Settling Down

Today would be Halloween in America. I spent the day looking at females getting pap smears and physical checkups. Not that I wouldn't love to dress up in an outrageous costume and pig out on cholesterol-laden food, but I thought getting doctor contacts for going to Bhopal hospitals and reading up on cervical cancer was a better use of my time. Maybe that's just me.

I'm finally settling in and feeling like I have a system set up. A disciplined lifestyle, if you will, something I thought my body wasn't capable of after high school. I wake up at seven (ish), take a "refreshing" shower with ice cold water, only to find Altaf waiting for me outside the ladies' bathroom. He then proceeds to follow me around as far he can, and then I have to go to the gynocologist, Dr. Kaur's, office. The women that come in might do so if they are pregnant, have a runny nose, a back ache, rough soles under their feet, burning eyes, it's not always a gyn-related. This is because one of the doctors is sick and Dr. Kaur gets his patients as well. I record their complaints/reason for coming and their blood pressure/pulse, and ask Dr. Kaur questions about what she's doing/writing/diagnosing. Lunch is at noon sharp. Lack of punctuality might lead to another fifteen minute wait for food as the two cooks have to prepare more food if they run short. In the afternoon, I look through pages and pages of doctor-scrawled pap smear and vaginal test results. Deciphering the code that is messy handwriting is the hard part, the data entry into the database is easy. The clinic closes at two, but the day is far from over. I'm often online, researching my queries of the day, learning more about cervical cancer, buying fruits or milk from the nearby Berasia Road. Yesterday we bought a train ticket to Bombay for a protest against Dow at an Expo in Goregaon. I've never been to the City of Bollywood before, I figured this is as good a time as ever. After the protest, we're taking a train to Jalgaon, spending a day at the Ajanta Caves, then heading back to Bhopal.

The kids in the basti recognize me now - when I was going to the store to get milk, I was greeted by a loud "Pragya! Pragya! Hi! Pragyaaaaa!" I figured this is what famous people must feel like, except they also fall prey to blinding lights and looking impeccable wherever they go. I can get away with my two-day old white salwar bordered with dust that's not so white anymore. Sorry Ma. Don't worry, I still wash my clothes (every once in a while). Back to the point, I wouldn't want to be famous, privacy is too valuable to me. Not that you care.

In a nutshell, life is good. Tomorrow I complete one week at Sambhavna. Who knows what the next week has in store for me...

Life goes on...

Twenty-two years after the tragedy, being around the Union Carbide factory will give you the goosebumps. Really. We visited the area yesterday, led by a group of enthusiastic four-foot-somethings who were more than happy to gain the attention of the Americans in our posse. The ground's contamination was evident by the lack of grassy growth, and the air reeked of something pleasant. Chemicals are not supposed to smell pleasant, but the smell around the factory was definitely different, a floral freshness. But I didn't see any flowers, nor had the area been scrubbed by Lysol recently. The strange odor didn't seem to bother the kids that were asking me about my mehndi-ed hand. They claimed to play in these open fields all the time, deeper in than we dared to go, for fear of being affected by the smell. We even ran into children playing cricket near the factory at that time, and they didn't seem to mind. There was a large wall along the road which separated the factory grounds from that side of the streets, but a few turns into narrow alleys and stepping over half broken stone bridges led us to a line of small cement shanties that were a stone's throw away from the factory. There was no wall that protected these people, only a few trees that were shabbily leafed. One of the boys I talked to looked 8 or 9. He claimed he was 12 years old. Others had spots on their lips or differently colored irises. Despite all of this, they were kids, joking around, talking about the circus they were going to go to, asking question after question. This was their reality and our worst nightmare.

So I think I finally have some idea of what I will be doing as my long-term project here. Of course there will be the daily translations from Hindi to English or vice versa, visiting the gas-affected and water-affected communities with the health workers, data entry, working in the pathology lab, etc. In addition, there is a Population Based Cancer Registry (PBCR) that is supposed to collect cancer data from each hospital in Bhopal. They claim that the chemicals in the gas didn't cause cancer and through a Right to Information application filed by Rachna, we found out what hospitals they claim to go to and how many times a week/month/year they go there. My job would be to visit as many of these 64 private and public hospitals that I can and confirm whether the PBCR does indeed come as often as they say they do, and if not then when. We are debating whether I should go under the guise of someone working for Delhi's All India Institute of Medical Sciences (AIIMS) or a medical student working on a project looking at the cancer diagnosis, treatment, and follow-up process in Bhopal. I've always fancied myself as a journalist, but that might be romanticizing it a little too much :)

There is a small boy named Altaf whose twinkling eyes and flawless complexion are beauty exemplified. He's in the first grade and loves anything to do with putting a pen on paper, whether it be writing the alphabet or drawing. He drew a picture of me that was the exact clone of his depiction of Kate, and Jen, and Tony, and Michael. Today he discovered he can read when I showed him how to put two letters together. He is a real bright kid, already reading three-letter words with ease. I doubt I learned how to read that quickly. His mother is a sanitation worker at the clinic, and he keeps himself busy by hanging out with the volunteers, riding on the portable ferris wheel outside, making up games, and just using his imagination in general. And he has the cutest singing voice :)

In the evening, we went to Shahid Noor's place for an Eid dinner. He is one of the survivors of the Bhopal disaster and leads the solar lantern project that Aid-Austin is currently funding. The two rooms of his home were brightly decorated, the steel utensils gleaming clean under the single lamp that lit up the living room. His three children, Aman, Anshu, and Muskan were just as hospitable as their parents and fed us chhole, chapatis, and a desert called seviyan. Even though the place was small, their love for Rachna and Sathyu seemed immeasurably large. Watching their interactions made me smile, and though I barely spoke, I thoroughly enjoyed being there with them on such a joyous occasion. The girls had started developing spots on their face, which their parents said was because of the water which is contaminated. That is what really breaks my heart. These kids are the same as kids anywhere else, if not more passionate about life. They too have dreams and aspirations, and yet they are inflicted with such problems by no fault of their own. But they were jumping around, and Aman, their youngest, was stealing chocolates from his sisters. I noticed the same thing when I went out with Taznim, one of the community health workers, today. We visited the houses of numerous girls to check on their period regularity or lack thereof, and symptoms they experienced. Some were doing fine because of the treatment they were receiving at Sambhavna, while others hadn't menstruated for months. Even though pain and suffering is a constant presence in their lives, marriages are taking place, cricket games are being won, Eid is being celebrated. Even though they've been through so much, they continue to be tested. Life goes on for these people. How can it not?

First Impressions

My uncle and I took the Bhopal Express from the Nizammudin Railway Station and arrived in Bhopal at a bright 6:40 am. The ride was rather pleasant, as most of it was spent sleeping on the upper berth of the 2nd class compartment of the train. The lower compartment was taken by a middle aged man on one side and a young couple on the other side. The couple stayed relatively quiet throughout the whole ride, but the uncle had a lot to say, especially after he found out I went to college in the oh-so-wonderful United States of America. For some odd reason people seem to think that if you lived in the States you know everything about the demand for jobs in their respective fields. One distant relative had asked me how the scope for economics was, and this one asked me about the scope for biotechnology. I admitted I had no idea. He then went on a monologue about how Indians are excelling in so many fields, that's why the U.S. is outsourcing, etc. etc. He concluded his monologue with something on democracy, but I don't really remember because by this time I couldn't even politely pretend to listen, so I continued reading the book I had in front of me. Besides, he was looking at my uncle.

As the train pulled to a gradual stop at the station, the first thing I saw in Bhopal was trash, a lake full of it. There must have been ten thousand plastic bags in that water, and amidst the trash two pigs were wrestling. I mentally contrasted this image with the sprawling five-star malls I had visited a few days ago. No city would intentionally provide such a view for those staring out of their barred train windows. Rather, I figured that Bhopal is no Delhi, where the government chooses to spend lavishly on larger than life television screens at malls instead of cleaning up a potential tourist turn-off. Ah, good ol' beurocracy...

Today is Eid, so the largely Muslim communities our auto-rickshaw drove by showed the splendor that would grow as the day progressed. It was still early in the morning, so while the brown dirt was being swept from one side of the street to the other, men in blazing white kurta pajamas were strolling along the streets or zooming along in their two-wheelers. Women in black burkhas strolled slowly, the wind ruffling their heavy black garments to reveal bright greens or dark magentas underneath. Even though the community the clinic is in is very impoverished (not to mention one of the greater gas affected communities) people were wearing all the new attire they could afford this season. Oiled heads were neatly combed and tightly braided, shiny shoes glittered on the feet of small children, their skirts had more ruffles than one could count, it was quite a sight. There was even a portable ferris wheel right outside the clinic where the young ones would soon gather just to get a taste of thrill as the ferris wheel man pushed one swing down after the next.

The first person I met at the clinic was Kate, an American from Oregon who is living in the same room as I am. We talked some and then after she gave me a tour of the very very cool ayurvedic plants garden we went shopping for some groceries. I had never experienced what I saw she experiences every day - every kid looking at her in fascination and saying 'HI' with a big smile plastered on his/her face. The older boys of the community just stared lewdly and would say something not so innocent. It was insane! I knew whites in India would be treated differently, but we had only been out thirty minutes and she must have heard it at least thirty times. Being able to deal with that takes guts.

So far I am enjoying every moment- the clinic is spacious and we have all the amenities the people outside the clinic don't: filtered drinking water, free meals, large beds, wireless connection, European toilets....I am truly fortunate. Today I'm relaxing, inquiring, exploring, but tomorrow I will get to do that with the doctors, the patients, the community health workers, with everyone who I didn't meet today. I feel the excitement of a kid who wants to try everything but doesn't know where to start. For now, I'm just absorbing everything I can.

The Streets of Delhi

As I walk along jammed traffic on the broken asphalt of the Lajpat Nagar market place, I see movement but no stress. Everyone is laughing, talking amongst themselves, enjoying the buttered roasted corn that the vendor is selling on the street or the freshly squeezed fruit juices at the corner dhaba. The fashionably dressed youngsters chatting on their cell phones stand next to the withered middle-aged man who probably holds a BPL (Below Poverty Line) ration card. Delhi is the Indian melting pot where individuals from all socioeconomic levels interact on its busy roads. Of course, the roles of each individual are within the predetermined spheres our society has set out for them. Children who should be at school are instead trying to sell glossy glamor magazines with the latest Bollywood gossip. I see one child successfully wiggle her way through densely packed traffic, pushing these larger than life celluloid images towards open rickshaws, pressing them against the glass of air-conditioned cars, persistent in her efforts to sell pictures of the demigods whose names she can not even read. I see clusters of teenage boys smoking handmade beedis, their eyes lustfully capturing the curves of every female that walks by, accompanied by the occasional whistle and the sporadic lewd comments. I see three foot wide potholes and uncovered gutters on roads leading to arching monuments and magnificent malls. This is the India that is known to National Geographic, to Times Magazine, to The Travel Channel. It's a land of third-world poverty coupled with an unstoppable economy. This is the India that everyone sees, including myself. It is so easy to stop looking here and decide what this country seems to be. But try looking a little deeper, and you'll see something greater than a child out of a C.R.Y. pamphlet. You'll see potential. You'll see slum dwellers standing up for their rights to receive grain and kerosene by filing the Right to Information applications. You'll see IT professionals that left their comfortable two-story suburban Texas houses to live in a land they used to call their home, a land that many have given up on as a place where "things will never change" (it's a phrase that, to my dismay, I've heard much too often). You'll see people inspired by Bollywood's recent Gandhian-struggle-oriented releases holding candlelight vigils at national monuments. Things will never change for those who refuse to see the revolution that is slowly but surely taking place. The rest of us can help prove them wrong.

Welcome to India

So here I am, in the motherland at last. My jet lag consists of getting up at 6 am and getting sleepy at 8 in the evening, but staying up anyways until my eyes can't take it anymore, and then I crash. Metaphorically.

I got here on a lovely humid night on the 12th of October, and I've been eating ever since. As soon as one meal ends, planning for another begins. I'm sure those of you with large families know what I'm talking about. The rest of you might find the idea of ending one meal to begin another absurd. But I assure you, it happens every single day. And then there are the things that you know you miss if you think about them, but that you don't give much thought to otherwise. Like the traffic. Ok, 'traffic' might not be the right word. 'Traffic' implies the movement of vehicles on a road. Movement happens but only if accompanied by a loud horn blasting your ear off. Besides, vehicles aren't the only things moving on the roads. You have your more than occasional cow, a sporadic bullock cart, and then there are the beggars, ever present. It's not that they are not deserving of sympathy. They are. But begging in Delhi has been made into a thriving business, one which succeeds on suffering, tattered clothing, and children. Not cool.

Then there's the food. Goods that are stale by the time they reach your local international grocer become craved delicacies when you want them badly enough. But here, mouth watering dishes that otherwise would be made only on special occasions are cooked on the spot. It's heaven for Indian food lovers, and I continue eating even though I was full two meals ago. That might be the cause of my slighly sore throat that has unexpectedly begun to cause that annoying little frustration that you wish would just go away. But it's here, and I figure if I'm sick, I'm sick. Eating another piece of mango pickle won't hurt me since the damage has already been done, right? Yes, I know it's a lame excuse, but when you want something that bad, you don't really care anymore.

Let's not forget the never ending family obligations. I finally planned out my Delhi itinerary so as to make all 4 uncles, 2 aunts, and their respective families happy. I have become a domestic nomad within the Bhagat clan, spending the night in one house today, somewhere else tomorrow, somewhere else the day after that. Of course Diwali and Bhai Dooj are coming up, so there's gifts to buy for those events as well. Add shopping for two Punjabi weddings (my cousin's and long time neighbor's) to the equation, all to be completed within 9 days, and you get one fun-filled package of utter and complete chaos. I don't know how my parents managed everything so well, I had never really paid attention to the technicalities before. We just did what they told us to, and went where they were supposed to go. This whole planning business is quite a pain in the arse, especially when you've never done it before.

I am at my aunt's workplace and have a computer all to myself, so I'm trying to make the most of it, hence the painfully long beginning. Hopefully the others will be shorter. It's so hard to convey everything that I'm going through, my feelings, my actions, my perceptions of the society I am currently living in. And it's about to change again when I head to Bhopal in less than two weeks. Change after change is upon me, but I guess that was expected. After months of planning, saving, and built up anxiety, here I am...