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.
Nicely written. Jet lag has it's benefits. Do submit this blog to wash post and to others by making it public, and add some pics.
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