Mission Pretty Much Impossible

Your mission, if you choose to accept it: make a cake.

Don’t scoff! Trying to make a cake in India really is as dramatic and dangerous as the James Bond phrasing implies. The thing is, when you go abroad you realize all the little random things that you take for granted at home. You realize how incredibly wonderful a toilet seat is, how beautiful non-hammer pants are, and most of all how culinarily privileged you are.

For our instructor Keith-Ji’s goodbye party, I fool heartedly decided that I would make a cake. Flour, eggs, sugar, baking powder, butter, and milk. Mix it. Bake it. Eat it. That’s all you need for a cake… at least what I thought. Instead, it went something like this:

Task 1: Make the cake

Somehow in Benares they have every type of flour that you can imagine; ground chickpeas, powdered daal, and hundreds of different types of wheat is all at your fingertips. They have everything except the normal and boring. But finally, after a day of scourging Benares for the proper ingredients, I had what I needed. Strutting into the kitchen with my hard earned groceries in hand, I was met with gasps of horror. “Oh god. Are those eggs?” my host sister Madu whispered with disbelief and revulsion in her voice. “In our kitchen? Please—please, get them out of here.”

Oh gosh. How could I have been so oblivious? Of course in a Brahmin home, the prospect of bringing eggs into a kitchen, let alone cooking with them is exceptionally disrespectful and profane. So then, not only was I faced with the problem of hiding my incredibly offensive eggs somewhere in my room, but also I had to figure out how to make an eggless cake without a recipe and without internet.

Task 3: Find another recipe

Maddy. Maddy. Please pick up your phone. You are the only person who has access to the outside world. Maddy. I need you right now.

Luckily Maddy picked up, and the next 20 minutes was spent searching for a suitable eggless pressure cake recipe on her ipad, which was then dictated through the phone.

Task 4: Try to make the cake again…

So eventually I made it back into the rasoi determined to make this accursed cake. But the obstacles were only beginning. The first step in the recipe was to beat the butter until “light and fluffy”. No electric beater, not even a whisk in hand, I sat on the kitchen floor, steadily getting ruddier and sweatier by the minute as I thrashed a forlorn cube of butter with a fork. Then, all the recipes I had transcribed from Maddy were in terms of cups, so all I could do for measurements haphazardly throw in handfuls of flour until my concoction semi-resembled batter.  

Task 5: Bake it?

So now, soupy goo was achieved, I had to find a way of cooking the cake. But of course in India, ovens don’t exist. Instead I funneled the batter into a pressure cooker, being careful because if the nozzle is not in the proper position then all that’s left is shrapnel of cake nuggets.

Task 6: Frost it?

VICTORY! After 40 minutes of semi-noxious smoke leaking out of the pressure cooker, the cake is done and surprisingly normal looking. And at least, I think, I can cover my cake with some nice chocolate frosting… that will cover any horrible taste. Taking out my handy chocolate drink powder, I rip off the cover and find it crawling with tiny brown bugs. Ehh. Whatever. It’s the thought that counts, right?

Scene 1: Pyro-Addicts Anonymous

PATTY: Attention! Attention everyone! Settle down! I would like to announce that we have a new addition to the group. Remember how hard it was on your first day at PAA to confront your addiction, so please give our new member a warm welcome and listen to her with open minds and hearts.

EMMA stands up in her chair, biting her lip as she stares at the sallow faces wilting under the harsh fluorescence, the slumped bodies in battered plastic chairs, the crumbling walls of Pyro-Addicts Anonymous. Squaring her shoulders with the last shred of dignity she has left, she takes a jagged breath and begins to speak.

EMMA: It is official. There is no way I can deny it any more… My name is Emma Latham and I am a pyromaniac in need of salvation.

GROUP (in unison): Welcome Emma!

PATTY: Emma. You have taken a big step just by coming here. Why don’t you tell us a bit more about where this all began?

EMMA: Ever since I could remember I have been addicted—I was a little girl with a love for fire. Back then it was just matchsticks and candles. I was able to control myself, keep my infatuation hidden from my family and friends. I didn’t get into the hard stuff until I came to India.

PATTY: Hmm… Tell us more about what happened in India.

EMMA: It all started when I met my host family. The first night I was eager to make a good impression, nervous meeting my new brother and sister, so I let my guard down. I was expecting some awkward silences, some laughing at my patchwork Hindi, and a delicious welcome feast but nothing more. So, when my new bhai Deep took my hand and led me to the roof, yelling “Dekie! Dekie! Muje pas crackers aur bombs hai!” (Look! Look! I have crackers and bombs!!), I just wasn’t prepared. The next hour was spent giggling and running as we lit firecrackers and hurled them into the street, basking in the exhilarating rush as they exploded with a bang and sinking into the dismal lows when yet another dud fizzled out with a sigh.

And it didn’t end there… the next night, 50 rupees in hand, we ran to the closest cracker-wala and bought even more, our mouths watering over the rows and rows of dangerous potential. We bought volcanoes that sent a bouquet of sparks whizzing through dark, spinners that spewed dazzling sparks as they whirled, tiny bombs that detonated with a terrifying roar, rockets that—

PATTY:  Stop! Stop! Please tell me that was it!

Emma looks at her feet, her eyes recounting unspeakable stories of pyromatic hedonism. Around her, the PAA members sit enthralled in their seats, hungering for more.

EMMA: That was only the beginning and I am quickly losing control. This week is Diwali, the Hindu festival of lights celebrating the return of Rama. The story originates from the Ramayan, an ancient epic recounting the tales of the Rama as he is banished from his kingdom, fights a demon with his army of monkeys, (and more stuff in between). To celebrate, the streets of Benares are strewn with millions of twinkling lights and dancing flames of terracotta dias, the ground decorated with the intricate designs of the ramgoli—blooming flowers and swirling silhouettes made of colored sand. And of course, fire crackers.

So tonight, yet again, I found myself back in the cracker store.

“Okay Emma,” I said to myself. “It’s a holiday… Its Diwali! You have to buy crackers. But restrain yourself! You will only spend 200 rupees.”

I don’t really remember what happened next—everything is a hazy blur of 500 rupee bills and glinting gold packages. But the next thing I can recall is finding a brimming bag of hundreds of firecrackers in my room and an empty wallet. After that happened, I came her as fast as I could. Everything has gone so quickly out of control. What should I do?

A door slams and EMMA is jerked out of her reverie. The room is empty, chairs abandoned on the floor, bags and coats forgotten. Lying on the floor is a scrawled note: “After hearing your tantalizing stories, we just couldn’t resist. Happy Diwali, our fellow pyro!”

Trash (October 8, 2013)

“Mmm, something smells wonderful,” I remarked as I skipped down the rocky steps to the Chirag Office, breathing in the slightly smoky that transported me back to the simple days of toasting marshmallows over snarling flames. For a few moments I was in the woods of Pennsylvania, chanting camp songs as the crickets chirped along.

“Hmm, I wonder what they could possibly be roasting at 9:30 in the morning?” As I drew nearer, the smell grew more intense— the air saturated with thick clouds of smoke— no longer a sweet aroma reminiscent of my camping days but a stifling haze. Reaching the bottom of the hill, I followed the tendrils to a large stone pit that I had hardly noticed before, hidden behind the mossy path. As I peered inside, staring at the low flames that licked the Masala Madness chip bag and the countless other products I had unconsciously consumed during my trip, the obvious truth dawned on me. They were burning my trash.

Trash. It is the ubiquitous decoration to every road— the stray bags Oh Yes! chips a consistent meter marker as we make our way through the village. The golden archways of town are the piling trash heaps, steadily growing until someone gets the energy to sprinkle some kerosene to remove the eyesore. Even as you walk through the forests of Sitla, a seemingly idyllic wood echoing of a forgotten time, you are jerked back to reality as you start to notice the abandoned wrappers of chewing tobacco burrowed into the soil.

I have never been truly conscious of that mindless consumption, my trail of trash. In America, it is easy to shirk constant awareness of your impact, to feel proud that even though you are producing so much waste, at least you sort out your recyclables. But in India, your apathy is not whisked away every morning by your friendly trashman—is unabashedly thrust down your lungs. When you see that impulse-purchase cookie wrapper melting into noxious smoke on your front lawn, how can you possibly ignore, let alone justify your actions?

A Group Update from September 29, 2013

Warning: this is not only an incredibly late update, but I am not even a key figure in the narrative (which is horrifying prospect, of course). Also, if I am being honest, I didn’t write this for my blog, but for my program’s blog/forum… but I am desperate for blog posts since it has been empty for so long, here goes!

 

After many weeks of orienting ourselves to life in the mountains of Kumaon, we have started to feel like true, active parts of our homestay families. Talya, Maddy and I spent the weekend helping Bina-Ji with the various chores of the house. Sickles in our hands and determination on our brows, we marched out to the surrounding fields and began hacking at the tall grasses. After some fumbling and instructive tips, there was a vast improvement and cows were well fed (for at least the hour). One success followed another and after weeks of coercing and groveling, we were finally able to help Bina-ji wash the dishes and shell beans.

While the girls stayed at home doing manual labor with family, Alissa was out in Delhi living the life of luxury. Despite the serious nature of the trip (Alissa needed her Japanese Encephalitis vaccine), amusement heavily out-weighed the painful aspects as she and Katrina rickshawed all around Khan Market, indulging in Pasta Alfredo, FabIndia, and of course, coffee. After determined bargaining, she returned bearing gifts for the whole group, earrings and bookmarks for the girls, chocolate for the guys, and a beautiful wooden chai tray for Bina-Ji. When she arrived, she was eagerly greeted by Garauv (the girls’ hooligan little brother) fashionably clad in her black vest. (The girls informed her later that the whole family had been wearing it while she was gone, Garauv even donning it during his bucket-bath.) 

Zach, (though these days he prefers Jack), however, had to face the rougher sides of the homestay life. One day Zach was accidentally locked in his room (by Sammy) for 45 minutes while the whole family waited for him to come to dinner. On yet another traumatizing day, Zach’s wet laundry was not just blown down into the trash heap, but into the prime location for receiving the multiple spitballs launched (by Sammy) from the deck. Nonetheless he is staying strong, his moral boosted by the discovery of a delicious new Indian snack: the Krust bar!

During this week, Will focused on channeling his primal, mountain-man side. On the walks from work he defended the girls from the barking, fighting dogs often followed them on their journey home. By the end of the week Will had moved up the ranks and was recruited by his host father to protect the house from monkeys. Homemade sling-shots in hand, he and a pack of three other men successfully warded off the mischievous creatures and had some quality male bonding. Will is certainly living up to his bear-wrestling reputation, and eagerly awaits the next challenge.

Much to the entertainment/pain of the people within a 5 kilometer radius, this week has been also filled with loud, off-key singing and awkward dance moves as we prepared various musical numbers for our trip to the Lakshmi Ashram. Our routine has two main features, the first a traditional Kumaoni song taught to us by the wonderfully patient, Divan-Ji. As Divan-Ji plays the drums, we dance in a circle, singing the story of Panuli and Sarpancha. Our other hit is an American medley featuring Howlin’ for You, Are You Gonna Be My Girl, and the southern classic: Cotton-Eyed Joe. For this, Sammy has not only taken the role of head singer, but director, choreographer, band leader and songwriter for our tone-deaf attempt at an American acapella group. However, despite our clumsiness and lack of rhythm, we have high hopes for the routine!

 

Will the group pull off their ambitious musical goals?

Is Alissa ever going to get her beloved vest back?

What trial is next for Will the Mountain Man?

Is Zach’s trauma over, or will he need a new candy to nurse his wounds?

Only time will tell, so check back next week for the newest installment of Bridge Year India 5.0! 

Emma the Bal Shikshaka (September 26, 2013)

Oh my god. What am I supposed to do with these kids for 50 more minutes?

This week I began my service work as a Bal Shikshak (Assistant Teacher), at the Harinagar School. The white walls of the school are lined with blue swirling Devanagri script, badly translated English fruits, and the only light is the sun shining through the window. I am sitting barefoot on worn green carpet, engulfed in a sea of twenty restless six-year-old kids that eagerly await my next game, my next trick to sneak some English into their brains. Around my feet lies the remnants of my “lesson plan”, ripped and dirty English flash cards, alphabet puzzle pieces that are already too disheveled to fit together.

Despite their bubbling voices and joyous smiles, I am drowned by an overwhelming sense of helplessness. How am I supposed to teach kids English when their teachers can only speak at a 3^rd grade level? What do I do when they eagerly ask me questions in Hindi, but all I can manage is a weak smile and paltry malum nahi, I don’t know? Am I doing anything right?! Two kids begin fighting in the corner and the room bursts into excited chatter. I look around for some form of an authority figure to calm the class down, someone who knows what to do.

Oh my god. Where did the teachers go?

Searching desperately around the room, I set my eyes on a large book cloaked in grimy newspaper. Aha! Something I can do besides repeat the same words over and over. I open the book and almost laugh at the sheer ridiculousness of the contents. Of course…. it’s a picture book of esoteric birds that I have never even heard of, let alone know how to pronounce. Only in India would kids learn the difference between an Australian hornbill and a macaw, yet are unable to say the days of the week.

 However, as the week progresses I stop counting minutes, stop listening my internal monologue of worries. Instead, I just make sure the kids are having laughing and maybe remembering a few of my lessons. Despite all my planning, I can never know how my presence makes a difference. Maybe the moments of peace when I took over the classroom enabled the teachers to improve their lesson plans, or maybe just the sound of my voice will help the teachers with their own English.  

Oh my god. I only have two weeks left with these kids!

Coming Home(stay) [sorry for that horrible wordplay] ( September 17, 2013)

Last week we left the Eco-Resort palace/sanctuary/indulgence of Sona-Pani for our homestays in the village of Reetha. Our new whitewashed, blue trimmed home is nestled on the lower ridge of the mountain, and as we made our descent down the hills, we swayed back and forth like faulty metronomes by the weight of our packs. Tired, nervous and sweaty, we were met with huge smiles, bustling commotion, eager  “ap kaise ho?” (how are you?) and brimming plates of cucumbers from our host grandmother, Bina-ji.

That night we met the rest of the family: our little brother, an eleven year old gunda (hooligan) named Gaurav, who semi-playfully/quite-painfully pummeled us with a blow up globe and nana-ji, our host grandpa who eagerly claps and laughs at our broken attempts at Hindi. And always doting on our every need is Bina-ji, her petite, wiry frame enveloped in brilliant orange sari adorned with intricate flower motifs, forehead dotted with a red bindu. Bina-ji is the one who wakes us up with steaming cups of chai, hops into our beds when we are half asleep to watch Hindi soap-operas, and nurtures us with special bowls of moong-dal when we are feeling sick. She is the leader and glue of the family, always working, always responding “nahi, nahi!” when we offer help.

One of her various jobs besides cutting grass (which she gracefully balances upon her head), milking the cows, cleaning the house, sorting the wheat, and the countless other needs she silently tends to behind the scenes, is cooking. Every night at seven pm we are welcomed into the kitchen, a clay lined hut with a burning hearth at the back that she dutifully stokes. We greeted with “hungry, hungry?  kali chapatti tonight! yum, yum!” and a smoky warmth from the embers. She then demonstrates the proper way to roll the chapatti dough; in quick deliberate strokes making a perfect circle that she tosses onto a hot iron skillet. We try our best, but our chapattis are always nahi acchaa, (not very good), but still good enough for scooping up the delicious morsels of spiced eggplant and peppers. Every night, despite our noble intentions of limiting our consumption, we are stuffed full of chapatti, aloo (potatoes) and daal (lentils), thanking Shiv that Indian pants are made with adjustable waists.

However, living in a small village in India, there are the unavoidable obstacles, like stumbling past piles of manure at 3 AM on your way to the squat toilet, or trying to fall asleep on a bed that resemble concrete plank. There are the eyes that constantly follow you as you walk home, or the relentless reminder to keep your head down, that an unconscious glance can be interpreted as a sexual invitation. But the small, tedious struggles are easy to forget when you are welcomed so wholehearted into somebody’s world, when you see the snowy peaks of the Himalayas through the mist, and when everyone around you is so dedicated to making you feel at home. 

The Incredible Mountains of Kumaon (From September 9th, 2013)

The mountains with the Himalayan peaks in the background.

Even if the spirits of the greatest poets and writers took over my mind, wove silken metaphors about the sights around me and guided my fingers across the page, they could never do justice to this new world that I have drifted into. With that, I give my warning that my words and pictures are feeble attempts at capturing a spirituality and foreign gorgeousness that can never be expressed into coherency. Nonetheless, with my noblest intentions I shall try to paint this wonder that I have fallen so quickly and breathlessly for.

For the last five days, (though I swear I have already been here years), I have been living at Sona-Pani, an ecohotel nestled into the hills of Kumaon. Sipping my chai, (a necessity that is served at minimum of four times per day), I watch the sun rise through the sea of clouds, the mountains blossoming from pale blue to green. Our days are spent exploring the mountains, taking hikes to local stone temples that blend right into the forest with their soft layer of moss. As we walk, Keith-ji (our guru of sorts) identifies Banj-oak and Cheer-pine trees, tells stories of the land and introduces us to the villagers we meet on the road.

On one of my solitary morning walks, I stumbled down the steep incline, feet tripping down cobbled stones coated with pine needles. Looking around, I found myself in a world reminiscent of Tolkien, my nerdy brain swearing that I had wandered into the world of magic, half expecting that a hobbit was lurking just around the bend. I entered the verdant valley of lustrous green grass and dewy ferns, stepping over a crumbling stone bridge that stretched over a clear stream. Sitting down, I took a breath, taking a moment to soak in the sweet chirp of the bird and howl stray dogs down the road, a moment to notice how each patch of sky was filled with a distinct shade of blue.

Soaking in this epitome of raw beauty, my mind quickly drifts to the problems that are simmering under this seemingly perfect world. The spring that chatters so excitedly is one of the few left in the area, due to the devastating water shortages and enormous amount of springs that are vanishing. The sea of pines sways so sinuously in the wind is an example of a degraded ecosystem, the lack of arboreal  diversity a harbinger of future problems. I look down and see a glint of sunshine reflected off of the plastic wrappers sown into the soil. I am no longer in my fantasy realm, but a mere human, realizing how she is harming her beautiful world.

Oh, consciousness is the damning Catch-22 of being human. Everyday I wake in this new world grateful for the gift of my humanity; grateful for my eyes that can be dazzled by nature’s intricate simplicity, for a mouth that take in deep breaths of this sweet mountain air, for a mind that is able to feel such an indescribable sense of awe. But the problem of being human is that even though I take a few moments for appreciation and reflection of the world, the other 95% of my consciousness is spent on the daily, humdrum tasks that unconsciously destroy it. When I go home and splurge on a bag of chips—the same mouth that breathed in the clean air is now polluting it. It is so easy to get caught up in life, to forget that I am no different from the nature around me and to forget why it is so precious. So how do I reconcile the duality of the human mind, which can both cherish nature and destroy it?

Da Crew!

Wearing our fancy new Indian garb, the group had our first Indian meal at the YWCA in Delhi, then went into town to listen to traditional music at a local mosque! (Right to left: Talya, Zach, Sammy, Will, & Maddy) (Alissa missed the photo)

Better late than never?

Hello world! It has been a long time! Sorry for my lack of communication… but I promise, it was me not you! So basically I’ve been spending the last 6 weeks in a rural village in the foothills of the Himalayas, with incredibly limited internet connection (and I also lacked the motivation to devote 4 hours of waiting per blog post). Anyways, I have finally found a signal, so here goes an incredibly late post from early september! 

Into the Mountains

After three bustling days in Delhi, we awoke at 4 AM to begin our journey to Kumaon (a region in the hills of Uttarakhand), desperately shoving a last minute kurta or dupatta into our bulging packs as we fought the dim haze of sleep. Then we were off to the train station, quickly running through security, monopolizing the luggage racks with our bags, and then finally breathing a sigh of relief as the train began to move. Nose pressed against the glass, staring through the rain spotted and dirt dyed window, I passed by mountains of plastic wrappers that nestled the houses and cried in excitement as I finally spotted my first cow wandering the streets, (not realizing that this would be the first of hundreds that I would see within the week).

Stretching my legs (and looking for the dreaded and infamous squat toilet), I discovered that the open doors of the train are the social hubs. As the wind whips their faces, travelers trade stories and cigarettes as they stare out at the blur of trees in the distance. At this portal of sorts, I met some incredibly talkative and remarkable travelers who were kind enough to put up with my constant “can you repeat that?” and tentative Hindi. They eagerly asked what a seventeen-year-old American girl was doing in India, impressed that I was going to spend seven months in the holy city Benares, gave tips about places to travel and unabashedly probed whether I was married. 

Eventually I wandered to an empty door of the train, at first maintaining a safe distance, then slowly drifting towards the entrance until I was hanging from the train, shaking my hair and dupatta in the wind. Dangling from the step, I became part of the grassy plains with swampy avocado rivers and joined women in billowing saris who wandered through the trees. I breathed in a deep, sweet, deliciously indescribable smell that matched the intoxicating ecstasy I felt within. Oh, it was a feeling of complete freedom and bliss.

After five hours of running down the aisles and endless picture snapping, we pulled into the station, stopping at a nearby town for a quick dosa, (a savory Indian crepe of sorts). Our stomachs stuffed with masala-paneer-aloo goodness, we began part two of our journey into the foothills of the Himalayas. Almost immediately I drifted to sleep, and awoke an hour later stunned into silence. Somehow within that brief time I had ventured into a purer, cleaner universe. All around me were the bright verdant green of the mountains, their hills carved with step farms, winding sandy paths and bright white homes, their tops melding into the foggy mist. In the distance, they faded into blue silhouettes against the bright sky. Then, reaching the end of the Jeep navigable roads, we strapped on our packs and began the hike to our new home for the next week, Sona-Pani.

Ticking Clock, 1 Day Left

After bearing the constant looks of aggravation from my dad as he ventured into my room and the angry mumblings of my mom as she noted my pig sty, I have finally started to clean my room. Bear in mind, this is no simple task, for in my room lies the collected debris of four long years of high school and beyond. The stratified layers of junk resemble an archeological dig, each deposit representing a different Emma. As I through eras of my life layer by layer, I observe the evolution of Emma’s philosophy on life, note the inevitable extinction of her Hello Kitty phase, and look in wonder as a new species of ideas arises.

As I wade through this jumble of papers, trinkets and photos that are incredibly, foolishly dear to me, I am overcome by a wave of nostalgia. My heart tightens, eyes mist over with an intense yearning to escape back to middle school, to hide in the world where everything is so much simpler. I am no longer in my room but am running through the playground, chasing the wind. BEEP! A car honks outside my window, jerking me out of my reverie and I am no longer 12 years old, but a ridiculous 17 year old sniffling at a Hello Kitty wallet.

This summer has been an odd, shapeless, timeless continuum as I consciously travel from one age to another. In my graduation speech, I said that we were in a strange moment where we are too young for college and too old for high school, words that manifested during these last 2 months of eager waiting mixed with procrastination. This summer has felt unending, yet has passed in a blink, and I am finally coming to the realization that I am leaving everything.   

As the days tick away, I have been trying for some semblance of order. I pretty much finished the packing process, which is exhausting, for despite highlighting, starring and poring over the bridge manual, I still have no idea what to expect. Do I really need two pairs of workgloves? Must I really leave my love, my library, at home? How can I possibly condense 9 months of my life into 70 liters? Am I seriously not going to have toilet paper?!?

One day until orientation, five days until India. So hard to comprehend, yet soon enough I will be waking up in a whole new world.