When dreams stay dreams

While walking back from work in the Indian sun today I saw a very delectable man. He had a mustache and a large, round face. To add to his keen features, he had soft eyes that could melt a baby. I recognized this man from somewhere. After passing him, I racked my brain for what he reminded me of, and finally I hit something! He looked like no other than a young Mario of Super Mario fame.

young Mario of Super Mario fame

After letting this sink in for a bit, I wondered to myself: what if Mario was Indian? What if Mario's parents decided not to live in Italy but instead in Kolkata? Well, first of all I bet his name would not be Mario and he wouldn't have a brother named Luigi. It would most likely be something like Zeeshan and Rahul, which wouldn't be that bad.

large colored flag

Imagine: Super Zeeshan. Or playing Zeeshan Kart and fighting over who'll be Rahul (though who really wants to be Luigi anyway). All these things are fine, but it would also completely change Mario's look. He'd no longer sport suspenders and patent leather shoes. I don't think he'd even be a plumber (because India sure doesn't seem to offer it as a profession). I scoured Google for any pictures of an Indian Mario, but had no luck. I imagine he would be wearing some sort of cotton attire, perhaps hand-made but who knows (hey mom and dad!). He'd wear sandals leisurely stained with cow poop. As a matter of fact, Yoshi would be a cow. The game would be completely turned upside down.

Yoshi's competition

But there's more. His catch phrase: "It's a'me! ... Mario" -- which to be honest I never really understood, it's a tad bit obvious unless you're literally blind. What would the Indian version be? Of course it could be in English, pretty much everyone here knows a form of the language. I think it would it would either be "What country from?" in the most heavily caked Indian accent or for the hardcore Hindi version "Paise de do!".

Either way, it would be an outstanding game both in the sheer amount of colors and in stray dogs. I'm sure there would be more realistic dangers as opposed to the man-eating flowers and waddling potato looking creatures. Things like heavy traffic, fried okra, and water-borne diseases (all serious things!) would be on the loose. It would be a true test of fortitude and not some silly children's game.

possible Luigi?

This may have a market, ... I'll go as Super Zeeshan for Halloween to check it out. But after I contemplated the possibilities for a little while I got back to the guest house, drowned by French tourists for the fifth time in as many days. They just keep on coming.

I'm thinking I may need to do some sight-seeing on the only day of the week that's actually off: tomorrow. It's too bad all of the other long-term guests are out and about traveling India this weekend: Chloe is in Jaipur and Juliana is in Mumbai checking out her broken nose with as real of doctor as she can find.

Other big news: the Dark Knight is playing at the cinema in Hindi. Biggest opportunity of my life.

All the small things

Things are winding down here in the rainless city. I am writing the final report and it's moving along. A myriad of things have happened in my wake that I must record somewhere. For instance two days ago, Juliana was playing with a three-year old boy and broke her nose. It was shocking but someone had to do it -- I mean, to some extent, it was destined. The whole thing is rather funny actually, you can read about it at her blog if you'd like a more detailed explanation of the events that transpired between her and the devil child.

said devil child, Ayoosh

Other events are filling the time as well, between writing the report and sitting around. I finished the Namesake -- what a book. I've never read something that summarizes my life so well. For those that haven't read it, it's worth it.

And then there was Jaisalmer. Camels ... need I say more? Now I've ridden camels before but not for six hours a day for two days. What seemed glamorous at first turned into a groin's nightmare as I rode into the desert sun. Edgar, the camel, was comforting however. I liked him more than any other camel I rode; probably because we got to know each other. I'll most likely never forget the guy.

Edgar's neck whilst sporting Jasdeep

Before we left on the big adventure children propositioned me for a shoe-shining, but I politely refused. To get back at me, they asked for a picture. Apparently, as I later found out, the picture cost "chai". I didn't fall for their shenanigans.

The shoe polishing trio

We also toured the city for a while and took a look at the fort. In fact, we stayed inside. There were a large number of Jain temples in the city which sported some interesting signs concerning women and their periods. It makes sense for the most part.

Jains being Jains

While visiting the Jains, we ran across a very bold tourist wearing spandex biking shorts. His audacity was astounding, but I think he was French. I snapped a picture or two behind his back -- and make no mistake I worked for them, waiting around thirty minutes for him to finish his sight-seeing.

Adventure tourism

There was also the failed homemade mango beer that exploded during the train ride, on the ride to the fort, and in the hotel. You may ask how something can explode so many times and the answer is an ever-fermenting closed bottle of homemade mango beer.

Activating yeast

Anyway, I leave in a week's time. After that I will be in Punjab visiting relatives and then I'm off to England!

At the bottom of everything

[For my program -- SOL -- we submit four 'Letter Home' essays during the summer that consist of our thoughts at the time. This is my third letter.]

It is said that before the Thar was a desert it was sea. Before there were roads, cars, or even people it was a vast expanse of blue and sterling waves crashing in every direction. Before half was in Pakistan and half was India, all of it was at the bottom of everything. Here, one could find every type of fish and sea creature. It was not how it is now: a parched, arid land, ignorant of its own irony. It is a land where one can find me on this certain Saturday of July, the sand in between my toes as I drudge toward my next interview resisting and not giving way to progress. This desert is where I have decided to help others but in my mind this notion has become ridiculous and impossible. I think to myself that I cannot help these people because they cannot even help themselves.

I meet Chowdra Ram in the middle of the day. I am here to interview him because he is a beneficiary of GRAVIS’ tanka program. His family was economically disadvantaged enough to need this structure and his thoughts are valuable in assessing its impact on a family. Immediately as we enter his pukka room he brings a bucket of water. I, of course, refuse because of my timidity to such foreign things. He is my third interview of the day, but I still notice his passion. From the white turban expertly wrapped around his head to the crow that seemed to have stepped a hundred times to leave a footprint next to his eye, I can tell he has really lived for years. He has no doubt lived through the Partition and British Rule, the years of good rains and the years of bad rain. He has lived to bear children who have themselves bore children. But now he is reduced. He does not go for wage labor or anything that the earner of the household usually does, he lets his son do these things. Now he does the miscellaneous tasks; he does the little things that no less must be done. At the bottom of everything the little things matter: feeding the cattle, collecting the cow pads, and cleaning the tanka. I ask questions in English and he nods and grunts as though he understands, but I know he never had the opportunity to even learn Hindi because he had to work for money as a child. His eyes are full of emotion that radiate as though it is all being released in his focused stare. After a question has been posed it is translated to Marwari. He listens with the same veracity in his nods and grunts and replies with the passion I saw earlier, his hand waving up and down to signal his various points. “Our biggest problem is food ... there have been droughts annually ...” he declares as the interview continues.

Figure 1: Chowdra Ram mid-sentence

We stay afterward while chai is made, and we converse. I leave the brick room that borders the catchment area of the tanka to go to the jeep and fetch my filtered water. On the way back I spot him on the dirt path that sweeps through his barren field devoid of rainwater thus devoid of crop. He is tending to an animal. Once I am close enough he looks at me and places his arm around me, the passion from the interview softened in a way I do not know how to approach. He looks at me and says “Madd Karo” (Help us). I am struck, help you? “Kaisaa” (How?). Still looking at me he replies “Paise de do” (Give money). I say I do not have any and I walk quicker. I walk in such a way that the awkwardness of the situation does not persist; I walk and I think: but I am helping. Isn't this interview helping? Won't my report help? No ... the truth is it won't help in the way that is wanted. Not for these people and not for this man. He does not need someone to ask him questions, and he does not need policy as a result – these things are not important to him at the moment. The salient truth is he needs money, and he needs it now.

At the bottom of everything I also find Divya Bai's household. She is in the field with her cows as we approach in a jeep, and she begins to walk back to her hut through the patchy grass. She covers so that no one can decipher her face through her red, cotton sari; she is a devoted wife even though her husband has already died. This fact about her husband is sad but not unique. There are many widows throughout the Thar. I read my introduction in Hindi before the interview begins. In it, I ask her if she will participate and she says of course. I then tell her that I will not use her name or photo and she responds with laughter. I was not fazed: everyone seems to laugh at this portion of my script because it doesn't matter to them if their name appears in a distant report that they will never even see. Then my translator relays her explanation: that it does not matter because she is at the lowest of the low -- she has no husband and her family has left her alone in this hut with the field. She has been surviving on her own with savings for seventeen long months, and her son has decided to have nothing to do with her. Immediately, my interview feels useless, empty. The questions I am asking her seem inconsequential and without substance. “How did the tanka meet your expectations ... how did you obtain water before … what do you use the water for?”... How are you surviving!? Although the last question was not a part of the interview, I wish I had asked it. This woman has no family anymore and she cannot even think of working for wage away from her home (that is what her husband used to do). The interview ends without asking various questions I had on my sheet. There was nothing more to find out. We left the hut where she lived away from everyone she knew. We walked through her field as she continued the work she had been doing with her cows when we arrived. Her life has not changed one bit from when I arrived to when I left; I have not given her anything tangible. I step onto the metal step that leads into the back of the jeep, and I reach a finality: she will not remember me anyway.

It is the same way with all the families that I interview. I am just a speck and a momentary interruption in their daily lives. I am a blip on the radar; a foreigner that has come and gone. I am introduced as being from 'outside' – America –, but they most likely do not even know where that is in relation to their own location. As much as I may fight it, this feeling will eventually be mutual. I will forget them. As soon as my work finishes here, and I jet off to the United States what will I take with me of Chowdra Ram and Divya Bai? They are what I am to them: a foreigner that has come and gone. An interview I have taken and will have used. They are a population that I have sampled, and they are a part of a report I will have written. But that moment I was asked for money by an aging man that no doubt has little life left to live still bothers me. It is not because of how uncomfortable it made me feel but how powerful the sentiment it was derived from seems to be. The report that I write may never be used again, packed away in the endless files that are in this office. GRAVIS may use it as a reference for a future intern or it may appear in a bibliography of another's writings. My report may never help the people in this desert directly and its lack of permanence, its mortality, is upsetting. I want, however implausible it may sound, immediate impact. But this doesn't happen. It cannot happen. This internship is an exercise in patience, and for all intensive purposes a warm up for my future. One day I will not be a blip or a fleeting face, but I will be able to help in a way that is pragmatic and sustainable.

I watched my charcoal gray shorts rest on my thighs as the day was ending and we drove restlessly toward the field center. I looked around me and imagined the life that used to occupy this space. Perhaps a whale swam here or a goldfish there. I imagined how full it used to be. I then looked around me and quit day-dreaming. I saw the golden specks whisked up by the tires and the sun taking its time to leave these godforsaken plains. It is here I have chosen to try to help people, but I believe that I have lost some hope. I am comforted by only one thing: from the bottom of everything there is only one direction.

Figure 2: A child of an interviewed family

I have finished all of my interviews! It is very exciting. I went to the field Thursday til Sunday to complete eighteen interviews in five villages, and it was excruciatingly exhausting. I'll post something later that goes into it a little bit.

In other news, Juliana, a girl at my guest house, destroyed my world today when she unveiled the true origin of the word 'Thug'. Although I thought it to have been a direct descendant of the American hip-hop scene, it is in fact a word derived from the Hindi 'Thuggee'. They were bandits that committed mass tourist murders, eventually eliminated by the British (of course). In some ways this is actually more cool than what I used to think of the word but come on, Hindi?

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Thuggee