I should have actually written this update when I was still in Ahmedabad, but somehow, time, as always, escaped me.
I ended up spending more and more time with Deepak and his mother, going by his home in the Tekro often with Sunilbhai or Ajaybhai to talk to his mom about taking him to the municipal hospital just to get a checkup. Finally, we agreed on a date. However, on that same day, Sunilbhai had to go somewhere else; I did not want all of the effort of finally convincing Deepak's mother to go to the hospital to go to waste, so I still went by their home and sure enough, they were ready to go. I was determined we would go. With a few phone calls, I got Ramanbhai, another very dedicated Manav Sadhna staff member who has a badge to let us into the municipal hospital, to come and help take Deepak and his mother there. We spent about 6 hours at the municipal hospital, where Deepak had a 2 minute check-up and echocardiogram taken.
The doctor explained to us how there was a hole between the bottom two chambers of Deepak's heart--so, blood that was not completely clean was being pumped through his entire body, thus stunting his growth, causing his shortness of breath, and various other problems. An 8 hour operation that would place a pipe near his heart would help solve this problem. Though his SPO2 level was measured at 70%, which is extremely low, the doctor, after hearing about Deepak's parents' reluctance to have an operation done, told them to just bring him in every 3 months for a checkup and to keep monitoring if his symptoms worsened (dizziness, etc.).
Spending 6 hours in line at the hospital with Ramanbhai, Deepak, and his mother turned out to be a blessing in disguise. I spent much of the time talking to Deepak's mother, getting to know her, finding out what her reservations about Deepak's possible operation were, and building a relationship with her. She told me about how she had seen neighbors in the Tekro slum around her get very sick, go to the hospital, and never come back. She didn't want that to happen to Deepak, and an 8 hour operation sounded very long and scary for her little boy. The only symptom Deepak shows, she kept repeating to me, is a shortness of breath--nothing as extreme as she's seen with other sick people in the slum, so Deepak can't be that bad off, right? I explained to her what the doctor said about Deepak's heart, that shortness of breath at the age of 9 is actually quite a worrisome symptom. Very soon, I saw that a difference was made in her mind not by the content of our conversation but rather by the conversation itself--the fact that I was sitting down and talking to her for hours, telling her about myself and letting her tell me about herself and her son. Soon, she was giving me her phone number and asking me questions about Deepak's condition without any prompting.
Speaking with Kirsten, a neonatal nurse back in the US who was volunteering with me at Manav Sadhna (her and her friend Nattie came to India for the first time for a couple of weeks--only one of which was to be spent at Manav Sadhna-- and ended up not traveling to the other places they were going to go and quitting their jobs, staying for 3 months to volunteer with Manav Sadhna), I learned that she was extremely surprised about the doctor's recommendation that Deepak just come in for regular checkups when his SPO2 level was so low. Doing some research myself, I found out that a normal SPO2 level is well above 90%. Talking to Sunilbhai, who has connections with local cardiologists since he has been a health worker for MS for 8 years, we agreed that Deepak should be taken to a private cardiologist, who may be able to spend more time on Deepak's case. I was apprehensive about Deepak's parents' reaction to another trip to the doctor, especially after it had taken so much convincing to go through with the last one. However, when I showed up at Deepak's home with ice cream, markers, and sketchpads and mentioned that I thought he should go to a private cardiologist (and assured his mother it would not take as long as going to the government hospital), his mother was ready to take him--the very first time I told her!
Once again, I found that building a relationship--the simple small acts of taking the time to talk to her, touch her arm, smile at her, show her I care about her son--accomplished much more than just repeating to her that she was not doing enough for her son. Because Deepak's mother trusted me, she was willing to try a new approach to her son's illness--one that she fears but now understands may be a better path to take than the one she has been treading on.
I've been in touch with Sunilbhai since I have been back in the States and hope to hear more about Deepak soon.
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
Monday, July 26, 2010
Mera Kam Khatam! (My Work is Over), Part II
My uncle, cousin and I arrived at the Mumbai FRO around 9am. When we got to the front of the line of foreigners and explained my situation, the woman at the front desk mater-of-factually responded that no one had called about my case, and sorry but paperwork was certainly going to take more than one day. The Mumbai FRO office closes at 1pm, which is when they start their paperwork, and they were going to have to communicate with the Jaipur FRO office via fax; the Jaipur FRO office would have to fax back and besides, there was a bunch of other paperwork that would also have to be processed for me to get my Exit Permit.
This time, I was ready. I had bought 100 Rs. (=100 minutes) on my phone (all of which would be used up by the end of the day) so I could call back and forth to Jaipur. As my uncle and cousin waited in the waiting room, I went inside got my paperwork started to be processed--my uncle wrote a note saying I was living with him in Mumbai and I produced whatever papers I could find that showed I had studied with a registered program in Jaipur. I called my professors/director of the study abroad program in Jaipur and told them about how I needed the Jaipur FRO to respond ASAP to the communication that the Mumbai FRO sent via fax, and one of my professors was headed over to the Jaipur FRO with a folder holding papers about me to present my case. That is when the lady I was working with informed me that it was my responsibility to get the phone and fax number of the Jaipur FRO--of course, it's not like all of the government offices in different states actually have a directory of phone numbers for or methods of communication with each other!
As I kept calling Jaipur to check up on the status of my case being made there, I was informed that I was not allowed to use a cell phone in the FRO waiting room (even though somehow, I was supposed to conjure up the number for the Jaipur FRO myself). So, running in and out of the office every few minutes, an hour later, I found out that my professor had reached the FRO in Jaipur and was explaining my case. I asked him to please tell me the fax and phone numbers for the government office he was in...and he informed me that apparently, there was no land-line phone number, nor was there a fax machine...yes, that is correct, the government Foreign Registration Office of this large and well-known city has no phone number.
Many frantic phone calls later, I finally had a random cell phone number and the number of a fax "nearby" which the Jaipur FRO officer relayed through my professor. By this time it was almost 1pm. A fax was sent from Mumbai to Jaipur asking them to confirm that my exiting the country was O.K. I thought my work was almost done and my paperwork would be processed now. But I breathed a sigh of relief too quickly.
The lady who was processing my paperwork informed me I had yet to fill out an exit permit, which could be done on one of the computers, put passport pictures of myself (which I did not have) on it, write a long letter about why I was in the situation I was in, and do a million other pieces of paperwork, each of which she only told me about when I thought I had turned the last piece of paperwork in. Running in and out of the waiting room (which had now emptied of foreigners since it was after 1pm--only my cousin and uncle remained sitting there) one good thing happened-- through our many interactions the lady who was processing my paperwork had softened a bit toward me and told me that though this was a lot more work for her and she had a lot of other people's paperwork to do, she would process mine if the fax from the Jaipur FRO came back in time--it would have to arrive before 3pm or there was no hope of my paperwork being processed.
My cousin and I ran across the street to a small Kodak shop to get passport photos. When the man handed me my pictures, I asked for my 50 Rs. change back (the pictures had been 50 Rs. and I had handed a man 100 Rs.), to which the man giving me my photos said that the man I had initially given my money to had left for namaz and did not tell anyone that I needed change. By this point, I was quite enraged, but there was nothing I could do--50 Rs. is just a little over $1, but I was determined to not be cheated and vowed I would come back (it was the principle of the matter!). But right now, I had to run back with my photos and make sure my paperwork was processed on time.
We ran back across the street when I got the phone call from my professor, still at the Jaipur FRO, that a fax had been sent back to Mumbai! Jumping for joy, I crowded into the lift and ran into the 3rd floor office once more, where I was informed the fax had reached. I filled out paperwork, signed, pasted photographs, and xeroxed forms for the next hour and finally was informed that all I had to do was pay a $30 fine. Pretty peeved since this was clearly the Jaipur FRO officer's fault, I got a yellow receipt from a lady at the front desk (I wanted to see if I could be reimbursed from my program). However, the lady that had processed my paperwork took that receipt for her records so I went back to the lady who had given me a receipt and asked for the white copy. Setting her jaw and not even bothering to look for my copy, she said she had given me a receipt and she didn't have any other copy--"mera kam khatam" (my work is over), she said, crossing her arms and not budging. No matter what I said nicely (the only other people in the room were my uncle, cousin, and the xerox man who agreed with me that she had not given me the correct receipt), she just kept repeating "mera kam khatam". Having been in the FRO for over 6 hours now, I was more than a little angry and each repetition of the phrase riled me up a little more. In slightly broken Hindi, I proclaimed that I was not leaving without my receipt and started rifling through the papers on her desk myself (my cousin and uncle looked on slightly amused--later on, my cousin told me she was going to come help me with the bullish receipt woman but it seemed I was taking care of myself just fine). I broke through the last barrier of the bureaucracy, as my rifling through her papers finally pushed her into action. Kind of sheepishly (though never admitting any mistake), she found my receipt and I left the office triumphant, 7 hours after I had first entered. I had an exit permit dated for June 7--if for some reason I was unable to leave the country today, well...I didn't want to think about that.
I ran back across the street to the photographer's office and demanded my 50 Rs. Back from namaz and apologizing under what I like to think of as my withering glare, he handed over my money and I rode home reveling in my small victory.
At the airport, my uncle's driver unloaded my luggage from the trunk for the third night in a row. Begging me to please catch the plane this time, I tried to reassure him that I would (really hoping I was right this time). When I walked into the airport, all of the Continental greeted me by name--the ones checking passports, managing the lines, and at the check-in counters. As I pushed my trolley and pulled up my now over-sized jeans, I flashed them wide grins. The nice man who had escorted me around the night before asked if I had my registration as he checked my passport again and, a little loudly, I waved the prized piece of paper that had been stamped, signed, and had my picture on it--my exit permit-- in his face."I CAN LEAVE INDIA NOW!!!" (he looked around a little embarrassedly at my volume, but flashed me a quick smile, congratulated me, and walked away). I sailed through Immigration on a cloud.
Of course, monsoon had just started in Mumbai, I went through a million extra security checkpoints after reaching the gate for some reason, and everyone on my plane sat in a room behind the gate for about 3 hours in the muggy humidity before a man yelled up a storm to the poor airport staff for not having AC in the room (they finally brought two jumbo fans down). When I got on the plane, I learned that because of the rains, they needed to reduce the weight of the plane so about half of the passengers were not flying with us anymore; however, their luggage had already been loaded and needed to be unloaded. After another couple of hours of sitting at the gate, the plane finally lifted off and we were informed the in-flight entertainment system was not going to work. At this point, I really didn't care--I stretched out on 3 empty seats and slept for 14 hours straight. I was finally going home.
This time, I was ready. I had bought 100 Rs. (=100 minutes) on my phone (all of which would be used up by the end of the day) so I could call back and forth to Jaipur. As my uncle and cousin waited in the waiting room, I went inside got my paperwork started to be processed--my uncle wrote a note saying I was living with him in Mumbai and I produced whatever papers I could find that showed I had studied with a registered program in Jaipur. I called my professors/director of the study abroad program in Jaipur and told them about how I needed the Jaipur FRO to respond ASAP to the communication that the Mumbai FRO sent via fax, and one of my professors was headed over to the Jaipur FRO with a folder holding papers about me to present my case. That is when the lady I was working with informed me that it was my responsibility to get the phone and fax number of the Jaipur FRO--of course, it's not like all of the government offices in different states actually have a directory of phone numbers for or methods of communication with each other!
As I kept calling Jaipur to check up on the status of my case being made there, I was informed that I was not allowed to use a cell phone in the FRO waiting room (even though somehow, I was supposed to conjure up the number for the Jaipur FRO myself). So, running in and out of the office every few minutes, an hour later, I found out that my professor had reached the FRO in Jaipur and was explaining my case. I asked him to please tell me the fax and phone numbers for the government office he was in...and he informed me that apparently, there was no land-line phone number, nor was there a fax machine...yes, that is correct, the government Foreign Registration Office of this large and well-known city has no phone number.
Many frantic phone calls later, I finally had a random cell phone number and the number of a fax "nearby" which the Jaipur FRO officer relayed through my professor. By this time it was almost 1pm. A fax was sent from Mumbai to Jaipur asking them to confirm that my exiting the country was O.K. I thought my work was almost done and my paperwork would be processed now. But I breathed a sigh of relief too quickly.
The lady who was processing my paperwork informed me I had yet to fill out an exit permit, which could be done on one of the computers, put passport pictures of myself (which I did not have) on it, write a long letter about why I was in the situation I was in, and do a million other pieces of paperwork, each of which she only told me about when I thought I had turned the last piece of paperwork in. Running in and out of the waiting room (which had now emptied of foreigners since it was after 1pm--only my cousin and uncle remained sitting there) one good thing happened-- through our many interactions the lady who was processing my paperwork had softened a bit toward me and told me that though this was a lot more work for her and she had a lot of other people's paperwork to do, she would process mine if the fax from the Jaipur FRO came back in time--it would have to arrive before 3pm or there was no hope of my paperwork being processed.
My cousin and I ran across the street to a small Kodak shop to get passport photos. When the man handed me my pictures, I asked for my 50 Rs. change back (the pictures had been 50 Rs. and I had handed a man 100 Rs.), to which the man giving me my photos said that the man I had initially given my money to had left for namaz and did not tell anyone that I needed change. By this point, I was quite enraged, but there was nothing I could do--50 Rs. is just a little over $1, but I was determined to not be cheated and vowed I would come back (it was the principle of the matter!). But right now, I had to run back with my photos and make sure my paperwork was processed on time.
We ran back across the street when I got the phone call from my professor, still at the Jaipur FRO, that a fax had been sent back to Mumbai! Jumping for joy, I crowded into the lift and ran into the 3rd floor office once more, where I was informed the fax had reached. I filled out paperwork, signed, pasted photographs, and xeroxed forms for the next hour and finally was informed that all I had to do was pay a $30 fine. Pretty peeved since this was clearly the Jaipur FRO officer's fault, I got a yellow receipt from a lady at the front desk (I wanted to see if I could be reimbursed from my program). However, the lady that had processed my paperwork took that receipt for her records so I went back to the lady who had given me a receipt and asked for the white copy. Setting her jaw and not even bothering to look for my copy, she said she had given me a receipt and she didn't have any other copy--"mera kam khatam" (my work is over), she said, crossing her arms and not budging. No matter what I said nicely (the only other people in the room were my uncle, cousin, and the xerox man who agreed with me that she had not given me the correct receipt), she just kept repeating "mera kam khatam". Having been in the FRO for over 6 hours now, I was more than a little angry and each repetition of the phrase riled me up a little more. In slightly broken Hindi, I proclaimed that I was not leaving without my receipt and started rifling through the papers on her desk myself (my cousin and uncle looked on slightly amused--later on, my cousin told me she was going to come help me with the bullish receipt woman but it seemed I was taking care of myself just fine). I broke through the last barrier of the bureaucracy, as my rifling through her papers finally pushed her into action. Kind of sheepishly (though never admitting any mistake), she found my receipt and I left the office triumphant, 7 hours after I had first entered. I had an exit permit dated for June 7--if for some reason I was unable to leave the country today, well...I didn't want to think about that.
I ran back across the street to the photographer's office and demanded my 50 Rs. Back from namaz and apologizing under what I like to think of as my withering glare, he handed over my money and I rode home reveling in my small victory.
At the airport, my uncle's driver unloaded my luggage from the trunk for the third night in a row. Begging me to please catch the plane this time, I tried to reassure him that I would (really hoping I was right this time). When I walked into the airport, all of the Continental greeted me by name--the ones checking passports, managing the lines, and at the check-in counters. As I pushed my trolley and pulled up my now over-sized jeans, I flashed them wide grins. The nice man who had escorted me around the night before asked if I had my registration as he checked my passport again and, a little loudly, I waved the prized piece of paper that had been stamped, signed, and had my picture on it--my exit permit-- in his face."I CAN LEAVE INDIA NOW!!!" (he looked around a little embarrassedly at my volume, but flashed me a quick smile, congratulated me, and walked away). I sailed through Immigration on a cloud.
Of course, monsoon had just started in Mumbai, I went through a million extra security checkpoints after reaching the gate for some reason, and everyone on my plane sat in a room behind the gate for about 3 hours in the muggy humidity before a man yelled up a storm to the poor airport staff for not having AC in the room (they finally brought two jumbo fans down). When I got on the plane, I learned that because of the rains, they needed to reduce the weight of the plane so about half of the passengers were not flying with us anymore; however, their luggage had already been loaded and needed to be unloaded. After another couple of hours of sitting at the gate, the plane finally lifted off and we were informed the in-flight entertainment system was not going to work. At this point, I really didn't care--I stretched out on 3 empty seats and slept for 14 hours straight. I was finally going home.
Bureaucracy at its finest, Part I
I've been back from India for over a month now, but on June 6, 2010 I really wasn't sure if I was going to make it.
I was dropped off at the Mumbai airport 9pm with all of my luggage for the second night in a row (my dad had accidentally switched my flights the night before, so though the driver had dropped me off, when I got to the check-in desk, I found that my itinerary was for the next day). Of course, when I got to the front of the check-in line, one bag weighed too much and I hurriedly started stuffing things from one bag into another. Finally getting both bags to their correct weight limit, I again went through the line, when a Continental staff member examined my passport and asked to see my registration. "What registration? The Jaipur Foreign Registration Office (FRO) said I didn't need to register since my visa was under 6 months..." The nice Continental guy told me he would put my luggage on hold until Immigration cleared me. That's when my panic started. I had just read all about how Indian Immigration had gotten very strict with American citizens in allowing them to enter and re-enter the country; however, I didn't know they would also stop me from LEAVING! Having had many experiences in getting through bureaucracy to get where I needed when I helped take slum children to the municipal (government) hospital with Manav Sadhna, I put on my polite-but-won't-back-down face and went back to immigration.
As predicted, when I got to the immigration officer, he took one look at my student visa and asked for my registration. I repeated what I had said before--that my study abroad program had taken our whole student group to register at the Jaipur FRO, but they told some of us that we did not need to register and sent us back--and all of the other students in my program were allowed to go back to the US. What could I do if the FRO officer didn't give me registration papers? Of course there is no computer system that records these kinds of things--people who have gone to the FRO and registered, people that haven't, people that have gone and were not given registration--why use technology to lessen paperwork? No, just like medical records and tax records, these sorts of things are all recorded on papers that have to be stamped, signed, and photographed multiple times--papers that we all have to carry around if we have any hope of getting anything done.
[Pictures of the AUDA tax office in Usmapura in Ahmedabad.The room goes on for awhile, and all of the shelves, tables, and most of the floorspace is occupied by dusty files containing tax information. One lone desktop computer sits in the corner of the room--located on the left side of the top picture--and only those lucky enough to have a key number have their business taken care of by using a computerized system. For everyone else, tax officers sit and sort through thousands of names in files which are organized by some archaic system that is not alphabetical and which I have a real suspicion that even the government workers in the office do not know how to search through...we almost went through that process when we were there, but luckily, Ajaybhai called and found a number and we were able to look up the file on the COMPUTER!]
{also, the pictures of Hindu gods in a government office may seem surprising for a democracy, but that has to do with India's definition of secularism, which is quite different from the western definition...but I'll leave that discussion for later!}
I was sent back out to look through my packed luggage to see if my registration papers were hidden somewhere. So, I frantically began searching through my check-in baggage in the middle of the airport, stacking all of the papers I had stuffed in my bag (I am supposed to lug home all of the materials I used in my study abroad classes to make sure I get appropriate credit from my university) all around me as the nice Continental guy stood looking down at me sympathetically. I called my professors in Jaipur telling them what was going on, and they confirmed my fears--I could not find my registration papers because the Jaipur FRO did not give me any. As the nice Continental guy started ripping my check-in tags off my baggage, I held back tears, determined not to look more pitiful than I already did--in the middle of the airport pulling up my jeans that were now a million sizes too big because of all the weight I had lost, disheveled hair in a ponytail that was loosening itself by the minute, with about 10 pounds of paper now strewn across the floor. Gathering everything onto a trolley, I went back to the immigration officer to see if I could talk my way onto the plane.
Of course, I wasn't allowed. He walked me and all of the luggage I was heaving around back to the offices of his supervisor and his supervisor's supervisor and his supervisor's supervisor's supervisor--you get the point--each person telling the new person about my case in Hindi, not allowing me to tell it myself, and each new person telling me I needed to go back to Jaipur to get my registration papers. Finally, as we got to the highest ranking supervisor's office, I got tired of having people speak about me for me. I jammed my trolley full of luggage in his doorway, ran inside, and started talking as fast as I could (but also as politely as possible), determined to get my story out before someone told their version of it. First thing this newest supervisor did was ask me to please get my trolley out of the doorway. Politely, I removed my 100 pounds of luggage from his doorway, stepped back in, and continued my story, which thank goodness, he listened to. At the end of my spiel, he told me, sorry, I needed to go back to Jaipur to get the papers. At that point, I decided the pity tears that would not take very long to conjure maybe would do me some good. So, I started the waterworks, telling him how my visa expired in a few days, which thankfully had its desired effect. Telling me to "please sit and calm down, ma'am," the supervisor of the supervisor of the supervisor went to call his supervisor. When he came back into the office, he said that though I would not be able to get on a plane tonight, he had good news--that I could go to the Mumbai FRO and register from there the next day and hopefully fly the next night. Having learned my lesson about government officers who make assurances without giving me appropriate paperwork with their signatures (the golden ticket for anyone wishing to get anything done--a paper stamped, signed, and stuck with photographs is key), I asked Mr. Supervisor^3 if I could have a piece of paper from him saying that I could register at the Mumbai FRO and that the registration needed to be completed in a day. Waving his hand, he told me his supervisor had already called and it would all be fine--I just needed to walk in the next day and get my paperwork processed.
As my uncle's driver picked me up from the airport around midnight for the second time, I called the number the nice Continental man had given me to explain my situation and postpone my flight. Knowing that this registration could well take a few days, I wanted to reschedule for a couple days later. However, the lady told me some bleak news: there was only 1 flight going out in the next few days, and it was going out tomorrow, on June 7. There were no flights on June 8 and 9, and on June 10, my visa was due to expire.
I was definitely going to HAVE to get my registration processed tomorrow if I wanted to leave the country anytime soon.
I was dropped off at the Mumbai airport 9pm with all of my luggage for the second night in a row (my dad had accidentally switched my flights the night before, so though the driver had dropped me off, when I got to the check-in desk, I found that my itinerary was for the next day). Of course, when I got to the front of the check-in line, one bag weighed too much and I hurriedly started stuffing things from one bag into another. Finally getting both bags to their correct weight limit, I again went through the line, when a Continental staff member examined my passport and asked to see my registration. "What registration? The Jaipur Foreign Registration Office (FRO) said I didn't need to register since my visa was under 6 months..." The nice Continental guy told me he would put my luggage on hold until Immigration cleared me. That's when my panic started. I had just read all about how Indian Immigration had gotten very strict with American citizens in allowing them to enter and re-enter the country; however, I didn't know they would also stop me from LEAVING! Having had many experiences in getting through bureaucracy to get where I needed when I helped take slum children to the municipal (government) hospital with Manav Sadhna, I put on my polite-but-won't-back-down face and went back to immigration.
As predicted, when I got to the immigration officer, he took one look at my student visa and asked for my registration. I repeated what I had said before--that my study abroad program had taken our whole student group to register at the Jaipur FRO, but they told some of us that we did not need to register and sent us back--and all of the other students in my program were allowed to go back to the US. What could I do if the FRO officer didn't give me registration papers? Of course there is no computer system that records these kinds of things--people who have gone to the FRO and registered, people that haven't, people that have gone and were not given registration--why use technology to lessen paperwork? No, just like medical records and tax records, these sorts of things are all recorded on papers that have to be stamped, signed, and photographed multiple times--papers that we all have to carry around if we have any hope of getting anything done.
[Pictures of the AUDA tax office in Usmapura in Ahmedabad.The room goes on for awhile, and all of the shelves, tables, and most of the floorspace is occupied by dusty files containing tax information. One lone desktop computer sits in the corner of the room--located on the left side of the top picture--and only those lucky enough to have a key number have their business taken care of by using a computerized system. For everyone else, tax officers sit and sort through thousands of names in files which are organized by some archaic system that is not alphabetical and which I have a real suspicion that even the government workers in the office do not know how to search through...we almost went through that process when we were there, but luckily, Ajaybhai called and found a number and we were able to look up the file on the COMPUTER!]
{also, the pictures of Hindu gods in a government office may seem surprising for a democracy, but that has to do with India's definition of secularism, which is quite different from the western definition...but I'll leave that discussion for later!}
I was sent back out to look through my packed luggage to see if my registration papers were hidden somewhere. So, I frantically began searching through my check-in baggage in the middle of the airport, stacking all of the papers I had stuffed in my bag (I am supposed to lug home all of the materials I used in my study abroad classes to make sure I get appropriate credit from my university) all around me as the nice Continental guy stood looking down at me sympathetically. I called my professors in Jaipur telling them what was going on, and they confirmed my fears--I could not find my registration papers because the Jaipur FRO did not give me any. As the nice Continental guy started ripping my check-in tags off my baggage, I held back tears, determined not to look more pitiful than I already did--in the middle of the airport pulling up my jeans that were now a million sizes too big because of all the weight I had lost, disheveled hair in a ponytail that was loosening itself by the minute, with about 10 pounds of paper now strewn across the floor. Gathering everything onto a trolley, I went back to the immigration officer to see if I could talk my way onto the plane.
Of course, I wasn't allowed. He walked me and all of the luggage I was heaving around back to the offices of his supervisor and his supervisor's supervisor and his supervisor's supervisor's supervisor--you get the point--each person telling the new person about my case in Hindi, not allowing me to tell it myself, and each new person telling me I needed to go back to Jaipur to get my registration papers. Finally, as we got to the highest ranking supervisor's office, I got tired of having people speak about me for me. I jammed my trolley full of luggage in his doorway, ran inside, and started talking as fast as I could (but also as politely as possible), determined to get my story out before someone told their version of it. First thing this newest supervisor did was ask me to please get my trolley out of the doorway. Politely, I removed my 100 pounds of luggage from his doorway, stepped back in, and continued my story, which thank goodness, he listened to. At the end of my spiel, he told me, sorry, I needed to go back to Jaipur to get the papers. At that point, I decided the pity tears that would not take very long to conjure maybe would do me some good. So, I started the waterworks, telling him how my visa expired in a few days, which thankfully had its desired effect. Telling me to "please sit and calm down, ma'am," the supervisor of the supervisor of the supervisor went to call his supervisor. When he came back into the office, he said that though I would not be able to get on a plane tonight, he had good news--that I could go to the Mumbai FRO and register from there the next day and hopefully fly the next night. Having learned my lesson about government officers who make assurances without giving me appropriate paperwork with their signatures (the golden ticket for anyone wishing to get anything done--a paper stamped, signed, and stuck with photographs is key), I asked Mr. Supervisor^3 if I could have a piece of paper from him saying that I could register at the Mumbai FRO and that the registration needed to be completed in a day. Waving his hand, he told me his supervisor had already called and it would all be fine--I just needed to walk in the next day and get my paperwork processed.
As my uncle's driver picked me up from the airport around midnight for the second time, I called the number the nice Continental man had given me to explain my situation and postpone my flight. Knowing that this registration could well take a few days, I wanted to reschedule for a couple days later. However, the lady told me some bleak news: there was only 1 flight going out in the next few days, and it was going out tomorrow, on June 7. There were no flights on June 8 and 9, and on June 10, my visa was due to expire.
I was definitely going to HAVE to get my registration processed tomorrow if I wanted to leave the country anytime soon.
Sunday, May 2, 2010
A cup of fresh-squeezed orange juice
Today, some volunteers and staff members at Seva Cafe got together to talk about the Cafe and how it has been running recently, after the renovation and subsequent reopening. Seva Cafe is not a free restaurant, but rather a home. It's a place where guests are served by a loving set of staff and volunteers, all of whom use and create this space to inspire a sense of service, love, and global community within each other and within our guests. (http://www.sevacafe.org/ahmedabad.html)
Those of us that had worked together there before the renovation have all recently been feeling a cumulative sense of tension and impatience in the air that was not there before. Some things have gotten unnecessarily rigid and others have been ignored, just slipping through the cracks, causing stress, and causing us to not be able to create the environment that we want to create for each other and for our guests every night. We want to be able to communicate with each other, to step into Seva Cafe and feel the relief we feel when we step into our own homes after a long day, and to spread the love that we feel for each other with everyone who enters the space without expecting anything in return. We want tranquility, compassion, and love, mixed in with jokes and lightness of mind and heart. So, we got together, and though our training/discussion session was only supposed to last 2 hours, it lasted 4 and we were all able to talk through everything we were feeling and hoping to do.
In this spirit, we started the session with an assignment: to go outside and perform some small act of kindness for someone else. Stepping out of the elevator, we all soon saw that since it was a Sunday and it was the middle of the day (the hottest part of the day), not many people were out doing any kind of work that we could help them with in 10-15 minutes. When I stepped out, I saw trash, so the first thing I thought of doing was walking around the block and collecting trash and maybe seeing if there was someone else along the way that looked like they needed anything I could give them. Instead, I walked by one of the other Seva Cafe volunteers, Nimesh, who had just gotten into a conversation with a street juice cart-walla. The man immediately saw that I had the same Seva Cafe flower inspirational garland on and trash in my hands and invited me over, immediately offering juice to both Nimesh and I (and anyone who has experienced the Gujarati summer sun will know just how much of a blessing one cup of fresh-squeezed juice can be). Since we had left everything in Seva Cafe, we both said we were very sorry that we couldn't accept because we didn't have any money on us. Not even blinking, he ushered us over to his cart, quickly saying no problem, don't even worry about it, it's free, and to please, drink some juice! He immediately showed me where the nearest dustbin was so I could throw away the trash I had gathered. As we sipped our blissfully cold fresh-squeezed orange juice in the heat of the 1:00pm Ahmedabad sun, we asked Dineshbhai about how long he had been working off of the juice cart there, and he said 28 years. We asked about his family, and he told us about his son, Haresh, who he had named his juice cart after, and his wife; he asked us where we were from, and we told him. We thanked him and went back upstairs with big smiles on our faces. Ever since then, I've been thinking about how meaningful a small interaction like this can be--I had set out to try to do something good for someone else, and instead got to be on the receiving end of another's pure, open heart. One simple cup of juice had the power to brighten my entire day, inspired me to smile at everyone I saw on the street, and gave me a memory I'm sure to think of the next time I get juice from any juice cart-walla.
After our session was over a few hours later, Nimesh and I went across the street and got some ice cream to give to Dineshbhai, who was so surprised and pleased that he grinned from ear to ear, repeating "you shouldn't have!" We told him to make sure he or his son or both come to visit us at Seva Cafe tomorrow night at 7pm, and he promised to do so.
Today was just another day that I saw the true power that those who believe in "love all, serve all" have to change others' lives. What could be stronger than a relationship formed through love and without any expectation of reciprocation? And what could be better, bring me more happiness, than being able to put the same smile that was put on my face by Dineshbhai on someone else's face?
Tomorrow will be the first day that we put into action everything we discussed today about the environment we want Seva Cafe to have. I'm so looking forward to being able to share the kindness and compassion that Dineshbhai shared with me and Nimesh with him and all of the rest of our guests.
Monday, April 5, 2010
Deepak
There are too many heart-wrenching stories like this one to tell. They are hard for me to tell because they are extremely hard for me to understand. Nonetheless, here is one of many stories, some of which I have seen, many of which I have not, and each of which is the most important story in the world because it is about a human life.
I met Deepak briefly when I was in Ahmedabad for Holi and have been learning as much as I can about him since I have been back. When I met him, I was in the library at Manav Sadhna's Community Centre in the Tekro slum. When he came in with Sunilbhai, the Health Project coordinator, I looked down briefly and saw something was on his face--since all the children who come to the Centre or any activities with Manav Sadhna are taught to bathe and be clean every day (and we are supposed to be repeating these lessons about hygiene to them), it is a reflex for me to tell children who are dirty to go clean up. So, when I saw he had something on his face, I thought it was probably remnants of lunch, and patted him on the head and said "hey, what's on your face? Don't you need to wash it off?" That is when I looked closer and saw that it was some sort of a rash, just as Sunilbhai came up behind him and started to tell me Deepak's story.
I listened as Sunilbhai told me that the adorable, dimpled, brightly smiling 9-year-old boy standing in front of me had holes in his heart and various other heart problems. This was the cause of the rash on his face. After he was diagnosed, his parents were told that he needed to be taken to a heart hospital in Bangalore for treatment ASAP. A volunteer from Singapore offered to pay all of the expenses--travel, surgery, post-op, medicine, etc.
It has now been a year and a half since Deepak was diagnosed. His parents have not so much as taken him to the local government hospital to get another round of tests done. While all the other kids his age run around and play, Deepak gets short of breath walking from one end of his small schoolroom to the other. His teacher says he can't hold a pen long enough to write an entire exam paper. His mother gets mad at him because he doesn't bring home great grades. When Sunilbhai and I went to talk to her, she sat in the corner of the room and listened, watching Deepak eat his lunch in the other room, as Sunilbhai told her that frequently going back to the village "bhua" (a village elder that many villagers look to as a supernatural healer, among other things) is not going to treat Deepak, whose condition is getting worse and worse. Sunilbhai even tried explaining that it would be less of a hassle to take him now, rather than at the last minute when he has to be rushed to the hospital without any planning and doctors have to work to try to do what treatment could have done to him before and with much less suffering. She nodded through the conversation, eyes wandering, sometimes listening, sometimes not, and at the end, said she would think about taking him after his exams are over in a few days.
From what I can gather, the main things she is worried about are: Going to a city where they do not know anyone and Deepak missing classes. But most of all, I think she is scared.
Seeing disease and sickness around me is one thing, but seeing disease and sickness that can be treated (having the financial, logistical, etc. resources) going untreated is a very foreign concept to me. It makes me sick to my stomach to see this beautiful boy sitting down with his classmates trying to catch his breath after a short walk. Every time he looks up at me and flashes me a big dimpled smile, I think, how can a mother watch as her son dies, literally before her eyes? How can she go about caring for him, fussing over him, washing his face and hands when he comes home and helping him with his homework, when what he needs is medical help, fast, and she is not getting him it even though she has the means to? What can Sunilbhai say, what can I say, what can anyone say to convince his parents to take him?
I know she is scared. But I hope, I am praying so hard, that her and her husband do decide to take their son to Bangalore next week. I really hope he is not expendable to them (I have heard, too many times, some parents say that they can always have another baby). And I really, really hope it is not too late when he does get to the hospital.
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Why I keep coming back
I wrote about my motivations for keeping on coming back to India a few months ago for an application. For one reason or another, this essay didn't make it into the final application submission, but I wanted to share part of it, in case any of my experiences touch you as they have touched me, and make you want to come here and do something.
I waited outside a doctor’s office with a baby dehydrated from constant diarrhea and vomiting. Her parents drink every day—her mother drank throughout her pregnancy. She threw up on me as we waited, but afterward, as I sang to her and made funny faces, she smiled up at me. Her smile is the reason I want go back. Rohan is an 8-year-old, deaf, blind, mute orphan who I obtained a disability certificate for from a government hospital. I sat with him for hours in line for days and shuffled him from department to department, all to obtain two signatures for his certificate. He felt the watch on my wrist and my monsoon-inspired afro and broke into giggles as he recognized me. His giggles are the reason I want go back. Ashvin is a 9th grade slumdweller* who I taught English to. He saves every rupee he earns to help his family. He carefully safeguarded a 1 Rupee coin that I accidentally left lying by him to give back to me the next day he saw me, telling me I should really take better care of my money. His sincerity is the reason I want go back. I walked by Shantamaaji, an 80 year old woman who lives alone beneath a tarp, every day on my way to the community center in the middle of her slum. She greeted me with a “namaste” and big, toothless smile every time I walked by. Her open heart is the reason I want go back.
Rohan.
*I was told by some advisors that the word "slumdweller" may be "offensive" to the committee reading my application. I was surprised and became more and more annoyed by this idea as I thought about it. Why should a committee of influential academics, policymakers, and generally well-off people be offended by this term? In fact, I think it's politically insensitive and incorrect to use euphemisms or broader terms that aren't so specific (not that slumdweller is that specific anyway, but I suppose it is more specific than "the impoverished," which was one of the terms suggested to me as a replacement for the word I was using) for people that are leading entire lives of hardship in slums. The more people try to obscure these "harsher" or more specific words, to make ugly things sound less ugly, to not give a face to specific realities, the more the general public will forget about them or brush them aside. The less people will work toward eliminating the horrible inequalities in societal, political, and economic norms that lead people into lives of devastation. Finally, the UN Global Report on Human Settlements 2003--The Challenge of the Slums uses the word "slumdweller," as do Indian newspapers. It's time we all recognized that slumdwellers, millions of them, exist all over the world and the gross inequalities that lead to their living situations, not the word slumdwellers, should offend us.
I waited outside a doctor’s office with a baby dehydrated from constant diarrhea and vomiting. Her parents drink every day—her mother drank throughout her pregnancy. She threw up on me as we waited, but afterward, as I sang to her and made funny faces, she smiled up at me. Her smile is the reason I want go back. Rohan is an 8-year-old, deaf, blind, mute orphan who I obtained a disability certificate for from a government hospital. I sat with him for hours in line for days and shuffled him from department to department, all to obtain two signatures for his certificate. He felt the watch on my wrist and my monsoon-inspired afro and broke into giggles as he recognized me. His giggles are the reason I want go back. Ashvin is a 9th grade slumdweller* who I taught English to. He saves every rupee he earns to help his family. He carefully safeguarded a 1 Rupee coin that I accidentally left lying by him to give back to me the next day he saw me, telling me I should really take better care of my money. His sincerity is the reason I want go back. I walked by Shantamaaji, an 80 year old woman who lives alone beneath a tarp, every day on my way to the community center in the middle of her slum. She greeted me with a “namaste” and big, toothless smile every time I walked by. Her open heart is the reason I want go back.
Rohan.
*I was told by some advisors that the word "slumdweller" may be "offensive" to the committee reading my application. I was surprised and became more and more annoyed by this idea as I thought about it. Why should a committee of influential academics, policymakers, and generally well-off people be offended by this term? In fact, I think it's politically insensitive and incorrect to use euphemisms or broader terms that aren't so specific (not that slumdweller is that specific anyway, but I suppose it is more specific than "the impoverished," which was one of the terms suggested to me as a replacement for the word I was using) for people that are leading entire lives of hardship in slums. The more people try to obscure these "harsher" or more specific words, to make ugly things sound less ugly, to not give a face to specific realities, the more the general public will forget about them or brush them aside. The less people will work toward eliminating the horrible inequalities in societal, political, and economic norms that lead people into lives of devastation. Finally, the UN Global Report on Human Settlements 2003--The Challenge of the Slums uses the word "slumdweller," as do Indian newspapers. It's time we all recognized that slumdwellers, millions of them, exist all over the world and the gross inequalities that lead to their living situations, not the word slumdwellers, should offend us.
Sunday, March 21, 2010
HOLI HAI!!
A little late, but it's definitely necessary for me to document my absolutely wonderful Holi (March 1). I took Claire to Ahmedabad for our 4-day-Holi-extravaganza-weekend. (read about her experience living at my grandfather and great-aunt's flat for the weekend: http://claireinindia.tumblr.com/post/424435788/eat-to-live-live-to-eat)
The morning of Holi, Ajaybhai and Sunilbhai texted/called me to let me know that everyone had gathered at Manav Sadhna. As soon as Claire and I arrived, Sunilbhai was waiting behind the gate door, greeting everyone that entered with a face-full of color. We danced around to the dhol beats, celebrating with the NGO kids and staff.
Then, we departed, 2 or 3 to a motorcycle, to go to Virenbhai's house. Virenbhai is one of the founders of Manav Sadhna--he lives for a year in the US, managing Manav Sadhna's Chicago branch, and a year in India. Anyway, as we rode down the street, we shouted "HOLI HAI!!!" to any other well-colored person we saw. The chant was always reciprocated immediately. We stopped by a couple houses, picked up a couple more friends, piled them on the motorcycles, and our gang reached Virenbhai's, slightly wetter and slightly more colored than we had been before.
Sandeepbhai, Sunilbhai, and I, respectively, are on the far side. Ajaybhai and Claire in the middle. Raghubhai, a volunteer I just met, and Anjali closest.
That's when the fun really started. Little did I know that Virenbhai's house is pretty much perfect for masterminded Holi attacks. Shaped in rectangle, the terrace is the perfect place to line up buckets of colored water and target people down below. The corners seem to be made for hiding around, and the little shades popping out of the side of the house are perfect to make a naive first-timer think s/he is safe by standing underneath (really, there is a perfect terrace position for a bucketful of water on anyone's head down below). Right outside of the gate, there is a perfect little ditch where mudwater collects in exactly the right amount to form a mud puddle in which to dunk people. There are ample sources of taps and hoses and buckets and drainwater all around the house, and if those are all taken, don't worry, you can just jump the wall to the neighbor's house and get some water there. Once you have some water, just mix it with anything you can find--I made a lovely concoction of pink color, flower petals, and mud, and the resulting consistency was glorious for coloring others.
'
Some good ole' fashioned mud dunking: Bhaskarbhai and Sandeepbhai
After about 2 hours of coloring and alliance-shifting and drenching each other from head to toe (and the guys forcibly dunking each other in the mud pool), Virenbhai very convincingly said "prathna time!" So, we all gathered around to say an all-religion prayer before, we thought, food was going to be brought out. Of course, however, Sunilbhai was hiding up on the terrace, and a huge bucket of water poured down on the entire circle of people and the Dhuleti continued for another hour. Then, finally, a real prathna was said and big pots of pav-bhaaji were brought out, with M&Ms and Kaju Katri for dessert. We sat basking in the sun, drying off, and sharing big thaalis of food, as we always do at Manav Sadhna. Of course, the eating didn't last long--buckets of colored water started pouring even as there was some food left on the plates, and everyone ducked for cover.
Ajaybhai, Bhaskarbhai, me, and Jigneshbhai.
A few latecomers from the Indicorps team arrived, right after our lunch. They made the mistake of calling beforehand to announce the fact that they were coming, which allowed us to make some great plans for accosting them, allowed us to ready the terrace buckets, etc. All the boys in the group were given the ceremonial mud dunking and I am proud to say I got some lovely color and bucketwater drenchings in as well.
All in all, we played Holi for about 5 hours straight, and then walked to the nearest tea shop where we had little cups of delicious chai. Claire and I went home and took hour-long showers, though some remnants of Holi were sure to remain for the next few days--a green spot on the elbow, pink nails, a little blue behind the ears...
Though celebrating Holi was a wonderful time, what made it amazing were the people I was celebrating with. Manav Sadhna has truly become another home to me. Being at the NGO and with the people who work at it makes me feel like I am in the safest place in the world, with the best people in the world. Sunilbhai, Ajaybhai, Jigneshbhai, Sandeepbhai, Bhaskarbhai, Raghubhai, Anjali, all of the children, and everyone else at MS are no longer my friends or my students, but rather my family. Any new volunteers I meet each time I go just become part of this ever-growing parivar. I can't think of anywhere else I would have rather been for Holi.
*Pictures: courtesy Mira.
The morning of Holi, Ajaybhai and Sunilbhai texted/called me to let me know that everyone had gathered at Manav Sadhna. As soon as Claire and I arrived, Sunilbhai was waiting behind the gate door, greeting everyone that entered with a face-full of color. We danced around to the dhol beats, celebrating with the NGO kids and staff.
Then, we departed, 2 or 3 to a motorcycle, to go to Virenbhai's house. Virenbhai is one of the founders of Manav Sadhna--he lives for a year in the US, managing Manav Sadhna's Chicago branch, and a year in India. Anyway, as we rode down the street, we shouted "HOLI HAI!!!" to any other well-colored person we saw. The chant was always reciprocated immediately. We stopped by a couple houses, picked up a couple more friends, piled them on the motorcycles, and our gang reached Virenbhai's, slightly wetter and slightly more colored than we had been before.
Sandeepbhai, Sunilbhai, and I, respectively, are on the far side. Ajaybhai and Claire in the middle. Raghubhai, a volunteer I just met, and Anjali closest.
That's when the fun really started. Little did I know that Virenbhai's house is pretty much perfect for masterminded Holi attacks. Shaped in rectangle, the terrace is the perfect place to line up buckets of colored water and target people down below. The corners seem to be made for hiding around, and the little shades popping out of the side of the house are perfect to make a naive first-timer think s/he is safe by standing underneath (really, there is a perfect terrace position for a bucketful of water on anyone's head down below). Right outside of the gate, there is a perfect little ditch where mudwater collects in exactly the right amount to form a mud puddle in which to dunk people. There are ample sources of taps and hoses and buckets and drainwater all around the house, and if those are all taken, don't worry, you can just jump the wall to the neighbor's house and get some water there. Once you have some water, just mix it with anything you can find--I made a lovely concoction of pink color, flower petals, and mud, and the resulting consistency was glorious for coloring others.
'
Some good ole' fashioned mud dunking: Bhaskarbhai and Sandeepbhai
After about 2 hours of coloring and alliance-shifting and drenching each other from head to toe (and the guys forcibly dunking each other in the mud pool), Virenbhai very convincingly said "prathna time!" So, we all gathered around to say an all-religion prayer before, we thought, food was going to be brought out. Of course, however, Sunilbhai was hiding up on the terrace, and a huge bucket of water poured down on the entire circle of people and the Dhuleti continued for another hour. Then, finally, a real prathna was said and big pots of pav-bhaaji were brought out, with M&Ms and Kaju Katri for dessert. We sat basking in the sun, drying off, and sharing big thaalis of food, as we always do at Manav Sadhna. Of course, the eating didn't last long--buckets of colored water started pouring even as there was some food left on the plates, and everyone ducked for cover.
Ajaybhai, Bhaskarbhai, me, and Jigneshbhai.
A few latecomers from the Indicorps team arrived, right after our lunch. They made the mistake of calling beforehand to announce the fact that they were coming, which allowed us to make some great plans for accosting them, allowed us to ready the terrace buckets, etc. All the boys in the group were given the ceremonial mud dunking and I am proud to say I got some lovely color and bucketwater drenchings in as well.
All in all, we played Holi for about 5 hours straight, and then walked to the nearest tea shop where we had little cups of delicious chai. Claire and I went home and took hour-long showers, though some remnants of Holi were sure to remain for the next few days--a green spot on the elbow, pink nails, a little blue behind the ears...
Though celebrating Holi was a wonderful time, what made it amazing were the people I was celebrating with. Manav Sadhna has truly become another home to me. Being at the NGO and with the people who work at it makes me feel like I am in the safest place in the world, with the best people in the world. Sunilbhai, Ajaybhai, Jigneshbhai, Sandeepbhai, Bhaskarbhai, Raghubhai, Anjali, all of the children, and everyone else at MS are no longer my friends or my students, but rather my family. Any new volunteers I meet each time I go just become part of this ever-growing parivar. I can't think of anywhere else I would have rather been for Holi.
*Pictures: courtesy Mira.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)