To be a bathroom or to be locked in one, that is the question!

When traveling between Indian cities it is guaranteed that you will emerge from the cramped, humid train car or bus with colorful experiences (most of which are funnier to look back on than they were in the moment) . Arriving at 8am, my (supposed to be)  7am bus rocked and rolled back over Snake Mountain; the packed old bus slowly climbed up the mountain from Pushkar and flew at what should be (and probably is) an illegal speed down past Ajmer en route to Jaipur. At one of the stations, a family climbed abroad and, due to the volume of people, had to join the crowd of others standing in the aisle. My love of babies got the better of me and I immediately reached out and offered to old their tiny baby in my lap until they got a seat. As they eagerly handed her over I thought, 'As long as she doesn't cry the whole way or puke on me, I'm happy to cradle her along the bumpy ride.' On the bright side, she didn't throw up on me. On the down side, she peed instead- and cried. A lot. After about ten minutes she started wailing and I was the object of many a you-quiet-that-baby-down stare that I have admittedly thrown at babies on planes. Mid- bounce as I tried to quiet her down, my lap was suddenly soaking wet. Great. The parents- and everyone else around for that matter, thought it was hilarious and were all the more thankful that I was the recipient of her accident. Just as I thought that it was probably better that I didn't hold her for the four hours (my own body heat is enough thank you!)- I saw her, wrapped in a little blue towel, being handed back to me as if she was a piece of luggage making its way to the back of the bus. Luckily, she slept the rest of the way and I think her parents were a little too serious about having me take her back home with me! Jaipur was a great city- the explored the monkey, Surya, and Ganesha temples and found myself lost in the huge bazaar. Yet, given the sprawl, the pollution, and worst hassling I have yet experienced here, I think I prefer the smaller option (Jodhpur is the second largest city after Jaipur in Rajasthan)!

I left Jaipur on a 6am for a whirlwind day trip to Agra to see the Taj Mahal. With all of the hype surrounding Indian trains/stations, I will admit that I was slightly nervous as I approached the HUGE station weighed down with my growing backpack.. the gifts/fabrics/jutis (shoes), and gifts just keep finding their way in! With the exchange rate of gifts for clothes/toiletries as I repack my bag with each city, I will most likely arrive home with nothing more than the clothes on my back. I was relieved when finding and boarding the train was actually very simple and I found my berth among the hoards of Indian families enjoying their summer vacations. As much as I tried to hold it for fear of what I might be confronted with, after 5 hours I couldn't fight the urge to use the bathroom. To put it bluntly, it was nothing more than a hole in the floor with a platform for each foot that looked down onto the threatening tracks below. Hey, at least it controlled the smell! As I went to unlock the door and go back to enjoying the trance-y Hindi music I found in Pushkar, I realized the door wouldn't open. I tried again and again to yank it open.. maybe it's just stuck? But it was no use- the little handle on the other side had locked me in from the outside. At that moment, I felt as though my stomach had fallen right down the hole and had been run over by the train. No windows, extremely loud rattling of the train car, and closed doors between the berth area and the bathroom. I started banging the door and yelling for help- looking back, I may have gone a little overboard with the hostage-like pleading, but with Agra approaching and no one to notice if I didn't come back to the berth, the thought of being lost to the world in the train bathroom warranted emergency! After a few minutes of knocking and slapping the door, the door was finally opened to the faces of a concerned looking mother and her daughter. Flustered, I found my way back to my seat and started brainstorming ways to avoid the bathrooms on my upcoming 11 hour (to Varanasi) and 20 hour (to Haridwar) train rides.

Pushkar's Happy Love

"All people who come to Pushkar have happy love for each other." My friend Laura (another solo girl I met from Denmark) and I met Rakesh the day of the monkey vs. camera near disaster. Speaking perfect English that he had only learned from befriending travelers as he sat in his little shack selling CDs and handmade bracelets at the foot of the mountain, he offered  to take the two of us to the little Shiva temple 8 kms up the road on his moped. Up for an adventure, we agreed to meet him at his 'shop' at 8am the next morning to head off into Pushkar's hills. The next morning, the three of us piled on to the little bike and sped off for the temple, passing through tiny hillside villages and goats on their way up the mountain for breakfast. We arrived at the tiny temple and sat on the cool marble floor as Rakesh told us stories upon stories ranging from his arranged marriage at the age of 16 to funny encounters he'd had with travelers over the years. He spoke of the connection that many travelers in Pushkar have ('very happy love') and the way that the magical town seems to seduce some into passing months before moving on. I thought of the friendly, funny people I had met over the last two days (a few of which I will be traveling with for the two days) and decided that this Rakesh's 'happy love' is indeed in the air. He described it as a good friendship with people you've only known for minutes- one of my favorite things about travelling.  Before we knew it, 4 hours and 3 cups of chai from the tiny chai shack had gone by so we again squeezed onto the bike and retraced our hill-carving trail.

Due to the incredible heat, I am lucky if I can sleep past 6:30am before I am drenched in sweat. Awake at the crack of dawn this morning, I decided I would wander down to the ghats and watch some morning prayers as the sun rose. When emerged from the sleepy market street onto the wide hot steps of one of the ghats, I was faced with more life than I could've imagined! Women washing their saris and drying them in the wind, families bathing, priests doing pooja, and small circles chanting sacred prayers. At first intimidated by the amount of activity and ease at which they simultaneously took place, I sat away from the main ghat to watch from afar. After watching for a few minutes, I couldn't help the urge to wander in and immerse myself in the colorful celebration of life, death, and cleansing. I stopped at the Bathing Ghat (where photography is not allowed) and sat with my feet in the pool-like area among the many that poured buckets over their heads, swam in the dark green water, and washed the feet of their elders. Although the men wore nothing more than thin loin-cloth like fabric as they bathed, the women wore full saris! I was soon surrounded by a group of old ladies in their soaking wet saris who asked me endless questions about my life, family (husband), and whether or not I knew their uncle who plays traditional Indian music at a restaurant in New York. I ended up sitting down in the ghats for close to three hours as the sun took its place over the lake and threatened the bathers with its nearing 110 degree temperatures.Despite the hoards of people, the sounds of the flocks of pigeons flying over head, mumbled prayers, temple bells clanging, and wet saris slapping against the hot steps hummed together into the most peaceful rhythm I have ever heard in my life.

Pushkar Passports

Nothing like 5 hours in a non-AC bus to think back on all of the wonderful experiences, work, and people that rest fondly in my memories of Jodhpur. At 11am yesterday I hopped on a bus to Pushkar, a small town to the East of Jodhpur known for its peaceful lake, plentiful hummus, and packed market selling everything from spices to silks. One of the 7 Sacred Cities, Pushkar packed with pilgrims who come to bathe in the lake and pray on the holy ghats. Since it is a tiny little town, I had to take a bus to the city of Ajmer where I would then take a 30minute public bus to Pushkar. Despite the heat, the pounds of dirt that cling to my sweaty skin, and precariously dangling feet of those sitting overhead in the sleeper berths, I have become a huge fan of bus travel. We sped (and I mean, SPED) through dry barren lands home to nothing more than a solitary temple, thought small towns whose narrow roads tease the rather large bus, and past small farm plots where women in sparkling saris hunched over weeding the land. At each stop young boys climb aboard vending ice cream, drinks, and oil drenched samosas and mirchi bara. Men, women, and children pile in and assume seats on the hot floor atop sacks of flour or sticks. Upon leaving each stop, the air reeks even more of deep fry, masala, and body odor. Men sip chai in roadside stalls and cows are just about thing only thing that will slow the bus down.

Expecting to be dropped of in the center of the city, I was a little more than surprised when, on the side of a truck congested highway, the man shouted 'Ajmer! Ajmer!' Well it definitely wasn't the Ajmer I was expecting but, here we go. As expected the sight of a solo traveler weighed down by a large backpack attracted the many rickshaw drivers eager to bring me to the government bus stand.. for the 'very Rajasthani price' of rs. 500. HAH! Finally getting a reasonable price, I found my way to the local bus station and just made it on to a bus bound for Pushkar. The drive was beautiful- one that involved a voyage over what is called 'Snake Mountain' a peak that, not surprisingly, is made up of switch backs and hairpin turns all the way up aaaand all the way down. For a bus that was far too large and going far too fast, the amount of breath holding/praying to not die moments were few! Monkeys lined the street, looking to me like they were just about to hop on the bus and head to Pushkar. Little did I know, I would have more than enough monkey business (literally) during my trip.

Immediately after getting off the bus I met another girl about my age from Denmark traveling on her on as well. We instantly joined up, got the same guesthouse, and were hoisted into a bike- drawn taxi- my bag overhead on the tarp 'roof,' hers underfoot, and the two of us crammed onto a tiny seat peddled by a man who probably weighed less than me. We then made our way to the main ghat just in time for sunset and were led in prayer by a priest who promptly gave us our 'Pushkar passports' red strings tied around our unmarried right wrists. With plates of yellow flowers, red paint powder, sugar, and rice we stepped into the cool water and set our pooja afloat among the men and boys bathing in the evening heat.

This morning we woke up at 7am to beat the heat as we made the hour long climb to the Savitri Temple, a small temple located at the top of a nearby mountain. Along the way we were stopped by families to enjoy chai, take photos with them, and explain for the thousandth time where we are from, why were are here, and where our husbands are. About half way up we encountered a group of monkeys perched in the middle of the steep stone 'stair case' that we huffed and puffed our way up for the last 20 mins under the already burning sun- beating the heat didn't end up working out. The roads and ghats are filled with monkeys down in the market, so we figured that it would be safe to take a few pictures and talk about how cute the babies that clung to their mothers fronts were. Well, just as I opened my bag to take out my camera, one of the more sizable monkeys of the bunch stands up on its back legs and bore its very sharp, very creepy looking teeth at us. Uh-oh I've read that these little, seemingly cute, guys can be very vicious. It started making its way toward us at an uncomfortably fast pace- not giving me enough time to decide whether to start to run or not. It ran up to me and grabbed on the the strap of my bag (teeth still out by the way)and started pulling it from me! Scared out of my mind that the thing was going to bite me or wrestle me down I leg go of my bag and scampered behind one of the 5 men that had come to watch the monkey vs foreigner show down. It took out my camera bag and started inspecting it, at which point I started yelling to the men to 'get it away and get the bag!!!! One of the guys ran up and snagged the rest of my bag from the little monster when we realized that there was a bag of prasad or blessed sugary candies in my bag that I had intended to leave at the temple. I throw the bag of sweets at the monkey at which point it put down my camera bag and greedily took the whole bag into a tree. Phew!

We spent the rest of the day relaxing on various rooftop restaurants, eating more hummus, and getting lost in the winding pathways of the market picking up colorful prints, jewelry, jutis, and mango lassis on the way. At the end of the day we found our way to 'sunset point' a beautiful ghat from which we watched sadhus praying in their bright orange robes as the sun sunk behind the jagged white and blue washed horizon of the town.

1 birthday, 2 saris, and 3 kilos of sweets

The lovely thing about having an Indian cell phone is the amount of spam phone calls I receive on a daily basis. So when I saw an unknown number calling me at 7am on my birthday morning, I was pretty sure picking up would mean hearing that whiny voice recording going on in Hindi about new company phone deals with Bollywood muzak playing in the background. I picked up and instead heard an old man exclaim 'Happy birthday, Sarah!' At first I had absolutely no idea who it was- yes, I had given my number a few people here and there and the news of my birthday spread quickly, but who could possibly be calling me this early? He must have heard the hesitation in my half asleep voice and he quickly added, 'It's your Indian father!' It was Anu's (my host sister in-law) father. A few night's ago I joined Anu's side of the family for dinner and immediately felt as though I was welcomed into yet another warm, loving, energetic Indian family. Her father had claimed that he is now my Indian father and we joked that he would have to approve of my future husband and perform the traditional wedding ritual between the husband and soon to be father in-law. 'I wanted to be the first one to wish you a very special birthday, beta ('my child),' he said before we hung up. It was the sweetest way to start the day.

As I wandered downstairs for my usual breakfast of homemade yogurt with banana and papaya, I was met by Anu and Mrs. Sharma bearing a beautiful silver jewelry box, a gift from the family. Packing it is going to be an interesting task, yet it will be the perfect way to store the heaps of bangles I have managed to collect when I get home.

With my 'party kurta' on (just think more gold than the average, 'everyday' kurta), I walked out to the end of my lane to wait for the tempo. Just as I reached the street, a huge truck drove by carrying a brightly painted elephant! I looked around to see if anyone else was amazed by the incredible animal enjoying the wind ruffling it's massive ears, but soon realized that I was the only one that was excited by the sight of a blue, red, and gold elephant before 10am. I guess even though I have learned to expect the unexpected at any time or place, somethings (i.e. the casual painted elephant rolling by) still manage to sneak up on me.

When I arrived at GVSS, I was barely able to walk in the door before I was bombarded with sweets. It is customary here to feed sweets to the person being celebrated and the 12 staff members took this task very seriously. After handshakes, hugs, and more sweets it was time to celebrate! A few days before, my supervisor had called all of us into his office for a 'very important meeting.' We all filed in, not sure what had happened or what kind of trouble we might be in for something. 'There is a special day coming up in the office,'  he started as we all sighed with relief. 'We need to set the menu for the birthday lunch!' Hands raised for dhal, paneer, or sabzi and tensions rose deciding between chapati, naan, or paratha but eventually the menu was set and now, we were ready to face the feast- but not before I was dressed!

Anju, one of the Outreach Workers I have grown so close to, presented me with the beautiful blue sari that I have always complimented her on. With the help of each of the 10 present women, I was wrapped, in the 5 meters of light blue fabric. I stood like a doll admist the Hindi frenzy of  'Where are the pins!?' 'You can't wear those shoes!' 'Your hair is messy!' 'So beautiful!' 'This necklace!' 'No, this one is much more beautiful!' Finally, after each pin, pleat, and fold was just so, I was ready to go. Before we could go to the restaurant, they insisted that I pick out a gift from a store on the way. Despite my efforts to delay the trip as we were already 30 minutes late, I was dragged into the shop where I had to dodge large figurines of Ganasha, heavy silver 'Om' symbols, and a 14-inch model of the Mehrenghar Fort as I tried to explain that I didn't have room (or the strength) to take them home. Instead, I settled on a beautiful green and gold sari.

At the restaurant we went through plate after plate of rice, vegetables, and yogurt and piled high the empty baskets of the three types of roti (bread)- we never did decide on just one. And not to mention the rich chocolate cake that was eaten, as usual, before the meal. Just as I sat back, thinking that I would never be hungry again, three 1 Kilo boxes of Rajasthani sweets were set in front of me...next to a heaping plate of ice cream. Oy! We spent the rest of the day at the office taking pictures, laughing, and drinking chai- there's always room for chai.

After work, it was time for my family celebration. Mrs. Sharma, Anu, and I all got ready together as Angel played in the pile of saris I was deciding between for the night. I chose a bright red one with gold embroidery, Mrs. Sharma's favorite color. Red then became the theme of the night so Anu, Angel, and Mrs. Sharma wore red for the occasion. For dinner they took me to one of Jodhpur's Heritage Hotels, a very fancy palace turned hotel that boasts royalty, history, and lots of red satin pillows and couches. With more cake, food, and the customary feeding of cake to the mother of the family, I felt just as I would celebrating with my family at home. After dinner we walked around the Palace's perfectly kept garden, lawns, and very tempting swimming pool while keeping a careful eye on Angel who was a slip away from plopping right into the fountain as she splashed us.

I remember thinking in March about how my birthday will represent the end of my time in Jodhpur; it seemed so far away and unknown. Where will I be by the end of May? What will I have seen? Who will I have met? It is so strange to me that it has already come and gone. As I lay in bed, exhausted from a day of two saris (surprisingly difficult to move in) and stuffed with more food and cake than I thought possible, I thought about what a turn this year has taken. Who would've thought that this past year, one that started with me running across West Philly to get to class at UPenn, would end in me running across a lawn in Jodhpur, India attempting to chase a three year old while wearing a sari.

Ode to a sabziwallah

I shielded my bleary morning eyes from the blinding 7am sunlight that beat down on the bustling vegetable market. When I told my host mom that I would love to accompany her on one of her early morning market expeditions, I couldn't have imagined the energy level possible at that time of day. I have explored the Paota sabzi (vegetable) market countless times before, but never had I waded through the maze of chilis, eggplants, and cabbage before 8 am; a time when everyone and their sister (and daughter, mother, and aunt) tries to get in on the early bird sabzi specials... loudly and all at the same time. The outdoor market was sprawling with men and young boys perched among their overflowing baskets of ripe glistening vegetables. Between the calls for the 'Best pudina!' 'Cheapest loki!' or 'Ripest bhindi!', the groans of tractors that were all together too large to be navigating the winding spaces between carts, and the shouts of those who were nearly crushed in the midst of it all, the air was ripe with life.

Energy pulsed through the restless crowd as we tried to push our way through the clogged passage way, or 'jam road' as my host mom called it in her minimal English, caused by an encounter between one cart pulled by a camel and another by an ox. That's what I call green energy! Finally freed from the sweat and stare laden chaos, we perused the vibrant displays of each sabziwallah (vegetable vendor), smelling and feeling for the freshest pick. Kilos of palak, aloo, and khria were tossed onto metal scales and balanced to perfection by little boys who barely sat taller than their piles of bengain. We passed ginger and spices sold by men wearing turbans in hues of green brighter than their neighbor's peppers and chaiwallahs pouring steaming cups of chai from portable thermoses. One must be mindful both of what is underfoot and overhead- careful to not slip on the various slimy banana peels and mango pits that littered the straw-covered street or to get knocked unconscious by the crates of tomatoes precariously balanced on women's heads. After a lively hour of bargaining and shoving, I, with the 10 kilo bag of veggies, and Mrs. Sharma-ji, with a huge watermelon, ducked and weaved our way out into the street and sighed as the cool morning breeze met out sweaty faces. And now I have to go to work? 

Bundles and Babies

When the group started pleading, 'But Sunday is Jamna's wedding and she wants to have just one dance with you!' I knew I would not be able to leave Bhadvasia today without another performance. I have been saying 'kal' 'kal' 'kal' (tomorrow) for the last week or so when the train of children start shouting 'Dance, dance!" but they weren't going to let me get away with it today. It was three o'clock and 108 degrees. I can't say I felt like being more of a show than I already am on a day to day basis but Jamna, sitting on the dirt floor while her mother combed her long black hair, was wearing the most beautiful Marwari dress and traditional wedding jewelry- I couldn't say no! At first, the news of someone's upcoming marriage resulted in my sing-songy 'congratulations!'- an excited exclamation and an arm squeeze perhaps. These days, after quickly learning that about 99% of the marriages are arranged, I do not opt to give as joyous a reaction. Indian weddings are a spectacle to say the least and I am no longer surprised when I realize I have passed the third one of the day on the way home from work. Invitations flow into the Sharma's house, each extravagantly decorated with gold trim and depictions of Ganesha, the god of prosperity. Marriage, from what the girls have told me privately in our interviews, is more a power from the woman's father to her husband. It is seen as a necessary familial obligation; more a chance for family and friends from near and far to come together in celebration of cultural longevity. But nevertheless, the wealth of bejeweled saris, vibrant turbans, mouth watering sweets, and spirituality over the four day span of the occasion is truly breathtaking. I have already 'RSVP-ed' to three of the girls' upcoming weddings. A few of the more  playful girls from the sewing center joined in the dancing and led me along as I made a fool of myself attempting to mimic their spiraling henna-ed hands and swerving hips. I think I need to practice before making my wedding debuts. The promised 'Sirf ek dance!" (just one dance!) turned into four and even that left me fending off grasping hands as they tried to pull me back into the booming beat of the Marwari music.

The tempo 33 drivers have come to recognize me, know where I'm going, and around when they'll see me waiting on the side of the road. I no longer have to shout 'Ruko!" in front of Bhagvati Tires, the landmark of the GVSS office or furiously wave them down as they weave through camel carts on dusty streets. When they see me at my usual post after work at 5:30, I don't have to worry about calling out from underneath the babies and bundles of the 25 people that have managed to squeeze themselves into the 3-wheeled vehicle smaller than a mini-van. The luxury of having a seat means that you are expected to share the load of the other who don't. If a woman climbs abroad with a baby on her hip, multiple pairs of hands reach out to bounce it on their laps as she stands hunched under the tattered fabric roof. Men are relieved of their canvas sacks of flour and I often find myself peaking into bags of fresh market vegetables that land on my lap out of nowhere imagining them mixed with turmeric, chili, and cumin. Despite the heat, the sometimes uncomfortably close proximity to each other's breath, and the unavoidable grasping on to your neighbor's arm as the driver dodges a cow enjoying the afternoon sun from the middle of the road, everyone coexists untroubled as we zoom down the road, always passing my favorite sign 'Vinay Computers: Ethical Hacking.' As I hopped off in front of the group of children from the tent colony that also know around when they can expect me to emerge from the overflowing tempo, a man buried deep within the tempo called out, 'Which country is crying without you?'.. at least it's one of the more poetic creeper remarks I've heard!

Tomorrow I will be traveling from 'Blue City' to the 'Lake City' on the 7 hour bus ride from Jodhpur to Udaipur. Known for it's beautiful lakes and temples, Udaipur is an inciting break from the lakes of desert sand that have spanned my horizons for the last 7 weeks.

Rukma's House

My fingers are my fork, knife, and spoon. After countless sizzling eggplant or chana masalas, rich spinach or mint dahls, and thick homemade yogurt with cumin seeds, my right hand has been trained to seamlessly rip and dip chapatis into the aromatic stews one smooth motion. I have noticed that the tips of the fingers on my right hand are tinged yellow with turmeric- a sign that I have been eating enough Indian food, in true Indian style. After a minor (yet very spicy) glitch involving my hand that had been chopping a fresh hot chili and my nose that landed me with a face covered in butter and cucumbers to counteract the feeling that a fire was spreading across my face, I have learned to be more careful as I help my host mother khana banana ('to make food') during my nightly cooking lessons. Yes, khana banana is my favorite Hindi phrase.

Along with 110 degree temperatures hot enough to make even the breeze feel more like a hot hair dryer blowing on my face than anything remotely cooling, summer in the Thar Desert also brings heaps and heaps of mangos. Pushcarts piled high with ripe yellow mangos have sprouted up on every corner next to bangles and hand rolled cigarettes. Boiling pots of street-side chai have given way to juicers dripping with fresh mango juice. Never have I tasted anything more refreshing than a fresh squeezed mango shake with lemon- especially when I feel like my skin is melting beneath my kurta and full length leggings after a day of walking under the blazing afternoon sun of Bhadvasia (the color difference between my feet and the rest of my leg is comical by now).

Last week was the first week of the sewing classes in Bhadvasia. Each day, I arrived at Rukma's little house to find between 10-20 women and girls crouched around the teacher carefully measuring out newspaper patterns using worn measuring tapes and chalk. Between the two sessions, there are almost 50 women signed up. Sitting among them in the circle, I watched as friends, mothers, and daughters tactfully measured one another giggling all the while and keeping an eye on their babies that were reaching for the scraps of newspaper. I was impressed with their focus and determination to make their simple sari tops just the right size. During each session, I conducted interviews with five women to gather more information about their families, education, and goals to get a better idea of their lives outside of the two hours a day I spend with them. Having never been interviewed before, most of the girls were hesitant to come into the little room with me and my translator- why is this girl leading me into this little room and what does she want with me? The questions are simple enough- Name, age, marriage, education, children etc. but I've come to realize that it's not about getting the right answers to the right questions, it's about giving the girls and women an opportunity to talk about their lives and have someone listen. I've interviewed 20 women between the ages of 13 and 25 so far and only three of them have more than a primary level of education. Eight of them are completely illiterate. One left school after 'an incident' that resulted in a two month hospital stay- needless to say she did not return and her sister dropped out. Afterwards, their father forbid them to leave the house without his permission. They are attending the sewing classes secretly while he is out shining shoes. It's stories like hers that remind me of the intricate web of causality that they face everyday- and how powerless they are against it.

The responses that have been the most powerful, yet unintentionally so, are those of their futures. Question 9: What are you goals for the future? Most of them have no idea what the question means, let alone know the answer would be. They have never been asked about their futures, only told. Their identities rely on their fathers and then husbands; it's a closed circuit with no room for dreams. Geeta said 'I have no future, so why think about it?' and Gulabi, 'Without education I will never do anything.' It's those answers that make me feel guilty or naive for even asking. But for some, it is the first time they've ever been able to talk about their dream out loud and for that, the question stays. Pooja wants to be a teacher, and Kushoo, a nurse. Although they are unfortunately few and far between, the answers that spark a twinkle in their eyes, urge me to keep asking. All but one or two of them have indicated that they have no occupation- an answer that GVSS has taught me is a red flag for sex work in areas such as Bhavdasia. Ashamed, women hide their sex work even from their families saying they are going to sort trash after the sun goes down.

Given this, the fact that all of them are determined to turn their sewing skills into a new source of income is the most motivation I have ever experienced. For some it is the only goal they can realistically grasp on to. Raj Nandini, a spunky 18 year old, says she will use the money she makes from sewing to send her children to school. So, if I don't show up at JFK in June, you'll know where I'll be. It's easy to get lost in the grim domino effect of illiteracy, disease, and sex work when faced with the sobering realities of these women's lives. Yet when each voice, no matter how timid, expresses a desire for that to change, I know there is something stirring within the blue-washed walls of Rukma's house.