It's just life

The other day I began a LONG overdue blog entry. I wrote of finally feeling comfortable saying, “I live in Delhi,” without irony, without feeling like a phony. My absence from writing, I explained as life becoming too “normal.” The running life narrative in my mind—which is always searching for the right words to describe this or that and trying to gauge whether or not certain thoughts or experiences are of interest to anyone but me—has seemed exceedingly routine in the last few weeks. Not boring exactly, but no longer new and shiny and begging to be put into words. This is what happens as you settle into a place; you lose perspective on what is “foreign.” It begins to seem that everything is the way it’s always been.

It was at about that point in writing when I reached up to scratch my head and found—you guessed it—a LOUSE!!! Maybe the universe was trying to tell me to stop making excuses and start noticing I’m in India again. Because, let me tell you, lice are anything but boring. For a couple of days my life revolved around either washing—by hand, since we don’t have a washing machine—or sealing in plastic bags everything my head had touched recently. And having to accept that all the boys I work with have lice, so it may just be a reality for me this year? Definitely not mundane. Below, a brilliant photo taken by Elizabeth as I attempted to de-louse myself and my clothes without re-infesting either. It’s a glamourous life I lead.


Okay, I got it! No second month slump for this girl. I will stop and smell the exhaust fumes, and I will write here at least once a week.

Yesterday was Diwali, which is probably the largest Hindu festival celebrated throughout Indian. It’s a festival of light, so everyone puts candles around their homes and outside. Those who can afford to also string “Christmas” lights outside their houses. And then there are the fireworks, for which Diwali is famous. We’re not talking about a fireworks display in the local park, where the fire department shoots off the rockets far from the crowd. No, sir. People set of those kind of fireworks from their roofs, as their children look on. Inside, we had to scream to be heard. Two walls of my room are windows, and as the evening went on and firecrackers from across the street flew in my direction in streaks of green and yellow fire, I didn’t feel safe sitting in there. Of course it was fine, but even my roommate, who had been teasing me about my dislike of fireworks all day, said she’d never spend another Diwali in Delhi. Elizabeth and I stood on the balcony and for 60 seconds counted every big firework we could see. 25 in one minute! Later last night, my roommates and I went to Namrata’s friend’s house, where we ate dinner in their huge front yard and watched her younger brother set off fireworks from a safe distance. What traditional Indian dishes does one eat for Diwali dinner? Pasta, pizza, garlic bread and white wine, of course. Welcome to upper middle class Delhi.


I have recently passed the one month mark in Delhi, and in some ways I’m beginning to feel like a real “Delhizen.” I get lost less and less, have favorite snacks, see the same people on the road on my way to and from work. Last week I wrote two restaurant reviews for a new Delhi food guide that’s being published. And on Friday, in a crowded market, a couple of European tourists stopped to ask me—of all the people around us—for advice on places in Delhi to go shopping. But with these milestones also comes the knowledge that time will disappear here the way it did in New York. It’s hard not to panic just a little, to feel time pressure. Only 10 more of the same period of time to go. I haven’t made that many friends. My Hindi hasn’t improved enough. I don’t know shortcuts or whether or not I’m being ripped off a lot of the time.

Elizabeth is going back to Denmark in a little over a week. The two major constants in my life lately have been work and spending time with her. So I’m scrambling now to fill in my schedule and meet up with the people I’ve been meaning to because I know the loneliness will be fierce. Payal and I have started to bond a bit more, but she’s a night owl, and since I leave early in the morning, our schedules are totally out of sync. I guess the important thing is I do feel I have another friend in the house. We’re all having difficulty with the last roommate, but I’m searching for more constructive ways to deal with it than venting behind her back.

Last week I began Hindi lessons, which, despite being something I’d looked forward to even before arriving here, I went into with a certain amount of dread. After all, my Hindi is pitiful. Every day at work I struggle to find the right words. I screw up all the time. And when I tell the kids if I speak Hindi even though I suck, they shouldn’t be embarrassed about speaking English, they laugh and nod, which I tend to take as confirmation that my Hindi’s not fooling anyone. Day to day, I speak survival Hindi. I give and ask directions, bargain, stuff like that, but it never seems like much. In our email and phone exchanges, I’d told my Hindi tutor I was at an intermediate level and regretted it all day leading up to our first meeting. I’d surely disappoint him, definitely seem like more of a beginner. But we talked for two hours almost exclusively in Hindi. Mostly basic stuff about ourselves and about my work, but I didn’t stop every two words and say “sorry.” I didn’t stammer too much or say “uhhhhhh” over and over. I was good. I was comfortable. For the first time, I actually believed I might be proficient by the end of this year. And I also realized what a benefit it is to work in an almost exclusively Hindi-speaking environment. Sometimes I really need to be forced into admitting how far I’ve come.

Work is getting better—I think. On the practical level, it’s the same as it has been from the start. I’m teaching English or just sitting around and providing back-up when Nandan is teaching Hindi or Math more than anything else. But maybe I’ve just let go a bit more, accepted the reality and limitations of this job and organization. I’ve decided to put as much in as I can and give it some time. And I think I’m getting more invested in the kids and their lives and struggles. It’s a fascinating time to be working with street kids in India, as a new child labor law was passed this month. Basically it bans the employment of any child under the age of fourteen in any capacity. Previously the law was more ambiguous and it was legal for children to work in private homes and in restaurants. I haven’t been able to get a totally clear answer on this, but I think the type of work these homeless, working boys generally do—picking through trash for things to sell and holding tall lamps in wedding processions—were previously legal. The law is only 12 days old so it remains to be seen how strictly it will be enforced, but the politicians are talking about harsh penalties, etc. Already, the boys I work with have said there’s less work to go around. They’re worried about money and about being hassled by the police more than usual. And, as far as I and the other people I’ve talked to know, there are no new social programs in place to support the children who have been supporting themselves through work for years.

A few things I have learned about the lives of street kids in Delhi:

1. There are only night shelters in Delhi. They have to leave in the morning and cannot come back before evening. There’s almost nowhere they can go during the day and are essentially forced to wander around the city.

2. Once children are 11 or 12, if they have not gone to school, they cannot enroll in government schools unless they can test into the appropriate class level for their age. There are only one or two NGOs in the city who hold night school classes to accommodate these boys.

3. Although the boys do make some money (when there’s plenty of work, they make 200 rupees (about 4 US dollars) at most a day), they usually don’t pay for food. The boys I work with do not beg—that’s very important to them—but they hang out around the mosque in the community, and when people finish praying, it is traditional to give money or food to poor people. So most days, people leaving the mosque take a couple of boys to restaurants and buy them a meal. On good days, the boys may be offered meals several times and are not always hungry. So restaurant owners in the area give them the option of eating immediately or taking a card with the restaurant’s name and a monetary value (kind of like a gift certificate) that they can use later. For 10 rupees (about 22 cents), they can get two pieces of bread and a vegetarian or meat dish. The boys collect these cards, and sometimes when they need money more than food, they sell them to other boys for half their value. So the smart boys buy 5 rupee coupons for 2 rupees and use those to buy food.

I have started interviewing all the boys individually, which is great for a several reasons. First of all, it’s an incredible opportunity for me to learn more about them. I’ll also be able to look for major themes that could help in designing programs that will better suit their needs. Finally, having a detailed picture of the population being served may help get TORCH better funding.

The other day I was interviewing one boy, Raju (who asked me on Friday if I would adopt him), who is 14 and has been on his own since he was 8. When he was telling us his story, he cried, and it was obvious he’s still having a hard time. But during our conversation an old woman walked by begging and he stopped to give her some money, while Nandan and I shooed her away. I’ve rarely felt more selfish...

Below, a couple of random pictures from the last couple of weeks:

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