Back in Jersey…

… and trying adjust to life back in the States; it’s way harder than I expected. Life seems somehow much lazier, and yet way busier than I remember — and with so many things that really don’t feel like they matter. Still, I’m so looking forward to the joy of wedding #2 in April. Returning to life with this incredible, smart, silly, loving man I share my life with is certainly easing the transition; lessoning the sting of the intense missing. In so many ways, Delhi felt like home.

Saying Goodbye: Part 1

On my final official day of work at Mother Teresa’s, I said goodbye to everyone without too much thought or intention, as I knew I’d be back. When Damon arrived in India, there was some crossover and the ladies insisted on meeting “Didi Pati,” or “big sister’s husband.” The very idea that there was a man in my life, and I’d soon be a wife sent them into fits of giggles. Arranged marriages are still going strong in India, so for even the older women, my situation filled them with anxious excitement and mystery. I had said my half-hearted goodbyes to everyone, with the understanding that I’d to return with Pati on the given day.

Have you seen the Taj?

When you’re in India, that’s one of the first things that everyone asks you. It made me feel a bit self-conscious at first, and a kind of like a big, giant tourist. I probably rolled my eyes a bit and feigned a touch of indifference, like, “Yeah. I know I’ll get there, cuz I have to check it off the list, but in the meantime I want to live like a local, go where they go, eat what they eat, do what they do.” (All the while, I was dutifully planning a day trip for when Damon arrived.)

We left Delhi at 4am in hopes of enjoying the sunrise over the tomb. We arrived a bit late to see the pink and orange tinged marble resolve to white, but no matter. The Taj really couldn’t disappoint even if it wanted to. It’s flawless. And turns out, Indians can’t resist the lure of this obscenely beautiful place either — so we were either all tourists that day, or all Indians. Maybe a bit of both.

Boys chasing rickshaws

Utter disregard?

Soon after I arrived in India and resumed posting again, a contrarian (and beloved) friend offered the following nugget in the comment section: “India is the world’s largest Controlled Chaos experiment. Their utter disregard for each other’s poverty/starvation/cleanliness/lack of shelter is awe inspiring.” Being used to, (and generally pleased by) his blunt provocation, I wanted to argue the point, but wasn’t really ready for the debate. Instead, I shook my head knowingly, rolled my eyes and moved on. With some time and distance, however, I’m ready to take it on.

Here’s some stuff you should know:

More than 93% of India’s population is either a) unemployed, b) self-employed, or c) off-the-books, and there is barely a system for collecting taxes from these workers. There is even less of an ability to pay. These are the men selling raw spices off a small towel spread on a traffic median, or the woman who carry the raw sugar cane on their heads from the fields to the fire and they make pennies a week, if that. These are not tax cheats — even if these workers could or wanted to pay taxes, they’re so disconnected from the system by geography, literacy, administration, and registration, that the idea of collecting from them is almost silly.

Damon takes an Indian bride

Over the course of my month here in India, friends who’ve learned that D & I are about to get married, and that he was coming to visit at the end of my stay have pushed, half-seriously, for an Indian wedding. Last week, I was visiting the extraordinary archeological park at the Qutb Minar, and my flatmate Karen suggested we have a Hindu ceremony amidst these ruins. I conceded that the ancient pillars and carvings made for a dreamy setting, but that we couldn’t begin to make something like that work in such short time and with our travel plans. Fast forward to raucous Holi celebrations with CCS friends and staff, free-flowing Kingfisher and whiskey, and a jet-lagged Damon nodding in happy confused agreement, and a plan was hatched.

In three days, our friends pulled together the most beautiful wedding ceremony on a rooftop in Hauz Khas, leaving their placements early to decorate the place with marigolds and set up the traditional implements for the Hindu priest. Our “western” wedding in April is still very much on, but how could we resist the mystical ritual, evocative setting, the sensual beauty… and of course, the red saree and turban…?

More photos of me and my husband after the jump…

Happy Holi!

Holi is celebrated by Northern India on in early March to mark the arrival of spring, the triumph of good over evil, and to express love to your family, friends and neighbors. (There are conflicting tales from Hindu mythology used to explain the rituals, but no one can seem to agree on the source.) It is the most festive and joyful of all Indian celebrations, and is everyone gets into the act. Bonfires are burned the night before the full moon, and the following day is spent raucously coloring those you love with vivid powders and tinted water. We celebrated Holi, as the locals would say, “aggressively” and Damon arrived in India just in time to join us. Looking forward to sharing the full, fun range of images as soon as we return to the states, with a giant gallery of all my photos from the month. In the mean time, I  give you: Holi — 2007.

Nizamuddin

The most emotionally powerful experience I’ve had thus far in India, outside of my work placement, has been my visit to the Sufi shrines of Nizamuddin. Deep into an ancient Muslim quarter that, according to Lonely Planet, “hasn’t changed since the Middle Ages,” are the tombs of Hazrat Nizamuddin and his most faithful follower, poet Amir Khusrau. On Thursday nights, the sacred qawwalis are sung into these shrines, and after reading a snippet about them in some long-forgotten source, I decided I had to try witness this music. It was my good luck that Raja, a CCS staff member, has a personal connection with the man who oversees the shrines and is a descendant of caretakers past.

As this is not a place westerners typically venture, I lobbied for some company on the outing, and promised the takers that I’d figure out the details. Raja gave us strict, solemn, and vaguely intimidating instruction on directions, dress, behavior, and prohibitions, as well as the rumpled business card of the shrine’s overseer Asaf Ali. We had some nervous fun experimenting for an hour or two with different types of dress to assure we were appropriately covered and set out just before sunset.

A word on photos

When I first arrived in India, there was some controversy over a volunteer taking photos they were expressly asked not to take. I understand the urge — I felt it the first time I volunteered in Jamaica. My brain couldn’t comprehend the poverty, the disease, and the conditions we were seeing. I knew I could never exaggerate enough to explain it to people at home and I wanted to capture the images to illustrate what I was experiencing. The second year, I shot a quarter of the photos, and what different photos they were. And after that? No camera.

For certain, we are seeing extreme poverty, horrific illness and injury, intense hunger, tragic circumstances, and things that keep us up at night. But the last thing I want to do in those times is start snapping pictures. (Gods help the person who tries to shove a camera in my face to record my personal pain, or even long-lens their way into my life without permission.)

Random tales of working

Mornings at Mother Teresa’s Home for the Dying and Destitute begin with feedings and in-bed bathing of those who haven’t been able to get up and do so for themselves. I still haven’t mastered the art of scooping up grit-type breakfast with the fingertips of my right hand — it’s a wonder to see even the severely disabled artfully scrape food into perfect bite-sized balls and eat them with no mess. I feed Shanthi while she’s still lying on her back, and though I’m constantly panicked that she’ll choke on the softened bread or grits or hot chai, she does fine, yelling and grinning between each bite. (If you’ve been following her story, check back on the post called “Chumma” to see an updated photo.)

Once everyone has eaten and has been bathed, the housekeeping begins. After assisting clumsily for a week, I realized that I was finally doing things right when the girls in charge of individual tasks started yelling at me in frustration to do this or move there just like they do to one another, and stopped treating me like a porcelain guest who might dirty her dupata. The mostly open-air facility is enormous, and made entirely of highly polished cement; we scrub it top to bottom three times every morning. First with soap, then with disinfectant, and finally with a rinse of water.