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.
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.
Such a vivid description of your hand-to-nose glitch. Reminds me of what happened to me in Ecuador decades ago when I removed the lid from a blender full of many very small chili peppers, which I assumed didn't pack as much punch as the bigger ones. I was almost propelled across the kitchen by the force of the fumes. Sending love and thrilled that you are having such extraordinary experiences. Mishy
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