Spinning Left and Zooming

Photo: Gulf of Kutch

I’ve been using GoogleEarth a bit too much for work. My thoughts tend to follow continually zooming streams and locations: World. Continent. Country. State. Village. Town. City. Neighborhood. Household. Individual. Then back out: Me. Siblings. Parents. House. South Amherst. Amherst. Massachusetts. New England. US. North America. World. Then back in: World. North America. US. West Coast. Northern California. Bay Area. San Francisco. Oakland. Richmond. Yusef. Selina. Turhan. Mallichai. Hannah. Me. Then back out: Me. Saath. Satellite. New City. Old City. Ahmedabad. Gujarat. India. South Asia. World. Then right back in: World. Middle East. Iran. Tabriz. Borujerd. Grandmothers. Grandfathers (someone else’s memories). Uncles. Aunts. Mother. Father. Me. Then I see my parents playing as children. My mother as the tough tag-along to her brother and his friends. My father as the leader of his raggedy pack of 13 siblings. With this imaginary (silent) home video I fight back tears, close my eyes and plead with my mind to log off.

GoogleEarth. What a crazy tool.

But this reminds me: Of all the times I’ve been to Iran I’ve never seen where my father and his siblings grew up. And I’ve spent very little time with the children of those siblings: My cousins. That doesn’t feel right. I’ll need to make sure it changes..... Which itself reminds me of how I've been feeling a lot of this these days:

“Beyond our ideas of right-doing and wrong-doing, there is a field. I’ll meet you there. When the soul lies down in that grass, the world is too full to talk about.” –Jelaluddin Rumi

An Update

Ok, so I totally lied. I told you I’d be a better blogger, but it just hasn’t happened. It’s apparently not IN me. I’ve been writing plenty during my time here, but hardly any of it has been making its way onto this blog. In any event, an update:

It’s nearly the end of March, which means I’m rounding down month 7 of 10 (crazy). Up until a few weeks ago my post-AIF future was fairly open. I fancied thoughts of staying longer in India, then jaunting over to Iran to pay my amazing grandmother a long overdue visit, maybe even intern with an NGO in Tehran, before making my way back to Massachusetts, then later back over to San Francisco. But as of the past few weeks I’m about 99.8% sure that I’ll be in graduate school come September (urban planning), which changes everything. I'm okay with that, though, because I'm getting fairly excited about doing some hard-core learning for the next couple of years (although, the truth is I've learned more since college than in college... but for now I'll take my friend Darzen's words that "grad school is a whole new ballgame").

Between the reality of potentially being a student again, a good-ol case of heart-ache, a visit from my parents and younger brother, and the urge to go to Old Farm Road in Amherst to give one of my best friends a big hug, I’ve found myself thinking about life back in the states quite a bit this month. The strangest part, though, is that when I think of the states (mostly I picture laying in bed watching the parrots outside my old bedroom window in SF, and a setting sun splitting through my family’s screened in porch in Amherst), I immediately start missing my life in India: the work I’m doing with my NGO (Saath), my friends, the animals, my yoga instructor… It’s a really strange feeling considering I’m still here, sweating and typing, in Ahmedabad.

Leaving the immediate future where it actually belongs, I’ll tell you a bit about what I’ve been working on through the Urban Resource Center at Saath. Up until a couple of weeks ago I was working on a project that links household data (of residents in two of the major slum pockets we work in) to a GIS (Geographic Information System). Alas, as the weeks went on it became clear that the project was way to big for just one NGO to handle, so my focus shifted from making myself useful on the project, to writing a proposal for partnering with Ahmedabad’s prized architecture/planning school (CEPT), and a local government body (Ahmedabad Municipal Corporation), to complete the project. I'm crossing my fingers that it works out because a) I think it's a really important project, b) It would really be a perfect partnership and c) it'd be a great use of all of Ahmedabad’s different resources: we (the NGO) have all the data that the project needs (let alone the most knowledge about the slum communities), CEPT has the technology and professors that have already laid the groundwork, and the AMC has both the funds and the NEED for this kind of information in order to target their schemes for the urban poor. So, now we just wait and see if the powers to be agree (what an awful sentence).

In the meantime a new and very interesting project has somehow landed in my lap, which involves sifting through surveys, charts, graphs, and data about the construction industry, in order to come up with a viewer and reader-friendly socio-economic analysis of the industry (by viewer friendly I mean making simple sense of the charts, graphs, and data pumped out by the stats package, and by reader-friendly I mean the reader shouldn’t need to know anything about development or the industry to understand it). I should mention that the construction industry is relevant to our work with the urban poor because a majority of construction workers here are migrant laborers who have settled--temporarily (mostly on construction sites) or permanently (mostly in slums)-- in the city because [prepare yourself for an oversimplification] their rural (or maybe I should say non-urban?) livelihoods were insufficient. I’m only two weeks into it and already learning tons, but also finding that I simply have a lot more to learn (that has actually been the trend with all of my experiences and work to date). I’ll make no promises, but I hope to share some of what this project is making me think about in my next post…. but in case that never happens, which my record implies as highly likely, I’ll tell you that it’s title would have been something along these lines: Cheap Labor Makes The World Go ‘Round Until our Cities Drown!

Traveling with Books hurt my Head

Photo: Taj Mahal at Sunset, Agra

I become absurdly attached to the characters in the books that I read. Even if it’s not meant to be a sad or emotional book, I have a hard time keeping my eyes dry as I close the back cover and say goodbye to people I’ll never meet, people with whom I became intimate with over the course of reading the pages that brought them to life. Some people never re-read books. Call me overly nostalgic but I re-read books all the time in an attempt to meet up with old pals, remind myself of who I was at the time that I was first introduced to that person, a figment of someone else’s imagination, or a recreation of someone else’s friend/lover/enemy/parent.

On December 18^th in the amazingness that is Bombay, an AIF Fellow lent me a book - The Namesake - about a family, the Gangulis. For reasons that exist between the lines of my life, the Gangulis tugged at my heart throughout my time in Bombay, they appropriately accompanied me to the pink city of Jaipur where I attended an American-Indian wedding of an AIF fellow on the 21st, and joined me back at work in Ahmedabad. A week later I left Ahmedabad again on an overnight train to New Delhi, read the final word of The Namesake on the top bunk of a 3-tier AC cabin, wiped my eyes with my green hat purchased at Cliff’s Variety in SF, and fell asleep in the dark blue sleeping bag gifted to me by my parents before we hiked Mount Blanc together in the French Alps. 30 minutes earlier I had said goodnight to my bunkmates, with whom I had exchanged a few thoughts on the assassination of Benazir Bhutto - an event that chipped the spine of my perennial optimism. On December 30^th I paced around the Indira Gandhi International Airport waiting for a flight that carried my greatest friend from San Francisco, to London, to me. Feeling nauseated all morning, 15 minutes before her arrival I sprinted to a trashcan in the corner of the airport waiting room, in front of men who, finally, were not starring at me For No Apparent Reason: this time, at least, I had undigested food flying out of my mouth.

On the evening of December 31^st I was gifted What is the What, by Dave Eggers, a story about Valentino Achak Deng, one of Sudan’s Lost Boys. 5 hours later, the year 2008 was brought in on a New Delhi rooftop, and by 10am the next morning I stepped off the Taj Express in the tourism-destroyed city of Agra in order to see one of the world’s wonders. I left Agra wondering how much longer the Taj (which was certainly surreal) can withstand the city’s pollution, and where the $20 (US dollars) they charge per head goes if not to help preserve the place. The next 15 days were spent traveling around the magical cities of Rajasthan, but following me throughout my travels – in shadows cast by the Taj Mahal, in the reflection of India’s holiest lake in Pushkar, whispering through the wind in the Thar Desert, hiding behind the blue houses and magnificent fort walls in Jodhpur, peering down on me from the tiled rooms of Udaipur’s City Palace, and starring up at me through the carpet looms in a Kachchci craft village – were Valentino Achak Deng, his childhood friends (William K and Moses), his girlfriend (Tabitha), and his mother- whom even I began to long for. I’ve always loved Dave Eggers’ writings, fallen in love with his characters before, but this was different. I can’t yet tell if these people, not characters, were introduced to me at the perfect or least perfect time: I was traveling in some of India’s more touristy cities (where, for every warm heart you meet there are three more, calloused by Life, waiting to swindle you; where for every mind-blowing historical structure you see there are many more squatter settlements and pavement dwellers), I was still feeling great disappointment in the World over Bhutto’s assassination, and I was reading one man’s account of walking elsewhere to escape a civil war turned ongoing genocide, one day finding himself in the US only to experience more challenges, more pain. Overwhelmed is an insufficient word.

So why am I writing all this? I’m not really sure. My observations and experiences over the past month have given me new things to think about but simultaneously turned my brain to oatmeal. In Pushkar I knowingly got cheated out of 25 US dollars by a man claiming to be a Brahma Priest, but three minutes later I told a street child that I couldn’t give her 10 rupees (the equivalent of 25 cents), a pen, a biscuit, or shampoo. In Bombay my cabdriver happily told me he would kill a Muslim, no problem, because “they have dirty blood”; in Kachchh, a local friend was perversely asked how, as a lower caste, he had managed to court 5 American women; and all the while I was battling my own demons and simultaneously reading about the Gangoli’s struggling to mend generational gaps, and about Valentino’s real life, the horrors of which are repeated daily, as I type, in Sudan. Now don’t get me wrong: I had many positive experiences, I really did, in fact many more positive than negative, more beautiful than ugly. The traveler in me had an exhilarating, fulfilling, romantic time, but the intellectual in me had a sobering, confusing, aggravating one. Someday I’ll learn to merge (or better separate?) the two successfully, but right now, thinking of my travels in light of Bhutto and Pakistan, in light of Valentino and Sudan, in light of Gaza, in light of Kenya, in light of the fact that my homeland’s administration is still trying to find reasons to demonize my parents’ homeland, in light of the fact that the democratic candidates are acting like insecure high-school cheerleaders, and in light of other things, the emotions I’m feeling right now are much closer to anger than anything else.

The redeeming parts of all this, however, is that I was traveling with someone who makes me feel safe and calm deep down in the anxious darkness of my growing gut, and, after the storm within began to settle I returned to the Urban Resource Centers to continue working with hardworking, intelligent, committed slum residents who wake up in their respective homes each morning thinking about how to make their own communities a better, safer, more just place. So even though I’m angrier, even though my optimism is slightly numbed, I trust that the idealist in me will be just fine. I know that the Hindu cab driver who thinks his Muslim neighbor has dirty blood may never change, my conversation with him -- his irrational response when I calmly asked if he thinks a Muslim man feels any different about his family than a Hindu man -- made this much clear. But his two sons, the ones he works two jobs for in order to send to private school in Bombay, it’s the minds of his two sons that I’m concerned about. Will they grow up with the same prejudices as their father? It’s very likely. But maybe somewhere along the way, before it’s too late, they’ll meet someone who influences their outlook; that someone is out there, and s/he just needs to find those proverbial lost boys before another generation squanders its energy in unnecessary hatred. That someone needs to find those boys and talk to them. Right. Now.

Ch-Ch-Ch Changes, Not only in Color

Photo: Mandvi Shipyard, Kutch, Gujarat, India

I must first apologize for my absence, but then promise that you'll be seeing (reading) more of me. I’m done being a bad blogger. But I do have an excuse: of the past 5 weeks I’ve only been consistently in Ahmedabad for 1; I also stopped back in for a few days on Jan 14^th and 15^th for the (most amazing) Kite Festival (I still have sliced up fingers to prove it), but then was off again to Bhuj and Mandvi (in Gujarat’s most-Western state of Kutch) to take a swim in the Gulf of Kutch with all my clothes on and explore a ship yard where men in flip-flops with strong, dry, calloused and cracked hands make big beautiful boats for oil-rich Arab countries. My recent travels still have my head spinning, and my room reflects the going-ons in my brain. Settling back into my routine is also somewhat surreal, as 3 of my closest friends in Ahmedabad have moved (London, Bombay, Kolkata), and half of the staff in my office has shifted to a new site. Everything feels slower, calmer, quieter - but there is a storm brewing inside me which I’ll try to get down in words soon. Once I finish unpacking the bag that carried me (rather than I it), get used to waking up at 5:30am again, catch up on some Bollywood films, call my sister to congratulate her on her engagement and acceptance into her first choice of ophthalmology residency programs (she’s a superstar), buy a new fountain pen, remind myself of why I’m here and what I’m doing at work, I’ll begin the second half of my postings. Sounds like I’ll never post again, right? Wrong. Shouldn’t be more than a couple days. Welcome back.

Two photos

Want to see my face? Here's your chance!

This is me with two of my friends/colleagues: Hiral (URC coordinator and trusty driver), and Shashi (Research/Documentation Manager and trusty sandwichee). That's me on the right, in case you forgot what I look like. In this photo we're heading back to the office after a meeting at one of the Urban Resource Centers (aka "in the field"):

And below is me in the Old City's Sunday market. The old city - it's people, architecture, and general feel - makes my heart bleed. The guy in the middle fixes old shiny watches. I, for obvious reasons, was immediately drawn to him. As we started to chat, his buddies joined the conversation. The photo was taken by my friend and colleague Gauri. She's an architect, and probably the best person in the world to have on hand when walking through the old city. Gauri has done a lot for me since my arrival in Ahmedabad, including, but not limitted to, lending me a bicycle for riding to yoga class, lending me her amazing mother-in-law as a yoga instructor, and endowing me with Vietnamese coffee and an adorable, shiny, single-shot, Italian espresso maker:

Thanksgiving Feast for the Virus in My Belly

One thing I know I'm thankful for in this world is access to safe drinking water. What I'm not thankful for is the stomach infection I acquired in Pune, after 5 days of visiting some friends down there and discovering on the last morning that the tea they served me each day was made from tap water that was boiled for a whopping 30 second. No thanks to that. What I'm also not thankful for is my ego, which allowed me to pass off sharp stomach pains (and other symptoms I'd rather not gross you out with) as 'gas' for a good week and a half, until I woke up one morning knowing it was time to see the doc. So, instead of being in Bangalore with loads of food and other AIFers who adore the day of turkey, I spent thanksgiving in a room that sure didn't look like a doctor's office, but from which I exited with prescribed medicines. Really, though, I'm very thankful for safe drinking water. And I hope you are too.

The seasons, they are changing

Photo: Zoroastrian Cookie Shop, Pune, India

A few years ago I wrote my parents a letter from San Francisco, explaining how odd it felt to be sitting by a sunny window in the middle of December, looking down at shoppers in their summerish clothing. It was my first “winter” in California, and my heart was aching for New England as my life there had revolved around the seasons: The fall was full of rich colors, host to my birthday, the soccer season, and thanksgiving (my favorite). The transition to winter meant cozier times with more holidays and stepping into dark cold nights after sweaty and exhilarating basketball practices. The end of winter meant the Iranian new-year, jumping over fires, and hopes of an early spring arrival. By the time spring actually showed her face I’d already be depressed with cabin fever, but with each warming day my heart (and smile) would expand until it found itself paralyzed by the heat of summer. And the summers, oh, lovely New England summers: going backpacking with the fam, sport camps and swimming holes, pool parties and fort-building in the backyard, homemade and store-bought popsicles, mowing the lawn and jumping in the pool with my clothes on right after, lounging on the deck with stacks of pleasure reading, and warm nights with iced coffee around town. During college my summer days were spent interning and the nights were spent aimlessly exploring whichever new city I was working in. By the end of each summer I’d be ready for school and structure again, promising myself that this year I’d study more, play harder, win championships, spend quality time with the friends I saw less of over the past couple months. The fall would come, adding a new number to my age, and life would start all over again.

I remember that as I wrote that letter from California I was feeling a bit lost in my own mind because everything felt unfamiliar: no poignantly colorful seasons, no winter breaks, no teams. It had hit me that I was writing a letter as an adult, in an office, at work, in a state thousands of miles away from what I knew to be real life. In a way it was transition to true adulthood, let alone California, and when I recognized it as such, I stopped feeling “homesick”. And of course, as the months went on San Francisco started to feel like my own home, so much so that by August of 2007 I wondered why I was leaving for India when everything I could ever want at the great age of 24 was there at my fingertips.

And here I am now, once again thousands of miles from what I had built to be my life in the Bay Area, which was built off my life in New England, but, oddly, nothing feels unfamiliar. My life in Ahmedabad, for the most part, is strikingly similar to my life in the states. Sure, the quality is not as high, but my day to day life it’s quite similar: I get up and exercise, I go to work, get a bit unproductive after lunch, go home around 6, and then I either do something productive (cook, read, write, study) or go meet up with some new acquaintances. The details of course are different: my morning exercise consists of a yoga class and a short jog. Work is definitely really different, but what’s not different is that I’m enjoying it and learning from it. And in terms of the guys I hang out with, instead of their names being Sam or Andy or Evan or Ian or Eeren or Russ, their names are Tajendra, Yazad, Anish, Ankush, Chirag and Bridge.

Outside of my own bubble there are buildings going up everywhere, which was the case in both Amherst and San Francisco before I left; and I have to ignore people begging for money on a daily basis, which I did in Boston, New York, DC, Oakland and San Francisco every day of living in those cities. Now, please, don’t get me wrong, I’m not at all trying to say that Ahmedabad as a city is just like the US cities I’ve lived in; BUT, what I can say is that I think there are certain similarities in the dynamic between urban poor and urban rich no matter where you are, and at the moment some of those similarities, and some of the major differences too, have me thinking hard about the ways I (and we) perceive social issues, especially when we think of development and “extreme poverty” (for example, what’s the productive use of calling the reality of India’s poor “more severe” than that of the US’s urban poor? I understand there’s a difference between the two, but does that difference matter? Why, when I told people I was coming to India, did people gasp at the poverty I'd see, when all they have to do is walk down the street to see something that, in my opinion, is just as severe?). I’ve been trying my best to write more coherently about such thoughts, but so far I’ve just been writing in circles.

And now that I mention it, the fact that I’m even thinking about these things in a productive way, scribbling my thoughts down in my little blue journal, and then attempting to type them up, is perhaps one of -- if not the -- major differences in my own life here. All these social issues that I previously considered and thought about as if they were a side of coleslaw on my plate of life – whether it was one of the many moments I’d step over a urine-soaked man in the Tenderloin district of SF or a short moment of reflection while sitting on my parents’ porch before thanksgiving dinner -- are suddenly in my face; they’re the main course, all the side dishes, the sugary, ghee-loaded dessert, and the filtered water I wash it all down with as well. Maybe it’s because of the projects I’m working on, or maybe it’s just because of my present location on the globe (obviously both), either way I feel more alive than ever for it, because prior to my arrival (or departure) I’d been aching to engage. I was done reading about the development scene from my desk on Sutter Street for the time being, and was instead ready to step out into the hectic, polluted, sometimes harmonious but mostly cacophonous traffic of the world to test out my own brainpower. So far I’ve held the hand of luck and looked both ways, but I’ve got a far ways to go before crossing the street. As for the seasons, apparently they’re changing here in Ahmedabad, but by mid-day it still just feels hot – perhaps a bit less oppressive – and dry to me.