The Job

I spoke to my boss the day I arrived in Delhi. She’d told me before she doesn’t spend most days at the program, but I’d just sort of assumed she’d come on my first day to introduce me, etc. Nope. She made sure I had a pen and paper and told me to meet Nandan, a guy who’d pick me up on a scooter, in front of the Nizamuddin Police Station Monday morning at 9. Namrata said I’d need half an hour max to get there; Payal said 50 minutes. I decided to play it safe, and was standing outside the station at 8:40 (in fact it takes only 20 minutes from our place to work). Picture this: one white woman (dressed in proper Indian clothes, of course, thinking maybe, possibly she’s passing for Indian) standing on a sidewalk otherwise populated entirely by men wearing white kurta-pyjamas (pants and long tops) with skull caps perched on their heads. Being early in India is rarely a good idea, but it always takes me a while to ease into Indian Standard Time, so I spent 25 minutes avoiding eye contact, inching closer to the one group of women I finally spotted.

When Nandan arrived he took me through tiny, winding lanes that I promised myself I’d remember, and we eventually arrived at a tiny sign that read “TORCH.” In the dark cement hallway beyond the sign there are four rooms: a tailor shop, some kind of storage closet I’ve seen a group of men open once, and two small classrooms. There are fluorescent lights, ceiling fans, small blackboards, bookshelves, a few stools, one table in each room, and mats on the floor. Boys—street kids who work as ragpickers and hold lamps in wedding parades when the season hits—in one room; girls—who do work in their homes (I’m not sure yet if this is work for money or just housework) and can’t afford or aren’t allowed to go to school—in the other. I spent the morning answering their questions about me, asking them questions in return. Nandan told them all I’d be teaching them English. Hmmm...that’s not so much what I thought I was doing there, but I decided to talk to him about it later.

When class was over it really got fun! The girls left for home, but the boys stayed to play. The smallest boy in the class, Hassan, attached himself to me. “Didi! Didi! Carrom khelogee?” “Sister! Sister! Will you play carrom?” Carrom is a game everyone is absolutely obsessed with here (see picture below). It’s a wooden board with a bunch of circular pieces that are kind of like checkers. It works like pool in a way. You flick another piece and try to knock the pieces into the pockets. I’d never actually played before. So I sat down with Hassan and watched. Finally, he talked me into playing. Needless to say, I sucked. He kept trying to show me how to hold my fingers properly, but I flicked too hard or too soft or my aim was just off. Each time Hassan got a piece into a pocket, he’d slip it over to me just so I didn’t feel like such a loser (as if no one would realize I had a lot of points without a single good shot). Every time I made a terrible shot, he’d put his head in his hands and shout, “Didi, noooooo!” This has continued to be my favorite part of the day by far.

Hassan is a small version of how I picture Prabakar from Shantaram (if you haven’t read it yet, go get it!). He has a thousand-watt smile and a head wiggle that’s out of this world. And he loves to dance—these outrageous, spastic, half-Bhangra, half-Muppet movements. On Thursday, we all spent the day in the Children’s Park at India Gate, where I’d never been before. It’s a wonderful place in the middle of the city. There’s a huge Jungle Book fountain with the characters from the Disney movie. Strategically placed speakers blast out a musical story and the water changes with the narration. The elephant shoots water from his nose, and at one point in the story it rains. Hassan pulled me to the front with him, held my hand, and excitedly said, “Bareesh, Didi, Bareesh!!!” “Rain, Sister, Rain!!!” Then thunder cracked over the speakers and rain poured down on all of us. While I moved a bit backward, Hassan and the others ran right into it, splashing, dancing. When he emerged soaking wet, he did a little dance and laughed and laughed.

The first few nights I came home and cried on the phone with my mom. I’d tried telling Nandan I’m not an English teacher, tried asking him how I could be helpful, tried to get more information about what material he teaches, all unsuccessfully. He means well, but there’s a language barrier and I’m sure some element of his not knowing what I’m doing there either. I called the big boss my first night. The conversation went something like this:

Me: The kids are great. I really enjoyed spending the day with them. But I’m a little confused because Nandan seems to want me to teach English. Is that what you were thinking I’d be doing, too?

Her: You know, Nandan has been with me for 7 years and he got his undergraduate degree during that time. You might think you’re much more intelligent than he is, but he knows the kids very well and they really respect him.

Me: (somewhat offended at her aside and its implications) Yes, it’s obvious that really knows them and does a good job, but I just want to clarify what role you see for me.

Her: Danielle, what I want is for you to teach them life skills. You are totally free. I want you to try to get them to go to school and keep them free from drugs and HIV and prostitution. These kids have nothing. Their lives are miserable. I want you to teach them how to live better. You feel free to just do what you want.

Me: Okay...well, I’ll spend some time getting to know the program and the kids and then take it from there I guess.

Then I’m pretty sure I cried again. Keep in mind this was the day after the mouse incident so I was also exhausted.

The next couple of days were some combination of my observing and having the class thrown at me. I racked my brain for some good activities for students with very little English. The second day, I did a name game which involved writing their names and three words that begin with the same letter. Bonus: I took pictures of them with their papers so I could go home and memorize their names!

On Wednesday after work, Nandan and I went to the big boss’s house to talk. I explained my concern that there’s very limited time with the kids each day and so we need to prioritize. As an outsider who’d spent three days in the program, I didn’t feel qualified to do the prioritizing on my own. Could they offer any guidance? Apparently not.

Some of the language she used really bothered me—calling the girls “backward” and unwilling to talk or participate, the boys wild and disrespectful. I’ve found the girls quite excited and engaged and, while I’ve spent time with better-behaved kids, the boys have been warm and fairly respectful. She said I had to teach them to color inside the lines in their drawing books, to insist on it because it would teach them to function better in life. Somehow I don’t feel like I’m the best person to be teaching how to stay inside the lines! She also said English had to be the carrot for any other kind of teaching or projects I wanted to do. I’m slowly letting go of the idea that I’ll be able to do this job without teaching English.

Everyone I talked to last week said, “You’ll be fine. You’re creative. You’ve dealt with difficult situations before.” It’s just so hard to believe that in the thick of it. I’ve resolved to make it work somehow, to be creative, and get energized.

I’ve only been in India a week and a half. I always want these transitions to be seamless, and they rarely are. I need to give myself some time and find some way to enjoy the uncertainty of finding my way.