Happy Halloween!

Since coming to India we have been immersed in many Hindu holidays and celebrations each more elaborate and colorful than the next. As October rolled around, we decided it was our turn to introduce the neighborhood children to the greatest of American folk traditions – Halloween! Pat's father graciously sent us a box of party decorations, balloons and face paint, which arrived just in the nick of time! A few weeks before we made piñatas with the children which we then stuffed full of candy, pens and toys. We found pumpkins for carving - which was a huge hit - and apples for dipping in carmel.

I then agonized over what sort of costumes to make for the boys, since supplies were limited and I knew the other children would have simple costumes, if any. In a flash of inspiration I decided at the last minute that Evan could be a stoplight - since I had balloons and little else, and Evan's current favorite game is "Red Light, Green Light. Since Eli is so mobile and probably would have tried to eat anything I could think of putting on him, I transformed a box into a wrapped gift. Eli was delighted to sit in his box and play, and I was happy because it also kept him out of trouble. All in all I was pleased with my last minute ideas.

As the children arrived we set them to work making spiders for the giant web that Pat made outside. Then we brought out the face paint and the girls went crazy with delight! After much discussion, they all decided to be princesses - but different princesses, of course. While the girls applied their make-up, the boys of the group, who were all a bit older, got a lesson in how to carve pumpkins. Evan was content to paint with watercolors and Eli, happy as always, rode in the carrier. The whole apartment was buzzing with excitement and laughter. Everyone was having a great time, perhaps most especially Pat and me. After a long week of bad weather, poor health and homesickness it was a joy to introduce Halloween to these very special children. They wanted to know what Halloween was, why we celebrated it, and how it was different in the US. We happily shared the traditions of costumes, trick or treating, mischief making and even the once important religious significance of the day. Since festivals are of such paramount importance here in India many insisted on shaking our hand and saying "Happy Halloween" when they arrived. It was as always, very endearing.

After pumpkins had been carved and lit, faces had been painted, and carmel apples eaten it was pinata time! Since there would obviously be no trick or treating, pinatas seemed to be a logical alternative to collecting lots of candy. We strung our homemade pinatas on the roof of Sudha's house and all the children, including Evan, got to take a swing at it. The last "child" also being the oldest at 19, smashed it open to great fanfare and commotion. While the children descended on the fallen booty with screams of delight, Evan stood back innocently concerned, asking "What happened to that balloon?"

I have always loved Halloween - what's not to love about dressing up, free candy and spooky decorations? This year, however, was not only very fun, but also very special. I finally felt like I could teach the children something interesting and fun about American culture, and in return the children reminded me of why my experience in India is so meaningful.

The Overnight Train

October 24th 10:30 pm. Gunakal Train Station.

We are on an overnight train from Bangalore to Hyderabad. This train marks the end of our vacation, although as is always the case in India the journey is a big part of the adventure. We have just pulled into Gunakal Station. This station is nicer than most. It is well lit, there are chairs, trash bins, and tidy tea stalls. It is also bustling with activity at this time of night. I watch anonomously, unnoticed from the hidden comfort of my 2nd class air conditioned sleeper berth, cloaked by tinted glass. Eli sleeps beside me, Evan and Pat sleep above, and Erin, like me, lies on her stomach, rivoted, watching this spectacle of constant motion happening just beyond the glass.

I see saree clad women with bare feet carry bulky jute bags on their heads. Bands of moustachioed men rush to the next train. Three intrepid souls sleep on the platform floor. A pair of young girls wearing long skirts and jasmine in their hair giggle into their hands. A smartly dressed man with a club foot hobbles by. A muslim man sits watching. A preganant woman waddles to a chair to sit. A young man hurrys by carrying an equally young one-legged man on his back. Mysterious women in burkas pass by. An old man in dirt-caked clothing shuffles by wearing shoes of different sizes.

The train leaves the station and heads back into the blackness of the countryside. When I look up this time I only see my own reflection half lit by my tiny bedside lamp. I become aware once again of how different I look. How strange I must seem from the outside looking in. India is a mysterious place - so different, so foreign. I am captivated by the ceaseless activity, the unbounded energy. I relish these expireneces - seeing India at it's most human. No pretense, no pride, no shame. No flute hawkers, no foreigner's price, no touts. Only people living, waiting and boarding trains.

Ganesh

One of many Ganesh shrines scattered around our neighborhood

Ganesh is the famed Elephant-headed god who is revered as the remover of obstacles and a bearer of good luck. The Indians have a particular fondness for Ganesh - as do I. I love his elephant head, his interesting history and of course, his status as the remover of obstacles. Each year in India there is a 10 day Ganesh-fest, more precisely known as Ganesh Chaturthi, that brings more color and revelry to an already colorful and exciting place.

Ever since we arrived small groups of young boys would come to the door to collect money "for Ganesh". I happily contributed a few rupees to each group of wide eyed boys, not really sure where Ganesh's money was going -but since I always received a receipt it seemed legit.

As it turns out my donations as well as those of all my neighbors were going to purchase large Ganesh idols that would sit in tent houses scattered around the neighborhood and the city. Ganesh was everywhere. It was impossible to walk more than 100 yards in any direction through our little neighborhood without stumbling upon yet another idol. Each Ganesh was different, some were as small as one meter, some as large as three meters. Some where garishly colored, others were plain. But all enjoyed a shrine attended by young men, and an evening ritual of prayer and party.

Every night, just after sunset, the puja to Ganesh would begin, culminating in the sharing of lemon rice and wild drum-induced dancing. It was always a sight to behold. The drumming would last late into the night often after midnight, as the revelers paraded the streets. At the end of 10 days, in a parade rivaling Thanksgiving in New York, 10,000 Ganesh idols were brought to the Hassain Sagar (the large lake in the middle of Hyderabad) to be submerged. What a spectacle! We watched live from the dry comfort of our living room as idol after idol was hoisted by crane and dropped into the water.

However, the most memorable and certainly the most exciting Ganesh evening came just two days into the festival. On this particular evening, our landlord was taking us out on a little adventure to visit a Hindu temple just beyond the city limits. As the landscape became more rural and the traffic thinned we suddenly came upon a large Ganesh idol being pulled down the road by a tractor, surrounded by dozens of men, all of whom were covered in hot pink tikka powder, dancing to a cacophony of drums.

As we stopped the car I suddenly realized we had forgotten the camera. Of all the times to forget! This was just the opportunity I had been waiting for - and no camera. Thankfully our landlord took a few shots to memorialize the experience. As we approached, the excitement of the revelers hit a crescendo. We were presented with lemon rice wrapped in a banana leaf and each of us was adorned with a hot pink tikka on the forehead. As the drumming commenced again Pat was invited to dance. He initially declined, but quickly realized this was a dance worth having and jumped into the fray with arms up. The men of the procession loved it! They grabbed Evan too and he was hoisted onto someones shoulders - to his credit, while slightly alarmed he remained calm. Once the dance was complete all of the men scrambled to shake Pat's hand and offer their thanks. There were about three dozen pink men, and Pat shook hands with them all, offering his thanks in return for another once in a lifetime India experience.

Pat getting down for Ganesh

The Camel Ride

The morning started very badly. Pat woke not feeling well again. Evan was cranky and Eli bumped his head. A curtain of misery descended on the house. Each in our own way, we were feeling sad and homesick. It seemed the honeymoon was over. Thankfully, however, our funk was nothing that food and rest couldn't cure. By the afternoon we slowly began picking ourselves up out of the mire we were all wallowing in. It started with some good old-fashioned “angry music” (as Pat likes to call it). We turned on some Ani DiFranco, comforted by something distinctly western and befitting of our mood. We sang along and danced like fools reliving memories associated with each song: “Remember when we were driving to New Foundland and we met that weird guy…?” “Remember that crazy hike…?” Even Evan got in on the fun and danced along as we all played ball together. Memories lead to daydreams about the comforts of home: Sal’s Pizza, Starbucks coffee, pho with chicken, fresh air, autumn leaves, fresh apples… I could go on and on. Our day dreaming quickly turned to laughter about the frustrating parts of India – unsafe food and water topping the list. And then the camels arrived.

From our backdoor I spotted them lumbering up the street. Excitement ensued as we rushed to find wallet, camera and shoes so we could go for a ride. Since we are white and obviously made of money (another frustrating aspect of India) the camel boy wanted to charge us five times as much as everyone else. After some serious haggling the camel boy relented and Evan went for his first camel ride with Verajita. I was afraid he would be scared and cry to get down – instead he screamed with delight and ended up having the time of his life.

While Evan rode the camel I ventured to Sudha’s house. She was making an Indian sweet that she wanted to teach me to prepare. We talked and laughed and cooked and learned and ate the sweets. Then she made savory treats and we ate some more. As we snacked, I suddenly became aware of my own happiness and the fun I was having. Hours before I had been pining for the comforts of home. But now, enveloped by friendship and food I realized that this journey would end all too soon. Sal’s Pizza will wait for me and autumn in New England will come again next year. But the joy of riding camels and learning to cook in Sudha’s kitchen will pass far too quickly into happy memories.

the low point

Pat in healthier times, rowing a boat at Indira Gahndi Park in Hyderabad

Pat had come home from school Saturday afternoon looking pale, and asked for some Tylenol. That was when I knew I was in trouble. If my husband asks for Tylenol it's got to be pretty bad. He perked up briefly before his fever spiked dramatically and kept rising - even after a second dose of Tylenol. When his temperature reached 104 sometime after 11pm, I decided it was time to take action. I called Sudha and asked her to take us to the hospital. Ten minutes later a posse of neighbors arrived to assess the situation. I know they all meant well, but they did not believe that Pat could be that bad off. "Just a little fever." They said. When I protested that he was in serious shape, they wanted to retake his temperature, and have him "just take rest". I finally had to put my foot down. "No! " I commanded, trying to keep the edge out of my voice. "He is getting worse by the minute, he needs to see a doctor!" After some further consulting we finally set out for the nearest hospital.

The streets were amazingly quiet, even the cows had called it a night. It was such a contrast from the congestion of the daylight hours. The hospital too was quiet at this hour. Unlike Emergency Rooms in the US, we walked in the door, greeted the doctor and got down to business. No paperwork, no triage, no waiting. Pat, burning with fever, was pointed toward a gurney in the corner. As he went to lay down on the stained sheet he disturbed a large moth that fluttered up and resumed it's rest on the splash stained wall. My confidence started to plummet as my stress level rose. Oh God, how did I get here? I would have given anything for a sheet of that annoying crinkly paper for Pat to lie on.

Vitals were taken and discussion commenced about food borne illness. I was starting to percolate with anxiety. The doctor hadn't even examined Pat but had already made his diagnosis?!?! "Is there any chance this could be meningitis?" I pleaded "Or a mosquito borne virus?" I just couldn't accept this diagnosis so quickly. After all we had eaten almost all the same foods and we drink the same water.

"No." The doctor said flatly. "No chance, Madam. He is exhibiting all of the classic symptoms of water and food borne illness. This is very common here." Our helpful neighbors who accompanied us to the ER seemed confused by my inquiry, they, after all thought he had just a little fever. The doctor explained that, unlike in India, in the US a fever like Pat's is uncommon, and meningitis is always a suspect.

Pat got a shot to reduce the fever and a shot of antibiotics, as well as an IV to restore fluids. As I sat with him we quietly laughed at the absurdity of our situation. It's 1:00am. We are in India in a reputable hospital Emergency Room lying on a stained sheet in the corner of a cluttered room. Our doctor is gently mocking our worry, and chuckling that we do not know illness like the Indians. The moth, still present, flutters by to perch on the broken venetian blinds. We are a long way from home.

Despite my initial lack of trust, our doctor is very competent and quite friendly. As it turns out, he had spent time in the US so he understood our anxiety as well as our expectations. Once things had settled down a bit he said: "I like your country very much, but the food is not good. You cannot even get a good masala." Indians are proud of their cuisine, and rightfully so. I had to agree with the good doctor, a good masala is hard to come by.

While Pat rested with his IV, I was instructed to go to the 2nd floor Pharmacy to replace the medicines that had been administered (I brought new drugs and needles back down in a bag to be shelved). While I was gone Pat overheard the nurse comment on how big Eli was. To which the doctor replied: "That is their race." Which gave us a good laugh.

Two hours later we were headed home. Pat, while still very ill, was improving. My anxiety was ebbing - and exhaustion was setting in. By morning the fever broke, but Pat, still weak spent the day in bed, finally emerging at dinner time to check his email. As exhausted as I was, I was also hugely relieved. While I wouldn't have wished this on my worst enemy - I was grateful that it was Pat and not one of the children who suffered this fate.

Queen for a day

For my birthday on Friday Sudha helped me into my first saree. The saree had been presented to me as a gift at the marriage we attended last month - I was very excited and pleasantly surprised to receive it. Sudha took me to the tailor to have the blouse custom made, helped me acquire a petticoat and stitched the hem for me. As one final and meaningful gift she came over and taught me how to put the thing on. It's not terribly complicated, but will require practice. Once the saree was on I did not feel as awkward as I thought I would. As a matter of fact I felt very elegant. I actually felt as though I should be headed to a black tie affair and not preparing dinner and chasing my children around the house. Women wear the saree all the way to the floor, which I think adds to the beauty, but because of this I had to walk a little straighter to keep from tripping on myself. And when you walk a little straighter, you stand a little taller. And when you stand a little taller you actually feel a little better about yourself. The old metaphorical mind-body connection. You can't slouch (like I do ALL the time) and still be beautiful. I think maybe I am slowly starting to unravel the beauty secrets of Indian women.

It is my humble opinion that Indian women, regardless of status, age or wealth carry themselves with incredible grace, elegance and beauty. Even the woman who cleans our house, and who happens to live in tarpaulin tent, looks like she just stepped out of a magazine. For starters, woman always wear their hair in a single braid down then back - no sloppy ponytails, no loose buns, and never down, which is considered immodest. A vast majority of women wear sarees (local spelling) and the rest wear salwar kameez - an elegant, colorful pant and tunic always accompanied by a long scarf. Married woman must never be seen publicly without the tikka (the red dot) on the forehead, bangles on each arm, and toe rings on each foot. I love these small touches of adornment and find they are like the icing on the cake. American culture places such an emphasis on sex appeal. But here the emphasis is on modesty and simple beauty. As a result, I think the beauty of the women in India is unparalleled.

Even at home women wear what they call a "nightie" which is definitely not the type of nightie that I know you are thinking of. A nightie in India is a short-sleeved, floor length, cotton house dress. As is the case with all Indian textiles most nighties are dyed and printed in exquisite designs and colors. I am now the proud owner of two of these house dresses - and I love them! My downstairs neighbor, a young, newlywed named Laxmi, came to visit the other day while I was wearing my nightie, and told me I looked "very, very beautiful - much better than in the pant-shirt". I happily accepted this backhanded compliment because I actually agree. I feel very awkward in my pants and tee-shirts while everyone around me looks so elegant. Being tall, white and blond I stand out enough - but add in a pair of pants and a tee-shirt and I feel like I'm wearing sweatpants at the prom.

To remedy my self consciousness I have acquired some toe rings and bangles. I have also been slowly amassing a new wardrobe of Indian textiles, that, while very beautiful and modest, are not necessarily what local women are wearing -but are far more beautiful than my Target clearance rack pants and shirts. My saree wearing days are not over, however, my frumpy, crunchy granola look just maybe on the way out.