Genius

This is a story that I’ve been dying to tell, but just couldn’t quite get it to fit in anywhere. So I’ve decided that it can be its own entity, a little break from the usual blog entries.

There are points in people’s lives where embarrassing and awkward things happen to them, but somehow they manage to narrowly escape them. And when you do escape, you feel like the luckiest human to be alive. Even a slight sense of smoothness is restored, replaced by an “Oh, that wasn’t such a big thing” idealism.

Often these situations happen when you are meeting people for the first time, or getting to know relatively new acquaintances. Situations where explaining whatever predicament you’ve gotten yourself into only makes you seem spastic and anxious.

I feel that these situations happen to me more than they do to others, but I don’t know…maybe I’m just the only person that talks about them. Either way, I believe at this point that you know what I’m talking about. We have all been there.


I mentioned Kashmira and Dadi before, and the wonderful Sunday lunch where they took me out and made me feel incredibly welcome. On the way back to school in their little red car, I spied a mosquito in the back seat with me. It was doing its usual mosquito thing- flitting around and buzzing, inching ever closer toward my virgin arm skin.

I decide this is the perfect opportunity to test how quick my reflexes are. I lie in wait in the back seat, listening to Kashmira talk about the next wedding she is planning. Then, silently, when the mosquito is in my reach, I strike.

One handed I grab it, and Kashmira and Dadi in the front are none the wiser. Those famous words from Mortal Kombat echo in my head, “Finish Him!”, and I open my palm slightly- squish it with my other hand to make sure it is really dead.

Feeling rather accomplished, I open both hands so that I can flick the mosquito’s carcass off of me and into the oblivion of the dark carpeted interior. But I am not pleased.

My hands are covered, just covered, in blood.

It’s like the little fucker went for a Happy Hour on my body, drunk off of its indulgence, which explained its easy capture. But now I have bigger problems.

“Shit,” I thought, “They’re probably going to want to shake my hand when we get back to school. I can’t give them blood-covered hands. That’s gross.  They won’t want to have lunch with me again…”

These thoughts go ripping through my head. I wonder if I am being overdramatic. I decide that I probably am, but nonetheless, there's blood on my hands and that's not cool.

I look over in the back seat at my water bottle. Perfect. All I had to do was just slightly tip it in my hand, just enough to rinse the blood off. I slowly twist open the bottle, raise it to my palms, and-

CLUNK.

We go over a bump. Water goes everywhere.

I tilt the bottle back up quickly and look up to see if Kashmira and Dadi notice, but they don’t. They are talking about business. I look down at the floor.

Dammit.

The floor is not carpeted after all. It has one of those little rubber mats over the floor to keep shoes from getting mud everywhere. Water does not soak into rubber. They will wonder how all this water got here, perhaps even why I didn’t say anything. Even a casual “Whoops”, or a “Sure is bumpy!”, might have done the trick, but now it is too late. The road is smooth again. The bump has passed, unnoticed, not important enough to mention.

I slide my feet over the water. Maybe- maybe if I just keep it covered, it will dry before we get to school. We still have a little ways to go. I’ll just keep my feet over it and-

“Amanda, these are the pictures of the next venue. Isn’t it beautiful? Look at the fabrics!”

Kashmira is leaning into the back seat to show me some swatches of material. I clench my feet together and shift my weight, blocking the view of the water.

“Wow, it’s so pretty! You put it all together, right?”

“Mm-hmm.”

Make conversation. Distraction. Anything. You’re a genius, Amanda, keep up the good work. You’ll get out of this unscathed.

When Kashmira turns back up into the front seat, I slide the mat ever so slighty- into the sun. Where it cooks, simmers, evaporating the watery shame from its rubber face.

“So Amanda, what is your favorite subject at school right now?”

I flinch, covering the water back up again; but it is Dadi speaking, and he doesn’t turn around because he is driving.

“Oh, well, you know…I think I really like yoga the best.”

“Ah! Yoga. Is that so?”

This continues on for the next 10 minutes. I am on edge.

Maybe if it isn’t evaporated they won’t notice. After all, they have no real reason to look back here once I get out of the car…

But then I imagine Kashmira getting an important phone call from one of her associates. I am gone, dropped off at Tagore House, and she reaches into the back seat to pull out a glossy photo of the venue. Perhaps they are talking about flowers, or chair arrangements, any normal thing that wedding planners talk about. She pulls out an importance piece and her hand slips- dropping it into the rubber mat water. She will think, “How did this water get here? My photo- it is ruined! That was my only copy!” And the jig will be up, even though I won’t know it.

I think about these things all the way until we get to UH. As we pull up to my hostel, I finally look down.

It is gone.

…Mostly gone.

A few droplets remain, but other than that I am safe; unscathed, as I said before. Completely filled with that “Oh, that wasn’t such a big thing” idealism.

As I get out of the car to shake their hands (blood-free, I might add) I feel a certain sense of serenity. Everything has worked out. The sky has cleared, the fat woman sang, and I sped up a process of evaporation. My mistake is literally in the clouds.

I am a genius.

Sitar-licious

Okay, drop whatever it is you’re doing. If there are other windows open in your browser, if you brought this blog into the bathroom to read while taking a shit, or you’re just listening to music- you need to pause. Everything else about India has been small potatoes compared to what I’m about to tell you next:

I own a fucking sitar.

And I’m taking lessons. From an awesome man who barely speaks any English and has indentations on his hands to rival a construction worker’s. I’m serious. Guitar players get mad calices.; Mr. Singh has permanent lines on his fingers.

We started the lesson off by learning how to sit. You cross your right leg over your left and let the sitar rest on your left foot. You hold the weight strictly by balancing on your left foot and using the right thumb, because the left hand has to be available to move up and down the frets. When you strum down, it’s called “Da”, and when you strum up, it’s “Ra”. The scale is as follows:

Sa Ri Ga Ma Pa Da Ni Sa

I thought about making up lyrics to the tune of “Doe- A Deer” to help me remember. But it’s sort of hard.

Sa- A thing you use to cut
Ri- A word that means repeat
Ga- A noise that babies make
Ma- New Jersey’s word for “mom”
Pa- Another word for “Dad”
Da- Your Russian grandfather
Ni- It really hurts right now (from the way we have to sit)
And it brings us back to SA SA SA SA…

But so far it’s not very catchy, and few share my enthusiasm for this system, despite its obvious genius.

Because Mr. Singh doesn’t speak much English, he can’t really communicate what he wants us to fix. But we’ve got a system:

“So the strumming really hurts my wrist. Is there a way to make it relax more?”

“Wrong! Fix.”

“Oh…okay. I know. But how do I-“ But by this time he has forcibly removed your hand and fixed it for you, so it all works out.

I’m learning a lot about the different performance arts here. For one- they are all interconnected, and most revolve around Sanskrit. So while it is not a language widely spoken, practitioners of the arts, yoga, and Indian Literature buffs pretty much need to know it. Take for example my Kuchipudi Dance class. It is taught by a woman named Aruna, who has a beautifully dry sense of humor and has been dancing since she was 4 years old. Kuchipudi is heavily based off of Sanskrit, because there are different hand motions that go along with each word. By pressing your index and middle finger to your thumb and straightening the ring and pinky, you will make the sign for “The Face of An Insect”. By extending all fingers out (but keeping the pinky and others in a little bit) you’ve made the sign for “Lotus”. Combine these two into one dance movement, and the dancer communicates “The Face of an Insect that Sits on a Lotus”.

Kuchipudi is INCREDIBLY different from any style of movement I’ve ever done before, but sometimes you can rely on the similarities. Between all the stomping and hand positions (called Hastas), you have to keep your upper body very straight and rigid, like ballet. They even have first position (Sama Pada). Aruna is also very helpful:

“Amanda,” (Pronounced like A-mawn-duh, as I don’t believe the second sound exists in Hindi or Telugu) “Make your arms more like an ‘L’ shape. This is not Karate.”

“I know, I know. I can’t help it. When I have to keep my palms flat like this I just think ‘Ninja’”.

I decide not to explain why.

“All of you need to make your movement looser, easier…Are you ok? You all look so red when we do practicals. It makes me nervous. I know it is just your skin, but I feel like you will drop right in front of me.”

“No, Aruna, we’re ok. This is normal for white people.”

So between Kuchipudi, morning certificate yoga, and Yoga Theory and Practice, most of my homework ends up being physical. Which I’m perfectly fine with. There is a difference, however, between certificate yoga and TP Yoga. The certification class is all about physical discipline. We are expected to learn all the postures, the Sanskrit names for them, as well as how to get into and out of them correctly, and the benefits each one has for the body. Even though getting up at 5:15 Monday-Saturday and biking the 3.5 km to the Yoga Centre (British spelling, good ol’ colonization) is a bitch, it really does make you feel good when you’re done.

Then there is Yoga Theory and Practice, where our teacher, Yashoda, just makes you feel so darn good about yourself that you leave on a cloud. Yashoda the Yoda gives you inspirational words like, “If you meditate on your purpose in life, and ask the Universe to reveal it to you, it will be done.” Yashoda’s Yoga is more based on simultaneous breathing and movement, which I find ultimately more relaxing. We end each practice portion of the class with meditation, during which we try to “Detach ourselves from our body and our desires, which will eliminate Duhkham (Suffering)”. Then we move on to theory, where Yashoda will draw happy diagrams of people sitting in Lotus position, explaining the history and purpose behind the practice of Yoga. Needless to say, it’s my favorite class.

I only wish that my other classes could be as enlightening as that one; but unfortunately, I do not have many good things to say about the style of teaching in India. It is all lecture, memorization, and spitting back what you’ve learned. Almost no critical thinking, very little discussion. I have 3 in-class evaluations for each class that lead up to the final exams in November. For Anthropology of Religion (now my only direct-enroll class with actual students at UH) all I have to do is summarize an article and present it to the class. I’m not complaining- trust me, I’d rather do that than a test or an essay, but you get the general idea of what it’s like to go to school here.

The mosquitos are pretty terrible. We’ve all been investing in these large tubes of cream called “Odomos Naturals”. It’s citronella and aloe vera, one of the few products we’ve found that’s meant to be put on your skin rather than sprayed around a door or window. It works pretty well, but we still get bit. And when it gets bad we use…

Toothpaste.

White cream toothpaste.

That’s right folks, all the old wives’ tales you’ve heard are true. Just put some toothpaste on those suckers, curl up in bed, and the next day you will be itching considerably less and NOT having your limbs look like they’re covered in boils.

Fun fact: Did you know that mosquitos explode if your flex your muscles while they’re biting you? It’s true- try it some time. They can’t handle the sudden rush of blood and they literally explode. Just be wary, because it can be a little messy. I swear, the things I’m learning here…

But the most apparent part of India so far is the kindness of the people. I have two contacts right now- Suresh (man in Hyderabad) and a couple in the neighboring city of Secunderabad. The Indian people as a whole are so welcoming that they put southern hospitality to shame. Suresh offered to take my friends and I to a Hindu Temple two Saturdays ago, where he guided us through the idols, the offerings, the prayers, and everything else we would never have known had he not been with us.

And oh my God, this temple.

It was gorgeous, only a few years old. Mostly white with marble floors. I wished I could have taken some pictures, but it would have been rude, so I didn’t. Large temples housing multiple Gods and Goddesses are walked through and the idols are visited one at a time. Each temple always begins with Ganesha (the elephant), who is said to ward off all obstacles. From there on, you visit each idol as you please, watching as the priests do their ritualistic prayers. Many of them light incense and go around the idols in a circle while chanting. Then you are given herb water; you drink a little, and smooth the rest over your hair. The exception to this was the God of money (whose name escapes me), where we were given fresh sweet milk. Sometimes rice was sprinkled on our heads for purity, sometimes not. At all idols the priests had a flame going, where we wafted the smoke towards our third eye. Next, the priests perform the practice of Shataari, where they place a metal crown (called a kalasam) over our heads very quickly before moving on to the next person. This generally marks the end of your visit with that idol.

Outside of most temples there is a place to buy coconuts. If you buy a coconut and bring it in, it will be filled with flowers and given back to you (most places- some places also just keep the coconuts). These flower-filled coconuts are gifts from the Gods, and it is forbidden to put them on the ground or treat them with disrespect. But it is not all too formal:

“So Suresh, what do you usually do with these coconuts?”

“Oh, I’m not sure…most of the time I give them to my mother. She uses them for cooking.”

“Aha.”

Then there was lunch with the couple, Kashmira and Dadi. Kashmira plans weddings, and Dadi works with banking software development. They picked me up at noon on Sunday in their little red car, and took me out to an extremely nice buffet in Hyderabad. It was the best food I’ve eaten since I’ve been here.

The restaurant was soooo relaxing and Kashmira and Dadi were so kind that I immediately felt at ease. We talked about everything- they offered to let me stay with them for a weekend, and at the end of the day Kashmira handed me a bag full of snacks. They were probably the nicest people I’ve ever met before.

That’s at least one thing from India that America could really benefit from- they treat foreigners here as if we are all their personal responsibility. Everyone is a diplomat. They want to take you out for coffee, or let you borrow something you need, or give you food, help you through the train station and the airport, keep you from getting ripped off by a rickshaw driver. In America, we see foreigners and…eh, we might help…until we realize they can’t speak English. I have literally communicated using only hand signs and facial expressions with women on the bus to find out what the next stop is going to be. If you try hard enough, you can figure out what someone is saying to you. We just don’t make an effort.

Catch Up

It’s been a damn long time since my last entry, and a lot has happened. For one, my class schedule is essentially finalized, which means I am taking:

Kuchipudi Dance
Indian Philosophy
Yoga Theory and Practice
Anthropology of Religion
Indian Society

In addition to my academic classes, I’ve also enrolled in a 3 month Yoga Certification course, held Monday-Saturday from 6am-7am. Assuming I go every day and pass the 3 tests in October, I will be a certified yoga instructor when I get back to the states. So between two yoga classes, a dance class, and riding my bike everywhere around this huge campus every day, I better have the thighs and ass of a goddess at the end of this semester. I’ll be pissed if I don’t.

As far as life in the hostel goes, I am more than comfortable adjusted. Comparative to the rest of India, I have it VERY easy. I’m pampered here, really. Breakfast food in the morning AND English-style toilets?? This is practically heaven on Earth.

And speaking of food…the adjustment has been relatively painless. I will tell you that solid shits were a rare commodity here in the Tagore International House for awhile, but all is now well. South Indian food can be very tasty, it just takes some getting used to. A lot of lentils and potatoes, tons of rice. The only thing I’ve come across so far that I really HATED were Idlis and Wadas.

I tried to insert a picture, but blogger sucks. Go type them into Google images.

Deceptive-looking, I know. From the picture they look delicious. Some people like them, but to me they are tasteless, strange textured little bean cakes that should be abolished from the entirety of India. The sauce doesn’t really make it any better.

I’ve had a couple of really good dining-out experiences. The Chinese and Thai food here is amazing, of course. If I ever get tired of Indian I default to those. It used to be that when I was hungry, I was still craving things like grilled chicken sandwiches and waffle fries. Now when I’m riding home from class I think, “Oh man, I hope they have those cauliflower and noodles again today”. I gotta tell you, it’s really nice to be mostly adjusted to the food. It can also have it’s downfalls, though.

There is a Hard Rock Café here. The Hyderabad Hard Rock, if you will. I had the pleasure of dining there on Saturday night for my friend’s birthday, my first Hard Rock experience ever. I was really hoping for a salad; it’s been such a long time since I’ve had lettuce. But you still have to take your precautions:

“Excuse me, sir? Do you know if the kitchen washes the lettuce in tap water?” I say this very slowly, because while English is widely spoken in India, the accents are completely different and hard for both parties to understand. Sometimes I wonder if slowing down my speech actually helps them, or if it just makes them think I’m mentally challenged.

“Why yes madame, they do. They always wash!” And the waiter says this very proudly, like it’s a good thing, something comforting every white customer wants to hear.

“Ok…thank you.”

I ended up ordering a chicken burger with avocado and salsa. I’m sure the waiter told the bus boy to take it to the retarded girl in the gray top. (Consequently, that was the most meat I’d eaten collectively within the past two weeks, so afterwards I felt disgusting.) We all waited for our food while watching the waiters dance on the counter to the Village People. We sang along, too, but mostly out of a feeling of obligation. Every time it got to the chorus, the DJ would drop out the music so the crowd could sing

“Y-M-C-A!”

But the Indian crowd of the night just was not having it, so when the music dropped, all you could hear was a lone table of 15 whiteys singing along to a very homosexual rock song that, for some reason, maintains popularity even in the Eastern Hemisphere.

And SPEAKING of homosexuality…well, there isn’t any in India. No gays here, nope. Don’t exist. But if you want to find some Hijra, you’ve come to the right place.

I finally figured out their loophole. I kept wondering where the hell the gay community was in India, how they communicated, etc. A Hijra is not a gay man. It is a “third sex” (usually born physiologically male or sexually ambiguous), or a man who has renounced his lifestlye as a man. Hijras undergo a ceremony of emasculation (total removal of penis, testicles, etc) and live out the rest of their days as females. But, as I’m sure you can imagine, they are not especially popular here. Job opportunities for them are scarce, and most make their money by begging.

And there is a lot of begging here in India. It really breaks your heart. Especially when it’s children. And they’re never aggressive, they just smile up at you and tug on your shirt, or lightly touch your arm, saying “Madame, please, Madame”. The best thing you can remember in those situations is that a lot of beggars belong to rings. A lot of them don’t end up with the money you give them, it all goes to someone else at the end of the day. If you really want to help the poor in India, a charity is honestly the best way.

The class divisions between rich and poor are just as bad as you’ve heard. There are people living in tarp huts cooking their food with fire on the side of the road, while limousines with private drivers go by, taking men and women dressed in expensive American clothes to clubs and pubs in the richer parts of the city. Banjara Hills, the High-Tech area, these are all places that are very popular at nights and on weekends. I went to a bar for a Ladies’ Night the first Thursday I was here, and it was pretty interesting. The drinks are all very American. None of the people would be caught dead wearing Indian clothing. From 8pm-10pm all that plays is old music from the 90’s and early 2000’s, and they sing along religiously, knowing every word and some looking over at us, like they’re saying, “Yeah, we can do it, too.” Then when the dance floor opens, you’ll hear things you heard right before you left, except in super-trendy techno remix form… When it comes to American culture, India seems like it’s about 10 years behind. It’s almost there, but not quite… Most people with T-shirts in English have the ones that say things like,

“Sexy Girl”

“My Girlfriend is Out of Town, That Means It’s Not Cheating”

Or my favorite so far:

“Teamwork is Best! Together We Can Do It!”

That last one was actually quite endearing. I wanted it.

Also in Banjara Hills is the nicest movie theater I’ve ever had the pleasure to sit in. Movie theaters in India are much nicer than ours. The seats are more comfortable, and in all of them you can order food and have it sent to your seat. I recently had the pleasure of seeing Inception with Mysore Suresh (awesome movie, by the way) and he reserved a few backs seats for our party. I basically watched a movie in a Laz-E-Boy recliner. It. Was. AWESOME. I wish that American movie theaters had that option.

I’ve yet to see an Indian movie or a Hindi play here, but I’m jumping on it the first chance I get. I DID go to see “Waiting for Godot”, though, as weird as that it. It was being presented as part of a High School film festival that’s apparently pretty popular every year. The production wasn’t very good…but it was still interesting to see a South Asian interpretation of Western Theatre. I could barely understand the actors, however. This wasn’t just because of their Indian accents; they thought it necessary to try and attempt French accents, as well. Needless to say, it was almost unintelligible. The style was very Vaudeville-esque and overplayed, but I suppose I’ll accept that as an actual directorial choice, no matter how much I disagreed with it. And then again, I have to remember, these are young kids and non-professional adults. I’ll let you know once I see something professional.

As for the people I live with, they’re all pretty awesome. Everyone here is so laid-back and always up for an adventure. Intelligent, very into spirituality. An average conversation with the girl down the hall will end with,

“Ok, I’m going to go chant. I’ll see you at dinner!”

And that’s that. And it’s totally normal. No one questions it.

There is so much I’ve been learning from the people here. Not to mention my classes themselves. We learn nothing about Eastern Literature in school growing up, but we should. The Vedas, the Bhagavad Gita, all are things that Indian culture is based off of. It’s my goal to read as much as I can before I get back, and then keep reading even when I’m there.