Amy Rashap's Assamese Blog

[Jnañamati]

Amy is an English teacher and educator. She has lived in Singapore teaching English for the last decade or so and is now a volunteer at Siddharta Kendra Vidyalaya, a primary school in North Lakhimpur run by the Tathagata Trust. Amy will stay until May 2013. Here is a the first entry from the journal she is keeping. I hope you enjoy it. Jnanamati

22 December 2012
Hey, everyone, hope you all are well, and that NONE of you are experiencing the holiday blues!!
Right now I am at my typewriter, which is running  out of power because there is no power point within distance. That is just scratching the surface of my “luxury resort” residence in N Lakhimpur, India. I am typing on a small table in the kitchen. Outside, workers are hammering and kids are running around. The house is not yet completed, and workers are building a house; their families are with them. Noise, constant noise, that is India … there goes the whirring of the drill as the guy drills a hole in the wall. His wife walks in and starts talking to him in Assamese. Very tranquil, you see.
Across the small table in Jnanamati, the British Buddhist monk who is my main contact in India. He and I, am pleased to report, have become very good friends in a short period of time. This is probably due to all the stuff we’re already experienced!

The trip to the airport from Delhi was … problematical. All my fault. As I had mentioned, we were staying in a flat that is part of a very, very narrow, rickety alleyway. Hard for anything to fit in there, but Prakash (another one, Prakash!) got an autorickshaw to come clattering down. Jnanamati came down with his 2 modest bags and my HUMONGOUS gray suitcase. I am still loaded down with three bags: one for camera, one for my computer and tablet, and one, my purse. I look like a refugee. We get in the autorickhaw, say goodbye and thanks to Prakash, and we start. After two minutes, I mutter, “Oh, crap,” and ask the driver to stop. “I forgot my other bag,” I say—this bag is a cheap cloth thingie I got at Chatachak market in Thailand – a ridiculous thing that just hangs there limply, but it can fit a lot of stuff. Jnanamati nods calmly. “Shall I get it?” he says. I think. Well…this could be a way to divest myself of ALL MATERIAL GOODS, just like Saint Francis of Assisi. “No,” I say, “I’ll go without it. Heck! I don’t need it!” I feel proud. The driver starts again. “Oh, god … my meds…” I say… “Stop,” I sigh to the driver, Jnanamati also sighs. “You need it?” he says. “Yeah,” I say; “my meds. Can’t live without ‘em,” so he gets out of the rickshaw and goes back down the alleyway. Ten minutes later he is back, very sweet-tempered, which I would NOT be. We start. Plenty of time, I think. The autorickshaw probably goes at the top speed of 25 miles per hour. He starts. Typical Delhi traffic, which mean stop and go, and this continues for 90 minutes. Plenty of time, plenty of time … ??? Traffic consists of the usual Asian mix: motorbikes, bicycles laden down with unbelievable stuff, cars, trucks, all honking and all getting nowhere. The rickshaw driver lets us off at SOME location at the airport. Now I am burdened with five bags, which means Jnanamati will be burdened with some of them.

My main bag, a 25-kg gray monster, is the size of a small closet. It rumbles when it rolls. So Jnanamati and I roll the monster along, staggering under the weight of mostly MY stuff, when we realize we’re at the wrong terminal. How do we get to terminal 3…?? No signs. Someone points to a bus and we get on. Fifteen (15!) minutes later we arrive at terminal 3. Now it should be smooth sailing … A guy with a GUN is at the main entrance of the terminal. “Passport and tickets, please,” he says. “Tickets!” I say, and my triumphant grin fades. For various reasons, I don’t have my e-ticket, but the guy on the phone ASSURED me I WOULDN’T NEED IT, so I didn’t print it out. First time in my life. I cannot enter the terminal; Jnanamati must take my passport, get my ticket, and come back for me. He trundles along, wheeling the monster and his stuff. How much more of a burden can I be on a human being …?? I think and close my eyes. Fifteen (15!) minutes later Jnanamati comes back to fetch me, ticket in hand. I stumble inside. “All this was my doing,” I say. “Yes, it is,” Jnanamati says equitably. I apologize, he accepts easily, we then look at the time, gasp, and start running … well, Jnanamati makes a good clip, I hover between a limp and a trot, with four bags dangling at various angles from my body. Smack/whack/smack/whack as various materials from various bags hit my body. “This is why a monk only needs a change of robe and a begging bowl,” Jnanamati jokes with me as he takes two bags from me. I burst out laughing. This is … true.

We go through security. “No, no, Madam, cannot go,” says the security guy. I just look at him mutely. “No tag on the bag!” he says, and pulls me to one side with another disgruntled passenger.  We have to wait until another official comes, looks through my bag AGAIN. A tag is put on my bag. The official—who has seen the tag being put on my bag—STOPS ME AGAIN as I try to rush to the plane and insists on looking at my tag again.
I look at my seat number and moan with joy and guilt. I am not sitting next to Jnanamati (which would have been very nice). I am sitting … in first class.

The conversation with my first-class neighbor was quite interesting, but let’s fast forward. The flight ends (all too quickly; boy, they serve great palik paneer in first class), Jnanamati and I are reunited, and the hard part of the journey now starts … the overnight bus to North Lakhimpur. Jnanamati has warned me about this trip.
Stop: right as I have typed the above, the electricity has gone out in my bedroom in the kitchen in North Lakhimpur. This is a daily occurrence, lasting from one to a few hours. Yesterday, we would get no electricity; it would come on in 30 minutes, and go out again for another hour…

SO IT GOES!!
So. We land in Guwahati, which is the capital of Assam Province, India.  We NOW need to find the bus that takes us into town to take the OVERNIGHT BUS … sigh, boy, wouldn’t it be nice to have lots of cash so we could afford the, what, $200 for a cab to drive us the 8 or 10 hours to N Lakhimpur …??  I don’t know how, but Jnanamati points to a bus in the distance and he asks if this is the bus into town. We get the usual response: People stare. Stare again. Look at each other mutely and roll their eyes. Some brave soul would try and repeat what we have said in incredibly heavily accented Indian English. Usual we then just get a “no”, but this time someone nods and we get on. Twenty minutes later, we enter Guwahati. It unfolds like a cartoon background: it rolls through a scene and repeats the scene again and again. Rickety shops selling the usual cheap stuff. Food stalls. People shoving each other. Autorickshaws, motorbikes, bicycles, and other contrivances shoving for a small piece of the road. Noise level beyond insanity. Life, teeming life. At first glance, Guwahati seems to have a certain manic charm; but after a few minutes, one just gets fatigued. TOO much teeming life. TOO many tense bodies, all trying to find a certain place in the world. Reminds me of conversations I had on the flight from Delhi to Guwahati: a very handsome air attendant told me that for every ten openings in his airline, two thousand people would apply. I told this to the gentleman sitting next to me. This man, an ex-professional tennis player who now works for some oil company, told me that a few years ago, his company had 800 openings. “That’s a lot,” I marveled. He smiled. “Guess how many people applied for these jobs,” he said, and leaned back in his chair. Finally he offered: “2 lakhs.” This means: 200,000 people. I could see this fierce competition in Guwahati. People and their goods were all desperately trying to get a piece of the economic pie, to survive. You could feel it. Both amazing and frightening at the same time.
Still no electricity. It is pitch dark outside, and in the kitchen/bedroom. I am so glad Jnanamati is with me. More on that later.
So. Where to get off …?? Somehow Jnanamati knows. We alight, luggage thinking, and we are immediately besieged by people offering: rickshaw. Taxi. Tours. Godnose what else! “We want the bus to North Lakhimpur,” Jnanamati says, amazingly composed, and one guy immediately points forward and takes one of my bags. Not a HEAVY bag, mind; one of my lighter bags. So we follow him and find a hole in the wall that is a bus station. The guy puts a hand out and Jnanamati gives him some rupees. We buy tickets and wait. We have 2.5 hours to kill.
Now, the fun part? We have to change buses!!! So we get on this astonishingly rickety bus, piled full with people, and get off thirty minutes later at some switching point. ONCE more we pick up the luggage and … don’t know where to go. Five buses are converged, and no one can understand Jnanamati’s “North Lakhimpur” question. But for every degree of not understanding English there seems to be a correlating degree of staring and gawking at a slender Buddhist monk in red robes and a frazzled American tourist laden down with bizarre-looking luggage. Eventually, we find the right bus and find our seats, only to be kicked out by another guy who claims THESE are his seats and the ones in FRONT are OUR seats. We change, too dazed to even care.
“This is the worst of it,” Jnanamati says as I gasp and close my eyes. “I know that we will be met at the bus station in North Lakhimpur.” So the bus rolls forward and we start the journey. Uneventful. Wonderful, as Jnanamati and I have long, meandering, wonderful conversations that go everywhere and nowhere. He’s a fascinating, widely read man—a former art therapist—and his insight into many issues seem to be slyly subversive, designed to make you think. We try to sleep; no luck for either of us.
We arrive at North Lakhimpur at 7:30 in the morning and are greeted with the usual gawks, stares, and widening of eyeballs. Of course no one is there to meet us. I swallow the snarky “Gee, what a shock” comment I was going to make and try to emulate Jnanamati’s calmness. Eventually, we end up at the house of a friend of his, who I will call Laba (low-bow), because I don’t know how his name is pronounced.
I’ll skip over the visit with Laba and his wife and kid, even though Lobos owns a business that produces Assamese silk embroidered textiles (stop, my beating heart!) to fast forward to where we are staying now. The place had been arranged by a friend of Jnanamati, and a person deeply involved in the school where I will be teaching. Chandan Siam is a professor of physics Digboi University, and a devoted Buddhist. The place has potential.
But.
Well, it’s part of a building that is still UNDER CONSTRUCTION, so even as I type, men are in the other area, laying down concrete, burning stuff, so smoke permeates the entire building. Privacy? No such thing. Jnamati is in a bedroom that other men are using; a cloth partition separates him from them. I have my own room. This is good. It’s the kitchen. OK. No running water. No SINK. Hot water? No such thing in all Assam province, I have been told, including the hotels in Guwaharti. No closet, so my clothes remain in my grey monster. There is a sit-down toilet, but you need to flush it by using buckets of water. When more water is needed, the workers on the site will pump it into this huge container, and the sound of the pump is reminiscent of a tractor trailer running over nails.
The scary part? I’m beginning to like it here. I think that’s because I’m sharing the misery with Jnanamati who, in spite of his monk-ness has a wonderfully wry sense of humor and is 100% human, with his own foibles and admitted weaknesses.

We are fed by Chandan’s incredibly capable wife, Anu, who graciously cooks us two full meals a day, and we are talking about five courses for each meal. Five different dishes. Astonishingly healthy stuff: all vegetables, including a fresh salad. But small amounts are offered, and nothing—NOTHING—is wasted. It’s always enough. You leave the table satisfied, but never over-sated. It feels great, actually.

Let’s fast forward to the school. We are located literally right next to the school, which is in an astonishingly pretty part of N Lakhimpur—a little hut amidst the rolling rice hills of Assam province. Three teachers actually came to our place to greet us, and we went to the school later…I thought, to meet with the teacher to see what they expected. Naahhh … Nothing happened the first day. The next day was Saturday, and school meets then, so we went down to check it out. The kids have a little ritual at the beginning of the school day, culminating in a “walking meditation” that involves just walking slowly to the beat of a singing bowl that a student strikes. Then we went into the classroom. Because exams had just ended, and it was a Saturday, only 12 students showed up, and from kindergarten to class 5 (as they called it—fifth grade). I sit down, eager to see what will happen. The teachers sit quietly. So do the students. We all wait. And wait … I fidget, ask a teacher, “So, what are the students doing?” She smiles at me quizzically. After five minutes, one of the teachers coughs and says to me, “So, Madam, when will you start?”
“WHAT? I’m expected to teach??? I’m not prepared!!” They all stare at me gently. “No one told me!” I whine, and realize there is no hope. I sigh, stand up, upon which the students immediately stood up. Resignedly I use my hands to gesture them to sit down. God. Kids. I am not prepared …!!! Some basic ESL games came back to me, and I actually had an idea. I gave a lesson which seemed to work. It lasted about forty minutes. Smugly, I stepped back. “OK, that’s my contribution for the day,” I say. The teachers stare at me blankly. “There are all different levels here, Madam,” one teacher says, as if explaining why only I could teach such a difficult mix. “I need to keep going …??” I say; and OK, I take the kids outside and we do an easy vocabulary game involving a ball. I add a variant to it, thinking that I must be a genius. The kids seem interested, but I think it was just the novelty of being taught by a Westerners; we are truly as rare as blue moons in this part of India. As we re-enter the classroom (more on a description of a school another day), I do say, firmly, “That IS it for today; honestly, I need to PREPARE lessons, I can’t just do hours and HOURS without preparation.” The teachers stare at me sadly, with disappointment in their eyes, but they nod OK. Good, I think; I can now see what they DO. So the art teacher says, “OK, I draw something.” I thought she would make the kids draw with her. And she could have …!! She drew a great elephant using basic shapes. She showed this to the kids, and then erased the image. Drew a bird. “That’s a bird,” she said. “Bird,” the children chirped back. She erased, drew another …
“Wait, I have a game,” I say, and I do remember a great, monster-drawing game that uses good vocabulary having to do with body parts. So we play that game … it’s great.

So. I start teaching tomorrow. No one knows when I should teach, which classes I should teach, or what I should teach. Should be interesting. Bye for now.

Amy

[Jnañamati]

Amy's no holds barred account of her experience as a Volunteer English teacher in North Lakhimpur. Read part five below:

February 26, 2013

Hello, hello. Finally I’m writing again, and I am determined to do all of this in one FELL SWOOP, or in one SWELL FOOP, which I think sounds better. (Somehow, Roz, I hear your humor behind that silly substitution. I don’t know if I am complimenting you or not … yeah, I am.)

OK. I’ve often thought about the adage that Singapore language schools used to lure in students throughout Asia: Come to our school and meet students from other cultures! And when, as center director, I spoke with kids about this, they would dutifully parrot back, Yes, indeed, we wish to meet students from other cultures.

But do they really? The vast majority of Chinese students stuck with Chinese students. Ditto with those from Vietnam, Thailand, and the like. Occasionally, this rule was broken, often because a hapless kid from Myanmar, let’s say, faced a class with absolutely no other Burmese kids in the class. He/she had no CHOICE but to mingle with students from other countries. But I rarely saw a real mix of students who seemed to relish their differences / similarities as a focus of their being together.

OK, how does this fit into India? This way. As I know I’ve previously mentioned, whenever I “step out”, e.g., show my Western face here, people stare. Gawk. Some people talk, usually shyly asking “Where you from”? or “How long you staying here?” (Indian English is FULL of present continuous verbs … much more so than other forms of global Englishes. (Hello, Pavel.) But people rarely listen. If their English is good enough to hold a bit of a conversation, people will want to show off to the Westerner how much THEY speak English. Or to demonstrate how well they are doing, or how well their kids are doing … there is a real common post-colonial attitude that still idealizes the Westerner here. It is IMPORTANT for them to receive validation from a Westerner that they are part of a larger global community. I can understand this, and have learned to immediately ask the person about his/her kids; or if I am speaking to young people (which is usually the case, as the young kids speak English far better than their parents) I know to respectfully ask about their education and to profess admiration for what they are doing. The person leaves, beaming; I leave feely vaguely dissatisfied. Rarely have I experienced a satisfactory interchange of actual ideas, or a feeling that the person actually was interested in what I was doing. It’s enough, for that person, to know: “Ahh, OK, you’re an English teacher . . . Well, English is MY favorite subject at my school, and … “ and then the conversation continues that way. And I don’t accept that perhaps their limited English does not allow a more interesting interchange. No. Most people really do not care about the other person other than as a mirror for that person’s ego.

Wow. Am I being acerbic, or what? But I do believe this.

This really hit home the other day. BACKGROUND: I have decided to walk home from the school three times a week—this is a walk of at least 5 kilometers, and it takes about 90 minutes, leaving room for me to earnestly take pictures, either with my camera or, more likely, with my tablet. So I was slogging home the other day, in quite formidable heat. I was almost there, and stopped to get some water. A guy on a motorbike saw me, screeched to a halt, and immediately turned around. Here we go . . . I thought. Then I recognized this guy. Huh. When Jnanamati was still here, this gentleman and a friend of his had knocked on our door. I, of course, did not know him, but he had met Jnanamati a year or so ago. Somehow, he explained, he had known that Jn was in town, and wanted to see him. How nice, I thought, but the visit was kind of silly. All the guy and his friend did was take photo after photo of Jnanamati and myself and proudly show off his tablet to me. There was little conversation about ANYTHING. After an hour of this, the two left. Jnanamati shrugged, equally unimpressed. “That was a waste of time,” I said. “He was quite pushy,” Jn observed.

Well, it was that pushy guy! “I wondered about you,” he said to me, beaming, as I chugged down the water. “WHY,” I thought, and politely replied that I lived near this area. “Come to my house for tea,” he said, “You must come.”

“No, I’m going for a walk.” I was steadfast. “Let me show you where my house is,” he said. I was rather tired, after a sun-drenched walk, but began walking with him. After ten minutes, I stopped. “Sorry,” I said, “I can’t continue walking this way, and then make it back to my house later. Why don’t you give me your e-mail.” Then I can get rid of him, I thought, for a) I did not get good vibes from him and b) he seemed profoundly uninteresting. He SHOULDN’T be: he teaches English at a local school, but his focus seemed to be just to talk to me because of who I AM—a Westerner.

“Don’t worry. I can introduce you to my wife and I’ll take you back on my scooter,” he replied.

You know, I have been schlepped from PLACE TO PLACE with people showing me off for various reasons . . . this time, I balked. This guy is a total stranger. I don’t know him from a bag of grapes. (Hello, Paula.) And He is intruding on MY quality time—time when I can be alone, which is so, so rare. No, this was MY walk, and I was going to walk home. Not have tea with this dude I know nothing about. This may not be the Buddhist monk way, but it sure was my way. So I refused, and scrawled my email on a scrap of paper and thrust it under his nose. “Contact me this way,” I said.

“I don’t have email,” he replied.

A teacher without e-mail…?? Well, this IS India. Totally possible, as I know. “If you really want to get in touch with me, figure out how to use the internet,” I replied snarkily, and left. OK, I probably handled that poorly. But I thought: Yaayy, I’m rid of that guy! Good!

So I got home, took a blissful shower, and chatted a bit with two of Mayuri’s friends, Kobita and Beauty (who is genuinely gorgeous; check out her picture. She IS stunning.) The doorbell rang. I got it. Guess who was there: that guy, and his wife and kid. I stood there, gaping. “Uh…what the …” was my friendly greeting. “How did you find out where I live?” I blurted out. “A stalker!” I thought, “this guy FOLLOWED me home.”

“I have lived in North Lakhimpur for that past twenty years,” the guy beamed, seemingly oblivious to my horror at seeing him. “I know people, so I knew you were on this street. Then when I got here I asked people specifically where you lived. After a few people, I found out.” GOD. I had images of this guy slogging up this narrow village road saying, “OK, where’s this white person at?” Of course people would know.

So here he was, wife and child in tow, on my doorstep. Mayuri and her friends tiptoed into the room and goggled. I sighed. “Do come in . . . I’ll make tea,” I said. “Here,” the man said, “we have sweets for you,” and thrust a bag into my hand. I thanked him. As the family sat down, I went into the kitchen and mouthed at Mayuri (sorry, I did, I cannot lie) F**K, F**K, F**K!!!

“Do you know him?” she whispered.

“Yes and no,” I said. “This sucks!” Bless them, all three girls made the tea for me, and put various sweets on plates, Assamese style. They were kind enough to help me serve the family the plates and cups, and they immediately disappeared into Mayuri and Anu’s bedroom.

OK, to cut to the chase. The man’s wife was heartbreakingly beautiful, BEDECKED in a gorgeous sari and sparkling with jewels. She had obviously dressed with care for this “great” event, and had dressed her small daughter in a typically ornate Assamese fancy dress popular with girls. I shook her hand and she smiled bashfully. “She doesn’t speak English at all,” the man said placidly, “actually, she is practically illiterate. She has had little schooling.” While I was digesting this information, the woman gently pushed her little girl to me so I could hear her rendition of “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star”. They showed me picture after picture of mother and daughter in some nearby park, and I tried to make the mother and daughter feel as if I were interested in what they were doing. All the while, I was feeling: angry? put out? sad? unworthy? angry that this guy—who proudly told me had a Masters—had no desire in educating his wife at all? Mostly, I just wanted them to leave . . . but the loveliness and seeming gentleness of his wife kind of, well, broke my heart. And again, there was no conversation. The guy, again, showed me his tablet. Tried to persuade me to visit his house the next day. Or Sunday, definitely, Sunday!

Oh, I did not mention: his wife had brought me two gifts. One: the traditional Assamese embroidered red and white towel that is often given to guests (name momentarily forgotten). And she also gave me a small handkerchief, with a little design hand embroidered. By her. WHY I thought miserably, WHY are you married to that schmuck, and why do you care so much about receiving validation from me . . . Precious gifts. To me. From her. I don’t understand.

So they left, and I think the guy now knows I’ll be happy to see him one more time. But no promises.

God. three pages of a diatribe. I’ll stop now. But many amazing things happened this month at the school. Oh, may I mention: Indian kids don’t go to school. They go to rituals, and when they have time, go to school between the rituals. Not a WEEK has gone by when there is not SOME reason for school NOT going on. Election Day was worth two days of no school. Yesterday was the birthday of some Assamese leader. Then—there will be no school in March, after exams are over. And ten days of no school in April for Bihu, a joyous dance celebration, which lasts two weeks. Two weeks of dancing. Ahh, the lunacy of India.

And there was a half-day of no school for a construction puja (offering). The school is building new classrooms, so a puja was done to bring luck and auspiciousness (is that a word??) to the endeavor. (I have some pics here … they were taken with my phone, so the quality is dubious, sorry!) The most important thing: to make sure that the first hole of the project is blessed so that all construction will be done auspiciously, and will bring good luck to the school. The hole was blessed, prayers were said, and the kids got to eat treats.

Then, February saw a nation-wide Saraswati puja. This is a national dedication: Saraswati is the Hindu goddess of the arts and culture, and her image is that of a lovely woman, often accompanied by her animal, the swan. Schools, from primary to universities, across India acknowledge Saraswati with: offerings, sweets, etc. (According to Wikipedia, kites are also flown in her honor: I would love seeing that!) Of course, there is no school for that day. The school did itself proud. The girls came in fancy dresses, the boys in colorful Western clothes. Many guardians came, with their other children. The students here cleaned out the main classroom, a shrine was created, complete with pictures of the goddess, flowers, candles, and incense. Sweets were distributed to the students before the official puja. A rice pudding, keer (spelling?) was made, and offered to the goddess in front of all the students. Prayers were said. Then the lucky students got to eat the keer and candied corn. (The keer is really, really good, with lots of yummy stuff inside—it’s made with milk powder, because refrigerators are not the norm here.)

This happens every year. People take it seriously, and the school spends lots of money to make sure all is done properly. I was happy to play a small role in it. As this was a very special day, I was told that I must wear traditional clothing, so I did … I bought a mekala sador (spelling?) which women wear here. As usual, the tailor made the shirt that goes under the clothing too tight, and had to fix it.(I guess when the tailors take my bust measurement, they don’t beliefe it, and underestimate. Gee whiz.) During the morning of the event, Anu spent quite awhile making sure that the clothing draped properly. “Ma’am, you look so beautiful,” said Mayuri reverently, and I know she meant it. People at the school oohed and ahhed, and I was happy: they were genuinely pleased that I would wear this, and I was surprised to see how comfortable it was. I don’t think I’d want to wear this item every day, but if I could master the folds, it could be kind of cool. The main reason? You can mix and match fabrics to make an infinite combination of mekla sadors, since this item, unlike the sari, comes in two parts, with two different types of material. So one could have a great time mixing and matching … yumm, all that gorgeous fabric.

I don’t claim to be an expert on Assam, but I’m getting to know the kids. There is NOTHING to do here. (Jnanamati warned me.) This house is not quiet. (Hello, it’s India.) I don’t have a car. I’m beginning to have the courage to go biking . . . but that would require buying one; and to where would I bike, really? I am going stir crazy, and am often grumpy. (That should not come as a shock.) But I look at these faces, and I look at the beauty of the sky here and am glad I’m here. My eyes always delight in the simple flat fields that spread out endlessly in this part of the world. And in seeing the butterflies that are girls as they are perched on bikes, bedecked in their traditional attire. What a feast. Endless. That’s the best I can do.

[prakash nagar]

Finally the next installment of Amy's Assamese blog - this ones long but well worth the read.

February something, 2013

Hey hey, everyone. The weeks are rushing by, and the (self-imposed) pressure to keep writing these missives means time is doing its usual wink-of-an eye routine. So hello again and, as always, thanks thanks for reading. It means a lot, and I love getting your emails.

Noise is constant in India (no surprise), even in my village abode. Through NOISY, piped-in music, a nearby mosque reminds the faithful to pray five times a day, starting at 5:00 a.m. on the dot. My earplugs help muffle the sound a bit. But noise, always noise: Anu regularly receives visitors, and I hear the pleasant chatting of women while she makes tea (and always, always gives me some). Then there is the TV blare. Barking of dogs. Squealing of pigs. Sound of people just working outside. Mini, Mayuri’s part-time cat, comes in and starts complaining about the world: that cat has the biggest mouth I have ever heard. She is just beautiful, with a smooth, smooth kind of tan coat, shorthair, but immensely soft. She has a lovely pointed face on a delicate build, but the strident meows that ensue from that little body are quite amazing. I no longer feel sorry for her, for Mayuri has informed me that an old lady regularly feeds her, plus three other cats, and a dog. But Mini loves biscuits (cookies), and eagerly pounces on biscuit pieces whenever she can get them. Whether she gets them or not, she lets people know she. IS. HERE. Occasionally she will deign to sit on one’s lap, or snuggle up on a bed, but that privilege is short lived.

In late January I was informed that I WILL visit some students’ houses that day. I did not blink—I’m used to getting such commands and, like an obedient puppet, will go in order to show the world that a Westerner is teaching at this school. At 12:30 I was told that Anu, plus two other teachers and myself, would imminently leave. “What? I have a class at one-thirty!” I protested. Anu waved her arm and said in her very halting English, “The odder teachers . . . OK. Let’s go.” What the . . .?? With three teachers missing, there would not be enough teachers for the 12:30 to 2:00 classes! But, sigh, that’s the way it is in this school, teachers regularly shuffle from class to class doing the best they can.

So. Anu, Punyam, Reena (two teachers) and myself cut through the fields to the main road and then took an autorickshaw to this quite beautiful, rural road. This road is especially nice: It has the usual lush green, the golden rice fields, but there is something quiet and lovely about this one. It feels GOOD. Eventually, we got to the first house. I was informed that it was the house of one of my students. I met cousins, nephews, and I think the mother (the hidden Indian mother, I’m afraid), and we sat down and were served betel nut wrapped in a banana leaf, which is one of the few things I just cannot consume. I regretfully shook my head no and settled back after the initial frenzy (sorry, that is what it is, complete with frenetic photo taking) wore off at seeing a Westerner. I let the Assamese wash over me as I keep a fixed smile on my face. After ten minutes, in the usual fashion, Anu got up and said, “Madame, we go now.”

I was surprised, because I assumed that the parent would want to speak with the teachers and ask about the student’s progress…?? Not the case here. A gentleman who was a relative of the student led us down this road. We walked fifteen minutes. “Uhh . . . where are we going?” I asked Punyam.

“To Pranjal’s house, Madam,” she said.

“Oh, another student?” I asked. I wasn’t expecting to go to more than one house. My bladder was beginning to sing like Tom Jones: “Please release me, let me go . . .”

“Yes, Madam,” she said calmly. So we got to the second house. The gate was closed. The aforementioned gentleman hopped over the fence, knocked on the door. No one there. He said something in Assamese to Anu, and we started walking back, in the opposite direction. Quietly. Calmly. As if nothing had happened.

“We’re going away from the main road,” I said to Punyam. “Now what?”

“Now we go to Dayakrishna’s house, Madam,” she said. A car screeched by and dust settled all around us. “Free powder!” Punyam said, and we laughed.

Like the good little puppet I am, I refrained from asking questions, and we came to the third (third!) house. There we were served the obligatory pithas, ladoos, plus tea and water, and I had a few pieces. Settled back. Good, I thought, time to go HOME. So we said our goodbyes, people made sure to take pictures, and off we went.

Let me cut to the chase. We schlepped to eight houses, total (NOT including the house that was closed). We had seven cups of tea with seven sets of the accompanying snacks.By the fifth house, I looked at the snacks and shuddered, my stomach audibly protesting. Yet if I refused, the host would look at me with sad, puppy-dog eyes, and would say, in broken English, “You must eat, eat, must.” One host not only offered the usual, but also thrust under our noses a huge bowl of a traditional milk dish that I SHOULD like—it’s soured, likeyogurt, with sugar on top. For some reason, however, I do find this dish, well, repulsive. Something about the taste and texture reminds me of anything that has been rotting in the sun. I have learned to eat this by shoveling as huge a spoonful as I can in my mouth, following it immediately with a sip of water and slug of tea. And smile at the carefully watching hostess.

So.One can be killed with kindness. But all snarky humor aside, I did go to the houses of three of my favorite students: Mayasri, Debujit, and Supanza (I’m sure the spellings are wrong, but never mind). They beamed when they saw me, and I got to watch Debujit and Mayasri give a quick dance performance; not to be outdone, Supanza sang in a quite-nice young tenor. All three of these students are gems. They soak in information, their eyes bright and happy, and they do all tasks eagerly, and well. Supanza is a FORCE. He sits at his desk, body tense, almost jumping out of his skin to understand everything I am saying. His attention is fierce and he grasps information immediately. When I offer an innovative lesson, truly, he laughs with joy.

At least four of my students live on this road. They live closely together, their families all knowing each other and supporting each other. I watched Mayasri and Debujit race outside, playing, and thought, God, what a great childhood they are having. What could be better: having fresh air, a feeling of being surrounded by people you love and who love you, and feeling—safe? This environment is what Singaporeans called a “kampong”, which is a Malay word for village. There is one kampong left in Singapore, and it is on the verge of extinction. I think that this lovely Assamese road, eventually, will be better paved, widened, and the area will become a faceless suburb, like so many suburbs worldwide. If this happens, the old-timers may indeed fondly reminisce about their childhood in this village environment. There is so much to recommend it. No computer games. Healthy, real food; I have seen very, very few soda bottles or juice cans at local houses. People surrounded by an extended family of aunts, uncles, cousins, and grandparents.

Of course this seemingly rural paradise comes at a cost: local wages mean little opportunity to visit other countries. Having intractable demands from one’s family, including marriage and children. These kids’ parents will want their children to go to college, however,to obtain their Bachelors. Of course, in India, just like in many countries, a B.A. means very little these days; it is the very, very least one needs in order to get a good job, and hundreds of people apply for almost every job listed in the papers. Everyone wants a government job, with its salary and perks, but I’ve been told that these jobs come at a bribe price that means only the wealthy will get those plums. True? I don’t know. Also, these kids may not be able to live with their parents once they are part of the Indian workforce. Who knows about the future of such villages?

And, certainly, beneath the surface of Indian life is the reality of male dominance. Wife beating and other forms of abuse. Random displays of power. I have attached another picture, this one of the wonderful woman who serves the teachers tea in the afternoon—she cleans the place for no doubt a pittance. Look at her, please. She is barely fifty years old and has a daughter in grade 9 or 10. “People here live a hard life,” Anu managed to tell me. “Very hard. Men beat women…” she made a beating gesture with her hands, “and no let them go out sometimes.” She shook her head. “Hard life, 80 percent of people, I think.”

But. In the families I visited, it SEEMS as if the girls are treated as well as the boys, and that the parents have genuinely high hopes for them. Here’s a photo of another student of mine. I call her “Curlylocks” because she played that role when her class did a quick role play of “The Three Bears” story. Her father proudly told me of her intelligence, and that he hoped she could find a good job one day.So maybe India does, indeed, still suffer from a patriarchal attitude, but people are beginning to really question this. Look at the furor caused by that terrible rape in Delhi!It’s all for the best, I think.

OK, I’m writing this over ten days later. A recent Saturday night was quite wonderful. I promised Anu that I would cook a Western meal, and she could invite guests. She invited Putu, her best friend, and some neighbors she is close to, so we had five guests total, including Beauty and Kobita, who are respectively 12 and 16 years old.

No thyme. No basil. No bay leaves. No oven …!! And we’re dealing with a very unimaginative cook to begin with. However, I was able to fumble together a recipe consisting of: chicken stew; mayonnaise-less coleslaw; pretend garlic bread; and an oven-less apple crisp that sounded way too healthy to be good, but never mind. Anu and I went shopping, came home laden with stuff, and I went to work. My goal: to have edible food. Not good food, but edible. I met the goal. I DO make good soups,and was able to concoct a tasty chicken soup, complete with homemade chicken broth. The coleslaw was good! good recipe! and the apple thingie looked awful but tasted quite fine. However, the hit of the eveningwas the BREAD. I just took the bread (mediocre at best) and heated it quickly in a pan with (poor-quality) vegetable oil and garlic. Often, I burnt the bread. It looked awful. Man, it went like hotcakes, people wanting up to four pieces of the stuff. To my bemusement, everyone added at least a tablespoon of salt each to both the soup and the coleslaw. Assamese food is very, very salty. . . I wonder how my blood pressure is here, should get that checked.

It’s the evening I will never forget. Beauty is an accomplished dancer, and Kobita a good singer. Once the dinner was over, and, sigh, the electricity went off, people went to work enjoying themselves. Beauty immediately demonstrated some really lovely dances, and Kobitaand Putu sang accompaniment. I will never forget these images: in the half-light, people getting drunk on just dancing and singing together. Beauty twirling in the modest room. Putu singing and occasionally dancing along. Mayuri both singing and dancing. Grabbing me to demonstrate my horrible 60’s version of the twist. The older women grooving on the entire thing. Three generations really, really happy to be together and share in some good stuff. No booze. A modest meal. And real joy. The next day, Anu told me that it had been a long time since she had been to a party that had been just FUN. That, too, made it all worthwhile.

The school, the school . . . with all this nattering, it seems as if the school comes last, doesn’t it? Not so. Teaching there remains a joy. I can see the kids gaining confidence in communicating in English. Their grammar remains execrable, but the desire to speak is burgeoning. And, increasingly—and most importantly—the students no longer automatically think they must repeat everything I say. They’re beginning to understand that they are to think. They’re beginning to do work, in teams, that involves cooperation and creativity. Unfortunately, the desire to COPY often overrides any real creativity, but . . . slowly, slowly. Every morning, as I come to school, the kids rush towards me, beaming and shouting: “Good morning, Ma’am!” and every night they all make sure to shriek to me “See ya!” before they rush home. What a great beginning and end to the work day.

My only problem: class one. I don’t know how to deal with them. It’s partly their young age, but it’s just the GESTALT of the kids, I guess. They are rowdy, eager to break out into talk and pushing each other at the least provocation. A few kids are bright, but somehow the eagerness to learn is thoroughly overridden with the eagerness to cause havoc. And I JUST don’t know how to deal with it. During one class, when it was obvious what I was doing was NOT working, I gave up. “Come outside,” I sighed, and they tumbled out like overheated puppies. We just did my screwed-up version of “Old MacDonald had a Farm”, with hand gestures. They had done this before, and they loved it. Learning? Out the window. But as we were doing this I thought, “Gee. This feels a bit like a Stephen King horror movie … am I controlling the kids with music, or are they controlling ME, by making sure that they end up outside, singing a song they already know?” As I gazed upon their very cute faces, I shivered in the warm sun. Sometimes I wonder! So if anyone knows of good, fun kids’ ESL games, let me KNOW, please.

I have been working on simple verb conjugation: He/she/it sitS, and the rest is I/you/we/they, etc. sit. Easy, right? If it’s more than one (except for I and you) add an “s”. Otherwise, no “s”. I have tried: worksheets. Games. Drill. Physical movement. Songs. Writing. Homework. Threats of my imminent suicide. Threats of killing THEM. THEY STILL DON’T GET IT!! And this is true for all the grades 1 through 5. Even the Great Supanza (see above) is confused by it. It’s so important that kids get this real basic foundation of English.I must be doing something wrong.If anyone has something about this, I would be grateful.

But I will repeat: not all is lost. I’m seeing a lot of progress in many of the kids. Now, the teachers: I read an article in the NY Timesthat mentioned the poor attitude of teachers in government schools, that often they never even showed up. Well, that is the case here. Every day, at LEAST one teacher is absent. One day, three teachers were absent, so before each period we would huddle and decide who would merge classes and teach what. We got through the day—but what do the students see? What do they think when they are inside, doing sums (or whatever), and their teacher is OUTSIDE the classroom, KNITTING, and chatting with other teachers? What kind of message is that? It happens daily. Indeed, the best teacher in the school, with whom I share Class 4 English, enjoys chatting with me when the students are taking a quiz. I have to gently push her away—I’m in the classroom. I’m not socializing. I’ll do that during tea break.

I can’t say I always enjoy tea break. The teachers are lovely, often commenting favorably on something I am wearing. They always offer me the best seat, the best treats. And we can chat about family, likes and dislikes, etc. But that’s it. There does not seem to be a sense of really wanting to improve themselves as professionals. They just seem to want to enjoy their day with minimal fuss, and quickly leave at 2:00 to join their families. I could be unkind here in my assessment. After all, these teachers are making a pittance, and for the last two months, they were just getting half salaries. Why should they work when they are making less than a laborer makes?

Interestingly, the one who really seems to want to improve herself is NOT a good teacher. She openly has admitted she does not like teaching, but she is doing it because the hours are good. She bullies the kids and displays a very unkind sense of humor, the kind that demonstrates itself by pointing at an erring student and saying, “Ha ha, he/she made this mistake, can you believe it?” in front of the class. YUKK. However, I have yelled at her enough times (I really have) and have almost dragged her away from kids she was mocking so that she is actually, slowly, changing her behavior. Being less caustic, more supportive. I know she respects me, so there’s a good chance that she is doing this just because I am there, in the classroom, with her. But this woman wants to improve her English. She’s very intelligent. How to focus this intelligence towards having a love of seeing a student’s face brighten with the joy of really “getting” something? I don’t know.

I do see this in one student I call “Mr. Smiles”. He has a heartbreakingly beautiful smile. He is not quick academically, seems to be quite poor, based on the ragged condition of his school uniform, and often he has borne the brunt of this teacher’s cruel jokes. I’ve smiled back at him, given him positive feedback when he has done something only PARTIALLY correctly. Kept him focused on the lesson (not always easy; he drifts away at the blink of an eye. Learning disorder? I don’t know.) Made sure this teacher does not pounce on him. And guess what? He is now speaking to me. Slowly. And doing his homework, well, kind of correctly. For me, this is big. He continues to smile.

Also—every morning, during assembly, the children say aloud the Five Buddhist Precepts. When I leave, teachers and students alike will continue this. I’d like to add more Buddhist lessons to the curriculum; I’ll ask Jnanamati about what we can do.

One last thing. Thanks to a friend of mine in Singapore, who sent my appeal for a corporate sponsor to people in a listserv in the area she lives, two people have donated money to the school. It does not solve long-term problems, but, lord, it HELPS. Chandan and Anu will now be able to have walls built so that real learning can take place in each classroom. The awful cacophony of noise will be reduced. Teachers will get their back salaries…think, S$45 a month for each teacher. And I spoke with teachers about using the money that a very generous Singaporean gave to me before I left Singapore to go to India. We agreed that it should be used for Hindi, Assamese, and English-language books. Sunit, the very talented music teacher, wants money for a harmonium. Would love to give it to him, but I don’t think the funds will cover that. One thing at a time. Imagine! And one of these people has offered to send used toys and books to the school. Imagine, here, too: The teacher’s room, full of bright books, and the kindergarten classrooms actually having some toys and color. We are all going to market this Saturday to have one hell of a spending spree. YaHOO.

OK, I’m done. 

[Jnañamati]

Week Three Amys Assamese Blog

Sunday, Jan 6, 2013

Hello, hello, whoever is reading this … INDIA IS TOO NOISY.

Gee, and what was I expecting, to hear the chirping of the birds and the photosynthesizing of the plants? Ha! I know I should not use this venue to gripe, BUT … There is a rooster who is part of the worker’ household (more on that later). A beautiful rooster. He is part of a harem of hens and chicks, and they are greedy at worst, kind of cute at best. But this rooster …!! He starts crowing at, ohh, 3:30 in the morning? You hear this slapping sound as if someone is knocking on his door…then the crowing. I wonder: does he regularly do his “cock-a-doodle-do” thing eight times? ten? Is there a regular interval between the screeches? No, he just DOES whatever pleases him. That flapping sound MIGHT be HIM, asserting himself and trying to get away; he is tethered to a post during the evening and night. Sad to see, but I do wish they would tether his MOUTH. And, starting at 6:45, cars start careening down the highway that is right in front of our house, Assamese music vibrating so loud it can make  your fillings jingle. Screeches from humans are also di rigeur.

However, there is good news: when we need water, we have to turn on a switch that activates the water pump. This results in an electrical, jarring sound that sort of drowns out the car noises. And we barely hear the ducks then. Oh, I didn’t mention the DUCKS …

OK, OK, I guess the Indian honeymoon is over.

Down by the Riverside

I really should not be spending time griping (but everyone knows whining is a hobby of mine) when so much has gone on. Let’s start with the New Year’s Day picnic… New Year’s Day is a national holiday here, and many people head on over to the banks of some small river (it’s not the Brahmaputra, the main river in Assam Province) for a picnic. Chandan and Anu very kindly invited us to join them for their annual picnic there, and I looked forward to going. I’m fairly used to the gawking and gaping that ensues when the Assamese see a Westerner (one should not forget that, for MOST, Jnanamati and I are the ONLY WESTERNERS they have EVER seen), but what I experienced there made me feel like a cross between Madonna and the Elephant Man … Celebrity? Freak? A bit of both? First, we take the mat, food items, and wade through very low riverbeds in order to reach a rather nice spot. Well, “rather” … the scenery is lovely … misty Himalaya Mountains in the distance, shallow, flowing water and rather rocky river beds that one can put a blanket over. But if one wishes to commune tranquilly with nature …?? Ain’t gonna happen. The noise that I had mentioned that streamed from zooming cars continues from stationary cars. Before we have even settled down, people literally rush up to us, bumping into each other to get a look. We get the usual: “Where you from?” “How long you here?” Every small utterance we made was met with rapt attention, as if we had just uttered Lincoln’s “Gettysburg Address”.  As soon as we are on the ground, groups and groups of people come our way, pushing into each other to get the best view. I close my eyes, trying to maintain my calm and not snap. Mostly, I feel badly for Chandan and his family, who deserve a nice, quiet get-together in a place they have been going to on this day for years and years. We finally do ask people if they wouldn’t mind giving us space, as we’d like to spend time with our friends. And people do agree. Now, I think, we can relax . . .

However, as we were enjoying our tea and namkeen, that wonderful mixture of crunchies and sweet things that is found in almost every Indian household, we saw two lines of people moving towards each other. They were moving purposefully, eyes glued to the opposing group of people. We heard noises raised in anger and I realized we were about to watch a huge, huge fight in progress. People started gesticulating and shouting; two men began to wrestle and other men (and women) struggled to separate them. What the …?? Well, I thought, I might as well DOCUMENT this, and I took one picture. Jnanamati hissed at me, “Put that camera DOWN! We don’t want to bring attention to ourselves!” and I sheepishly, with regret, put the camera down. All I could get from Chandan is that soon police would come and get things under control. And, before the police DO come—which is no surprise—anger simmered, dissipated, at least slightly, and people wandered back to their blankets. Idly, I looked over to where a bunch of men are dancing to blaring music. “They are drinking alcohol,” I observed to Jnanamati. “This place is a tinderbox,” he responded.

For years, Assam has been the site of ethnic conflict. Let’s hear it for colonialism: The British, who owned tea plantations in this area, hired people from outside the area, often giving plummy jobs to Hindu Bengalis (now Bangladeshis) and bypassing the Assamese, for the Hindus were better educated than the Muslin Bengalis and the Assamese in general. Eventually, with the development of an Assamese middle class, resentment began to fester about these Bengalis taking the good jobs. Also, the Muslim Bengalis would settle on land that had been cultivated by both Assamese and the tribal peoples in this area—this just added a match to the tinderbox of conflict in the region. While most of the damage has been done in areas that border Bangladesh (hundreds of miles away), there are bad feelings everywhere. I guess this little spat had to do with some sort of ethnic conflict, but who knows? And don’t worry, I am very, very safe here, for I am well looked after. Once Jnanamati leaves, on January 13, I will be living with Anu and her daughter, Mayuri. They live in a very rural area, with neighbors, they tell me, who are all dying to meet me. So I may indeed die here—but of too much attention, versus a terrorist’s bullet.

This is not to minimize what has gone on here. As recently as July 2012, a tribal group, the Bodos, fought against the Bengali Muslims for the reasons I mentioned, above. During this time, Assamese students living elsewhere fled their residences, having heard or read about rumors that Muslims would retaliate against them. While Jnanamati is right to advise caution, in case people start attributing all this woe to the Western colonialists, I do feel safe, for I am surrounded by people who are happy I am here.

Back to the riverbank: once I became aware of alcohol, I saw that its presence permeated the festivities here. Indeed, as we were trooping back to Chandan’s car, a group of quite-drunk young men practically accosted us, insisting we pose with them for various photo ops. It was yukky; we survived.

Teaching / A  Very Strange Afternoon

The school’s children continue to endear themselves to me, as I become aware of individual personalities . . . their names still elude me, but that is my next goal: names! Each class has at least one shining star—as classes do. These special kids, for the most part, are quite well scrubbed, bright-eyed, and so eager to learn it’s heartbreaking. And then you get the other spectrum . . . some students seem to have a certain dullness of affect that cannot, I think, just be attributed to a less-than-stellar intellect. . . what’s the story there, I think, as I work with a young girl with a dirty, dirty shirt, runny nose, and a drooping spirit. Who knows. Even if I found out, what could I do? Almost all the kids, however, are OK with taking instruction, and are doing the best they can. They could still be in THEIR honeymoon period with me, for working with a Westerner must be a very interesting experience for them—this novelty would give the most mediocre teacher a real advantage. And I am learning to relax with the new sensation of working with young kids, and to suss out each class’s particular character. Class 2, I am realizing, can best be reached with drama games, with action. Class 3 students are equally good at both kinetic and reading activities. Class five has a mix of very, very bright students and those who seem to not be getting it very well. But! In trying to help a class understand the nature of spoken English, with its various tonal and stress changes, I began to spontaneously use my body to do a dance that stomped out the strong words in sentences, and bent down to denote the weak words. It seems to work! The kids began to do this little dance with me, and then to say complex sentences in perfect rhythm. “OK, OK! The GRASSHOPPER (I stomped and clapped my hands on the word “grasshopper;” so did the students) WORKED HARD (stomp, stomp, clap clap—students enthusiastically did the same)in the FIELDS (clap and stomp only on FIELDS) … etc. I will continue doing this! and will trust in fluid young brains to make a connection between these sentences and the many, many more English-language sentences they will say in the future. Finally, as a teacher, I am relinquishing my own dependence on words and delving into a more kinetic way of teaching. This is very, very good. It’s part of why I came here in the first place.

On Friday, January 5, there would be a parent-teacher meeting, I was told, so I expected to have parents line up to talk with the different teachers. I was expecting to be in the background because I  am so new to the school. Little did I know. A good number of parents showed up, perhaps 30. Chandan began by giving a ten-minute speech. All I could understand was “Madam,” “Amy,” “USA”, and “English”, and there was a lot of gesturing towards me. The parents’ eyes zoomed towards me and flickered between Chandan and myself . . . back and forth, like an eyeball tennis match. Chandan sat down and said, ”Madam, give a talk, please.”

You would think I would be used to this, since I was placed in this position once before, just about nine days ago.  I was at a public-health meeting that Chandan’s charity, the Tagatha Trust had set up. I was sitting quietly, enjoying looking at the audience—great faces; I even took some photographs while Assamese washed over me. Then Chandan said to me, “Madam, you will now give a talk on the health system in your country.”  Oh, sure, like I know tons about THAT. I stammered out a speech on how fat Americans were getting and how this is placing a huge burden on America’s healthcare system (with Chandan translating) and that was that. It’s disconcerting, really: there still exists in this part of the world a post-colonial perception that ALL Westerners have something that Indians don’t. That elusive “it”…could that special something be the insouciance of Western culture? Its brashness, it popular culture? Hence, as a Westerner, it is assumed, of COURSE I will know something about my country and I should communicate that to others.  Ha. In fact, one of the teachers I work with actually said, “Madam, Indians are backward and stupid. Americans are smart.” How representative is that attitude I don’t know. I’m sure better-educated young Indians would take umbrage at that perception, but here, in rural, isolated India, that glorified image of Westerners is still going strong—hence the goggling and gawking. And, no doubt, there are politicized Indians who dislike what Westerners have actually done to the country and who may take it out on offending Westerners—but thus far I’ve been spared any ire regarding that.

So. Back to the parents’ meeting. I stood up, and to my surprise, began to speak clearly and coherently. It does not matter what I said; let’s just say I tried to communicate a message of East and West learning from each other, and that I was happy to add an extra dimension to this school’s curriculum. Easy, easy . . . I breathed a sigh of relief when the speech was over, and slumped down in my chair.

Then the parents had the floor.  A very attractive, slender man stood up and spoke very well and eloquently . . .  in Assamese, of course. I recognized the words “Hindi”, “English”, and “Assamese.” He pointed to me once or twice in what I thought was a fairly disapproving tone of voice, and held the floor for at least four minutes. When he finished, people applauded. I glanced at the teachers. They were fidgeting and looking nervous; one of them sat there, with a face that seemed carved from stone. I gestured to one of the teachers to sit next to me. “What did he say?” I hissed. “He say students should study three languages: Assamese, Hindi, as well as English. He say teachers should work harder, give homework every night. He like the English, don’t worry,” the teacher reassured me. I sighed. The teachers make so, so little money, and this gentleman wants them to put in huge amounts of hours. While I could understand his sentiments, I wondered how the teachers actually felt: their faces seemed to tell a unified story of fatigue and … ennui?  Many of these parents pay practically next to nothing to send their kids here. I don’t know . . . Where do they think the money comes from to run this school? As I thought along these lines, I had to smile: I was becoming protective of this small school in the middle of nowhere. How did that happen?

Well, one thing is true, I thought to myself: these parents may be poor, but their vocal capacity is not. Many of them got up and had their say. The teachers often chimed in, nodding their heads for emphasis. Then the parents interrupted and spoke. Occasionally I heard the usual “Madam” or “Amy” or “English”. Chandan was sitting next to me, calmly taking notes. I was getting a bit tired of all this. I don’t speak Assamese. I was feeling quite . . . stupid, and a bit put out. They could have TOLD me this meeting was in large part an introduction to meet ME, I sulked to myself. Also, this is the school’s admission time, when new families can sign up their children. Of course Chandan would want to parade me around in order to get new students. While I did feel a bit—manipulated—I had to admit to myself that if the shoe was on the other foot, I’d probably do the same thing myself. “What ARE they saying?” I asked Chandan. He leaned toward me. “They say that the school environment is no good and we need separate classrooms,” he said. He beamed at me and went back to listening and writing notes.

Great. All this talking and . . . only about the (admittedly terrible) school environment? While I was pondering how much power translators actually have,  Jnanamati walked in and sat next to me. Eventually, he gave a speech. Everyone was given tea and biscuits, and the meeting came to a halt.

During this meeting, many of the school’s students would come in, run to their parents and then run out again. They saw nothing inappropriate in running in, three abreast, each child talking as loudly as he or she could. Noise, noise, noise, India is all NOISE, I thought. Honking ducks (yes, I live near ducks, too). Squawking chickens. Blaring music. Crowing roosters. And the school classrooms are only divided by these thin, portable bits of CARDBOARD, really, on wheels. In other words—no dividers to speak of. Imagine five classes, separated only by bits of movable cardboard, with students laughing and answering lessons all up and down this large space, and each teacher trying to teach above the noise of her fellow teachers. This is not conducive to learning, but what choice do the teachers have? So. More noise.

On this note, I’ll stop; I’ve written far too much now as is, and thank you to anyone who has waded through all this! The long and short of it: it has been quite a ride thus far, and I can barely imagine what surprises will be in store for me in the future. It’s a bumpy ride . . . and such a good one. I’m fortunate to be here.

[Jnañamati]

Next installment of Amy's blog.
29 December 2012
Hey hey, everyone. Well, we have had two blackouts thus far, and I am assuming (a dangerous idea!) that we are done for the blackouts for today. I’ve been looking at the pictures I’ve taken thus far, and realize how Western and romantic their focus is: the lone guy, carrying hay, in the midst of hay fields. But – is it hay? Or rice? I realize how very little I know about the area, but how my photos seem to gloss over the people’s actual burdens. A pretty picture: hay guy, hay fields (rice guy / rice fields). It has nothing to do with how that man really lives. And I doubt as if I will ever, ever really know how he really lives. So I take my pretty pictures with a sense of aesthetic satisfaction, but intellectual unease.
I did not mention: a few days ago, Jnanamati and I went for a walk down a pretty, rustic road. Pretty? Rustic? Naahhh, a working road, with working people. No such thing as a pretty road for a pretty road’s sake in this part of the world. We came to a crossroads where kids were playing cricket. One kid immediately stopped playing and, in very good English, introduced himself to us. Per usual, this drew a crowd of three, four other young people. That very composed young man, who was about 15 years old, offered to take us around his village; we agreed. As we continued to walk, more and more people began to follow us. The interaction always began with the usual friendly pointing, quizzical looks, and our young tour guide proudly informing them in Assamese who we were. As we gathered in number, we made a ragtag, albeit friendly, parade. We saw piles of hay, people heaping the hay into piles; a lovely view of rice paddies; and learned a bit about this young man’s aspirations: he hoped to join the Indian Air Force. This young guy is bright, personable, ambitious—a great candidate, no doubt. But he is also very, very short—about my height, which is 5 feet 2 inches, or 157.5 centimeters. I calmly told him he should always have a Plan B “in case Plan A does not work out,” I added. I hope he gets what he wants; a great kid. He went out of his way to show us a beautiful view of the rice patties. Considering that this landscape, for him, is as everyday as everyday can get, I thought it took a great deal of imagination and empathy for him to realize that we may enjoy seeing the view. And, I have to admit, as we neared the rice patties, trooping down a muddy path, I thought: wow, these kids could just TAKE OUR STUFF and run away, for we were in an isolated area. It did not happen. I felt vaguely ashamed of my New York City-style paranoia.
I gather this type barnacle-like social interaction is common here towards foreigners, for we got another taste of it another day when we walked into town, which is a good 4 kilometers away from where we live—a very nice walk, and it was a lovely day. When we had almost reached our destination, a dignified gentleman on a motorbike screeched to a halt and formally invited us to his house for tea. We did have the best cup of tea I had ever drunk (is it drank?), and was introduced not just to this man’s child, but to his neighbors who crammed into his living room to view the spectacle—which was US. So it goes! I have almost five months left here; I had better get used to it. And the regard for us, for the most part, is benign to exceedingly friendly. (During this walk a man stopped us and, in very rudimentary English, informed us that he was a poet, who had written more than one thousand poems. A story there, a story! I wish wish I could glean more.)
May I add that Assam is a world capital for producing, well, Assam tea, which is a gorgeous red tea. I gather that the Assamese themselves ONLY get the dregs of the tea, as the best teas are exported. Typical, I think? but the tea I have been drinking is fantastic. I haven’t missed coffee at all, which is amazing. Look for Assam tea and try it. Yumm.
So. Yes, I have been teaching. I have been managing to squeeze out five lessons to five different levels of children (classes one through five) with five different approaches--*gaahh*, but I am doing it, and it has been quite enjoyable. Teaching is always like that, for me: before almost every class I teach I think, Oh, why BOTHER, I really don’t know what I am doing, is it all worth it, and I almost always leave the class feeling lighter. It is really true for these kids. Perhaps the most fun I have had thus far was with class two. The school has absolutely no soundproofing between classes, so you can hear a pin drop in the classroom next to you. There was no way I was going to be able to read class two’s lesson story of “Curlylocks and the Three Bears” to them IN the classroom, with the surrounding cacophony of noise, so I took them outside. Note to self: get a plastic cloth so that I can regularly take the kids outside, even if the ground is damp. (Another note: D’you like the way Goldilocks has been changed to Curylocks? Makes sense; what would an Assamese kid know about blond hair?) I began by having each student read a line; it was too damned painful. The stress, intonation, pronunciation, EVERYTHING, was just plain OFF. So I read a line and the kids parroted it back to me. But: they parroted it CORRECTLY. Kids’ malleable minds, I thought … and continued. Began getting into the story. Began making extreme gestures to go with the narrative, which the kids immediately aped. Different gestures for Papa Bear, Mama Bear, Baby Bear, SO COOL, AN AWESOME STORY. Then we actually acted out the story. The students had no idea what was going on (nor did I, really)—they only imperfectly understood what I was saying—but that was OK. One very bright little girl immediately understood that I had selected her to be Curlylocks and she eagerly played her role beautifully. So there ya be! Goal of class? (I can hear Pavel saying). Speaking, listening, and just gaining confidence in using your own VOICE. This will be key here. Everything I say—EVERYTHING—the kids just repeat it back to me. It’s like having a permanent echo in your own classroom.
The Indian teaching style seems to be one of reading TO the kids, giving rapidfire instructions in Assamese, and having kids immediately come forth with the answer. The teachers give no time for the kids to think about the answer; if the kid does not immediately produce the correct answer, he or she may receive an impatient slap, or at least a verbal lashing. “Come, come, give the answer!” the teacher will say, hovering over the child. So, so . . . patience, I know, patience. I must have patience. I truly do not want to come across as a post-colonial, arrogant American jerk, bringing THE American way of liberty and freedom (yaayy!) to the lower classes, because I don’t want to do that. These teachers in many ways are saints, and I need to remind myself of that. They are making ludicrously low salaries, even for India (I have been told; it’s the equivalent of US$40.00 per month), and they are working under the most rudimentary conditions. Some teachers do not even have the textbook the kids are using! they must look at the students’ book as they teach! And some of the books are so ragged that the last thirty or so pages of a book are actually missing. Here is news: a very, VERY kind lady I know in Singapore actually donated S$500 to the school, so I will be using that money to make photocopies of the books, and to create a booklet full of photocopiable materials (selected by the teachers themselves) that the teachers can use in the years to come. I am so happy, and grateful, that I have this money, words cannot describe.
Should we put some energy into raising funds? If the school does not get money relatively soon it is hard to see how it will survive. I’m pretty sure Chandan, the gentleman who envisioned the school and is sinking a lot of his own money into it, would like us to do so but is this wise....?
Tomorrow is another day. I have no idea what I will do then. But I have a sense that once I’m there, I’ll know what to do. This is a good feeling.
It is now the 29th, and I just found out that there is no school on Monday and Tuesday, hooray, what will I do? I’m not sure.
Note: I looked on various websites: Things to do near North Lakhimpur. The answer? NOTHING. NADA. Nichts. If anyone reading this has an idea, let me know!!
Teaching the kids remains a pleasure. Occasionally I give a lesson that I know will be a bit hard, but that’s OK; a little pushing beyond one’s comfort zone is not a bad thing. As I have previously mentioned, WHEN the accompanying English teacher actually is PRESENT during my session, that teacher immediately tries to give the answer in Assamese TO the children. I think the ethos here is heavily slanted toward test testing: give the right answer, quick, quick, quick, the test is timed! and indeed, if a student does not IMMEDIATELY come up with the answer, the teacher will hiss disapproval on his/her ear, or supply the answer with a whack on the hand. I have witnessed this behavior before, and I wonder if the teacher smacks even more enthusiastically if I am not present. Also: the kids know that London is the capital of England, but do they know where England is? there is not a map in the school. Can they put London in any meaningful context? There are painfully few resources for them to do so.
But. Pleasure. Yes. I’m seeing some kids—and I love it especially when it’s girls—start to open up, to really enjoy the classes, and to try to give the right answer. I see kids squirming with enjoyment; or thinking deeply, really involved in the problem at hand; or urgently communicating the answer to a slower classmate. Engagement. Some of these kids are becoming engaged in English. And I have definitely taught them one thing: the American “See ya!” At the end of school, as the kids run out to go home, I get a bevy of “See ya, Miss!’s.
Am I becoming that post-colonial, arrogant American jerk? I don’t know. I have been told that it’s important that the children get a taste of the more interactive, communication-based learning techniques, so that is what I am doing. And I think that is . . . OK. The teachers also want to learn! I will be giving them coaching sessions two hours a week, one hour each on Wednesday and Saturday.
Sing: “We are the world ….We are the children …”
Bleah (as Linus of “Peanuts” would say).
Everything sounds like a cliché. Apologies.
Jnanamati, who has co-taught some classes with me (and he is an excellent teacher!), claims that he sees a huge difference in the way kids are engaged in English after just a few days of my teaching. Kind of him. I don’t have the long-term perspective, but it makes me happy to think that, maybe, I have made a small difference already. But how to maintain that when I am gone? Teacher training is key; and leaving behind a bunch of photocopiable resources is necessary, as well. But how to teach: innovation? Excitement? Hard, hard to do in a school that is falling down and has nothing but the goodwill of the teachers—and the goodwill is there.
Some fun stuff: Day one of teaching I had a student write on the board “It is our dog” (or something like that). He wrote “It is are dog” because the American “our” sounds like “are”. The teacher gently corrected me: “Ma’am, we pronounce it “ow-er” (same as in the word “hour”). Ahh. Another note to self: remember, remember . . .
So. It is now Sunday. A lazy day. I’m doing the wash (which I will rinse out once I’m done here) and I would like to go for a walk. Exciting, exciting!! I would like to gain more confidence in getting a ride into town, wandering around, and getting a ride back. My true lack of a sense of direction hinders me in doing what I want; it makes me frustrated because I am very afraid of getting lost, HERE. I live on a street that I don’t know the name of and there is no official address. And most people do not speak English.

Amy

[Katrien Sercu]

I feel the energy of all this words and thoughts and joy and fear and support and not-knowing until here! Wonderfull to read it. I really laughed a lot, safe on my chair, in the house with doors and windows and warm water! Have a good time, Jnanamati and Amy in this totally different world. A warm hug, Namo Amida Bu

[Sahishnu Joy Marston]

Hey Jnanamati, that's the second time you have had to undergo the travails of living in  half finished accommodation.I am glad you arrived safely. Namo Amida Bu.

[Sahishnu Joy Marston]

Great blog,  seems like you did a good job during your first teaching session.The other teachers standard is par for the course in India unless it is a very rich school. Titles like ,English language school, are mainly aspirational.Just have fun with the kids.

[Robert McCarthy]

Thanks for telling us about your journey, it really helps capture the feel of the place for us. It must be very difficult after such a tiring journey to find yourselves living in a building still being built.