horrible because my friend's family is Punjabi, and they speak Punjabi rather than Hindi). After this we ate lunch (dal..so delicious) but I came down with a pretty bad headache. As soon as I said this , my friends mother was kneeling on the floor next to my bed, massaging and applying pressure to my head. Nothing beats homemade remedies. I felt better within 15 minutes. We spent the afternoon on the roof terrace helping my friends parents sweep and clean and tend to the plants, mostly because the weather was unbeatbale in Delhi. I was thoroughly surprised. After our work, my friend's father returned with Chocobars (chocolate ice cream bars!) for everyone. We sat on a bench (a bed made of woven seat belt material) that apparently was 30 years old. I spent one more night at my friend's house and woke up very early the next morning to accompnay his father and Uncle to their workplace (a tourist office in Connaught Place, the central part of Delhi) There, I finally was able to see my friend again. He is always busy working. We split a cucumber tomato sandwich for lunch, we had the signature cup of chai, and I got in a rickshaw and was off to Nizamuddin and the Hope Project. That sums up Days 1 and 2 so far and I must say I am finding India to be even more intriguing than when I left it. It is still full of challenges, distractions, dust, and dirt, but I am seeing it with my eyes only this time, not in the presence of a group, and I can already tell that I am going to learn more about this place (and even more about myself) than I ever imagined. Feeling a bit tired now, it was a long, hot (but successful) day at Hope. I plan on going out into the Basti (neighborhood) and buying a small bag of chocolate chip cookies for 10 rupees. I will eat them tomorrow with morning chai. More to come later. Good night friends.
Missy

It took about 5 seconds at the train station to realize things were different here. First sign: there were no signs in English. Second: lthough I hadn't thought it possible, the staring I received from others intensified to surppass levels I experienced in Delhi. Of course it did not help that I was betraying my foreigness not just by my western clothing, but by walking back and forth trying to identify the exit.

As I lugged my bags over the uneven ground, signs numbers 3 and 4 greeted me immediately. Sign 3: it was horribly hot, hotter in fact than any point during my stay in Dehli, and it was only 7 am. Sign 4 (and this was the most shocking): there were women in abayas (long black dresses often worn in the Gulf countries of the Middle East) and even niqabs (face coverings) here. Not just one or two, but many. My rough estimate is half. Half!! I saw only one hijab in Delhi and that was at the airport.

I put aside my shock to hire an auto-rickshaw, a whole crowd of drivers gathered. “Sambhavana clinic”, I said. They all stared at me and a couple shook their heads. “Sambhavna charitable aaspital” I said, shamelessly inserting an Indian accent. “Haan Haan” one said knowingly. “100 Rupees” he added. “50?” I said, recalling having been told by the volunteer section of Sambhavna’s website that this was the appropriate price for the distance. “100”. I shrugged and got inside. (That interaction summarizes my price negotiation skills.)

As my rickshaw driver zoomed through the streets, I fell in love with Bhopal. It’s rolling hills offered rare glimpses of whole patches of the bright city. The streets were lined with small shops and stands, and towering over it’s largely 2-4 story buildings were minarets. Some emerged awkwardly out of one-room square mosques and some hovered over large, beautiful structures typical of classical Islamic architecture.

I had read that Bhopal was a “City of Lakes” and in another instance a “City of Mosques”. As we drove in, I could clearly see, to my delight, that it was a city of both.

After about 20 minutes of navigating wide, crowded main roads, my rickshaw driver made a sudden right turn into what seemed like an alley. He maneuvered through narrow lanes lined with brick and mud one-room homes and unfinished buildings. I stared outside the auto as it bumped past old men and women who sat outside their one homes on plastic chairs, children on bikes and a few goats, one of whom seemed incredibly pregnant. Just as I was thinking this was probably some strange, cross-city shortcut to the clinic, which in pictures had appeared to me surrounded by openness, we whirred through a gate revealing a magnificent structure consisting of two towers of red brick with shuttered roofs. The towers were connected by a courtyard with a fountain and sitting area of wooden benches. There were already several families of patients sitting around waiting for the doctors and staff to arrive. Sambhavna felt like an oasis of architectural beauty and structured repose, in the midst of a desert of incomplete housing and half-paved roads. It’s feng shui-like style provoked a sense of the traditional, organic therapies in which the clinic's founders so ardently believed. It was at once ascetically appealing and soothing.

After being shown to my room, I explored the clinic on my own as the clinic’s staff filtered in for the 8:30-3 work day. Seeing that I could barely open my eyes or formulate a complete sentence, Shehnez, the volunteer coordinator told me to take some rest and come back to speak with her about my research and volunteer work at Sambhavna. Back in the volunteer dorm, I struggled to sleep through the 110-degree weather.

At 1:34 I awoke to a vaguely familiar sound. “Allahu Akbar, Allahu Akbar” a voice in the distance called. As I listened in awe to the Muezzin make his way through the supplications of the call to prayer, I instinctively repeated the words after him just as I had been taught to do since childhood. In his slow and rhythmic repetitions was the peaceful collision of this world with my own. The familiar asserted its self loudly in the foreground to an unfamiliar setting and place. I was at once comforted and exhilirated. In that moment, it dawned on me that if I let it, Bhopal would offer me a different experience than the largely academic one I had anticipated.

There's so much to say about my experiences here, so let's start at the beginning. I arrived in Delhi late at night and caught a cab from the airport to a pre-booked hotel for the night.

As we drove into the city at about 1 am, I got a rare glimpse of New Delhi minus the traffic and hustle bustle of the day time. On that first night, I noticed something that would become a staple of my India experience. India is full of striking contrasts between seemingly opposite things. On the sides of the well-paved, wide streets lined with luscious, mature trees men sleep in empty cycle rickshaws. On the right side of the road there is a tiny clinic whose sign is missing a few letters and whose windows seemed to be covered with metal bars. A few minutes later, on the left hand side there is a a private hospital whose building is nothing less than a glimmering monument of steel and glass. A seemingly homeless man in a lungi stands directly below an advertisement featuring a fair bollywood star in Western clothing holding a digital camera. My cab driver texts while driving.

The next morning, I left my hotel to wander for a day around the city. My plans were to see Jama Masjid and the Red Fort and anything else I could reach. As I walked around a market nearby the hotel, auto-rickshaw drivers followed me around and offered to take me to various locations. Eventually, I warmed up to one of them who offered to take me to a nearby market for only 10 rupees. When he said market, I imagined some sort of open-air ordeal or a series of shops. Instead, he took me to a tourist gift shop where, as I later learned, he would get a commission on whatever money I spent.

Being a terrible bargainer and even more terrible at turning people down, I barely made it out of the shop 2 hours later with the clothes on my back. I asked Bishal if we could go to Jama Masjid or Red Fort, he said it would take too long and traffic would be terrible. Instead, he offered to take me to some nearby temples and sites that I would enjoy. Curious to see what he had in store and fatigued after my first encounter with the persistence of Indian salesmen, I agreed.

The next couple of hours were a literal whir, as Bishal zoomed past monuments, temples, and government buildings, I snapped pictures and admired the glories of Indian architecture from the back of the Tuk-Tuk. (I will post those pictures later today.) Although I never made it to Jama Masjid or the Red Fort, my day of riding around New Delhi gave me a glimpse of the vastness and diversity of Indian tradition and culture as well as the nuances and quirks that arise where this heritage merges into modernity.