Finding Jhuma (Part One)

The sound of a pressure cooker hisses me awake. I reach for my iPhone to check for messages from the other side of the world and blink as I flip through Instagram while my brain catches up to my awakening body. It's 7:10am and Jhuma is already cooking the day's meal in the kitchen next to my bedroom. I roll out of bed, turn off the AC and step out of my bedroom into the steaming living room. No one else is awake except for Jhuma. 

I slide open the pocket door and peek into the kitchen. There she is, red sindoor and red tikuli. Sweat dripping down her temples as two pots boil on the stove. She is sitting cross-legged on the floor and she carefully pushes small onions into the boti, which is propped up against the cabinet. They slice evenly. "Good Morning, Jhuma," I say. "Good Morning, Kristen," she replies in almost a whisper with her shy smile, the warmth of which makes my mercury center expand. It is the first time she has ever addressed me by name.

The previous day was challenging and stunning. In the morning Jhuma and I walked Kumkum and Lalita to school. When I walk with the girls to school they each hold one of my hands and we take up pretty much the entirety of whatever narrow lane or alley down which we walk. Kumkum usually chirps in Bengali and flaps her other arm around, laughing wildly at almost nothing. Lalita grips my other hand and propels us forward with her will to arrive to school on time. "Pisimoni, time?" she questions me with a serious look. "Time: 10:22," I answer. "Oh. Okay. Challo." 

After dropping Lalita at school and waving from the street for a full five minutes, we continue on to Kumkum's school. Jhuma leads the way, making sure we don't get hit by tuk-tuks or yellow Ambassador taxis as they fly through the puddles and nearly spray us. We drop Kumkum to her classroom and turn to begin the walk home. 

I've never been able to fully communicate to Jhuma. I can tell her short phrases in Bengali and compliment her cooking, but that's the extent of my Bengali and her English basically ceases at, "school" and "chicken". 

During our walk home we fall into the comfortable silence that we've become accustomed to. It's obvious that we desperately want to have a real conversation, but even when we try we usually end up just staring at each other and scrunching up our faces and saying, "Sorry..." for not being able to come up with the right words in each others' languages. 

I spend 10 minutes trying to ask her who her friends are in the neighborhood. I can't tell if her blank stare back at me is because she doesn't understand or because she doesn't have any. I think it might be both. 

Later that night we are bankside. Nirmal is at his post, ready to open the gate for any cars pulling in or out. Jhuma is making chappatis and the girls are penciling answers into their school workbooks. I sit cross-legged on the wooden platform that is the centerpiece of their lives bankside. It's the most multifunctional hunk of wood I've ever seen. Bed, dining room table, ironing board, couch, coffee table, kitchen counter. This 4 foot by 7 foot platform does it all. 

I look at Jhuma and she's wiping sweat from her brow with the edge of her sari. "Do you need any help with dinner?" I ask. She stares at me and cocks her head. I say, "Um.. chapati? Me?"  She grabs one of the already puffed chapatis and hands it to me, misinterpreting my question. I shake my head. "No, no... do you need help?" I point at the rolling pin. She looks at Nirmal for help. 

I say to Nirmal, "Does Jhuma need help getting dinner ready?" "Dinner..." he says, nodding. "Does she need help?" I ask again. He nods. "Help," I say. "Can I do something? Cut vegetables?" "Yes, veg," he says, referring to what we're going to eat for dinner. 

I put my head into knees that are already drawn up against my chest. My center tightens with exasperation and sadness. I pick my head up and say to Nirmal in English, "I want to be able to talk to Jhuma. I want to talk to my friend. I need to learn more Bengali." Nirmal looks at me with question marks in his eyes and says cautiously, "Bengali, yes." I say, "Yes. Amar bandhu Jhuma." My eyes fill up with tears and suddenly there's a 5 rupee coin in my throat and it's getting bigger. 

"Handwash, Kristen," instructs Nirmal, "No lanka in eyes!" I say, "No lanka! No lanka!" I shake my head to deny that I touched a green chili and then touched my eyes. I let him realize that my tears are not capsaicin induced. "I want to be able to speak to Jhuma! She's my friend and I can't talk to her. I can't tell her how much I appreciate the food that she makes me. I can't tell her how thankful I am that she allows me to be in the girls' lives. I can't tell her how much it means to me that she remembers from last year how I like toast with butter in the morning and that she quietly admires her braid in the mirror when I give her one on Sundays. I want to tell her how much she means to me and I can't!" I say these things quickly and in English, with tears spilling down my cheeks. 

The girls watch with curiosity and apprehension. They've never seen their Pisimoni cry about anything except for leaving for the airport the year before. This is different and they know it. Kumkum is stunned into silence for probably the first time in her life. Her eyes are upon me with an intensity she saves for particularly confusing moments. Lalita quickly goes to work on something with a set of colored pencils.

"Ohhhh Krreestuhhhhn. Okay.... Okay, okay," Nirmal comes over and sits next to me. I try to talk more slowly and use all of the Bengali words I know. He still doesn't know why I'm crying. I frantically try to look up the words for "need" and "help" to try to explain that all I wanted to ask was if Jhuma needed help making dinner, but that now my tears are entirely unrelated to dinner. 

Jhuma is squatting over the wooden roti board. Her rolling pin dangles from one hand over a half-rolled chapati. She stares at me, her expression a mixture of astonishment and worry. Her forehead is wrinkled and she periodically looks at Nirmal and says, "Ki?" He dismisses her with his hand and tries his best to understand me as I frantically gesture towards Jhuma and try to explain my feelings.  

"Okay. Okay I am solve problem," says Nirmal. "I call one bank lady. She can help. Tikachhe?" I respond, "Tikachhe. Tike, Tike." I wipe the tears from my cheeks and Lalita slides across the platform on her knees and silently hands me a picture of a 2x2 grid with four items inside: a mango, a house, a fish and a candle. Above the fish she's written, "Kirsten no cairay you butfoul and Lalite Roy Pashemoni". Kumkum stands from where she is perched on the wooden platform and crawls into my lap with her identical picture, forgetting to hand it to me. Instead she puts her palm on my cheek and locks eyes with me. She cocks her head and furrows her brow, and I tell her with my wet eyes and half smile that everything will be okay. 

"Hello? Hello?" Nirmal is on the phone with a coworker who will translate for us. Up until now we have never been in such dire need of a translator. He hands the phone to me and I tell the woman on the other end everything that I'm trying to convey to Nirmal. That I'm sad and frustrated because Jhuma is my friend and I can't communicate with her. That I wish I knew more Bengali. That I want to tell Jhuma that now that all of the students are gone, she's my best friend in Calcutta. That all I wanted to do was ask if she needed help preparing dinner, even though I know she'd say no.

The bank employee dutifully translates all of this into Bengali for Nirmal. His expression softens as he listens. He thanks her and hangs up. Then, he looks at Jhuma and begins to explain in Bengali. When she understands, her expression shifts to surprise. She speaks to Nirmal in Bengali and he laughs. "Problem same to same," he says. "You very good friend Jhuma. When Kristen is around all time, Jhuma is happy. When Kristen is America side, Jhuma no happy. But Jhuma no English." 

I look at Jhuma. She is one year younger than me, born in 1988, and has been married for 12 years. She is beautifully raising a 9 and a 7 year, knows how to wash any type of clothing so that stains will come out, can make chapati with her eyes closed, has the eyesight to spot a congee from 10 feet away and can haggle at the market better than anyone I've ever seen. And for the first time, it dawns on me that we have so much more in common than I ever dreamed we could. We both recognize that we are friends, and we are both frustrated that we cannot communicate more easily. 

The next morning, after Jhuma has addressed me by name and I'm sitting on the couch wiping sleep from my eyes, she glides quietly into the living room with an orange mug of Nescafe. She's added my own milk from the fridge and three teaspoons of sugar, exactly the way she's watched me make it for weeks. It's the first time she's ever made it for me herself. She sets the mug in front of me and quietly says, "coffee." The tiniest, proudest smile crosses her lips and I know that she hasn't prepared the coffee for me as a domestic worker. She's prepared it for me as a friend. 

-----------------

Part Two is in progress...



sindoor = the red powder applied to the front of the part of a married woman to signify her married status
tikuli = bindi, the red dot applied to a woman's forhead
chama = the top portion of a sari
boti = a stationary cutting instrument used by women in India
challo = Let's go
chapati = A type of flat, wheat bread
Amar bandhu = My friend
lanka = chili pepper
Ki? = What?
roti = bread
Tikacche? = Okay?
congee = lice/bug

I am.

I am standing in the rain, waving to Lalita who is sticking her head between the bars of the second story window of her school and smiling her no-front-teeth grin. I've walked what feels like a mile at 10am with Juma and Kumkum to drop her off at school. Water soaks my hair and my kurti from the late morning monsoon downpour, but I smile and wave furiously at the tiny face who is proudly pointing us out to all of her grade school bandhus. 

I am breathing in clouds. We are in Darjeeling, at 8,600 feet at the base of the Himalayas. I'm wearing jeans and a rain jacket and haven't produced a drop of sweat in 48 hours. The cloud air fills my lungs and cleanses them. Later in my room I cough up black mucus that has settled in my chest from two months of breathing in exhaust, dirt and dust in Calcutta.  
I am sitting cross-legged on the wooden platform in the car park underneath of the apartment building where Nirmal works as a night guard. Juma is rolling out chapatis and I am braiding Kumkum's hair. After I part her hair, I notice that the day's earlier lice treatment has worked. I pick out the dead congee with a fine tooth comb and Kumkum whines that it's taking too long for me to do her hair and too long for dinner to be ready. Juma and I exchange a smile, because nine year olds are nine year olds, no matter where you go. I stop counting the dead lice when I get to 100. 

I am gripping the handle on the inside of a jeep as we hurtle down a busted road past towns with names like Ghum and Kurseong and Pankhabari. The monsoon rains caused landslides just days before that have washed out roads that result in major traffic jams. There is no guardrail to our right and although our driver seems confident that he will deliver us safely to the airport, I take out my phone and compose a love letter to my mom and sister, just in case we careen off the side of the mountain like the beloved principal, his cook, and her five year old daughter did just four days before. 

I am eating tiffin at the dining room table and for the first time ever, Juma sits down next to me. Every single other day, Juma cooks the food, puts it on the table in serving bowls, covers them and then leaves or sits on the floor in the living room. But today she sits next to me. I watch her watch me eat, and she carefully inspects my face for a reaction. I tell her the few sentences I know that could apply to cooking: "Khubhalo! Ami Juma Food bhalo lagey" (Very good! I like Juma Food). She smiles but doesn't speak. I can tell she wants to say something. She keeps opening her mouth slightly, with a look on her face like she is searching for the right words in her limited English vocabulary. I wish she would tell me everything she's thinking in Bengali, even if I can't understand it. The silence in which we sit becomes comfortable and we watch each other. Ami Juma bhalobashi. 

I am sitting in the backseat of a taxi, with Lalita on my lap and Kumkum between myself and Juma.  We've just dropped off Kate and Audrey at the airport and Nirmal in front is lamenting the fact that I only have 9 more days in India. Kumkum lays her (now lice-free) head on my chest and sighs, "Pisīmonī..." We get to a red light and the bādām man comes to the window. We buy five bags and Lalita gleefully dispenses one to each family member.

I am watching Lalita hand out small bowls of payesh to her family and three pisīmonīs on the morning of her birthday. A sweet, simple celebration of her 7 years on earth.  

I am standing on the metro and the entire car is staring at me. I wear appropriate leggings to my ankles and a plain green kurti that covers everything. My sports bra straps aren't showing and my hair is in a simple braid, no design. Yet, everyone stares. I wonder what they're thinking. I wonder, "Should I have put on coverup today?" "Are the slits in my kurti too high?" "Is my backpack taking up a not appropriate amount of space?" "The staring has to mean something, they can't just be that curious about me. What am I doing wrong?" I make eye contact with some of them. Some of them smile and wave their head to the side. Some just stare back. I put in my head phones and close my eyes and try to be invisible. 

I am watching Juma eat my mashed potatoes with a fork and a smile. She takes seconds and then eats the leftovers from Lalita's plate and my heart explodes because she likes it. Juma likes something that I cooked. Even if she does have to add a pile of salt to her plate and one green lankā. ;-)

I am at Durbar for a meeting with three other people working on the Drishti project. They are speaking in Bengali and I am picking up every 4th word or so, which is enough to provide context clues so that I can figure out what is happening. When my friend translates for me, I smile at my knowledge and ability to somewhat understand the loveliest language I've ever heard. 

I am watching Nirmal watch a video on my phone. It's Lalita and her three pisīmonīs at Banana Leaf earlier that day, singing her Happy Birthday while she smiles into her ice cream. Nirmal is watching, "Dēhkhā!" and crying and wiping his face with a rag. 

I am standing in my bedroom while Juma wraps me in a sari. It fits me perfectly because Nirmal has taken my measurements under the guise of me trying on one of Juma's saris, and then he disappeared for an hour and a half. He returned with the most gorgeous patterned sari, with petticoat and chama. I've never owned a sari and had no reason to before now, but I am so thankful for this gift and even more thankful at having the experience of Juma dressing me in it, fixing each part perfectly, safety pins between her lips and her daughters on the floor, inspecting the length to make sure that the sari isn't too long. 

**
bandhus = friends
congee = lice/bugs
tiffin = lunch
pisimoni = Auntie
badam = peanut
payesh = a type of sweet Bengali dessert made of rice, milk sugar and pistachios
lanka = chili pepper
chama = the top portion of a sari that looks like a crop top
dehkha! = look!

Sick Things

Cold air from the air conditioning vent blows back the tiny hairs around my forehead. We've been in the car for nearly two hours and it is only 7:30 in the morning. I have spent every moment of the ride thus far in the fetal position in my seat, head bent towards the black trash bag that Kate took from our hotel room trash can. We are going to the Taj Mahal. 

The churning in my stomach occurs at the speed of the car wheels. The bile inside cyclones at forty kilometers per hour. I close my eyes and wish for expulsion, but it doesn't come. We continue down the mostly empty road, weaving in and out of colorful trucks carrying oil, chickens, and people. Some of them hang onto the sides of truck beds where ever they can find a hand-spot. 

We enter a small town and sail through. Men groggy with sleep in their faces sit on plastic stools and stare at our car passing by. Stare at the women inside. Us. They smile. Point. Wave. I close my eyes and time my breaths with the clicking of the air conditioner. Click click click. Breathe In. Click click click. Breathe out. 

The car slows as we approach a small traffic jam. The driver maneuvers around road bikes and auto-rickshaws. Our windows are up. The cold air blows. We stare at the people staring at us. We stare at the people staring at someone else. 

On the ground, a motorbike is on its side. A crowd of men standing in a semi-circle. Staring. We stare. 

A woman sits motionless in the street, legs straight, staring at the hazy air in front of her. Her salwar kameez is pushed up around her waist. One foot has a flip flop on it. The other foot is mangled, bloody. Slick and pink like raw chicken. A young girl stands behind her. She wears a red shirt with Tweety Bird on it. Her mouth is open so wide that I can see the back of her throat as she screams. Her hands are clenched, both arms stretched at forty-five degree angles from her stiff body. 

Click, click, click. She breathes in. Click, click, click. Her breath out is shrill. Her brown saucer eyes stare at the shredded foot. She still has a tiny bit of baby chub in her cheeks and her black hair is held back by a headband. The sound of her scream cuts through the glass of our car windows and joins the churning bile in my stomach like creamer poured into just-stirred coffee. 

Our axles keep spinning. All of the questions that will never be answered radiate through my limbs, the question marks popping out of my pores. I know that I will never see the shredded foot woman or the screaming child again. I put my head back into the black trash bag but nothing happens.

Hours later we are at the Taj Mahal. A palace built by an obsessed man. It is with this man-made world wonder in my periphery that I am sitting on a ledge, the roiling bile finally close to evacuation. People stare. Sweat rolls over my eyelids and down my nose onto the ground. I stare as each drop hits the same spot repeatedly.

I close my eyes. 

And it is the not image of the slick, raw chicken foot that makes me finally vomit, but the terrified little girl standing. Tweety Bird. Saucer eyes and 22 teeth. I wretch over and over into a ziploc bag. Bright yellow bile and a scared child's howl.

Hati, Hati

Another morning with the girls.

I slip on my sunglasses and carry my mug of coffee up to the roof. The sun hits me and instantly all of the moisture in my skin evaporates into the hot air.  I cross the roof quickly, slide the bolt across the iron gate, and enter their territory. When I round the corner, I hear their tiny voices from above, "Pishimoni!" I smile and wave and start the unsteady walk up the iron slatted staircase to their home. Each metal rung burns the soles of my feet and when I reach halfway, a set of tiny hands reaches down to take my coffee mug. A few quick wipes on the concrete with a wet rag to rid the floor of loose grains of cooked rice, and they unfold the mat that I always sit on.

And then, we begin.

"Rainbow violet, indigo blue.
Rainbow green and yellow too.
Rainbow orange, rainbow red.
Rainbow smiling overhead."

"ABCDEFGHIJKLMNOPQRSTUVWXYANDZ"...

"Kabhi ek, ek, ek
Swasa kay kay kay
Kabhi dui, dui, dui
Swasa no no no
kabhi tin, tin, tin
Swasa cleem, cleem, cleem"

And then after our songs, we move on.

"Pishimoni, binuni!" (Auntie! Braid!)

I say, "Thika. Ek or dui?" (Okay, one or two?)

"Mmmmm....ek." (One)

"Hah. Thika acche." (Yes. Okay.)

One of them digs around until they find the tortoiseshell comb, and Lalita plops in front of me. Kumkum watches with fascination, leaning on my thigh, as I turn her sister's long hair into one french braid. At the end I put both hands on either side of her head to smooth out any loose hairs. I kiss the braid and say, "Sesa." (Finish.)

And Lalita puts her hand on the braid. Kumkum holds up the mirror and Lalita says, "Voooowww!"

I take a break in between braids. I sip my coffee and they offer me some of their breakfast, which I have plenty of downstairs, but I take a few tiny bites of luchi or rice puffs or halwa because it means something to the girls when I eat with them. Sharing food is a bonding experience between us. They find it hilarious when I attempt to eat with my right hand. "Nay, Ami Bengali!" (No, I Bengali), I once said as a joke when I was offered a spoon. Now every time they see me eat with my hands, they repeat the phrase and giggle at me and give me pointers on the best way to scoop rice and dahl and slide it off of my fingers with my thumb, into my mouth.

Lalita points to the elephant charm around my neck. Hati, hati!" (Elephant, elephant!) I point to the matching charms around their necks and say, "Hati, hati!".

When I first got here I was able to find 3 cheap little metal elephant charms. I threaded each on a thin red rope. One for each of us. They are our Hati necklaces. The girls have not taken them off since I tied them around their necks. Nirmal even added another charm.

Kumkum uses the hati around her neck to attack mine. "Ahh!" I feign fright. And they laugh and I laugh and I am so thankful that something so small could make us all so happy.

By the time I finish with Kumkum's two braids, Juma is finished in the kitchen downstairs and she joins us up in their home. We play with the doll, who now sports a red bindi as well as a red fingerprint on her forehead, the kind that the entire family comes home with after a visit to Kalighat Temple. I use the doll to show Juma how to french braid, something we've been working on for the last few weeks.

The girls flip through their school workbooks, eager to show me the English words they've learned.

"Comb, comb, comb your hair.
Brush, brush, brush your teeth."

"Bhalo, bhalo. Khub bhalo" I say. (Good, good. Very good.)

Then it's time for me to shower and begin my day at Durbar. We blow air kisses, hold hands, and Lalita says, "Bye!"

Kumkum puts either hand on my cheeks and stares into my eyes. I send her everything.

"Sundohr," I say. (Beautiful).



And then I stand. Back down the scalding stairs. I'm dripping in sweat. My ponytail sticks to the back of my neck and I know my face is pink. Above me I hear, "Pishimoni?" I pause and look up. "Hmm?"

Lalita is standing on the stairs. She cocks her head and says, "Tomorrow coming?"

I smile. "Hah." (Yes.)

With my empty coffee cup in my hands, I pass through their gate and cross the roof, my heart full.

Case 458

Last year when I was hospitalized because of the rat bite my days were spent laying in a bed, connected to wires and IVs, in a room on the fourth floor of Apollo Gleneagles hospital. I'd lay on my side and stare out the window. By then, since it was the end of June, the monsoon clouds would begin to creep closer and closer, my signal that the day was half over and perhaps in the morning I would be released and go home. Laura, the TA, spent as much time at the hospital as she could, it was still an hour taxi ride from our apartment and she had many responsibilities with the other students so she could not always be there during the day. 

I quickly became lonely and bored. And just as quickly, I made two friends. Two wonderful Didis from Kerala who were nurses on my wing, 4L. One in particular, Jyothika, would take her time when inserting new channels (IVs) into my already bruised and marked arms and hands. And each day, as she slowly worked, we began to get to know each other. We talked about my life in The States and about her home state in Kerala. I'd just returned from a trip to Kerala and had many photos. She happily looked at all of my photos of the food we'd eaten there. 

Over the next few days I spent less time staring and waiting for the monsoon clouds to bruise the sky and more time waiting for my friend Jyoti to come to my room to change my IV bags or give me my pills or just to say Hi. When I heard the door opening, I wished with all of my heart that it would be Jyothika or Greeshma. My favorite Didis. Five minutes of interaction with people who spoke English and who laughed with me at the terribly bland food I was being fed (rice and boiled chicken only...tea with no sugar or milk). Who held my hands when a procedure hurt. Who fixed my blankets, brushed my hair and took such amazing care of me.

One day Jyothika showed up for her shift with two rosaries. One for me and one for Laura. I put mine around my neck and didn't remove it until I got home from the hospital. 

I became known at Apollo as "Case 458" or "Rat Bite Case". Hospital employees would come to my room and peek in the door to get a glance at the girl from America who'd been bitten by a rat in Calcutta. Some of them snapped photos with their phones. Jyoti and Greeshma quickly put a stop to it, and they began to stand guard so that no other people would come and gawk at me. 

The day that I left Apollo, I was able to get Jyoti's phone number and we have kept in contact all year. We usually chat about once a week. She sends me photos of her family, I send her photos of mine. She sends me photos of her lunches and dinners and I send her photos of my strange looking American food. When I told her I was coming back, she couldn't believe it. I think that back then, I could not either. 

And finally yesterday, we were able to meet. Jyotikha and Greeshma brought two of their nurse friends who also work at Appollo, and I brought four of the students with me to meet them. We met at a large mall near the hospital and it was a heart exploding type of reunion!

We caught up, took many photos, and shopped around a bit at the mall. It was so good to see them. They will always be my Didis...even though technically Didi means "older sister", it's a term used for nurses in India. Once they realized last year that actually, I am older than them by 4-5 years, we began to joke that really, I am the Didi. ;-)

Once again I am left with an experience here in India that has left me nearly speechless and my heart exploding and full all at the same time. 

Amar Bondhu Mara

I have a lot to write about what we did on Sunday, Monday and Tuesday. But for now my heart is stuck in one spot, so I must write. It's 7am and the rest of the house is sleeping. Juma is in the kitchen preparing food for the day. My instant Nescafe with double toned milk and three scoops of sugar sits on the coffee table in front of me next to my water bottle full of blue colored water because of the added Gatorade packet. My eyes feel swollen and puffy and I have a slight headache from all of the crying yesterday. I keep asking the ultimate useless question: why? why? why? 

Amar bondhu mara. That was my primitive attempt at explaining to Nirmal in Bengali, "My friend died". 

Last year one of the members of Amra Pradatik (translation: "We are the foot soldiers"), which is the collective of children of sex workers at Durbar, became pretty close with a number of us in the class. He called himself Sam, which I'd always known was short for something but I didn't know what. He hung out with us whenever we were at Durbar's central office because he lived on one of the top floors. He was bright, funny, seemingly happy a lot. He was always joking around, but we had some serious conversations as well. He really wanted to move to The States. There were no opportunities for him in India, he said. 

I once showed him a $1 bill and he was so fascinated that I let him keep it and he said he would use it when he got to America. Sam became a good friend while we were here last year, and I was really excited to see him when I got back to Durbar. I even had a few pieces of paper that we wrote on together last year to show him. 

I'd emailed Pintu last fall to send a message to Sam to say Hi and Pintu delivered the message and then wrote back for him. On Monday and Tuesday Pintu was out on holiday, so I tried asking others at Durbar about Sam, but no one seemed to know who I was talking about. I kept saying Sam, with a hard S. I didn't have a photo of him on my phone, only my old phone with my pictures from India last year. I asked the secretary, the front desk lady, the head of Amra Pradatik, but they just couldn't figure out who I was talking about. 

Yesterday, they finally did. The head of Amra Pradatik asked me to come into his office, where some of the members of Anandam (LGBTKH org.) were. They said, "Samrat." And then "He's gone". I said, "Oh, where is he? Where did he go?"

"No. Gone. Dead." 

"What? Dead? What? Dead, like dead?" 

"Yes dead." 

"What happened?!"

"He was hanging by a rope. Killed himself." 

I was sitting in a chair in Amra Pradatik's office and my eyes started to tear up. The head of Amra Pradatik said, "Don't cry. This happens in India." But I couldn't help it. 

I was ushered out of the office and on the way back to the group, they were telling all of the women who'd been trying to figure out who I was trying to find. When they said his name, they all looked down and jutted out their lips at me. I was taken back to the room with all of the students, where I tried to resist going because I was crying and didn't want to make a scene. But the women ushered me there to sit down and rest. I let myself have a good, loud cry for 5 minutes or so. One of the students was so kind to pass tissues. I was just in such shock.

Our coordinator, Mousumi, and put her hand on my arm. "These things happen here. Do not cry." But I couldn't stop the tears. 

Sam committed suicide 3 weeks ago. I can't believe it. 

So many thoughts racing through my head.

What was he thinking when he did it? 

What could I have done? 

Did he know I was coming back? That probably wouldn't have made a difference anyway. 

I'm so sorry that you were hurting so badly Sam. I am so, so sorry. My heart is broken.

Where Ever You Go There'll Be Sun, Sun, Sun

Saturday was a big day. Both for the group and for me. We left the apartment at 11am to take the metro to Park St. On the way to the metro I took the group into one of the stores on Rashbehari Ave. Last year I would stop into that store and became friends with the shop owner, Mr. Gupta. At the end of last year he asked if we could be pen pals, so we have been writing back and forth all year. 




He didn't know I was returning, so he was very excited to see me! And meet all of the new students. After that we continued on to the metro and the students got their first experience on the Calcutta public transit system. It went well for the most part - one student became extremely hot and felt very faint, but we all worked together to cool off her neck and I had her sit on the floor of the metro. Some of the women sitting nearby gave us some advice as well, which was much appreciated. 

I've been taking my role as T.A. very, very seriously. I think the group probably thinks I'm a little nuts, because I'm constantly counting them, everywhere we go. There's 12 of them, so it's a little nerve wracking, at least for now, to make sure that everyone is making it where we're supposed to be going. We don't have Indian mobiles yet, which adds to the stress a little bit. So far so good, though. 

We made our way out of the metro station and up to Park St. From there we walked to Sunshine, the store where we always buy kurtis and pants and presents for people. It was SO good to see Akash and Sanjay. Imran was away, visiting his family but he'll be back this week. This year was a total repeat of last year - just piles and piles of clothing and students went through and chose outfits that they wanted. 

And Akash, in the middle of it all, helping with sizing and colors and styles. He's so helpful. And it was so good to see him after a year!


He also sent a gift for my niece, Kylie! He wrote on the bag -

It's a toy tuk-tuk! The kind that when you pull back, the wheels spin and it moves forward. I found it in the store and was going to buy it but Akash said, no, this is my gift for your niece. So sweet. 
After Sunshine we headed over to Fairlawn to the Beer Garden for food and some Kingfishers. It was really nice to relax under the trees and put some fuel in our systems. 

This is Neha, Kate and me.

Kingfisher selfie!
After we got back it was about 5:30pm. Around 6:30 I joined Juma and the girls to take a walk to Deshapriyo park. All I could figure out was that we were going to get ice cream. It was so nice...I'd only ever been to D. Park during the daytime. But at night, the whole park is full of families sitting in the grass because the open space allows for a slight breeze. So we got our ice cream pops and sat down. The girls wanted to play games, so we played tag, monkey in the middle, a fun game where Juma tied her sari around our eyes and we had to find the others, and we also played with these little bouncy balls that I brought for the girls. On the way home, I carried Lalita on my shoulders and she freaked out because she liked it so much. She kept calling me "hati" which means elephant in Bengali ;-)
When we got back, the girls were exhausted from all of the running around (as was I) and as we sat on the roof before bed, Kumkum fell asleep in my lap. Lalita had been playing on my phone (the Endless numbers game that Kylie likes, Kels!) and she took a photo:

I meant to mention that when I first arrived, the Roy family presented me with a lovely gift. Here's a photo of it:

The girls are VERY excited that there are two little babies as well. They call the one with yellow hair Kumkum and the one with purple hair Lalita. Haha. I have these displayed in my room on the shelf for now. :) 
It's 10am now, and House A is getting ready to make a trip to Cafe Coffee Day for frozen coffees. And then the whole group is heading to South City Mall to do some grocery shopping and to check out the other stores. 
I hope everyone is well!
Oh, one more thing. My mom sent some frozen ice pops for the girls to try. The kind we had as kids every summer. They packed easily because they're just liquid in a plastic tube. I stuck them in the freezer when I got here, and last night Kumkum and Lalita got to try them for the first time. I told them they were from my Ma (Bengali equivalent of Mommy). They looooved them!

Right now the heat index outside is 117. Let today's adventure begin!

Reunion with the Girls

Last night I went to bed around 3am, and this morning I woke up at 9:30. Nirmal and Juma were in the apartment - Juma was cooking and Nirmal sat on the couch with me and we caught up. He told me about the girls and their schooling. I showed him the picture that Kylie drew of India and he was very impressed and absolutely loved it. He asked all about my family (ma, baba, chot - mother, father, little sister). Then I got to see Juma! It was such a joyous reunion. Unfortunately, my gift for her is in my checked bag so I will have to wait to give it to her until my luggage comes in.

After my reunion with Juma, I grabbed the doll and a few dresses that I brought for the girls and headed up to their apartment to give it to them. They yelled and whooped when they saw me coming up the stairs! Lots of laughing and hugging and smiling. They absolutely love the doll, and we played with it for over an hour. They were very enamored with the fact that it has earrings and a nose ring. They even added a bindi to her forehead. I'm so, so glad I was able to find them a doll that looks like them!

The girls love to take photos on my phone. I think they took about a hundred while we were together this morning. And videos too. They love to take videos and then rewatch them a billion times and laugh at hearing their own voices. 
While I was up there Juma fed me a delicious lunch of rice and dahl with spinach. Lalita, the little photographer, took this photo.

I really wasn't sure what size the girls are in dresses, but I picked out a few simple sundresses at Gap Kids and Old Navy. Luckily, each of the girls' two dresses fit them perfectly! I kind of guessed on the sizes, but I got Kumkum a size M (8) and Lalita a size S (6). They're also pretty tiny for their age, so hopefully these dresses will last them a few years. 

The girls always speak to me in Bengali, as if I know what they're saying, and then look at my expectantly. Then I speak to them in English and they look at me, all confused. But then we all smile and I say one of the 10 words that I know in Bengali. And then we all laugh. But you know, it's really easier to communicate with someone without any words than you think it is. It's a lot of gesturing and showing by actions/hands, but it works. When I left they kept asking, "What time?" and pointing to my watch, asking what time I'll be back for them. When I left, they immediately ran out of their apartment to go show Baba (their daddy, Nirmal) their new dresses and doll. 
If you know me or have talked to me in the last year, you know how much I have been looking forward to seeing the girls. They make my days so bright. They call me Auntie Kristen, or Didi (older sister). I've been looking forward to this moment for so many months. I'd been able to speak to them on the phone throughout the year, but nothing compared to seeing their little faces light up when they saw me walking up the stairs to their home.
My heart is so full. 

My Family Is Your Family This Side

After a full 36 hours of travel, I am here at No. 5 and settled into the couch next to one of the other students, Audrey, whom I traveled with. I'm connected to the Wifi, enjoying the AC, and trying to unwind my brain and body from the process of traveling.

I flew with Sam and Audrey. Here's a picture of us from Newark, when we were still clean and well rested. ;-)

The first leg of the flight was uneventful. 15 hours in one seat...yikes. I watched Wild, Foxcatcher, and Bridesmaids. When we landed in Mumbai there was some confusion because our ticket was in 24 hour time. Basically, by the time we realized that we needed to board at 6pm, it was already 5:30 and we were still in the 'international' airport, and needed to be at the 'domestic' one! We ran to the shuttle and were told that we would need to go get a taxi, ASAP. So we sprinted to the taxi counter and finally got into a taxi with a guy who spoke no English and we were trying to tell him that we were going to miss our flight. 
Also, along the way we'd met a friend named Jose from North Carolina who'd never traveled outside of the country before and needed some guidance. He was going to Bangalore/Mysore for a yoga retreat. So, he was along for the ride. Here's a picture of us in the taxi...after racing through the airport and running up and down the rows of taxis trying to find our prepaid one. 

We somehow made the flight to Calcutta. Unfortunately, our luggage did not. Hopefully our bags will be put on the first flight to Calcutta tomorrow and we'll have it by the afternoon. Luckily, I packed an extra outfit and some facewash (thanks for the reminder, Mom!)

I had some really interesting meals on the flights this time.

Dinner was lamb with potatoes and veggies. A roll, salad, and some sort of rice pudding type deal. Oh, and a whiskey on the rocks. Hehe.

Middle of the night snack was sandwiches. One had cucumbers, carrots and mayo. The other was just bread and cheese. Hah. 

Breakfast was an omelet, some sort of breaded pouch with spicy cheese inside, fruit, a croissant and a muffin.

Dinner on the second flight was heavenly. Chicken in some kind of sauce, rice, and palak (spinach) with corn. A salad, roll and some sort of custard/cake dessert. I love that this meal looks like the Indian flag ;)
When we finally got to Calcutta and realized that our bags didn't make it, we had to wait awhile to be picked up my Nirmal. It gave us a chance to do an "after" picture. Yikes. 

ALL OF THE SWEAT!
When Nirmal arrived, it was such a happy reunion. Lots of yelling and hugs and happiness. 

On the ride to No. 5 Nirmal called Juma and the girls and put me on the phone. All 3 of them were yelling my name! Nirmal said, "Tonight my girls no sleeping because Kristen is coming! For 10 days they say, 'Kristen today?' and I say, 'No, 10 days'. Then the next day, 'Kristen is coming?' and I say, 'No, 9 days'." Haha...so cute. They tried to stay up for my arrival but they fell asleep around midnight before I got to the apartment. I'm really looking forward to our reunion tomorrow morning! 
When we got here, Nirmal gave me the most beautiful gift from him, Juma and the girls. I'll post about it tomorrow with a picture. When he gave it to me he said, "My family is your family this side". And it's true. I almost feel like I've been reunited with family members. I'm also very lucky that I get to sleep in the same bedroom and even the same bed as last time! It very much feels like coming home. 
And with that, I'm going to sign off. It's been a whirlwind and although my brain is on an adrenaline rush, my body is starting to fade. Tomorrow I'm off to Durbar to meet with Pintu, the coordinator there, so that we can plan next week's DMSC orientation for the students. Everyone is here now, and it's time for the adventure to begin!

It's Finally May 20th!

The day has finally arrived. All of my bags are packed. Gifts carefully wrapped in tshirts and tank tops. 48 granola bars are lining my suitcase. My iPad is charged and loaded with Pitch Perfect and Bridesmaids. My first dose of Malarone is in my system, and my phone is loaded with songs to listen to on the Metro.

It feels strange and surreal that in 36-ish hours I'll be in Calcutta. I promise to update as soon as I can! I am anticipating a very, very happy reunion with Nirmal, Juma, and the girls. Also looking forward to getting the students settled in the apartments. And I definitely can't wait for a Mini Meal from Banana Leaf!!

Talk to you all when I am India-side!!