Sunday, July 31, 2011

Need A Reason?

In the first week I spent in India, Ramadan started and kept my fairly Muslim-friendly neighborhood awake and smelling like delicious food from sunset to sunrise. Days later, my colleague came to work in a sari and with mehendhi on her hands to announce that Theej (North Indian festival for the coming of monsoon rains) was being celebrated. Just when I put up a Facebook status commenting on how festive India is, consumer-friendly Friendship Day (is this even necessary?) took over every nearby school, college, and teenage hangout. Last weekend was Rakshabandan or “Rakhi” (celebration of the bond between brother and sister) and Independence Day (Indians also celebrate freedom from the British Empire). Next weekend is Janmastami (I don’t even entirely know how to explain that but the celebration of it involves men creating human pyramids by climbing on top of each other to break a pot of butter that is hanging between buildings...) and the weekend following that is Eid. That same last week is Paryushan (the most auspicious week of the year for people of my religion – Jains).

Now, seeing that India is a democratic country that is extremely diverse in religions, cultures, languages, and types of people, that is strongly attached to the separation of church and state, AND whose independence is as recent as three generations ago, this means each major religion deserves equal recognition and each patriotic holiday must be respected. That comes out to THREE LONG WEEKENDS and at least six holidays that I am aware of in the month of August. Who knows how many more have happened?

Basically, there is no shortage of reasons to celebrate in this country.

I did not pick this month to work in India on purpose, I swear.

Friday, July 29, 2011

Pacheez vs. Pachaas

Thought I scored a deal today...

"Kitna?"
"Pacheez"
"Nai, trees"
"Pacheez kafi hai..."
"Nai, Trees!"
"Aacha... Baitjao Madam."

This is why I need to invest in some language classes.

Thursday, July 28, 2011

Auto, Metro, Cycle Rikshaw...NBD

Commuting has a whole new meaning in this country. It’s not just getting from point A to B through road traffic. No, here it is people traffic. There are too many people everywhere. This means running out of autos, pushing into metros, and sharing a cycle rikshaw with a stranger:

It takes three forms of travel for me to get to my office. First, I take a autorikshaw to the metro. This costs me Rs30 (it should cost me less but 1. I can’t bargain, 2. I can’t disguise my foreignness, and 3. It doesn’t kill me to give a hardworking autorikshaw-vala an extra fraction of a dollar). It took me a practice run with my masi (in the monsoon rain for an extra challenge) to figure out how to hail an auto and to then fix the price.

At the metro, after a security frisk, bag check, and swiping my “smart card,” I push my way into the women’s compartment. I can’t handle to co-ed compartments. Indian men have no shame in undressing you with their eyes. Actually, Indian men and women. Women stare at me like I am the dirt between their toes. I have no idea why. Maybe I over-interpret stares. Finally, 30 min of hanging on to the bars on the metro while being packed like a sardine, I reach Gurgaon. The greatest thing about the metro is that after the women pack themselves into it when really there is no room whatsoever, they start hissing and sighing loudly when they see other people doing the same thing to them. Basically, if you are uncomfortable with being touched this is not the place for you. One of the funniest moments on the metro to date has been an Aunty yelling in English: “Excuse me. Please stop acting like you are such high society. It’s very congested in here for all of us.” That made one idiotic college girl stops sighing every time someone nudged her.

Final leg of my commute is the cherished cycle-rikshaw. This out of place innovation is a cycling man acting like a horse in front of a chariot. The first day I sat in one I felt so bad for the man. In general, I am a lot taller/bigger than any of these girls here. Me along with my backpack must have been one of the hardest trips of his life. (Oh, I overpay here too but that’s because I want to be in my office asap and the longer you wait the more you sweat profusely. 10am in Gurgaon is no joke.) The cycle rikshaw does an excellent job of weaving through the traffic of cars and buses in the morning. MG road literally does not move in the morning, so if you aren’t in an AC car, you better be moving towards your destination somehow.

*Edit*

The cool thing about India is that if you are late for work during the morning rush, you and about 50 other million people are as well. This means people are ready to share your rikshaw, hitchhike in your car, or pile on top of 10 people into a 3 seater auto. In the method of sharing a rikshaw recently, I met a girl named Deepa. I was trying to politely ask the impolite rikshawwala to take me to Cybercity when this girl came running up to him and just sat in the rikshaw. She motioned me to sit with her. She seemed fairly harmless and this was about my 10th rikshaw attempt so I did not protest and sat down with her. On our way to the office I decided to just ask her who the hell she was... afterall she was sitting in my rikshaw and having to bump into each other while slowly putt-putting along the road to work becomes awkward in a matter of seconds! Turns our Deepa works at one of those big Cybercity companies, is my age, is from Kuwait, and lives near my house. She gave me her number and told me to call if I ever want to go shopping in Delhi. Then we split the cost of the rikshaw and went our own ways. I haven't seen her since but we do sometimes text each other. It was such a surreal rush-hour experience.

Cybercity

How can I describe this place?

I think I should start by saying that despite my degree in International Health, which is largely focused on the underprivileged, illiterate, and underserved populations of the world, and the fact that I am currently living in the developing world to help those people, there is nothing “developing” about the location of my practicum placement in Gurgaon, India.

Futures Group International, headquartered in Washington DC, has stationed their Indian office in a massive corporate complex filled with major international and American conglomerates like Google, Deloitte, Accenture, KPMG, Oracle, Canon, and Bank of America. Fittingly, this area is called Cybercity. It is a maze of glass skyscrapers full of suits in a hurry to get from point A to point B. I’ve seen other offices in the building and they look like seas of cubicles. I feel like I am working on K Street in DC or in Tysons Corner, VA – only everyone is Indian. (Actually though, isn’t everyone Indian at these offices in the US too?)

Gurgaon (pronounced Goor-Ga-Oh with a nasal inflection at the end) is a “satellite city.” Meaning it is a newly built extension of New Delhi that was bought from farmers by rich land developers (most prominently a company called DLF) for to build international branches and outsourcing centers in India for these well-known companies. The entire city of Gurgaon is speckled with similar mini- cities of offices like Cybercity, a few massive malls (also full of American and European shops), and gigantic billboards. Most characteristic about this part of India is the lack of infrastructure and planning that comes with the speed of building. While Cybercity must hold tens of thousands of employees and hundred of cars – maybe thousands of cars to be honest – there is a single-lane exit and a single-lane entry. As you can imagine, this makes for the most disastrous of traffic jams… WITHIN the office complex. Each day Cybercity’s parking patrol plays around with opening a new gate and closing an old one in an effort to find the most efficient system for the morning and evening rush. Honestly, after seeing absolutely no improvement, I think this is just a means for the guards to make their jobs more interesting.

Being placed in such a building, of course my office is beautiful. As you walk in, there is a modern reception area and library, a massive photograph collage of women and children from all parts of rural India, a circular fishbowl conference room, red walls, rows of glass “cabins” (executive offices), colorful cubicles, and two more gigantic conference rooms. The office includes a printing area that houses the attendants. We have about 5 office attendants. More colloquially, these are servants that act as coffee boys, printer boys (yes that was completely odd to me as well), and miscellaneous-I-need-help-with-mundane-tasks boys). It’s like what we call Admin, bought at dirt-cheap labor salaries. I have a faint feeling that my highly coveted position of “intern” is a step above the “printer boy.”

I’ll end with the kitchen. This place is fully stocked at all times: a party-size set of China, a fridge, a sink, a microwave, some new age see through fridge that is not really a fridge and I’m scared to put my food in it, a shelf specially designed for everyone’s lunch boxes, and two tables to eat on. Forget your usual coffee station and kitchenette. The kitchen that is probably as big as a conference room - which actually makes perfect sense because Indians really value their lunch break.

More on that later.

Tuesday, July 26, 2011

Not in Kansas Anymore

It’s 8am, Tuesday morning, Indian Standard Time. I am sitting in my new home; a charming three bedroom flat in the colony of Malviya Nagar in Southern Delhi. Here I’m sipping chai, poppin' Malarone, and trying to look busy while my roommates and house staff start their usual morning hustle and bustle.






This house is ornate with statement pieces of Indian mirror work, statues of deities, mud pots, and elephant motifs.The walls are vibrantly colorful and each bedroom is furnished in what looks like, but probably is not, antique colonial wood furniture. There is a fancy parlor area with stiff imperial chairs and a cozy living room equipped with a low Bedouin-style sofa. A balcony that overlooks the Malviya Nagar Main Market runs around every room. I have yet to venture outside, but from my balcony I can report that Delhi mornings are springy and fragrant of the rain to come.


So far, so good.


For those who do not know, I am here on a grant to intern for the third and final phase of the Innovations in Family Planning Services Technical Assistance Program (for the acronym-minded public health world this is USAID’s IFPS

-ITAP III); a joint endeavor of Futures Group International, USAID, the Government of India, and JHSPH Center for Communication Programs. I will be working with them for five weeks on behavior change communication strategies for family planning, reproductive health, and nutrition for rural women in the states of Uttar Pradesh, Jharkhand, and Uttarakhand. This project will complete my Masters program and grant me my degree in International Health from the Johns Hopkins Bloomberg School of Public Health.


I arrived in India this morning at the ungodly hour of 3AM after an exact 24 hours of traveling. My family was warned over and over again of how unsafe the city nights are for a single girl. Thus, my father arranged my lease to stipulate that my roommate must pick me up from the airport and take me back to our house. Before arriving, I felt awkwardly needy to have her get up so early for me. However, when I was met with the chaos that is India outside of Indira Gandhi Airport, I was so relieved to see my new roommate, Neha, jumping and waving at me through the masses of people.


(Here I must note that when she picked me up, she was wearing one of my favorite Indian innovations: the casual harem pant. With how quickly I entered this foreign city, I had no time to allow the significant changes I will experience in the next five weeks to sink in. Neha's appearance was a much needed “I don’t think I’m in Kansas anymore” moment.)


Neha is a 30-something, divorced, single woman, living on her own, running this house, and working as a woman's rights researcher for the National Commission for Women of India. In that description alone, she is a fierce anomaly among Indian women. We quickly bonded over the fact that we are both working to improve the lives women in this country. She seems to be independent, responsible, and friendly. I think we will get along well.


We soon arrived at her “society;” the term for a gated block of houses here. Feeling ambitious, I told Neha to go back to sleep and that I would take advantage of the early morning to unpack my bags. She looked at me doubtfully but complied.


I should say, overly ambitious.


Jet lag’s demons had a good laugh as I PTFO-ed within ten minutes of opening my first suitcase.


Hours later, I woke up starving, disoriented, and confused about the many voices coming from the kitchen. Too shy to wander out of my room, I attempted the half-sandwich I had bought in transit in Dubai. Disgusting. I laid down again and could hear Hindi spoken in the kitchen.


My stomach protested loudly.


I grudgingly made way into the kitchen. As if it was completely normal for an unknown, raccoon-eyed, and clearly in bad shape girl to stumble into the kitchen at 6AM, my cook asked me: “Baby, what do you want for breakfast?” Only, not so simply. It was really “Baby, breakfast mein aapke liye kya banadega?”


My well-composed answer: “Hi.”


Since the day I was old enough to comprehend that I am, in fact, the stereotypical ABCD (American Born Confused Desi), I have struggled with how to best handle my ability to understand everything said to me and inability to respond. Half of my sentences end with “blerghhh mein gahh please kya…? ....help.” This babble makes for a very confusing and frustrating situation for all involved parties. So, to avoid just that I initiated a moment of unfaltering eye contact with my cook, hoping maybe that she possessed the ability read my mind. You never know, old Indian women have all kinds of Vedic powers.


Fail.


She continued her “Baby? Beta?” questioning. Luckily, second roommate, Jyotsna, editor at a major publishing house here, heard her questions and my confused grunts/hand gestures and offered to play the role of amused translator.


End result: chai, some ginger, make it thin, cheeni kum (less sugar).


Second moment of Dorothy-esque-realization: The cook then brought my breakfast to my room while I was in my bed. (Pinch me.) I wanted to say my exuberant thanks. Only, I didn’t know how to say it. I opted for the Indian neither-up-nor-sideways head bob rather than mind reading this time. I think that sufficed because she smiled. (Maybe she was laughing…) I look forward to the game of charades my cook and I will play every morning.


Being in no condition to work right away, I am using today as my assimilation day. My masi (my mom’s sister) is flying here from Bombay to help me out for a few days. And by help me out, I mean, seriously hook it up. She will be here in an hour or so. I can’t wait to see her. She is my Bombay-raised, high society, never-wears-the-same-sari-twice, straight out of Bollywood, jolly Indian aunt who has acted as my second mother all my life. She thinks my fluency in baby-talk Gujarati is a riot while I think her impression of Americans (basically a John Wayne cowboy drawl) is beyond ridiculous. We keep each other very entertained.


I can’t wait and I should get up. My bucket of hot water is ready. Time to take a shower...




...Not kidding about that bucket.