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    [post_date] => 2010-05-25 00:00:00
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    [post_content] =>     

Hey Banaras,

It’s me. Chhaya. The one who… you know… well actually I guess you probably don’t know me. I’m really just one of the many people who has come and now is going, driven away by the heat. Your heat.

Really I don’t know what to say. To you I must be like all the other foreigners, even the flies who come and go with the seasons. Small, short-lived, barely worth your notice. Still, I’m writing to you. Partially because I’ve been instructed to, and also well because I feel like I should thank you, even if it’s presumptuous to suppose you care. I’m sure the flies think they’re special too.

In my mind, Banaras, you begin at the river. Washing, boating, cremating—so much becomes purer here. The scientific reality of sewage overflow and bacteria count. . . I know it, but when I look out at the Ganga river it’s so hard to believe. The calm currents and ripples, the sunlight reflecting brighter than the sky, everything seems so unsullied. And the people who go daily to bathe, do rituals, wash their clothes—somehow, your dirty water makes them clean.

And from the curve of the river spread the ghats, mud and bright paint side by side. Walking on the steps I watched people act out their public lives and deaths. To me, Banaras, you are the place where an old man sits next to a screaming baby, where women can do puja where boys swim, where color splashes over the dirt. Where boats line up for tourists, and candles emulate the moon.

And up the steps, beyond the river, you stretch out so much farther. You are the narrow gullies to get lost and found in, the painted metal rickshaws lined up at crossings. The dust, the wind, the bobbing paper kites. You are constantly physically present. People walk holding hands or with their arms over each others’ shoulders. Cow droppings pattern the pavement. Incense hangs on the air. Trash burns in a corner. Food, necklaces, gods, and sanitary pads color shop windows. Water runs in the river, on the street, and sometimes out of the taps. The electricity comes, the electricity goes. Something I took for granted is a generous, grudging gift. You are the music that throbs through my dreams, a deep, energy-filled lullaby.

You are market-streets where women in saris sell vegetables outside of convenience stalls hung with plastic packets of chips. Temples filled with pundits and devotes, pushing and yelling and demanding money, and tiny shrines propped against the base of all the big “people” trees, wrapped around with red and orange string. Bikes, auto rickshaws, pedestrians, cars, and cows all on the same road. You are an old city made new every day.

You are people I have met and shared a moment with. Shopkeepers, gurus, priests, children. You are the friends I danced with, the family I ate with, and the businessmen I argued with. Students who called me ma’am and asked me questions. Those who promise they will write to me, and those who forgot me as I walked past. Every person who met my eyes and smiled or frowned or cried.

You are the ability to interact with all these people. To say hello and start my explanation one more time—from America, mother’s Indian, grandparents live in Mumbai, learning Hindi, teaching English and science, and what’s your name?—or just sit down nearby and watch. You are the frustrating moments too—heat, sickness, loneliness—and how I discovered I could get over, make light of, or learn from them. You are responsibility, for myself and for others. And after pushing me to do something new, you are the joy of successes, small and large. I found a drum. I make a round chapatti. I taught a class. You are independence, a driving, teaching force in your seeming uncaring.

As I look around, Banaras, I see that your entity is actually an entirety—the river, the people, the buildings, the cows. You are dirty and you are clean; you are holy and crazy and beautiful. The heat, the bugs, even tourists like me, every one of them adds a ripple, some reflection, a single drop to your holy water. I am not the city, but I am for a brief moment, a part of the city, just as a drop of water flows through the river. And the cool thing about water is it doesn’t really disappear. It moves, it changes, even leaves… but some monsoon storm it comes back, different and yet once again there.

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Hey Banaras

Chhaya Werner,Bridge Year India 2009 - 2010

Description

Hey Banaras, It’s me. Chhaya. The one who… you know… well actually I guess you probably don’t know me. I’m really just one of the many people who has come and now is going, driven away by the heat. Your heat. Really I don’t know what to say. To you I must be like all […]

Posted On

05/25/10

Author

Chhaya Werner

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I don’t have a watch. I mean, I had one, but India took it from me. Somewhere along the line from Delhi to Kausani to Kanda to Banaras to Ujjain to Calcutta to Jodhpur to Jaipur to Jaisalmer to Leh to Manali – it got lost. I borrowed Andrew’s to keep track of time during our classes in Leh. I forgot, though, to give it back before his class, leading to a 4’5’’ boy named Jigmet running up to my tent.

“Ummm, Shaina Madam?”

“Yes?”

“Ummm, do you have the watch of Sir Andrew?”

It was just an endearing mistake, an accidental verbal flip, but I’m starting to think he was on to something.

It became evident when I followed the boys up a pretty steep cliff/mountain. It turns out you’re not supposed to climb these kinds of things – every other rock we held onto broke off, and we were up a couple hundred feet. Also, when we were up there, I remembered pretty quickly my intense fear of heights. At one point, I was pressed against a rock, and scared to death. The guys had gone up ahead, but I was paralyzed.

“Wait. Wait. No. I cannot do this. I can’t even get back down. NO.”

It’s this kind of situation which probably inspired Jim Steinman and Dean Pitchford* to write I Need A Hero. Jerry Siegal, no doubt, was stuck on the top of a crumbly mountain when he began to wish for a superman – and the comic strip was born. And I felt like I knew something about how Andromeda felt upon seeing Perseus slay that sea monster when I saw Joe and Andrew come back for me.

“Come on, hold on to me, you’re doing fine,” said Joe.

“Look at me, look what I’m doing. I’m carving your name into the rock. I don’t do this for everyone. I’m just so proud of you.” said Andrew. “The ‘W’ is hard.”

We eventually got down the mountain – which at one point involved sliding down, the guys holding onto me on both sides, like the knights in shining armor that they are. But I certainly couldn’t have done it without them. That’s how it’s been for most things for the past nine months. Thanks guys.

*Thanks Wikipedia!

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My knights

Shaina Watrous,Bridge Year India 2009 - 2010

Description

I don’t have a watch. I mean, I had one, but India took it from me. Somewhere along the line from Delhi to Kausani to Kanda to Banaras to Ujjain to Calcutta to Jodhpur to Jaipur to Jaisalmer to Leh to Manali – it got lost. I borrowed Andrew’s to keep track of time during […]

Posted On

05/23/10

Author

Shaina Watrous

WP_Post Object
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    [post_date] => 2010-05-22 00:00:00
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I arrived at the campsite carrying only my backpacks, some chart paper, a few markers (all of which would mysteriously disappear moments later), some ideas of writing exercises to try, and my hopes that these thirteen-year-olds would get as excited about creative writing this week as I was already. Little did I know what kind of creativity and enthusiasm was in store . .

Short stories!

Once upon a time, there was a yak. He had no legs and arms. One day, a strom came and take the yak to a city. Five cars crash the yak, and he hurt very, very hard. Then eight gods come and take him to hell.

On the first day of school, I woke up to find that I was only three inches tall! That I have never seen before. I said to one man that why I am three inches tall, but the man can’t hear me. I throw a stone to man, and he angry. I went into a rat house, and the rat give me some food. Then I grow big again. I went to school and I was taller than all the other children.

Once upon a time, a lot of dogs were living in the jungle and they ate many cows and sheeps. The people said that we have to do something for these dogs, so they tried to kill the dogs, but the dogs hide in one cave and no one is able to find them. Then the dogs hungry, and one dog eat one man. The doge was not hungry because he ate the flesh of a man. He come out from the cave and the people kill all the dogs. Then the people of the village sit happily.

There were a lot of fish living in the ocean, but they were scared because they were often eaten by sharks. One day, one fish had an idea. He said that we need to work together. Then the fish round around the shark and he don’t know how to eat! Then the shark eat all the fish except the one who gave the idea. He take this fish to his house for tea. Then the fish eat the shark! And he live very happily in the shark’s house because it is a very big house.

Acrostic poetry!

Father

And

Mother

I

Love

You

Join

A

Party

At

Night

School

Can

Help

Our

Own

Learning

Haikus!

Climbing the mountain -

From the top, our camp seems small.

We are too tired there.

We are too lucky

To be in the Saboo camp.

All is beautiful.

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Just a few samples . . .

Lizzie Martin,Bridge Year India 2009 - 2010

Description

I arrived at the campsite carrying only my backpacks, some chart paper, a few markers (all of which would mysteriously disappear moments later), some ideas of writing exercises to try, and my hopes that these thirteen-year-olds would get as excited about creative writing this week as I was already. Little did I know what kind […]

Posted On

05/22/10

Author

Lizzie Martin

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    [post_date] => 2010-05-17 00:00:00
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    [post_content] => Greetings from White Lotus Camp, Ladakh!

Camp #1 finished on Friday. Saturday we received the new students and have begun another fantastic environmental camp. Here is a pic from the first final presentation. The principal (pictured in the back row) came as well as a few teachers from the school. All were soooo impressed by their students and more importantly, very very impressed by our amazing Dragons! More soon....
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Greetings from White Lotus Camp, Ladakh!

Debi Goldman,Bridge Year India 2009 - 2010

Description

Greetings from White Lotus Camp, Ladakh! Camp #1 finished on Friday. Saturday we received the new students and have begun another fantastic environmental camp. Here is a pic from the first final presentation. The principal (pictured in the back row) came as well as a few teachers from the school. All were soooo impressed by […]

Posted On

05/17/10

Author

Debi Goldman

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    [post_date] => 2010-05-10 00:00:00
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After a short but sweet trek through Stok kangri we are now settled in our amazingly beautiful campground above Sabu Village just outside of Leh, Ladakh. On Sunday, fifteen 13-year old students from the Druk Padme Karpo Institute in Shey village, Ladakh, came to join us for 6 days of environmental learning and activities. Each of the BY students are teaching a workshop to the young Ladakhis daily as well as playing games and other fun activities. The DPKI kids are tent camping alongside of us, sharing meals, vying for the toilet tents, bonding and having a great learning adventure so far.

Our mornings begin with Kristin and I leading all the campers in an hour of yoga, followed by breakfast for twenty-one prepared by our trekking staff cooks, then two sessions of creative writing by Lizzie, and Silk Road geography by Joe. After lunch, Shaina picks up the entire group for acting lessons and preparing a final play on ecological sustainability that will be presented to their teachers and principal at the end of the week. After which Andrew picks up the entire group for discussion section and argument presentations on why tending to our environment is important. Yesterday after classes, the DPKI kids joined in for a lively game of “capture the flag” and ran our BY boys ragged!

We will post pictures soon, Kristin and I are popping into town periodically for supplies but the BY students will be tied up at the camp until the 20th of May. Stay tuned for updates on their latest adventures. We are so proud of them! They are truly model global citizens and each one of them have a special knack for working with these rural kids. Their experience of the past eight months is truly shining through in this last endeavor here in India.

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DPKI (Dragon White Lotus) camp

Debi Goldman,Bridge Year India 2009 - 2010

Description

After a short but sweet trek through Stok kangri we are now settled in our amazingly beautiful campground above Sabu Village just outside of Leh, Ladakh. On Sunday, fifteen 13-year old students from the Druk Padme Karpo Institute in Shey village, Ladakh, came to join us for 6 days of environmental learning and activities. Each […]

Posted On

05/10/10

Author

Debi Goldman

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    [post_date] => 2010-05-07 00:00:00
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Recipe for Understanding

Joe Barrett

Seven months ago, at the beginning of our time in Varanasi, I wrote about a new tradition of a chicken night that Andrew and I had inaugurated with my family. When I first mentioned this chicken night, I was excited and looking forward to what I thought would be months of easily obtained delicious food and large quantities of protein. What I didn’t realize was that it was going to be lots of work. While all the preparations for the first chicken night had been organized by Saurabh, my home stay brother, from the second chicken night onwards, Andrew and I were responsible for finding all the ingredients. In America, this would mean a quick trip to the supermarket, but in Varanasi, it means biking all over town to track down chicken, onions, garlic, tomatoes, oil, various types of masaala (spices), and, on nights when we feel like really having a party, a bottle of Coke. Though biking to different stalls and markets was a hassle, it was made even more difficult by that fact that Andrew and I knew nothing about buying most of these items. Thus, we made mistakes in buying everything. First we bought the wrong kind of chicken. Then we bought the right kind of chicken, but forgot to have it cut into small pieces. When we finally got the chicken right, we began to struggle with the vegetables. We bought onions that were too small, onions that were too big, tomatoes that were too soft, tomatoes that were too hard and sometimes we forgot to buy the garlic altogether. Oil should have been easy, but first we bought oil meant for cooking vegetables, and then we bought oil that was inexplicably bad, before we found the best kind.

Masaala, thankfully, was easy, and after only one mistake, we realized that the masaala meant for cooking chicken was labeled “meat masaala” and bought the correct kind from that time on. After many months of failure, however, Andrew and I turned a corner and began to buy all the right things. What had once been an hour long shopping trip during which we paid excessive prices and inevitably bought the wrong things turned into a brief visit to the market during which we paid all the right prices and bought all the ingredients for a high quality chicken curry. Cooking this high quality chicken curry, however, was a totally different story. When my home stay family makes the curry, they follow no recipe and seem to throw all the different spices in at random times and in random quantities. While there is a method behind their system – they do it all by smell – and it is well beyond Andrew’s and my ability to replicate. Thus, though we have watched the chicken curry being made on many occasions and smelled it during each of its stages of cooking, our noses have not yet developed the skills necessary for us to make the curry alone.

After eight months in India, it would be easy to assume that we know what we are doing and understand many aspects of the culture, but the truth is that we don’t. This is not to say that we haven’t learned things – we have – but our knowledge has not grown much beyond learning to see all the different ingredients of life in Varanasi. In fact, our knowledge about Varanasi and India has grown along a learning curve similar to that of the chicken curry. Just as our original attempts to gather the components were a failure, our original assumptions about life in Varanasi were lacking or even totally off the mark. Just as we have gotten better at finding the supplies, we have gotten better at simply watching and understanding at least part of what is going on around us. As far as making the curry ourselves or fully understanding Indian culture, however, we are still nowhere close to experts.

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Recipe for Understanding

Joe Barrett,Bridge Year India 2009 - 2010

Description

Recipe for Understanding Joe Barrett Seven months ago, at the beginning of our time in Varanasi, I wrote about a new tradition of a chicken night that Andrew and I had inaugurated with my family. When I first mentioned this chicken night, I was excited and looking forward to what I thought would be months […]

Posted On

05/7/10

Author

Joe Barrett

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    [post_author] => 39
    [post_date] => 2010-05-07 00:00:00
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    [post_content] => 

The past four days have been loaded with treks and scenery that would even make National Geographic jealous. With limited supplies on our backs, though occasionally my muscles would would not agree with that description, our group ventured into the colorful Ladakh region of the Himalayas. At first I noticed the greys and greens of stones before stepping over them with my tightly laced boots. For a while I watched the stones and their limited palette. The shimmering of silver mica and small white crystals could entertain my eyes for minutes at a time, until I focused my gaze on the brown hills closest to me. Driving in a car, it is easy to watch the large features of the earth, as they pass by the slowest.We, on the other hand, were walking. We were also carrying certain essentials for camping, further decreasing our speed. Traveling at that slow pace allowed us to observe not only the grand mountains decorated with the purest white of snow in the distance, but also the smaller yet no less important, rocks and hills nearby.

Upon reaching our first campsite, I gently placed my oversized backpack on the ground and began to take in my surroundings without any burden on my body. The what, why, and how are beyond me, but large stretches of the mountains around camp were a purple so deep that they reminded me of the ocean. Later I found myself on one of those mountains high above camp. I knelt down and grabbed a fistful of purple. When I opened my hand, I saw the small pieces of rock that had confounded me. Even though the reason for my confusion was in my hand, it was no less mysterious and beautiful than it was when I was looking at it from a distance.

One of my favorite aspects of the Himalayan landscapes cannot be appreciated from afar because it is easily mistaken for a simple patch of green grass. What differentiated this grass from the norm is that it grows on and around medium sized rocks. The view was like a miniature, green Himalaya mountain range. The green grass dressed the rocks thoroughly and neatly. There were no bare areas or jagged edges. The grass gently flowed over its contained area. After another minute of walking the green was out of sight.

The white mountains, however, are always visible. If a white tipped mountain is not in front of you, due to a variety of natural obstacles, then there is a high chance that one is behind you. These are the types of mountains that inspire the uninspired and turn skeptics into believers. Though the snow this time of year prevented us from summiting Stok Angri, as I climbed 16,000 feet closer to the blue sky on a nearby mountain, the white of the snow onlybecame realer and purer.

This trek taught me that nature is all encompassing. From the black night sky with the outline of mountains to the cold bright days and the white snows they reveal. From the murky brown waterfalls to the streams that you cannot see underfoot. From the large, blue birds that reveal a stripe of white when they take flight to the small black bugs that are visible to me only when they walk on my red sleepingbag. Nature is not merely the mountains or the rivers or the grasslandss because you cannot sum it up in a word or two. The colors of nature teach this very lesson.

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Himalayan Colors

Andrew Finkelstein,Bridge Year India 2009 - 2010

Description

The past four days have been loaded with treks and scenery that would even make National Geographic jealous. With limited supplies on our backs, though occasionally my muscles would would not agree with that description, our group ventured into the colorful Ladakh region of the Himalayas. At first I noticed the greys and greens of […]

Posted On

05/7/10

Author

Andrew Finkelstein

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On leaving

Shaina Watrous

Everyone who has ever spent more than six months in Banaras

Comes back,

Said our Hindi teacher, Virendra ji,

his flickering diya eyes wrinkling at the edges as he smiled.

And I believed him, since he gives off an aura

of having been here from the beginning.

We came here to make a difference,

to enable better lives with the force of our hope and determination,

but we could not have known,

(though Newton tried to warn us)

Of the equal force that Banaras would have on us.

I came to teach English, and learned to communicate with a population.

I came to teach confidence and the belief in one’s own power –

I learned a kind of confidence in my own power that I could never have imagined,

Becoming a girl who would jump into a moving auto rickshaw to ride across the city,

a girl who would wish she could walk the main bazaar’s every gulley (and tried),

a girl who would talk to strangers, not only to get directions,

but to learn the way and why they live.

Phir kub ayengi – when will you be back? - is the refrain

of the four-year-olds of the red light district,

the cross-legged cobbler on the corner of Assi Crossing,

the flower girls on the corner.

Sheena-di, Phir kub ayengi?

I may be sitting in a class at Princeton

Twisting around and around

The ring that Annu had slipped into my hand as I left,

(“I took it to God, and asked him to make you great.”)

When I’ll feel the force of Banaras tugging on my finger

Like the persistent children of its streets.

I’ll be back to see once more the Ganga ji, her flowing waters fueling the force

that pulls me to explore just one more blue-tinged alleyway

Gold-leaf paint peeling from its older-than-time gateways,

Silver cobblestones as far as I can see shining and beckoning in the morning light.

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Bridge Year India 2009 - 2010

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On leaving

Shaina Watrous,Bridge Year India 2009 - 2010

Description

On leaving Shaina Watrous Everyone who has ever spent more than six months in Banaras Comes back, Said our Hindi teacher, Virendra ji, his flickering diya eyes wrinkling at the edges as he smiled. And I believed him, since he gives off an aura of having been here from the beginning. We came here to […]

Posted On

05/7/10

Author

Shaina Watrous

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Koi Bat Nahin

Lizzie Martin

They told me they would never forget my “Koi bat nahin.”

“She was teaching us very well, and our English is day by day improving,” said Ram at my farewell party at the Kiran Centre. “We trainees will always remember when we tried to speak and some mistake came and she would only say, ‘Koi bat nahin. Try again.’”

It’s true – I felt like it was more important for them to believe they could speak English than for them to struggle to make flawless sentences, so when I corrected them, I would wave my hand in the air, brushing away the mistake and its accompanying embarrassment, and tell them it didn’t matter in Hindi. No problem. It’s nothing. Try again.

Koi bat nahin.

If there’s anything that I’ve learned this year, it’s that sometimes you need a mantra of some kind, a few words to remind you of who you are and who you want to be, and usually, that mantra is given to you by someone who knows you well and to whom you look to for guidance. Some people meditate on mantras, some repeat them as they do difficult things, and some simply lean on their mantras when they need to refocus. Leaving Banaras and all of my friends was difficult for me, and I was happy to have a mantra to carry with me on the train to Delhi.

Koi bat nahin.

I wish you could meet Ram. He is a wood workshop vocational trainee in one of my classes, and he catches on so quickly that I felt like he was a little bored most of the time. His English is incredible, and he is so brave and eager to use it – whenever the rest of the trainees would begin talking quickly in Bhojpuri or Hindi, he would catch my eye, see me struggling to keep up, say, “Teacher, you know . . .” and explain everything about this movie, that cricket match, or what was happening in the hostel.

Ram has a kind of strength that I wish I had. He is “differently able,” as they say at Kiran, but I forget about his crutches most of the time. He doesn’t complain. He doesn’t ask for help. And he is always smiling. Even on my last day, when he responded to my “Namaste!” with “Please you don’t go!” he was grinning at me, and he made me laugh before I could start to cry.

I trust Ram to lead me in the right direction as far as life is concerned. I hope that I am able to meet everything – challenges and joys alike – as gracefully, cheerfully, and enthusiastically as he does. I don’t know if he knows that he is one of my heroes, but he is. And now he’s given me my mantra.

Koi bat nahin.

It’s actually a very appropriate mantra; it fits well with what Banaras taught me. People there have a way of living that I love: they say, “I will adjust,” and they deal with things that might seem uncomfortable or impossible in a positive way, and I want to do that too. This rickshaw is full, but we need to fit one more person or suitcase on your lap? Koi bat nahin; it’s a short ride, and she’s not so heavy. You have a headache and a fever and need to go to work anyway? Koi bat nahin; do the best you can, nap at lunch, and sleep when you get home. Guests are coming and there’s not quite enough milk for chai? Koi bat nahin; add a little water and no one will know the difference. You’re scared of something? Koi bat nahin; you’re stronger than you realize, and you can adjust.

Imagine Usha, one of the girls I taught to crochet in Art and Design at Kiran who can only use her left hand. Koi bat nahin – she held the hook in between her toes, and she makes mobile phone covers like you wouldn’t believe. I came to India thinking that there were an awful lot of things that I couldn’t possibly do; people like Usha prove to me that this is true only if I let myself believe it.

Think of Somnath, who couldn’t walk when he was younger because of rickets, but who now can not only walk, but also writes, directs, and stars in incredible dramas that are performed at awareness programs, conveying a message of acceptance and hope. And think of the way he laughs like nothing else matters but whatever brings him happiness. Think of Nandini, who sometimes can’t concentrate because of the pain in her feet and legs, but who is always giggling or putting her bindi in between my eyebrows or asking me to tell her or teach her something, anything. Think of Rajesh, because of whom there is always water in the hostel – he never forgets to turn on the pump when there is electricity – and who has mastered essentially every tense in the English language, even though speaking is difficult for him.

It isn’t fair, really, that I came here to teach English and instead took a much more powerful class on living with courage and determination and passion for whatever it is I find that I love to do. It isn’t fair that I came with notes for grammar lessons and conversation practice and left with pages of ideas about how to live gracefully and gratefully, no matter what challenges may present themselves.

I stayed in the hostel again this month, and we had a party. For parties in Banaras, one of the important things to make are puri, which you eat like chapatis (use them to scoop up the vegetable dishes), but which are smaller and fried in oil. Ram and Anil were making them, and I asked if I could help. They taught me, and they were proud when I made a few round ones – “Good! Very good! You are very genius, my teacher.” – but the truth was that I was a little too slow. Ram took back the rolling pin and made about thirty in the time it took me to make five, and then he handed it back to me.

“Koi bat nahin, teacher. Try again.” And I hope that I always will.

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Bridge Year India 2009 - 2010

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Koi Bat Nahin

Lizzie Martin,Bridge Year India 2009 - 2010

Description

Koi Bat Nahin Lizzie Martin They told me they would never forget my “Koi bat nahin.” “She was teaching us very well, and our English is day by day improving,” said Ram at my farewell party at the Kiran Centre. “We trainees will always remember when we tried to speak and some mistake came and […]

Posted On

05/7/10

Author

Lizzie Martin

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Before I left Banaras, each of my Bridge Year friends tied a simple bracelet around my wrist with a thought or little prayer (credit for this sweet ceremony goes to Shaina). The green one from Genevieve slipped of en route to the airport, but she retied it for me as we got out of the car. Throughout the afternoon and evening the cords were constantly coming loose and slipping off, and though I retied them the best I could, by the next morning only Joe’s bright orange was still hanging on.

When even that one finally gave up, I spread all five out on my bed and glared at them petulantly. I really wanted towear these bright bracelets—and the goodwill and comfort they carried—as a constant pick-me-up. But their threadswere too slippery to stay tied on. .

With a little thought and more dexterity than I knew I had, I managed to take the five, with their different lengths and thicknesses, and braid them together at both ends into fat rainbow. I am happy to report that the resulting bracelet stays nicely on my wrist. Just one more analogy reminding that we really are stronger together.

Hope you all are doing well—I miss you a lot, but every time I look at my splash of color I think of you with a smile. Thanks.

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Bridge Year India 2009 - 2010

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a note on bracelets

Chhaya Werner,Bridge Year India 2009 - 2010

Description

Before I left Banaras, each of my Bridge Year friends tied a simple bracelet around my wrist with a thought or little prayer (credit for this sweet ceremony goes to Shaina). The green one from Genevieve slipped of en route to the airport, but she retied it for me as we got out of the […]

Posted On

05/1/10

Author

Chhaya Werner

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