Summer at New Light

I LIKE YOUR BOYFRIEND

2007-09-08T15:12:00.001+05:30

Most of the children here own only a few after-school outfits, meaning, perhaps, two. Looking down from the office and into the alley, I see teenage Avishek wearing the checkered loincloth that the men use when bathing at the pump. He carries soap and laundry brush, shirt and pants, to scrub them on the one smooth, clean surface: the steps to New Light’s bathroom. As soon as they are old enough to wash their clothes, the children are always clean.

Babai, another one of my teenage students, is a self-confessed “funny monkey.” Although he seems to be more passionate about football than studies, he has never missed an English class. A strikingly handsome boy despite his constant goofy grin, he looked like he would crack open with smiles the other day when I saw his new T-shirt. Obviously someone's castoff, it read, I LIKE YOUR BOYFRIEND. After class, I joined his friends to ask him what was up with the shirt. He pulled up the bottom hem. The T was reversible—its other side read BOYS ARE GREAT (EVERY GIRL SHOULD OWN ONE). He couldn’t even turn the damned thing inside out.

It is easy to forget that these kids have little materially, as they are so fully…themselves. Individual. Not the downtrodden masses. But when I saw Babai’s T-shirt, I knew that he was in trouble. The following day, I told him I liked the shirt; would he give it to me if I brought him a different one?

Hey, I did want that shirt. Every other person I know in Calcutta is gay (How has India amassed its huge population? I don’t know…), so Sahar, when I told her about the offending T, said we’d give it to one of our male friends. And I couldn’t help but remember my own sartorial nadir, in fourth grade, back when the laundry had piled up by the ringer washing machine in the yard and Mom trawled the bottom of some grab bag for clothes. The memory is still visceral: of sitting in class, looking down to discover that the men’s poly-blend pants, rolled at the ankles and cinched with a braided leather belt, split open at the hip. The gaping tear revealed my grayed underwear beneath. My shirt was too short to hide it. Through hours of class, I sat with my hand clutching my hip. Ditto for recess. Ditto the long bus ride home.

I got over it. Hell, maybe it built character. Even so, it sucked. This, though—a teenage guy having to walk around with a shirt saying I LIKE YOUR BOYFRIEND (presumably the declaration he found less humiliating than its alternative)—this was more than any kid should bear. I found an inexpensive knock-off brand T on the way to Kalighat. When I arrived, I saw that Babai’s smile, Day Three, had become desperate. Uncharacteristically, he was late for class: he had been trying to trace over the words with a pen—blue to match—before giving up after one letter. I yanked the new shirt out of my bag, and as I’ve already seen the boys half-naked at the alley water pump, we made the trade in front of the whiteboard.

When I took roll, Babai was missing. Where was he? Home, his friends answered, to show his mother. He would return in a few minutes.

And he did.

A Love Letter to Kalam: Margins Write

2007-09-03T14:18:00.000+05:30

There’s nothing to align your chi like coming home to find your apartment full of young writers drinking tea in a circle, reading their poems.

Kalam: Margins Write is what first brought me to Calcutta; last December I came to work with Bishan Samaddhar, Kalam’s sole employee, and since then stayed in contact with the founder Sahar Romani. Sahar started Kalam to answer a void in the outreach community here: NGOs used the usual suspects—cute kids—as faces for fundraising, taught them to use the arts to talk about their experiences of disempowerment…but few, if any, NGOs taught the arts, letting children write about what they wanted, creating identities much more intricate than simply that of, say, child-of-brothel-worker or slum-dweller.

Now that Sahar and I have ended up as flatmates, we have constant, feisty discussions about The Issues. And despite her fondness for words like “otherizing” and “positionality” and my fondness for making fun of these terms, we are in deep agreement on this: providing opportunities for marginalized persons does not mean assimilation. It isn’t about encouraging them to “pass” as mainstream—how an individual decides to deal with the brutal caste and class system is up to her.

Thanks to Kalam, though, many people will be able to make this choice. Sahar has been working with the same core group of young writers for over three years now; together they have published a literary magazine, staged public readings, and facilitated workshops with newer writers. Kalam currently employs two former youth writers, Nargis and Bina; Sahar’s vision is to make Kalam almost entirely led by those it has served.

Right now Kalam is in a state of transition. Bishan, Sahar’s right-hand man, is working elsewhere. Daywalka, the anti-trafficking organization that has supported Kalam, has folded its Calcutta branch. Now Sahar is filing for separate trust status, looking for a workspace and personnel to act as mentors—and all of this on a beans-and-rice budget.

Sahar and Bina recently interviewed students at a local university. The search for a mentor was fruitless—none of them grasped the issues involved or were on par with the Kalam youth when it came to talking about writing in terms of both identity and art. I thought of Bina, now a college student herself, sitting through a bunch of middle-class students talking about brothel workers. The night of the reading, she had concluded the session with a spontaneous song, then came up to me and gave me a hug, saying she saw me in Kalighat the other day—“That’s where my mom works!”

Now Sahar slumped at the kitchen table, discouraged, but I had to point out, the fact that Kalam’s writers are so much more capable is a triumph to be savored. “Of course, of course they are!” Sahar answered—and it is true, like the kids I work with at New Light, they are years wiser than their more privileged counterparts.

But, I had to say, without Kalam, would these writers have the platform to share their gifts?

Tether

2007-08-24T15:23:00.000+05:30

A woman sleeps on the sidewalk next to her son. Head to foot. Faced inward, knees, elbows puzzled together, their backs form a circumference. Tied to the boy’s ankle, wrapped around the woman’s palm--a twist of red cotton cloth, so the child won’t vanish into the universe while they sleep.

Dalit House

2007-08-21T15:30:00.000+05:30

Sensing my isolation, I believe, while my students have been engaged in activities with Spanish funders for the past few weeks, Harsha invited me to go with her to the Dalit House. See the children in the pictures below? They are the Untouchables, of the caste made to handle the dead, cremate them and spread their ashes in the waiting Ganges. This group lives within walking distance to New Light. Harsha and I went at night, catching a bicycle taxi since it was raining. The driver took us by the front walkway, the cleanest path I’ve seen in India, beautifully tiled, with painted bas-relief murals lining the walk to the Hindu temple. We stepped down, walked past guards, past three pyres. A new smell for me: burnt dead people. We continued along the dark river to a tin-roofed schoolroom full of children, unrepentantly loud and alive.

Harsha

2007-08-20T17:24:00.002+05:30

Harsha has been like that song in the middle of the music album, the one that, once the catchy, pop-inflected tunes wear out, you keep going back to: it is quieter but more intricate, taking its time to build. When I first met Harsha, a social worker/program coordinator here, I noticed her extraordinary beauty, her sculpted features, of course, but only after several weeks did I realize that she was the one who offered me steady, genuine encouragement and mentorship with my teaching, the one I found myself going to for advice.

It is hard for me to write about her. I don’t know much of her story and most of that I’ve learned from a mutual friend, Alison. Harsha has a great sense of humor, but doesn’t toss out quotable one-liners. In the many raucous gatherings amongst the staff, she never vies to be in the spotlight. So here she is—this isn’t the last you’ve seen of her:

Put Your Hands Up!

2007-08-20T17:17:00.001+05:30

Spotted in the news after a night of dancing with Liz and the gang, in celebration of my 30th birthday:So what if my picture does look like a still from a deodorant commercial? We're famous!

Thanks for scanning and sending, Bishan. Cheers.

Communion

2007-08-13T13:36:00.000+05:30

After several days away from New Light—the children’s lessons have been suspended for two weeks while they prepare for their annual Carnival with a group of Spanish volunteers—I returned yesterday, had to see my babies.

On the way down Nepal Alley, I saw my one of my oldest students, Hassan, at the pump where the men bathe. He greeted me with a huge smile. Then I came across Sukumar, who gave me a wooden bracelet. It was good to be back.

A light rain started falling on the walk home. I’d forgotten my umbrella but enjoyed the cool air.

Sundays are strangely (and blessedly) quiet in the city—almost everything shuts down, but the flower vendors along Rash Behari were open. I bought a 25 Rupee (60¢) bouquet of small yellow roses tied with thread. A few blocks from my apartment, the drizzle turned into a storm. All I could do was walk, try to shelter my cotton bag and notebooks under my arm. A woman with an umbrella came up behind me. She started to keep pace, inched closer until we huddled together, stepping in unison around the puddles. When we had to part, I untangled three roses from the bouquet and handed them to her. “Sweet?” she asked, and unzipped her purse, bringing out a Bengali handmade sweet of curd and sugar. My hands were full, so she put it on my tongue. We stood under the umbrella, laughing, delighted, folding our hands in greeting before we parted ways, me with the sweet in my mouth.

My New Career in Advertising

2007-08-12T14:46:00.000+05:30

The next time someone asks me what my work is, I'll tell them I do advertising for Pepsi-Cola. Just to see what happens. I'll bet I'm met with less nay-saying and suspicion than when I tell the truth: I'm teaching English to children of brothel workers and writing. Yes, there are a lot of crappy NGOs out there, plenty of self-congratulatory do-nothing do-gooders--but could people be just a little more positive, for crying out loud?

I spent the past four days in Darjeeling, my first time outside the city since June. A beautiful place for reflection (and for blowing heat back into the dying embers of my novel). Lying in room at night among the smells of horsehair, wood, I suddenly felt weepy. Always wondering if I belong here, if motives are trusted, if I trust too much in the people I work with or not enough. Thinking about the children--always at the forefront, Kajol.

And the kindly shopowner saying, but what will English really do for those kids? They won't go to college, so why would they need English?

Trampling Fetish

2007-08-02T17:24:00.000+05:30

The morning after my birthday celebration, (which--I learned from my roommate just this very coffee and newspaper moment-- ended up in the Calcutta Times, complete with sexy pics of Liz and me), we felt a little rough. Liz and I decided to treat our dancing feet to pedicures.

Yesterday I was walking my sparkling new toes down the street when I heard a “Hello! Hello!” A well-groomed man in his thirties motioned me to where he sat in his parked car. Thinking he needed help of some kind, I came to stand in front of the AC wafting from his open window. He did need help: he was looking for people with pretty feet to indulge his trampling fetish. (Not “trampoline fetish,” which is what Sahar thought I was saying when I told her the story.) Careful not to change my expression, I asked him if he was joking. No, he continued, he simply had a fetish and would like to pay me . . . and any friends I brought along . . . 1000 rupees or more--I hesitated--more, if I walked on him. This sounded very interesting, I said, could he please explain further? He described the scenario in detail (certainly he got off just talking about it, arm laid strategically over lap): he would lie on his back on the floor, against a wall. Holding onto the wall, I would walk on him, starting from his waist, then going, eh, south, and finally working over his chest, taking care not to dig in my heels—while I could go barefoot, he liked high heels.

No, my friends, I am not smoking hashish, and neither are you. It’s all true.

The beginnings of a new career?

If only he paid in U.S. Dollars...

Never Mind the Testicle, Your Slip Is Showing

2007-07-31T12:49:00.000+05:30

Sorry I’ve been absent for a few days—I know you’ve missed me. I spent the past ten days with Liz, co-leading two weekend fiction workshops on top of my evening English classes at New Light. And then there was my 30th birthday to celebrate (my abdominal muscles are still sore from dancing, breathing hurts). There are many goings-on at home base, NL, to report--stories of brilliant students as well as awful, sad things I can’t write about, but I’ll ease back into the log with some general observations about life in Kolkata City.

So. I am a single, white woman. I’d like to think I’ve enjoyed a well-rounded education, formal and otherwise, that has taught me cultural sensitivity, multiplicity of perspectives, et cetera. I’ve also enjoyed certain liberties as an American woman (at some point I’ll discuss how much more assertive Indian women can be compared to us, but for now...). These liberties include but are not limited to: living alone, going braless, smoking tobacco in public and purchasing liquor at licensed liquor stores.

For a liberally educated American woman prone to excessive guilt, Kolkata can be an interesting choice of residence.

I remind myself that I am a visitor here, that the sartorial options inflicted on American women are at least as oppressive as anywhere else—maybe I’m just more sensitive to disapproval here. Today I wore an ankle-length dress with walking slits. As it’s dark blue, I figured I could get away with a black slip, but apparently, I’ll have to either find a different undergarment or endure constant stares at the inch or two of black fabric showing behind the dress’s walking slits.

And with all the horrors clearly visible on the streets—people sleeping in puddles of dirty water when it rains, a dog with an eyeball torn and drawing flies—is a woman lighting a cigarette that big of a goddamn deal? (I’ve come to understand that plenty of local women smoke and drink, but on the sly, bootlegged.) When Liz was here, we walked behind a man wearing nothing but a pair of shorts split back to front. I could see his bare behind, but more alarmingly, there was an enormous bulge... Deciding to get to the bottom of the matter, I suavely walked ahead and glanced back. One of his testicles was swollen to the size of a grapefruit; his penis was gray with scabs. If this were the U.S., I’d have called 911, not to report the guy for indecent exposure—I applaud his decision to show the world the enormity of his suffering—but to get him some medical attention.

He drew some disapproving stares. Perhaps as harsh those my triangle of slip incurred.

Prayers for Kajol

2007-07-25T12:00:00.000+05:30

From The Book of Nightmares:

And in the days
when you find yourself orphaned,
emptied
of all wind-singing, of light,
the pieces of cursed bread on your tongue,

may there come back to you
a voice,
spectral, calling you
sister!
from everything that dies.

--Galway Kinnell, 1971

Thank You for the Gift of Books

2007-07-24T14:59:00.000+05:30

Last Thursday, Liz arrived with her collection of beautiful books, the same day Drew’s boxes arrived. Before that, I’d made do with a scraggly handful of...eh, not so great books. When a book disappeared a couple of weeks ago, I knew it was not the book’s literary merit (it was a treacley Winnie the Pooh paperback) but a hunger for words that had tempted some child. As I began the next day’s class, my beloved Bekash walked up and handed me the book. I was pleased to note that it was a little more creased and worn than before.

The children adore stories, and even the teenage students who pretend not to care became silent as Liz read the brilliant Story of Ferdinand.

I’ve spent hours staring at the spines of the new books, our new wealth. I had hoped only to have enough to read in my class. Thanks to you all, we will now open lending libraries at New Light and at their girls’ shelter, Soma House. Arnab has been huffing and puffing about “bloody Americans” since the books arrived—in other words, he is mighty pleased.

Thank you, thank you, thank you, Charlie Alison, Drew Bevolo, Jacqueline Courteau, Sarah Courteau, Laura Cruser, Tina Hammerton, Caitlin Horrocks, Eva Valencia + Tom.
Slightly blurry, but you get the idea.

Cricket!

2007-07-16T13:02:00.001+05:30

Anirban, in the blue shirt, has become my right-hand man in English class. Last time we played hangman, I asked him to come up with a word, a difficult word. He chose "environment." When I asked for a clue to give the others, he said, "something that is important for the world." I think he and my fifteen-year-old sister, Rose, should get married as soon as they are of age. Rose? How do you feel about an arranged marriage? Trust me on this one--

Space for a Pissed-Off Schoolmarm

2007-07-13T12:53:00.000+05:30

My classroom is basically a hallway connecting the office, nursing room, and terrace where the small children loudly gather for their evening lessons. My students, aged 8 to 18, sit on the floor, a whiteboard leans against a vat of dirty dishes. After Arnab scolded the older students for lax attendance (I caught words like “opportunity” and “college” among the Bengali), last night a full class of 23 arrived. It was nuts. I can’t blame the kids for being rowdy—they’ve already been in school most of the day. But then entered a couple of guys from an American college group, here to paint a hospital and visit New Light. Hans kept talking to the older boys in back, I called him out a few times, he smirked and smarted off, but when I found him wrestling with Raju, I let the bitch out.

--Let go of him. Now.

--What? But I’m just—

--We are trying to have a class here.

He slunk out. I finished the session with a battered children’s book, torn pages falling as I read, and headed home, fuming along with my cigarette. Go paint another hospital, Hans, but stay out of my class—we’re actually trying to do something here! Halfway through the cigarette, though, I slowed down.

I’m just another Hans, here to do my little log, my little English class, before I go back to the States. No wonder it took Jayanti, the children’s primary caregiver, two weeks to warm up to me (giving her my louse comb solidified the mutual goodwill) and include me in her routines.

Back at the flat, Sahar confirmed my worries. Everyone has their own agenda, and at every level of development work. She has had to face this reality with the literary arts group, Kalam, that she founded for marginalized youth. Though Kalam is now becoming an independent trust, it has previously been attached to an American NGO and has dealt extensively with youth shelters in the city. Everyone, including Kalam, she said, has a different priority—arts, anti-trafficking, job training—but what is best for the women, the children?

Indeed.

Times like this, I think we should just go home to make our little corners of difference there.

But that doesn’t seem right, either. Maybe I’ve been too distracted, looking for the one way, when we all, even Hans, have different functions as we Make the World a Better Place. Sahar teaches poetry as a means of claiming one’s space. Drew makes gaslights and money and sends me children’s books. Sarah and Beth edit literary journals, write. Metis takes in abandoned animals. Jeremy farms and poem-s. Dad works with his horses. Mom puts her creative genius in nearly everything she does. And I’ve always cared for children. I travel and write.

The important thing is to do what compels us, and to do it with love. Why has it taken me nearly 30 years to learn this?

Rajiv's First English Word Is...

2007-07-12T12:28:00.000+05:30

"Monkey." His second? "Monkey Boy." Hah! Fitting enough.

I love him so much it hurts--

Smoking Up in the Newsroom

2007-07-11T14:02:00.000+05:30

Kolkatan English-language newspapers are awful, no other way to say it. This morning, I read the headline of a lengthy article on obese pet dogs and their concerned owners. Difficult to read in any country—but was the editor smoking opium when he decided to include that in The Times of India? Homeless people line Kolkata’s streets—on blankets, under plastic sheeting—and balding dogs are driven mad with skin diseases.

Yesterday’s paper, however, taught me something worthwhile: Clark Gable would not sleep with Marilyn Monroe since she was known to have bad hygiene. There is something we can learn from this. America’s most enduring sex symbol had B.O. and didn’t give a damn.

Pardon the pun, but she was the genuine article.

Ah, crap. I just wrote something disapproving of an Indian institution while praising the American Monroe. Am I being an insensitive colonialist?

Toys ‘R’ Not Us

2007-07-10T14:01:00.000+05:30

To see these children is to want to give them everything, shower them with love, kisses, toys. But while every child in the world should receive nutritious food, healthcare, and a safe, loving home, I have come to believe that they do not need toys.

The kids here have brilliant imaginations. They move like foxes, always have something going on. Jaya peels a label from a bottle and finding it still has some stick, fixes it to her nose, cheek, ear. Rajiv hides behind a piece of cardboard, jumping out to surprise us. A grungy life jacket emerges from who knows where--deciding that it looks like a squat toilet when laid flat, the children take turns pretending to poop on top of it. Sonia finds a plastic baggie and a rubber band; fixing the bag over her hand to form a surgical glove, she goes around “doctoring” us.

I compare this with a picture of the children whose parents spend small fortunes on things to Stimulate! their kids: lessons, bright clothes, toys designed to teach creativity. But these children, next to the children of New Light or of the streets, look sedated.

In Africa boys comb the ground for bits of trash: bottles, wires, a shard of broken CD, beer caps. Using techniques learned from older brothers, the collected pieces become a toy truck; the bottle is the cement mixer, the CD a grille. The intricate, strangely realistic trucks are works of art. Give me one of these over a Lego set any day.

...And so I've Chosen to Focus on Individuals

2007-07-07T11:45:00.000+05:30

Why does the good of the individual so often have to come with the price of eroding culture? When I was asked to teach English here, I admit I wasn't thrilled--teaching English is, of course, an extension of the colonialism that oppressed much of the world, whose devastating effects are still visible for anyone who cares to look. And yet, for many students here, learning English is a way out of economic oppression.

I have a hope--perhaps vain--that the knowledge they gain through, say, English courses will be an addition to what they have already, not a substitution.

After class Anirban, my student with the best English, stays to practice more advanced conversation skills. If he could choose between being invisible and being able to fly, what would he prefer? He would fly, he says, so he can help others in need.

A Collaboration of Seeing

2007-07-04T11:13:00.000+05:30

What I love and hate about America: we want results. Quantifiable results. When I first met with Arnab, I wanted to know what I could do—what should be my project? Should I do this? That? He told me to relax. Just get used to the place. At home, Sahar agreed: hang out, then you’ll see what needs to be done. So I started this log, eventually Arnab asked me to teach, and now a social worker has asked me to help write case histories for HIV-infected women.

Watching and waiting is hard for most Americans—no one wants to look stupid or lazy or out of it. So we concentrate on doing rather than seeing, often causing more harm than good. (Jack Turner’s The Abstract Wild is a terrific read that discusses this issue in terms of human interaction with the wild.)

Funders everywhere are similarly focused on results. True, they are right to be wary of throwing good money after bad. But how do you quantify something like self-esteem?

Sex workers and their children carry a heavy stigmatization here. M., a lawyer who works with New Light, explained the extent of it: the only person in her family who knows she comes here is her husband. M. is whip-smart with a warm and womanly beauty. In a culture where class is everything, doesn’t having someone like her look you in the eye—doesn’t it make a difference? And doesn’t the fact that so many people want to walk down this fetid alley on their way to New Light show that you do have worth? Urmi tells the women that what they are doing isn’t wrong, they should feel good about themselves and take care of themselves.

But how do you measure a rising self-esteem and its effects in the community? You have to watch, and that takes time.

Pride Parade

2007-07-03T19:13:00.001+05:30

This log is all about New Light, but New Light is all about rights and dignity for everyone. So I decided to include pics from the recent Pride Parade. This will act as an antidote in case you are O.D.ing on adorable kids, though the trannies did look fabulous--and fierce.

Sadly, I soon outed myself as straight when I asked one of the five white folks there for a good Pride chant. (You've got to start somewhere.) We ended up chanting in Bangla, anyway. Bishan took these of Sahar and me:

Aren't we fabulous, too?

La Profesora de Ingles

2007-07-02T15:14:00.000+05:30

When Arnab asked me to teach an English conversation class, he said I’d have about a dozen students, all who speak English pretty well. Hah! So far I have 22, ages ten-ish to sixteen-ish. Trying to gauge everyone’s skill level in class, it became apparent that most of the students had no idea what I was talking about. Judging from the similarity of their responses (My favorite subject is_____. I like to play football.), they have been taught canned phrases. After an hour of feeling foolish at the front of the class, my students feeling foolish at their seats, I dismissed them. It was then that they started speaking Spanish.

Spanish.

Arnab later explained that volunteers from Spain had given them lessons five days a week for the better part of a year. So now we have a pocket of sex worker’s children in Kolkata who will greet you with Hola! ¿Como está? It is a big world.

My next lesson, I started from the beginning. The alphabet. Everyone called J jota and dramatically rolled their R’s. That aside, I thought we pretty much rocked out in this class, from beginning to when I told them they could go, goodbye, see you Monday. Two older boys came up to me, looking concerned and a little bit amused. "Miss," they instructed me, "you say class is now adjourned."

Wish List Shipping Address

2007-06-28T22:09:00.000+05:30

I have changed my Amazon.com account settings so that for the next couple of weeks, the wish list items will go directly to Liz in Arizona, and she will bring them here. If you would like to send something not on the wish list, let me know and I'll either add it or give you Liz's address. Big thanks to those of you who have already written about sending things--I've been doing a jig around the apartment for a much bemused Sahar.

Shameless

2007-06-28T13:51:00.000+05:30

OK, the primary raison d'être of this log is to raise awareness, including my own, of the many ways people live in this big world, looking not just at the sufferings of marginalized communities but also at what they have to offer the rest of us.

However, I know that some of you reading this want to know how you can help. New Light's webpage, listed to the left, has some suggestions. And...

Now that I've started teaching here and have seen just how serious the students are about learning English, I've added an Amazon.com wish list of learning materials needed. It's over there. To your left. Now go...down...there you see it. Shipping and customs to Calcutta, especially with software, might be a pain in the kiester, but my friend Liz Wimberly in Arizona will join us here for ten days in July and will be happy bring stuff. She leaves AZ around July 15th (right, Liz?). Write me for her address. After that I'll have another plan of action for streamlining in-kind donations.

I have listed some high-dollar stuff (you gotta dream!) and inexpensive things. Yes, used books are wonderful, perhaps even preferred. If you buy something from outside of Amazon, no worries. You can let me know, though duplicates will go to New Light's two satellite shelters.

I've just started the books list...what other titles should I add? Good juvenile fiction/poetry? Non-white, non-middle class is good, so these kids will have something to relate to. Suggestions are welcome!

Smurfing on the Roof

2007-06-27T11:20:00.000+05:30

Why, you ask, is everyone blue?

No, Calcuttans are not naturally this color; it is not something in the water, either. I don’t have Photoshop, and the translucent blue roof colors the light. This is new, installed after a former volunteer raised the dough for a shade on the terrace. Now we can all play out here without baking, but the roof is most popular with the birds, who like to park there and get it on:

Not Quite a Medical Emergency

2007-06-26T19:18:00.000+05:30

Isn’t Jaya impossibly cute?

Since I arrived, I’ve been holding, cuddling, kissing and hugging her. Letting her wear my sunglasses. Unfortunately…

…she has head lice. All the kids get them. Somehow, I’ve managed to block this out. Arnab says the children all line up for a head-shaving now and then.

If I start scratching, I’ll get in line, too.

Wrestling with the Angels

2007-06-25T12:14:00.000+05:30

In the Old Testament, Jacob wrestles with an angel until it gives him his birthright. Throughout my travels in Asia, Africa, and Central America, I’ve met many boys and girls who reminded me of the biblical Jacob, but none so much as 2 ½ year-old Rajiv: he is the scrawniest, whiniest, pinching- and biting-est. He will receive his blessing!

He wants to be held—always—and only shares my lap with Khushi because I put him on the floor if he hits her. The first time I held him, he patted my breasts and pretended to nurse, leaving a saliva stain on my t-shirt. He was 6 weeks old when he was brought to New Light, starved and dehydrated. His mother had tuberculosis. The staff took him to several hospitals, but none had room for him. Finally, they went to an expensive, high-end neonatal unit. It could not take Rajiv either, but a doctor there prescribed a treatment and feeding regimen. Back at New Light, he was given around-the-clock care. Surprisingly, he lived, and then one day he was gone. The staff went looking for him and found him with his grandmother, who used him when she begged. His mother was dead. New Light took him back; his grandmother has since returned to her village and signed papers giving New Light legal guardianship of Rajiv.

Arnab shows me a picture of Rajiv when he first arrived. The image affects my inner organs like physical violence. What I see is not a baby, but some brittle object, a box of matches. What would it be to inhabit that body? Body is sense, softness, hair, oil, tissue. The photo provides no evidence of these things.

The staff is still trying to fatten him up, a feeding routine that involves much hilarity and near-brutality. Today Rajiv is ready for his nap and keeps falling asleep while one of the caregivers, Jayanti, feeds him lunch. She pounds his back to wake him, puts the spoon in his mouth. In slow motion, he swallows, his eyelids droop down, and she pounds his back again. A man comes over and wets his eyes. Rajiv takes another few spoonfuls and falls asleep sitting up. We are all laughing now, tweaking his toes, calling to him. The man takes Rajiv, washes his face and sets him down again. After the last bite, Rajiv stands up and stumbles drunkenly into my lap. I situate myself on a chair and look down. Rajiv’s eyelids twitch and open in slits. Now that he has a lap, he is awake and faking sleep. Jayanti takes him from my arms and I want to wail BUT WHAT ABOUT MY NEEDS? I need to rock this baby to sleep! She puts him on a mat. He sleeps. I wonder how she puts up with Western volunteers.

New Terms: a Log in the Global South

2007-06-25T11:54:00.000+05:30

1. Blog, I’ve decided, is a vulgar word. From now on, I will simply go with log, which has a nice, nautical ring to it, invoking journeys, grog on the deck—

2. Last night, my flat-mate, Sahar, and I discussed the best term for…hmm….and that is the problem. There is no quick definition. I contended that of the terms available, “Third World” is the most evocative. It is problematic, of course, setting up a hierarchy, but it cannot be worse than “developing nations” (meaning incomplete) or “impoverished countries”—when America and Europe can be so lonely, so spiritually impoverished. Sahar told me to use “Global South,” which geographically has some issues but invokes, she said, underdog status and is self-chosen. Will most Americans know what I’m talking about? What are your thoughts?

In the mean time, I'll concentrate on putting together my English speaking and writing classes for the older children...more on that soon.

Arnab

2007-06-23T17:25:00.000+05:30

Arnab was the first staff member of New Light I met in January. The brother of Urmi, (she is traveling to Europe right now to solicit funding), Arnab joined the project at its inception. Laughing, he says he got tired of giving her money and just came here instead, leaving behind his work as a contractor. “This isn’t even a job any more—I don’t know what it is.” He is here every day.

He is not religious—at all—nor a purist, but once each year and a half or so he takes a break, goes to an ashram where he does not speak, smoke, drink, or have any physical contact with others for ten days. Smoke wafting upwards to a hand-written No Smoking sign in the office, Arnab talks about the retreat, quickly hiding his cigarette when a little girl wanders in. At the end of the ten days, when he and the others, mostly Westerners, went for dinner, he shocked them by ordering beer and lighting up. The story is told with not a little relish--he knows he is charismatic.

Cantankerous older men have always been my spiritual counterparts, and Arnab and I hit it off immediately. Part crusty favorite uncle, part peeved intellectual, he has choice words for foreign NGOs with bloated budgets but little to show for it...and for would-be do-gooders who end up exploiting, or at least abstracting, those they are here to help. When I reluctantly ask if I can take pictures of the children for my log, he answers Yes, yes, of course, and commends me for being sensitive around the brothels, where cameras are often unwelcome. Sensitive…while I bask in this adjective so rarely affixed to my name unless it is preceded by over-, Arnab tells the story of the towering European photojournalist “with a camera like a bazooka” who came into Kalighat, taking pictures of sex workers despite their objections. “I told him if he didn’t put that camera away, I’d break it over my knee and stick it up his ass!”

Slideshow

2007-06-22T15:42:00.000+05:30

This beautiful slideshow (and the accompanying article) do more to illuminate New Light and the issues surrounding Kolkata's sex workers than I possibly could. Check it out:

http://commonlanguageproject.net/photos/KolkataSlideshow.htm

How I Got Here

2007-06-22T13:51:00.000+05:30

I promise to focus on New Light, but I feel the need to explain why and how I ended up here.

My perfect life would include many children, a garden, consultations with my elderly neighbors on growing tomatoes, and writing stories. The only way to make this happen, it seems, would be to go on welfare, and I’d do it if this were a few years ago, before that horrid welfare-to-work program…as it is, as a welfare mom I’d have to do something like work in a daycare while I paid someone else to watch my kids. But such is the world of idle commerce we live in, where not even motherhood is as sacred as, say, $6.50/hour…

So I must work for money, but not yet. For the past three years I taught while earning my MFA at Arizona State University, and two of my professors there, Melissa Pritchard and Jewell Parker Rhodes, pulled strings to get me enough funding for a plane ticket to Calcutta for the summer. Work usually blows when someone is paying me for my time, which means my life, but working for free, wallowing on the floor under a dogpile of kids and writing about it, is great.

A Preface

2007-06-22T13:31:00.001+05:30

In Calcutta’s red light district, brothel workers serve johns in rooms so tiny they resemble swallows’ nests carved in a cliff face, though not so elegant. Six years ago, a local social worker, Urmi Basu, had had enough: in the middle of it all, she founded a children’s shelter, called it New Light and opened with 200 dollars and 8 children. Now New Light takes in 160 kids in three different locations. Women bring their children to the shelter before they start work; without it, the children would either be either on the street or lying under mother’s bed while she takes customers.

I visited New Light for about an hour last January and was instantly taken with it. As one of its directors, Arnab Basu (more on him soon), talked, I couldn’t help thinking We could use mores places like this in the U.S. Now I’m back. I am no Mother Teresa, and even if I wanted to be the heroine of the story, I’d have a hard time of it. The folks at New Light have their project well in hand. I simply want to see how they do it—how, with so little, they have created something so effective, their space well-loved in the community.

This is not a travel blog, personal blog…just an extension of a life project, figuring out what it means to be human (of course!), and how to move through the world with a certain amount of dignity and grace while supporting others’ efforts to do the same.

To make sure I don’t skid off the tracks, I’ve decided I need a working theory:

1. Don’t be an asshole
2. Don’t be boring
3. Tell the truth as best you can. Which might, at times, mean being an asshole.

So there you have it, sports fans—if you like what you read here, pass this on to friends. And PLEASE POST COMMENTS—I NEED TO KNOW THAT YOU’RE OUT THERE.