Archive for the ‘MSID India’ Category

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Mary: Diwali

October 31, 2011

Happy Halloween! It feels so strange to be in a country that doesn’t celebrate one of my favorite holidays. I can’t even convey how much I miss seeing carved pumpkins, scarecrows, weird fake spiderwebs with little plastic creatures strewn about them and strangely dressed kids roaming the streets at night!  Although I did just get to celebrate the most important holiday of the year here in India, called Diwali. Hannah and I returned from out internship (more on that later) for a few days to spend the holidays with my host mom in Jaipur. Diwali is also known as the festival of lights and for good reason – the festival itself it seen as the triumph of good over evil and starting a new year with high hopes and good intentions. Everyone decorates their houses quite extensively with dozens of strands of colored and white lights and tiny little oil lamps are placed around the outside of the house, lining walkways, gardens and fences. Our neighbors on both sides have little kids in the family and they were setting off incredibly loud and crazy fireworks for hours on Divwali night; the whole city was in fact, Hannah and I camped out on the roof for a few hours, watching the never ending displays. Honestly, it would have put most American fourth of July shows to shame! (Except my dad’s annual show, of course.) My host-sister took Hannah and I on a driving tour of the city as well – all of the big malls compete with each other to see who can decorate their buildings the most elaborately. It was really crazy to see these huge, six or seven story shopping malls with hundreds and hundreds of lights strung about! There were tons of other families out looking at the sites as well, most of them dressed in the finest saris and shawls, taking family portraits in front of the displays! We also had a lovely family dinner with all sorts of special Diwali sweets and Hindu prayers during a special puja. It felt like experiencing an American Christmas in a strange, altered reality, viewed through the the colorful, brilliantly lit, shape-shifting lens of a kaleidoscope. All the traditional elements of a festive season were there – family coming together, good food, decorations – but they had taken on a distinctly Indian adaptation. It was a wonderful experience and one I will not easily forget! I’v included a few pictures from the celebrations below! I’ve also put in a few pictures (the ones of the temples and country landscapes) from my new internship site!  To better explain what I’m doing with my new internship, stay tuned.

100_1394 100_1409 IMG_0466 IMG_0467 IMG_0468 IMG_0475 IMG_0478 IMG_0503 IMG_0520 IMG_0521 IMG_0538 IMG_0549 IMG_0566 IMG_0578 

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Emily: Growing a bead in Udaipur

October 23, 2011

All anyone talks about over here is food they miss, movies they’ve seen, what every moment before INDIA was like. Not allowed to mention Chipotle, like the place is a dead grandmother or something.  Giving the benefit of the doubt, I think, “maybe the sugar sweet, bad breath words that puff from pink lips are to keep REAL thoughts from forming sentences?”  beat around the bush so much, the bush may as well not exist.  just beating the minutes by.  easier than speaking of UNCERTAINTY – what am I doing here?  easier than the CERTAINTY of REALITY.  white-haired child outside your gated home, but leftovers go to the Cow.  Powerful people see moving pictures of white-haired men holding children with bloated bellies on top of garbage piles, but Harry Potter is more realistic.  more a part of their bubble situation.

Living in my own “intellectual” bubble, how can i pop it?  I’ve got a program to follow, don’t stray from the group.  try to reconcile with my conscience – shopping trips stimulate the economy?  not just a tourist?  can i be anything but?  try to talk to locals – five minutes later you’ve got their number, a marriage proposal, and there’s a couple hundred images of you bouncing between satellites and Indian cell phones.  just another “girl friend” for them from AH-merikka to show off – another notch on their camel skin belt, trousers, collared shirt tucked in.  so much for being vegetarians – not because it’s healthier for the body, the planet – consecrated by Religion, gods forbid it be Cow flesh.  forget trying friends with the girls – dark eyes dart or stare, silent. maybe they’re screaming inside too? a moth landed on my shoulder.  reminds me of home.  he doesn’t stay long.  miss him already, wouldn’t mind a friend close in proximity to be intimate with.  privileged, i don’t need to spend my hours trying to keep my stomach full.  idle time and idle hands, full of thoughts.


got a boyfriend and a beard to keep the creepers off me

first day of “work” tomorrow.  been settled into Jagran Jan Vikas Samiti for a few days now.  great place, has vibes like my grandma Barb’s home.  days move like minutes, i’m thankful. nothing really accomplished in these hours.  dozens of hands in this place, what work is being done?  couldn’t tell you yet.  i have Hope that visiting villages will introduce me to people. to relate with, work with.  issues i can address.  sounds like i’ll be updating websites, collecting data, researching, writing grant proposals.  should get used to not SEEING progress?  expecting little, hoping for much more.  will make the best of it.

enjoy allen ginsberg, Dec. 1962, Varanasi, Uttar Pradesh

What vanity? What possible divine
blessing on all this Politics.
What invocation beyond Millions
of Votes for 1960 Hopes
What rat Curse or Dove vow slipt from my hands
to help this multitude
Smirking at the ballot box, deceived,
sensible, rich, full of onions
voting for W.C. Williams with one
foot in the grave and an eye
in a daisy out the window

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Emily: Farewell, Pinky

October 17, 2011

Take this kiss upon the brow!
And, in parting from you now,
Thus much let me avow
You are not wrong, who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day,
In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream.

I stand amid the roar
Of a surf-tormented shore,
And I hold within my hand
Grains of the golden sand
How few! yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep,
While I weep – while I weep!
O God! can I not grasp
Them with a tighter clasp?
O God! can I not save
One from the pitiless wave?
Is all that we see or seem
But a dream within a dream?

-E.A.P.

and as I am in India  I’ve got to include some Rabindranath Tagore…

“The butterfly counts not months but moments, and has time enough.”

Ahem, & now for a mouthful of my own less beautiful words…

A few bold stars poke their faces through the haze to listen to the spastic base drum and crackle of fireworks, the splash and clank fuss of nighttime chores, and myriad of beepity-beeps and honk-honks answering the crickets’ chorus far below…low and sweet, a bluegrass tune weeps from Mary’s windowsill, softly whispering ”goodbye, old friend.”  Jaipur lends it no ear, not the slightest hesitation to acknowledge these rolling stones singing farewell, collecting their moss as they prepare to disperse…

Seventy seven days well spent, one more in my pocket, waiting to buy up what it can; the final hours of class time, a trip to the post office, one more family dinner, and perhaps a few hours of sleep.  Beyond that?  Nothing is certain.  “Arrangements have been made” – for me that will mean an internship with a relatively well known NGO (Jagran Jan Vikas Samiti) based in Udaipur, southern Rajasthan.  Where will I be staying?  In the city?  In the middle of nowhere? What will I be doing?  Your guess is as good as mine, so I venture forth expecting nothing and hoping for a little more than that – hoping I’ll be of good use to a small part of the world soon.

Mere Parivar (minus Ayush, Taron, Anol, Vlinda, etc.)

Jaipur, you’ve been a real treat.  I shall miss the familiarity of my neighborhood, the crowded streets of Raja Park that I’ve learned to navigate with ease on my quests for snacks and endless sights, and the sanctuary of my host family’s home…coming home to a sitting room filled with the enchanting sitar’s voice, home-cooked meals warm on the table or packed in my Tiffin, the chuckling Moti (our family servant) flip-flopping round the house on hyper-extended stick-like legs, the refuge of my bedroom and the privilege of a private bathroom – all mine for the puking in.  The repetitive, pointless lectures, the ass-grabbing and cat calls…the easily identifiable Piss Wall……these I might not miss so much.

Perhaps in a week or two I’ll venture back…celebrate the lights and spirit of Dewali with my humble hosts…join them for a family wedding in Agra…if time and new authority figures permit.  I wager time will be made and authority figures will be charmed, if necessary.  Two months snapped by, and in retrospective whiplash all I can muster is that “life is short, but long enough.” In six weeks and some odd change the first semester will be over, zip, ho gaya, finito. I’ll be halfway through my Indian pie….er, samosa.  In the words of Ramaji, “wha-teva, wha-teva.” Christmas in Kerala, New Years in Goa?…ancient ruins, crowded cities, white sandy beaches and maybe a couple surf boards?…aw yea, I smile and nod.  Two and half months have gone by and I’m still not entirely sure I’m awake.

If this blog has left you sourly unsatisfied, perhaps this will hit the spot? – a short celebration of the adventure I’m about to embark upon…

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Mary: Gitanjali

October 12, 2011

There once was an Indian man named Rabindranath Tagore who won the Nobel Prize for literature in the year 1913 for his collection of poetry known as “song offerings” or Gitanjali in Hindi. I just finished reading this wonderful work of art and wanted to share a few excerpts with you all. As W. B. Yeats once said about Tagore’s work, I too feel that “These verses will not lie in little well painted books upon ladies’ tables, who turn the pages with indolent hands that they may sigh over a life without meaning, which is yet all they can know of life, or be carried about by students at the university to be laid aside when the work of life begins, but as the generations pass, travelers will hum them on the highway and men rowing upon rivers. Lovers, while they await one another, shall find, in murmuring them, this love of God a magic gulf wherein their own more bitter passion may bathe and renew its youth.”

XVIII.

Clouds heap upon clouds and it darkens. Ah, love, why dost thou let me wait outside at the door all alone?

In the busy moments of the noontide work I am with the crowd, but on this dark lonely day it is only for thee that I hope.

If thou showest me not thy face, if thou leavest me wholly aside, I know not how I am to pass these long, rainy hours.

I keep gazing on the far-away gloom of the sky, and my heart wanders wailing with the restless wind.

XXXV.

Where the mind is without fear and the head is held high;

Where knowledge is free;

Where the world has not been broken up into fragments by narrow domestic walls;

Where words come out from the depth of truth;

Where tireless striving stretches its arms towards perfection;

Where the clear stream of reason has not lost its way into the dreary desert sand of dead habit;

Where the mind is led forward by thee into ever-widening thought and action—

Into that heaven of freedom, my Father, let my country awake.

XLII.

Early in the day it was whispered that we should sail in a boat, only thou and I, and never a soul in the world would know of this our pilgrimage to no country and to no end.

In that shoreless ocean, at thy silently listening smile my songs would swell in melodies, free as waves, free from all bondage of words.

Is the time not come yet? Are there works still to do? Lo, the evening has come down upon the shore and in the fading light the seabirds come flying to their nests.

Who knows when the chains will be off, and the boat, like the last glimmer of sunset, vanish into the night?

LX.

On the seashore of endless worlds children meet. The infinite sky is motionless overhead and the restless water is boisterous. On the seashore of endless worlds the children meet with shouts and dances.

They build their houses with sand and they play with empty shells. With withered leaves they weave their boats and smilingly float them on the vast deep. Children have their play on the seashore of worlds.

They know not how to swim, they know not how to cast nets. Pearl fishers dive for pearls, merchants sail in their ships, while children gather pebbles and scatter them again. they seek not for hidden treasures, they know not how to cast nets.

The sea surges up with laughter and pale gleams the smile of the sea beach. Death-dealing waves sing meaningless ballads to the children, even like a mother while rocking her baby’s cradle. The sea plays with children, and pale gleams the smile of the sea beach.

On the seashore of endless worlds children meet. Tempest roams in the pathless sky, ships get wrecked in the trackless water, death is abroad and children play. On the seashore of endless worlds is the great meeting of children.

LXIX.

The same stream of life that runs through my veins night and day runs through the world and dances in rhythmic measures.

It is the same life that shoots in joy through the dust of the earth in numberless blades of grass and breaks into tumultuous waves of leaves and flowers.

It is the same life that is rocked in the ocean-cradle of birth and of death, in ebb and in flow.

I feel my limbs are made glorious by the touch of this world of life. And my pride is from the life-throb of ages dancing in my blood this moment.

LXXX.

I am like a remnant of a cloud of autumn uselessly roaming in the sky, O my sun ever-glorious! Thy touch has not yet melted my vapour, making me one with thy light, and thus I count months and years separated from thee.

If this be thy wish and if this be thy play, then take this fleeting emptiness of mine, paint it with colours, gild it with gold, float it on the wanton wind and spread it in varied wonders.

And again when it shall be thy wish to end this play at night, I shall melt and vanish away in the dark, or it may be in a smile of the white morning, in a coolness of purity transparent.

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Mary: a red fort, a white tomb, and a blonde girl

October 10, 2011

The second weekend following our return from Dharamsala, the group was itching for another adventure. We had all enjoyed a little respite in Jaipur with home cooked meals and chai three times a day, but a short break from school work and a change of scenery was definitely now in order. As we were all in the process of deciding which direction to head out in, I heard that my roommate from Richmond, Georgia, who also happens to be studying abroad in India this semester in a program in New Delhi, was planning to visit the Taj Mahal that weekend. Hoping against hope that I might get to meet up with her, I decided to accompany the group of 8 other students going to Agra. The rest of the students in the group were all newbie students – none of the other pre-session girls I was used to travelling with, so I was excited to get to know them all better!

We set out at 5 am on Saturday, taking a train to arrive in the city by around 11 that morning. It was the first time any of the new students had ridden on the train so I felt a bit like a mother duckling shepherding her chicks around as I took them to the right platform and helped us all find our seats. We arrived in Agra without any hassle and lassoed up a few auto rickshaws to take us to our hotel. Driving through the streets of Agra, I was pretty unimpressed. It was just as noisy and at least twice as dirty as Jaipur and seemed to be catering primarily to tourists, not surprisingly. But our hotel was very lovely, with a rooftop restaurant which offered my very first view of the most famous monument to love ever created – the Taj Mahal. One of India’s ancient Mogul rulers built the Taj as a memorial and tomb for his favorite wife and was later buried there himself. I must say that despite my poor first impression, the Taj made the trip to Agra completely worth it though at present I’ll save my description for a few lines down the page.

After lunch and a short rest, we headed off for an afternoon of site-seeing. Our first stop was the Red Fort, Agra’s second most popular attraction. Though not as impressive as the Mehrangarh Fort in Jodhpur in my opinion, the Red Fort is certainly a beautiful palace, with many stories of great historical interest milling about its corridors. The inner courtyard garden was my favorite part, both because it was utterly gorgeous and also because the little chipmunk-squirrels found all over India were so used to people there that they would come and eat right out of your hand! They were positively adorable creatures and left me quite smiley and giddy and seriously wishing I could bring one home. The Red Fort also offers a stunning view of the Taj from a distance, made doubly attractive by the wide river flowing alongside the two monuments.

We then left the fort and made our way towards the gleaming white beauty in the distance. After waiting in line for about 15 minutes and paying a rather exorbitant foreigners fee of 750 rupees compared to the Indian nationals fee of 20 rupees, we had finally reached the outer gate to the Taj. Despite having seen countless pictures and even catching distance glimpses from the top of my hotel and the Red Fort, nothing could have prepared me for the splendor of the striking white marble rising up before my eyes as I walked through that gate. You could palpably feel the collective admiration emanating from hundreds of people, both Indians and foreigners alike, gazing up in wonder. I felt very small and very young sitting in the shadow of its great and layered past. We spent about two hours wandering through the surrounding gardens and making a few trips inside to see the two tombs resting in the dark interior. We watched the sun set tranquilly from the top steps and only made our way out when it started to get dark. All in all, it was a truly brilliant experience and I am so glad I’ve been lucky enough to see one of the many great wonders of this world! We spent a relaxing evening at the hotel, sitting on the roof eating delicious Indian food, having a few beers and getting to know each other a little better.

The next morning we set out to explore some of the more well known bazaars around Agra, though the shopping was sub-par compared to Jaipur. We finally decided to get some lunch and I very enthusiastically suggested we head to the McDonalds in the center of town (anyone who knows me in the slightest may find this very strange and out of character but you will soon why). Walking into that small, unassuming McDonalds in Agra I made perhaps the biggest spectacle of myself I have yet to make in India. Imagine, please, two very enthusiastic, very noticeably American (one of whom is very blonde), very squealy girls rushing towards each other at full steam ahead, colliding in the middle of a very crowded restaurant and proceeding to jump up and down vigorously while hugging. Now add in happiness vibes multiplied by a million and you have the reunion of George and Marv (aka Georgia Sills and Mary Brickle). It was wonderful beyond words to see my lovely Richmond roommate Georgia! We sat and exchanged stories for about half an hour as her group finished eating and it made me so exquisitely happy to see a familiar face that I was walking on sunshine for the rest of the day. The train ride home that evening offered another chance to talk to people I was missing in my life as my family called and chatted for a good hour. Apparently at some point during the ride home that evening there was an earthquake which had an epicenter near Sikkim, which is considerably far north but apparently you could feel it all the way in Agra so I’m guessing the motion of the train kept me from noticing anything. When we finally made it back to Jaipur we were all exhausted and had to be up early the next morning to head out for a three day field trip with school so after Rama-Ji stuffed me full of food and sent me upstairs I very graciously climbed into my bed, noting with a smile how nice it felt to be able to call someplace in India home.

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Emily: Trainride daydream

October 8, 2011

It was no shock to anyone that Emily had neglected her blog for well over a month.  Always jumping around…quite like a flea.  And in her defense, quite like a flea with a pedigree pup on her plate; too enthralled with wandering through the thicket of fine hair, too busy burrowing beneath the scales of skin to sip on sweet nectar, and often too frazzled by the jarring movements of her host to sit back with pen and paper and reflect…and more often than not, this flea thought…”I am just a simple flea that no one should take interest in, and having no thumbs I can’t begin to imagine how I might use a pen…”  Scholars maintain that the written language of Fleagli has been lost for generations; in fact…however, I digress…

Oct 2nd, 2011. On another sweaty afternoon, Emily found herself on another train.  Sharing a compartment intended for eight passengers with twelve other adults and one baby (rather doped up on opium), she was wedged between a rusty arm rest and a rather plump woman in a sea green sari.  Her arm accumulating the sweat of the lumpy lady, the family opposite her showing no sign of relent in their staring, she attempted to escape.  Out the window, past the plethora of squatters shitting on the side of the tracks, past the bicycles and rickshaws accumulating at the railroad crossing, her mind transported her through time and space…to fresh air…on a mountain side…

Dharamsala.  Waking up to feeling cold was a stark contrast to nearly a month of waking up drenched in sweat.  This couldn’t possibly be India anymore – the humidity of August was absent.  No horns sounded in the distance.  And where was the thick air salted with exhaust and the shouts of early morning vegetable sellers?   Outside the drafty door a pony shuffled around the cement slab trying to shield itself under the eaves of the tin roof.  Pellets of rain pounded, the symphony nearly deafening.  Careful not to disturb the girls sleeping on either side of her, she was silently thankful of her impulse purchases from the misty mountain town of McLeod Ganj just a couple nights before – tugging the wooly green hat around her ears and zipping up her blue rain jacket she simply sat and listened and was.   Three days passed this way – timeless and fleeting all at once.  She scaled giant boulders, ate orange mushrooms gathered from the forest, watched monkeys wrestle under wispy clouds that rolled through the mountains, wandered up the rocky path to Triund’s snowline (absent of snow this time of year), tiptoed past cow pies while spying out her out space to donate to nature, sliced vegetables hauled up the mountain by donkeys, gazed up into the blanket of black and stars as the campfire crackled by her barefoot, mud-caked feet.  The hike down (much easier than the six hour ascent) was made bittersweet by the promise of a possible glimpse at His Holiness the 14th Dalai Lama for a mere twenty rupees.  Chance would have it that on the very five days that she happened to be in Dharamsala, he was giving his first public speech that summer.  And luck would have it that as she and her comrades sat amongst the crowd of dreadlocked hippies, red-robed monks, and worldly travelers that she spied him walking by.  His speech, translated from Tibetan to English, Spanish, Portuguese, and Hindi on the fuzzy frequencies of tiny radios was…nothing special.  Or so it seemed at the time.  He spoke of compassion, of asceticism, of meditation and the path to a happy mind.  It wasn’t until she was wandering away that it struck her – his ideas didn’t inspire her to change, because they were thoughts that pervaded her mind for years.  It was a blessing to feel so at home in the company of strangers in a strange land so very far from home.  Simply being was a blessing.

Eyes stinging with exhaustion, head aching, her mind fluttered back to the present.  The compartment reeked of baby poo and the eyeballs ogling her seemed to have multiplied.  Sixteen hours of train ride remained before she would be delivered to the holiest of India’s holies: Varanasi.  Toting the backpack her sister had given her when she left the States a mere two months ago, she climbed to the third tier bunk of the crowded compartment.  Nestling her ukulele against her chest, she drifted off to dreamland to frolic with the friends of yesterday on the plains of nowhere at all.   The jumping flea would reflect on her journeys again soon…maybe on another train ride…in another town…soon.

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Mary: Tales from Dharamsala

September 9, 2011

I’ve been trying to write about our epic Dharamsala escapade for the last few weeks but I just kept getting (surprise) side-tracked. For the most part though, things have been pretty quiet in Jaipur since we got back. I’ve mainly just been focusing on school, which we have from 9:30 to 4:30 every day, and reading in my free time. They’ve really amped up the Hindi lessons! We’ve finally transitioned away from the English transcription system we were using to read and learn new vocab words and now we just write everything in the script! I’m incredibly excited because it finally feels like I’m making significant progress with Hindi but it’s also a lot harder than I expected! It feels so strange to struggle through each individual word, slowly pronouncing the sound each letter makes. It really is like being in kindergarten and learning to read all over again. But still, it’s so thrilling to finally be able to read and write in such a strange and beautiful new language!

Anyways, I’m mainly writing this post to share the story of my journey in Dharamsala! I shall start off my swash-buckling account of the small hill station in the northernmost reaches of this vast and wondrous country with the simple and beautiful truth – we didn’t really do much of anything that week. Though I am sure a collective note of confusion may now be heard rising up from the befuddled peanut gallery, allow me to explain. Fact: the city of Jaipur is exhilarating and fills me each and every day with a sense of awe and admiration for the multitude of ways that humans have come to call this planet we live on home. Unfortunately, I believe that in that week leading up to our departure for the north, I had come to experience firsthand a little phenomenon, all too familiar amongst foreign travelers to India, known as “sensory overload”. I was getting a bit, shall we say, frazzled. I was more than ready for a little vacation to somewhere that wasn’t exceedingly hot and wasn’t plagued with the constant blare of traffic horns. Regrettably, the roughly 30 hour rickshaw-train-rickshaw-train-bus-ricksaw ride it took to get from Jaipur to Delhi to Pathankot to Dharamsala was, quite frankly, miserable. I don’t think I’ve ever had feelings of being dirty, sleepy, hungry, and grouchy combine in as great a magnitude as they did that first evening in Dharamsala. To top it all off, as we wandered the streets looking for a hotel, it was dark and pouring down rain. However, good news is that when things start off going that poorly, they can really only improve. We finally found a hotel, negotiated a reasonable rate for the six of us, had a hot meal (complete with carrot cake and chai) in the upstairs café, took pleasantly warm showers and crawled into very comfortable beds and immediately fell asleep.

The next morning, all troubles of the day before were negated and negligible upon our first look out the window. It was indescribably magical. I actually had the feeling of being in some other world where prayer flags wave invitingly from the forests, tiny little women beckon me forward to feel the yak wool shawls they have just finished knitting, monks with shaved heads draped in curtains of brightest saffron orange meander through the streets and the clouds normally drift down to say nameste and hang lazily about all morning. It was also on this first morning that I had one of my most memorable experiences in India to date.

Hannah and I had gotten separated from the rest of the group, lingering a bit longer at some little shop. We were walking down the street, looking for breakfast when a small boy with thin, ungainly limbs and a wide but crooked smile stepped out of the shadows of the early morning mist, eager to chat. “Hallo!” he called, “How do you like Dharamsala? You are travelers? Where are you from?” He reeled of a series of questions, determined to demonstrate his mastery of the English language, hoping to keep us engaged. We were used to this type of behavior from the local street children, the pestering attention this boy was giving us, and I had a very strong feeling he was about to seek our charity. But I could feel something different about this boy, something more genuine. Perhaps it was his persistent yet determinedly casual knack for keeping up a conversation, or the fact that he did not immediately hold out his hand and ask for money, like so many others, which caused me to pay him a bit more attention. As we meandered down the small street, poking our heads into shops selling everything from yak cheesecake to singing bowls, we continued in the boy’s company. A solid ten minutes went by without him asking for anything. It was only when Hannah and I eventually found and were about to enter a restaurant for breakfast that the boy spoke up, “Please madams I was curious, I will not ask for money, but if you would buy me some rice before going in?” Since my arrival in India it has been my personal decision to refuse to give money to beggars but occasionally if I have a piece of fruit or pack of crackers with me I will pass it on. As the boy stared up at me with silent pleading eyes, I found myself answering his question with one of my own, “Would you like to come to breakfast with us?” He looked hesitant; I could see him weighing in his mind the price of missing out on potential tourists against the luxury of a warm meal. Keen to hear more of this boy’s story, I offered the added promise of buying him a bag of rice afterwards if he came with us, which did the trick. We sat down at a table outside with an excellent view of the surrounding mountains and launched into conversation. I learned that his name was Suratch and that he had lived in Dharamsala all his life. He lived with his older brother and his wife, a younger sister, and his mother. He was 11 years old and had never been to school. He told me he learned English from talking to tourists, and he promptly rattled off phrases in French and “Israeli” (which I took to be Hebrew), saying those were the most common languages he heard besides English. When I asked why he wasn’t in school he looked a bit confused and said simply “I am needed at home”. When it came time to order our food, he explained that while he would rather have the chocolate pancakes, they would be gone like that (with a snap of the fingers) and so he would like to have the porridge with bananas because it would be a better meal. We continued to chat through the rest of breakfast about nothing in particular; it felt a bit like meeting a new kid I was babysitting for the first time. As we left the restaurant and I took Suratch to a nearby food stall to buy his promised bag of rice, we were laughing together at the monkeys and he promised that he was going to marry me next time I returned to Dharamsala. When at last we shook hands goodbye, he looked me in the eyes with an enormous smile and said earnestly “I thank you Mary, I thank you, you are so nice, I won’t forget!” Watching him walk away, I was filled with genuine sadness that I wouldn’t see him again. I honestly cannot tell you why that particular morning I decided to spend around 500 rupees to buy breakfast and a bag of rice for a street kid, when every other morning on my way to school I walk unblinkingly past dozens of women and children holding upturned palms in my direction. I can, however, guarantee that the memory of sharing a meal with the little boy who gave me a glimpse of unadulterated human goodness was well worth it. Read the rest of this entry ?

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