Bangladesh round I, India round II

One day in my room last year at the hostel in Hyderabad, I decided to clean my desktop; hand sanitizer seemed like a good idea since I was also hoping to wipe out any leftover germs from the rat droppings. To wipe the surface clean I used a Muhlenberg College newspaper, used as filling in the care package that my friends Bekki and Dan had sent earlier. After tossing the dirtied remains into the trash box outside, my eye glimpsed a headline on the paper having to do with studying abroad and Bangladesh. Intrigued, I fished out the crumpled paper from the garbage and read the article that explained how a new class at Muhlenberg was being offered in the spring that included a two week study/travel experience in Bangladesh. The class was centered on ideas of sustainable development, natural disasters, and a changing climate. Since the environment and foreign countries are two of my favorite things, that evening I applied for the class. I had applied only a day or two before the deadline—good thing I decided to clean my desk on the day that I did—I was accepted into the course and looked forward all of last semester to my next excursion in a foreign land.

The class size was about 18 students, most had studied abroad previously and many had environmentally-related majors. There were also two professors, one of which (Dr. Hashim) is actually from Bangladesh and it was through his knowledge of and contact with the country that our itinerary was possible. The semester along with my readjustments to Muhlenberg life, exams, and essays took up all too much of my attention, and the realization that I’d be flying across the world for a second time in only one week came as a shock when the semester ended. I would have liked to have read more about the country, its people, and its language in preparation for the trip, but before I knew it I had my suitcase packed and was at JFK airport waiting with our class to board the plane to Dubai. That flight was quite a first: my first time flying Emirates, my longest flight ever (14 hours), and the largest aircraft I’ve ever been on. The Airbus A380 has 2 complete floors and four engines, each of which are significantly larger than any I’ve seen on a plane. I watched a 3 hour documentary on the plane’s construction while in flight (along with A Bug’s Life and Mrs. Doubtfire); evidently its component parts (manufactured across Europe) were so large that they couldn’t be flown to a common area for construction, so they were transported by land and sea. That’s not an easy task considering the longer transportation times and hilly countryside.

Dubai airport is structurally incredibly simple, from the air I bet it looks basically like a long oval. Inside though is another story; it has many floors and so many dazzling stores that it’s definitely easy to get disoriented. You’d think you were in an extravagant multi-story mall before you’d think you’re in an airport! Our layover there was for about 7 hours; although Dr. Hashim recommended we stay at our next gate, I was anxious to explore a new place and fortunately found a group of about 5 brave students who were also willing to try our luck at exiting the airport. By asking about half a dozen people we eventually located customs and easily obtained temporary visas free of charge. And just like that we stepped out into the thick evening heat. It wasn’t difficult to find a taxi that would drive us into the city and accept our US currency. After another 15 minutes we were patrolling around the city sidewalks, admiring the lights, buildings, and internationality of the area. To capstone our quick adventure, we found a road-side eatery that appeared small and locally-owned but also popular, attracting quite a crowd. We received many curious glances and were eagerly directed by our waiter to a private room in the back. We asked for the most commonly ordered menu item, and in about 15 minutes we had a table full of veggies, flatbread, and a heaping pile of diced mutton, chicken, kidney, liver, and brain. The taste had a slight mineral-like aspect to it, but if you tried to forget exactly what it was you were eating, it was a pretty appetizing meal. We made it back to the airport in plenty of time to wait for our next plane ride; no one would have realized we had ventured out into the city if we hadn’t been so excited to share our story.

The plane ride to Dhaka (capital of Bangladesh) was only 4 hours but certainly transported you a world away from the international hub of wealth that Dubai seemed to be. The first thing I remember initially observing in Bangladesh was from the airplane before we landed in Dhaka. It struck me to see so many tall smoke chimneys spread about the landscape. Dozens were scattered about, and each had a square of orange/red at its base, so I figured these chimneys were for brick-making. Since there weren’t many buildings around the chimneys, I figured that they were placed outside of Dhaka maybe because of pollution. I remember reading somewhere that because of the low-lying geographical environment of the country, stone was hard to come by. Bricks were therefore recruited for more construction purposes, and they could also be used to make cement by first being grounded down to a powder. Evidently it is an influential and heavily relied-upon industry. On our bus rides to and from Dhaka, I remember one of our guides saying that there was an enforced minimum height for the brick-chimneys (maybe 40 feet?) so the smoke produced didn’t contaminate the air nearest to the ground. Although pollution readily observed by those on the land could be lessened by increasing chimney height, I wonder about the implications that has for greenhouse influences. I read somewhere that the reason that planes so heavily contribute to the greenhouse quality of the atmosphere is due to not only the volume of carbon dioxide emitted but also due to the height at which it is released. I wonder if, although heightened chimneys cut down on ground pollution, a heavier greenhouse effect is contributed when waste is released at a higher altitude. I also remember observing that some chimneys were emitting blackened smoke and some were emitting white smoke. Evidently that’s because some have filters, but it wasn’t compulsory. I wonder if filters cut down not only on pollution but also on greenhouse-influence. In a larger perspective, how equivalent are the polluting agents with which humans are concerned in comparison to the polluting agents that have the most damaging effects on the global environmental organism?

Upon landing, I remember becoming extremely excited. Finally I was in an area that reminded me of India. The hectic driving, honking, dangerous vehicle weaving, and multitude of colors all made the environment very active and energetic. Despite all of the cars and busses, the air in the city was easy to breathe. In Hyderabad, if you went into the city you came back with hurting lungs and blackened mucus. It was refreshing not to have that issue in Dhaka. The reason for this is the conversion of vehicle energy source from diesel/petrol to CNG (compressed natural gas). Such a conversion must have been a monumental undertaking. I’m fully confident that the United States would have quite a difficult time with it, having a transportation sector that is so heavily reliant upon gasoline. Once I watched a vehicle getting refilled with CNG. Gas content is based on pressure, not volume, and the hole through which the tank is filled is as tiny as a basketball’s. The whole system is so different from what we’re used to. Evidently it just takes the handiwork of roadside shops to conduct a diesel/petrol to CNG conversion for a vehicle. I think that CNG as an energy source is cheaper for Bangladeshis than diesel/petrol; it also is obviously less polluting. I wonder which reason(s) gave the impetus to have such a huge energy source conversion. I also wonder to what extent it benefits the environment; it is easier on the breath, but carbon dioxide I think is colorless and odorless anyway. Lastly I wonder how the conversion impacted the sustainability of transportation-sector energy. I think CNG stores will provide Bangladesh for another 50 years or so, and that may be more or less than what diesel/petrol would afford. In any case, the presence of CNG was one of the most striking things I observed in all of Bangladesh, and I was glad to see it.

The days we were in Dhaka, our group stayed at a hotel that although was more compact, offered the same environment as a hotel we would expect in the US. The staff was probably more excited to see our group though than you would expect; you can imagine how much attention we received! After our arrival, we met with Dr. Atiq Rahman, the executive director of BCAS (Bangladesh Center for Advanced Studies), the NGO (non-government organization) that was working with us during our stay. Dr. Atiq is a leading specialist on the environment and development and has taught at MIT and Oxford University. He delivered a lecture that afternoon, but unfortunately I wasn’t 100% conscious for all of it. Many of us were very tired after the trip. I was saddened that I hadn’t been able to pay more attention, but I planned to make up for it by conversing with him while we were on the boat going through the southern Sundarbans mangrove forest later that week.

Before our trip to the Sundarbans, we did some sight-seeing in and around Dhaka. The National Martyr’s Monument in Savar is 50 meters high and is formed by 7 concrete triangles that accentuate the tip at the top of the monument. It was built to honor the millions who died for Bangladesh’s independence in 1971 (the Bangladesh area was formerly part of Pakistan since its partition from India in 1947 after the British left). A component of the directive for national independence in the 1970s was the Bengali Language Movement where an emphasis on the Bangla language sought to overpower the Pakistani institutionalization of Urdu. Although this sense of pride provided a unified power, I imagine it also has prevented significant prevalence of foreign languages like English throughout the country. As globalization seems to adopt a continually growing importance in the perspectives of national leaders and policy makers, and as much foreign aid comes from English-speaking countries, I wonder if there is any regret in Bangladesh that English isn’t a more pervasive language. I also wonder to what extent English will institutionalize its way into Bangladeshi culture as globalization progresses and if English-speaking aid donors continue to support mitigation efforts in Bangladesh. In reflection of the current situation, it was certainly an observation of mine that English was spoken/understood significantly less in Bangladesh than in the places I visited in India. I also wonder how accountable the Bengali Language Movement is for this observation.

We visited Dhamrai, a Hindu area famous for its bronze-making. An object like a religious statue is first carved from bee’s wax and then coated with clay. It is fired in an oven to harden the clay, and after the melted wax is poured out, a clay mold remains. Molten bronze metal can be poured into it, and the clay later removed after cooling to reveal underneath a bronze statue.

At some point we visited a Hindu temple. It was a spectacular sensory experience for me to see Hindu gods again and smell incense. I remember a devotee there answering my inquiry about life’s purpose by responding that we need to recognize that we are all related and treat one another like family. It is puzzling to me how both Islam and Hinduism seem to preach values of universal brotherhood, but that we hear so much about Islam-Hindu conflict (eg. during partition). Anecdotally mostly every Bangladeshi/Indian that I have ever spoken with about religion has declared that they have no problem with other faiths. In this way, religious tolerance is something that I certainly observe while abroad in India and Bangladesh. Our dozen-member Sundarbans boat crew alone represented Hindu, Muslim, Buddhist, and Christian faiths. They acknowledge such diversity with pride.

On a related note, I remember discussing with Dr. Hashim the religious backwardness of the US in comparison to Pakistan. It feel that many in the US are quick to judge areas like Pakistan as being one of the most destructive areas globally because of religious influence. I think many fail to recognize the backwardness of our own country, where religious ideals seem to often arise as a product of literal biblical interpretation. Such interpretations cause their own rampant destruction in the form of intolerance, blind evangelism, close-mindedness, and ultimately outright or latent conflict due to the inability to accommodate varied perspectives. I imagine some of these issues in the US leak into the political scene of the country and influence policy priority and legislation. Having different religious perspectives is not a problem, but thinking that you have the one True answer is. When infrastructure development is set aside, there may be more similarities amongst us, whether we hail from the US or even Pakistan, than we care to admit. To reference the bible: Take the log out of your own eye before criticizing the twig in your neighbor’s.

We then took a boat ride to Kakran, a pottery village. During most of the 40 minute ride we were trudging through dense water foliage. You could not even see the water underneath. I wonder if the plants flourished so much because of water pollution that doubles as plant nutrients. It was obvious how much it slowed our boat and how river travel would become quite complicated with such plant intrusion. I wonder how rapidly the plant-life has recently grown, and what implications that has had on the overall wildlife of the river.

The village makes pottery by cooking the clay objects in a temporary kiln over a fire pit. I remember being struck by how compact the village was. There was not ample space between structures but really only alleys to walk from place to place. Many people were excited to see us, and some of us hit a beach ball around with them. Hospitality and friendliness were common themes we observed when visiting these places. Curiosity seemed to also be one, as a white foreigner was bound to be relentlessly stared at. I wonder how often people like this see foreigners. It made me uncomfortable how much I was perceiving my own behaviors, taking care with any step or word. I imagined that our behaviors would significantly contribute to how these people would conceptualize foreigners, and I didn’t want to make a poor impression. I wondered what they think of when they see us. I wonder how their perceptions of foreigners changed from our presence there. Despite all of my experiences in India, visiting these villages was rather new to me. It is less common to visit villages like that, probably because it is difficult to arrange. It was certainly a gift for us to be able to visit these more obscure but significant places and to observe their arrangement of life that most Bangladeshis likely assume. Such areas are also likely the most heavily influenced by a changing climate.

We visited the oldest part of Dhaka city by touring the Sadarghat River Front, the pink palace Ahsan Manzil, Shankhari Bazaar, Lalbagh Fort, a walk through the area, and a rickshaw ride. It must have been quite the deal to coordinate. I remember being struck by how low the full barges and river boats were. It seems that they’re loaded to complete capacity, which means on the verge of sinking. Sometimes you can’t even see the edges of the boat because the brim is submerged, and only the square cargo openings and bridge of the boat are left visible. Also, many of the boats looked like pirate ships, all wooden with raised pointed ends. They were characteristically very different from water-faring craft I’ve seen before; usually we see metal or fiberglass boats, not wooden ones.

I was surprised that our motorcoach could fit through all of the streets. Once I remember we hit a man when we were turning, and he got very angry. I wonder if there is a way for a student body like ours to safely transport ourselves from location to location without using the motorcoach as often, especially because I value my experience in and amongst the crowd very highly and love walking around. It would have also been nice to spend more time in Old Dhaka; it’s such a fascinating place. Those who wanted to try out their Bangla (maybe only me) or purchase cha, paan, and trinkets had to do so very rapidly or risk disrupting the group’s progress. There are certainly restrictions that have to be considered when traveling with a group, especially a large one like ours.

At some point during our stay in Dhaka we also visited several universities in the city and met with students and representatives to hear what they had to say about the area, how the climate is changing, and how sustainable development and disaster mitigation are being continuously folded into the public scene. We also met with a community hospital and a center focused on public policy dialogue, creation, and implementation.

So then that evening we boarded the boat heading to the Sundarbans. The Sundarbans is the largest mangrove forest in the world, and it encompasses much of the coastline of Bangladesh and West Bengal in India. A mangrove forest is one that survives in inundated conditions and dense clayish soil. It’s home to many species, including the Bengal tiger. Since the ground is so wet and dense, little oxygen can reach the roots of mangrove trees, so one of the ways that they manage the area is by utilizing specialized roots that grow up and out of the ground to absorb more oxygen.

I remember meeting a man on an adjacent barge after we set sail. He said that his loaded ship may have to wait an entire week until it cleared customs before they could get rid of their cargo. He and several others were excited to talk to me in the few minutes before we left. Later that evening, a member of the crew named Igbal was enthused to communicate with me. When I know a little Bangla and the other party knows a little English, I find that we can meet halfway for a good conversation. When there is enough motivation to communicate, as so many Bangladeshis had, language differences cease to be a huge issue. I find that hand motions also help.

The accommodations on the boat were great. It had two floors, one with tiny but comfortable rooms and another with ample space for group gatherings/meals. The food was delicious, and the bathrooms were perfect for me (Indian toilets available). I also was ecstatic to see that river water was used to refill the toilets. No water is wasted that way! It was amusing to see the toilet get filled with opaque brown water after flushing when the river had been stirred up from stormy weather.

Having Dr. Atiq (director of BCAS) with us was a brilliant experience. He prompted so many great discussions about the environment, Bangladesh, and its citizens. There was also ample time for us to ask him questions, and we were in the perfect environment for it, being able to point out by hand some examples from lectures/discussions in the surrounding areas. I remember seeing how expansively flat the land was, yet how sharply edged some of the coastline was, having been eroded by lapping water. From making sand castles at the beach, I know that sharp surfaces like that are very unstable, and it seemed like at any minute more coastline would sink into the water. It wasn’t difficult to predict that only a small increase in water level caused by a large storm could inundate a huge area with flood waters.

One thing I took from so many of Dr. Atiq’s sayings was that there is no right solution. There are always costs and benefits to any action or environmental process. The annual cyclones are needed to irrigate the mainland (especially rice paddies), but also it can flood drinking water sources with brackish water. Floods are needed to bring in nutrients to the crops and bring fish closer to the coast, but it also brings in saline water that can be damaging. Preventing any of these processes will both cause and prevent damage. Fortifying embankments may prevent coastline erosion, but it also may prevent damaging flood waters from escaping back into the river. Lack of any action however leaves many to the whim of catastrophic environmental processes which are now becoming increasingly dangerous due to a changing climate. I suppose the first step to any situation is first knowing the context of it. Although we were presented with many problems and few solutions, it illuminated the overall situation in our minds of the influence of the environment on human life and livelihood.

I remember constantly feeling like I needed to be doing something about what we were hearing. There were so many issues presented to us, and at each mention I felt like I needed to jump out of my seat and do something about it. I needed to remind myself that my purpose was one of investigation; figure out the context of the situation before action right?

Unexpectedly our plans (and safety) fell into question. Cyclone Aila emerged from the Bay of Bengal, and as we heard of its approach, it was evident that we were going to feel some of its effects since we were so close to the coastline. Its effects were so unexpected that we had disembarked to explore a village without predicting that pre-storm flood surges could affect our area. That was exactly what happened, and we ended up isolated from our boat by the flood waters. Our group hopped onto land and was guided through some paths to the main part of the village, but an hour later when we turned around to head back, the first part of the village and its paths were flooded. We were hundreds of feet away from our boat with nowhere to go but farther back as the flood waters continued to swell. Fortunately we were able to communicate with a crewman onboard to send a speedboat to pick us up. The Bangladeshis around us seemed very calm, maybe because an occurrence like this is not to be unexpected. Some were actually making a great time of it and excitedly casted their nets into the water; the flood waters had stirred up nutrients and the fish were feeding.

Getting caught in the cyclone was one of the highlights of the trip for me. It was not something that made me feel happy to observe, but it was prominently influential in my experience of what a natural disaster actually means. It was incredibly appropriate for us to be left flooded in the village, being able to observe firsthand how rapidly the water had risen. I remember seeing the coastline actively fall apart while we were waiting for the speedboat to arrive. A brick pathway of the village was collapsing brick by brick into the river. Someone had placed each of those bricks very carefully at one point in time, and now in a matter of minutes it was gone, before my eyes. And that is a firsthand experience.

I understood Dr. Atiq when he said that if it could be done, he would have scheduled a cyclone in for our group. The village in which we had just set food had no piece of visible land left when we boarded back onto the boat. Observing that occurrence was likely as close as the group could have gotten to actually feeling the effects of a natural disaster like that, and through this we become more personally aware of what it means to mitigate one. Because of this we also have a more informed perspective of the linkages between climate change, development, and livelihood. Effects on citizen livelihood can be imagined through observations of damaged infrastructure (eg quickly-eroding brick pathway), setbacks associated with its repair, and influenced means of food and monetary income (dirtied rice fields, lost livestock). A changing climate brings more extreme and differently-timed disasters. Occurring at a more frequent pace would bring about calamity because of less recovery time; occurring at an erratic pace would also be more damaging due to unexpected timings. This coupled with a stronger storm intensity is a set of changes to which the security of livelihood and the prosperity of development couldn’t stand a strong chance. With stronger and more frequent floods, how could anyone keep a coastal brick path in one piece?

A quick response to such a disaster is crucial to prevent loss of life. Most of the deaths caused by cyclones don’t actually result from the cyclone itself but from the aftermath of it, over days without proper food, water, or medicine. From what I could gather from Dr. Atiq and others from BCAS, it seems that Bangladesh has a grid of NGOs (in fact, the most of any country globally) that effectively administer first response aid quickly after a disaster. Evidently these responses have been improving in effectiveness over time as death tolls have generally decreased per disaster over time.

Because of their limited resources, NGOs generally cannot continually issue such aid over a prolonged period; it seems as though that governmental programs generally pick up where the NGOs leave off with longer-term aid programs. Although many NGOs implement long-term projects (like livelihood development programs), the general bonus NGOs offer is immediate response, and the benefit of governmental programs is a larger pool of resources. The scenario seems therefore to dovetail rather nicely in theory.

However, an interesting quote from Dr. Atiq about the relation between NGO and government programs is that the NGOs regard the government as a compliment to their efforts, but the government regards the NGOs as a supplement to their efforts. It seems from this that the government adopts a more government-centric perspective to aid issuing. This perspective may have consequences for what kind of aid is issued and how it is issued. If the primary concern is the agency that is issuing aid, then the recipients of aid may be neglected intentionally or inadvertently in some way. In our translated conversations with villagers, it seems that low governmental mitigation effectiveness can be anecdotally supported: The government received a bad grade from the general consensus. This deteriorated regard may be due to aid measures being ineffective, insufficient, or infrequent. In general though, the system of aid delivery in Bangladesh seems to be quite powerful, especially when recent decreases in loss of life due to natural disasters are considered.

These disaster mitigation efforts take quite a toll on resources and time. With regard to confronting climate change as an issue the whole country faces, it seems that the role of NGO and government sectors is to keep up with relief efforts and adaptation strategies in reaction to a changing climate. I imagine that neither the sufficient agency nor the power to confront the actual causes of climate change exist within the scope of Bangladesh’s potential efforts. I also don’t think it is Bangladesh’s responsibility. Addressing the causes of climate change is a tall order that lies most heavily in the lap of countries who have the power to do so. Bangladesh can only do so much; a significant modification to the global climate change situation can only be implemented if nations that are most heavily damaging the environment through high greenhouse gas emission and energy consumption alter their tendencies (the US being the #1 net and per captia energy consumer globally). Such nations it seems usually do no have to deal with the brunt of climate change effects like Bangladesh does. One of the reasons Hurricane Katrina was so devastating was likely our lack of experience in dealing with such disasters, however Bangladesh experiences such destruction on a more regular basis. I wonder how communication of such effects to larger areas of the US population would influence the way we as a nation tackle the causes of a changing climate. As the effects that one decision has on a different part of the globe become clearer, I hope that the perspective of national leaders and policy makers accordingly becomes less focused on individual national needs and more attentive to measures that account for the global collective as a whole.

After a day of anchor to wait out the water currents, a trek through the muddy and buggy Sundarbans, a heartfelt farewell to Dr. Atiq and our boat’s crew/guides, and a day long bus ride back to Dhaka, we were preparing to head to the northern district of Gaibandha. There we stayed with GUK, an NGO that hosts programs in char areas. Chars are basically long islands that the river currents carve out; inhabitants migrate there because of fertile land and open space. After time passes, a community is established that hopes to remain in existence despite the high risk of flooding characteristic of char areas.

We also visited a BRAC site; BRAC is a huge NGO in (and outside of) Bangladesh that implements an array of livelihood support and rural advancement programs. During our time there, we had the chance to interact a great deal with the surrounding community. Whether it was visiting villages, engaging in translated conversations with the villages, seeing the effects of the NGO programs at work, or even drinking chai with locals after a makeshift football (soccer) or cricket game, we definitely got a taste of the country that not just any tour group experiences.

The visit to GUK and BRAC was also tremendously beneficial in the way I conceptualize mitigation efforts. I can gain very little from lectures on these issues in comparison to the perspective that is afforded from firsthand experience. We observed a village organization meeting at a char village and were able to ask the participating women questions about now the NGO’s programs have influenced them. The general response seemed to be very positive, especially with regard to infrastructure restoration. It was good to see the projects that GUK was implementing too, including latrines, garden areas, storage structures, and even solar panels. With such a small electric requirement and lengthy distance from a power plant, the village electrical needs are best accommodated by a few solar panels, a solution that is of course also more sustainable and environment-friendly than drawing from non-renewable sources. Such infrastructural installations are undermined by natural disasters but are crucial to livelihood in terms of physical health/nutrition and income.

Women seem to be the target of so many aid organizations, including BRAC, Grameen Bank, and GUK. For example, the village organizations through which BRAC and GUK arrange programs are always have female members; Grameen Bank also issues its loans to solely to women. With flowering village livelihoods resulting from NGO programs which these women organize, we have observed accounts that these females are regarded with more respect by the community. As a result, it seems that their social status has improved over time and that they have become more active agents in their lives and livelihoods (a less-common sight in Muslim-dominated countries). However, I have also heard accounts of men controlling the decisions of the aid-receiving women. In such scenarios, not only do men continue to dominate the social scenario behind a mask, but also there is increased opportunity for abuse though coercion. The quality of female agency and societal position takes a step back in the face of such possibilities. I have also heard that the directive behind restricting loans to females is contestable. Although it may appear as if female empowerment is the main motivation at hand when loans are made exclusively to women, it is also possible that women are targeted for loans because they are more “domesticated” and therefore more easily held accountable for repayment. These possibilities of exploitation and continued female control and abuse complicate the situation of realized female social position. I like to hope that net positive change is being made over time though, and President Obama has recently praised the women empowerment movements of the country. Social position is certainly an institution that doesn’t change overnight but rather one step at a time.

At BRAC we visited village women who had received aid in the form of livestock coupled with structural additions to house the animals. What was so striking about BRAC’s method of aid implementation was its holistic nature. For instance, if cattle are given to a villager, knowledge about how to care for them, proper vaccinations, feed, and housing are also supplied. In this way, the effectiveness of the cattle as a measurement of livelihood restoration is increased. It was thrilling to observe how this holistic approach to livelihood restoration was well received by the villagers and how it has enabled them to manage their means of livelihood. It is the difference between giving a man a fish and teaching him to. A cow is a cow and it only prolongs life for a short while, as would an amount of monetary compensation. A cow backed with the mechanisms of a sustainable and healthy life (feed, housing, vaccinations, and owner education on breeding/care) becomes an opportunity for owner income and nourishment over a prolonged period, perhaps even a lifetime.

This is where sustainability launches into the picture as a necessity for positive change in the face of a changing climate. The effectiveness of allocated resources is obviously influenced by its sustainable components; this is something that I have acknowledged through my experience in Bangladesh. Without the physical and educational means to house, feed, and breed livestock, animals are as unsustainable as a monetary compensation. Contrastingly, when money is used as a quick means of reimbursement or repair, a lack of resource effectiveness can be observed. Many would criticize the US welfare program for its lack of sustainability; monetary compensation unfortunately does not provide the means to a sustainable livelihood. It was an eye-opening experience to see how thought and planning behind livelihood enhancement can afford tremendous results; however, even such accomplishments can’t face a climate that is changing with as much momentum as ours is. I suppose that a nation is driven to find the most-effective answers to the calls of its citizens when calamity is so often knocking at the door. Such environmental disasters coupled with a high rate of poverty (about 40%) have taught the average Bangladeshi how to effectively use what resources are available. Although maybe often not afforded with much, they are certainly masters of what they have.

Hopping over the border into India only became a possibility a few weeks before we left for Bangladesh. I had overheard Caitlin saying after class one day that she was going to stay in Bangladesh for two more weeks to visit a family friend. My ears immediately perked up; only two weeks is such a short time to stay in an area like that, as interesting and as far away as it is. Although I had been told that the group fare we were using would prevent us from traveling separately, I inquired further to find out that it could work out for me to stay longer if I arranged it through the Emirates office in Dhaka. I prospect shook my parents, and I received immediate “absolutely nots” from them. I found a volunteering program in Kolkata, India that would take me on short notice on a short-term basis to teach English and Math to slum children. The organization is called CRAWL (Children Resolution and Women Learning); it’s an NGO based in Kolkata that hosts programs for volunteers to teach slum children math, English, and computer skills as well as programs for women awareness and street children assistance. Although I left for Bangladesh without my parents’ blessings for a longer stay and not knowing if my return ticket could be rescheduled, I was pumped at the possibility of being back in India.

Much of my free time in Dhaka I spent at the Emirates office, which was fortunately within walking distance from our hotel. The office had to wait for a few days to receive confirmation from another office in the US about the change; then I had to get an encashment certificate for $200 for the booking change since they didn’t accept debit and my emergency credit card was expired. In the end, the return ticket was booked for two weeks later only the day before I was originally supposed to leave with the rest of the group. Although my parents would have rather me come home with everyone else, I was confident that this opportunity was not one that I would be comfortable with passing up. Our perspectives of the situation were entirely different; call it whatever you wish, I was interested in following the energy inside me that resonated, “let’s do this.”

Although my experience with the Muhlenberg group was enjoyable, I looked forward to being on my own after everyone left, and part of that was definitely nervousness as well…There I was after saying goodbye to my friends and professors, in the same hotel lobby, suddenly with little to rely on but my suitcase, an open-minded curiosity, and a one-way ticket to Kolkata for the next afternoon.

That evening I stayed with a friend, Zeeshan, who I had met at a club one evening while out with a few other Muhlenberg students. That night was alone an entire story, leading us through aimless dusty city streets trying to avoid cow dung, to a massive party with dancing and flashing lights, and finally as guests in some of the wealthiest company in the city. Zeeshan and I had kept in touch over facebook, and he offered for me to stay at his home with some friends that evening so I didn’t have to book another night in the hotel. His car and personal driver was also a welcome alternative to public transportation. Atif, also my age, was fond of driving though so the driver sat in the backseat with me, enjoying the ride but grimacing every time Atif scraped the underbelly by going quickly over speed bumps. Richshaws and taxis are fun but often it’s difficult to communicate with the drivers and it’s sometimes also dangerous. I remember earlier another student and I got a rickshaw ride, but the “brief trip” ended up being over an hour and half due to intentional detours, and an obnoxious price was demanded before we were taken back to the hotel.

It was a blast to get to know Zeeshan and his friends, Atif, Arman, Manil, Mikaile, Shabab, and Yaman. We spent the evening driving around, visiting each other’s homes, going places to eat and get ice cream, and joking around with each other. Many of them were coming back from their colleges for the summer, some from schools in Vancouver, New York, and London. Time spent with locals is always a learning experience, and it’s incredibly enjoyable when we relate with similar age and easy communication.

The flight over the border was only about 20 minutes. Although it would have been nice to see the Bangladeshi countryside by bus to Kolkata, my time was limited and the ride would have taken about 16 hours with traffic and inevitable river barge intermissions.

My first steps onto Indian soil sent a wide smile across my face. I hadn’t ever imagined that I’d be back so soon! The airport was hectic with crowds trying to get though the swine flu check point (everyone had to get their temperature taken etc.). Despite the delay, a representative from CRAWL was waiting for me outside of the airport holding a “Matthew Balaban” sign. The taxi ride to my guest house was lengthy with all the traffic—I’d always wondered why there were so many boaty taxis and not the space-efficient auto rickshaws populating the streets. My room was already booked through CRAWL at Calcutta Lodge, located in Sealdah, a very populous and central part of the city. The lodge also had a cafeteria where I could eat three meals a day—accommodation, food, and the two week volunteer fee was only US $260, the price of only a day or two accommodation in New York City I imagine.

For what felt like the first time, I was quite on my own in India. With no study abroad program or teachers to answer to, the independence made me feel like an actual resident. Everyday had its own agenda; sometimes I and a few other volunteers would meet at the nearby train station to assist in the street kids’ project, and once or twice a day I would take the 20 minute local train to Kardah where I would do teaching. Free time was my own to prepare lesson plans, do laundry, converse with guest house attendants, and explore. It was my prized accomplishment to know where to charge my phone with minutes, where to buy the tastiest and cheapest mangos, which trains to take, when my station was coming up, and how to generally navigate the area.

Kardah, in the northern part of Kolkata, was where I did the teaching. CRAWL has found about a dozen and a half slum children nearby who wish to be educated sufficiently to get admitted to main public schools. Three days a week we had an hour of math and an hour of English. There was a syllabus I had that listed what to teach and which books to teach out of. The structure was sufficient, however the children’s attention was lacking much of the time. Maybe it’s characteristic of kids that age (about 10-15), maybe it’s my lack of teaching skills, maybe it’s how boring nouns, verbs, and fractions can be…whatever it was I realized that I definitely needed to cultivate patience and hope that in the end at least something was learned. I guess you never can predict what exactly a student will take away from a lesson, but I imagine most of the time it’s something that wasn’t planned for prior. Who knows, maybe it’s just the “Baa Baa Black Sheep” song I taught them during that one arts-and-crafts day.

In addition to getting to know the children through broken English responses to math problems and shared laughs before and after class, the trains were great places to strike up conversations with locals. Although Kolkatan curiosity toward foreigners doesn’t come close to the bright stares I grew accustomed to in Hyderabad and in Bangladesh, you learn to tell who might welcome a conversation (basically I tried to find people my own age). Two shoe shiners at Kardah station, Subash and Kishore, come to mind when I think of those train rides. While waiting for the train back to Sealdah, we always found the time to practice their English and my Bangla, even including the present-progressive tense. Even when verbal communication failed, smiles, hand motions, and laughs filled the empty spaces for a good time that was easy to look forward to.

It’s fascinating to see people get on and off the trains, especially during rush times. Sealdah station is arguably one of the busiest and most crowded in all of India, and when the train finally stops, like a war the mass of sardine-smashed train-riders meets the mass of hopeful train-loaders craving a seat. It does not matter if the train is still full, everyone still tries to push their way on for a seat, and you can imagine the shoving and stumbling that takes place. Pregnant women and fragile senior citizens beware.

A few days a week we’d also meet for the street kids’ project right at the Sealdah train station. After setting up a small area where kids would congregate to color and play games, I and a few other volunteers would lead them to the washing station to clean up with supplied soap and toothpaste (toothbrush being the trusty right index finger). Later we would line everyone up to receive a small meal, usually jelly and white bread sandwiches and a sweet like chocolate milk, a sure way to get the crowd instantly excited. After the kids had been fed, the extra food would go to the clamoring street-dwelling adults, who tended to be burdened by some sort of physical or mental handicap. Lastly, the rubber gloves would come on and the unorganized medical kit would be opened as a line of multi-aged individuals suffering from some sort of wound awaited treatment. Usually on legs and feet, many had boil-like wounds that likely sprung up from the lack of sanitary conditions. Treatment included disinfecting with iodine and anti-bacterial spray along with a band-aid or cotton gauze. Whatever covering was applied, tape had to be wrapped around somehow to keep it from falling off—with all the humidity and sweat, no dressing would hold unless anchored with tape wrapped around the entire appendage. It proved to be difficult when someone came to us with a head wound. I imagined the pain to be incredibly intense as solution was applied to these open wounds; everyone including the kids rarely even flinched. Maybe they’re used to sucking it up and tolerating pain—it sure did make my job easier anyway.

Back at the guest house, I became fast friends with not only a few traveling residents but also with the crew manning the place. Whenever I’d walk past the front desk, I’d greet the attendant (maybe a few years older than me) and often would stop for a conversation about anything from the differences between our cell phones, to this girl he likes, to how hot it was. The cafeteria was always a good time; the cooks loved to talk about anything in between their dish preparation, and if they were busy it was a pastime of mine to enjoy the overhead ceiling fan and the company of the cashier, who liked to burn incense, watch the cricket game on a miniature black and white television, and shout jibberish to the servers. On slow days everyone would come out to the main seating area to watch the cricket game; that sport sure is a crowd pleaser. I’m sure it’s a welcome break to the work that they’re doing even late into the night. When the day is finished they all found a place on the floor or pushed some tables together for a resting place, no blanket necessary due to the extreme heat. The next day in the same clothes, frequently accented with grime, the process would begin again. Generally from what I hear they didn’t overly enjoy the job, but were happy to have work; most of them came from a neighboring state but worked and lived there in Kolkata for maybe 10-11 months of the year; most were mid twenty in age, although two were only about 15.

Although my singing taste buds would be the first to tell you that Indian food is my all-time favorite cuisine genre, I lost my appetite during my first week or so in Kolkata. I was partially expecting that, as it happened when I first arrived last summer as well. I guess it’s the only side-effect that Indian sanitary standards afford me; everything about you seems to adjust in India, sometimes that requires some time. I was sure to make the point to my cook-friends that although their piles of rice, lentil soup, and chunked curried vegetables were a few of the delicious reasons that I was eager to be back in India, my stomach felt like a miniature coin purse and needed to figure out what was going on. By the second half of my stay though, gorging at the cafeteria, street-side stalls, and Lonely Planet restaurant suggestions was as welcome as a vacation.

I learned the value of a ceiling fan. In the extreme humidity it was the only thing that would dry your clothes, put you to sleep at night, and keep you moderately sane while indoors. If the power failed one night, that was definitely not a good night. I’d venture to say that I sweated more during those two weeks than any of my entire previous summers. Even when I’d be standing on the train at 6 am going to Kardah, the sweat would be dripping off my face and even seeping though my pants. Even though I tolerated it well, one day while exploring a busy shopping street in the central part of the city I realized how heavily I was suffering from heat exhaustion, feeling overwhelmingly dizzy and fatigued. I found the nearest shopping mall and ducked in for a half an hour or so, the air conditioning proving to be one of the most pleasurable god-sent wonders imaginable, right alongside the water dispensed by the chilled cooler at the guest house—pure heaven after a long day. Water of course was a must throughout the day, and although I drank like a fish, it was shocking to not feel the need to urinate at all until right before bed; everything was seeping right out through my skin. The liter water bottle I carried actually was a simple seltzer bottle from Giant Eagle, a grocer by my house in Pittsburgh; lots of people in the villages of Bangladesh and the street-sides of Kolkata found it entertaining to hold it and read what the label had to say. One of my last days there it was accidentally or intentionally taken at Sealdah station while I was treating wounds—a perfect end to its lifetime in my hands, as I wanted to bring an Indian water bottle back to the US anyway, and I’m sure it would be quite a prize in the hands of a street child.

During one of my weekends I went to visit a friend, Ankush, from last year at the University of Hyderabad. His home is only a 3-4 hour train ride north of Kolkata city. Of course he showed me all around his town, Berhampore, including his favorite sweet shop, selling delicious multi-colored and -shaped morsels that were 25 times less expensive and more tasty than the Indian sweets I can get back in the US. We also spent a lot of time at his home talking about anything from cricket to the government to our futures to how excited we were for dinner. His mom’s cooking was definitely one of the reasons I wanted to visit, generously providing an assortment of vegetable, fish, and rice dishes with any meal. Now that’s guaranteed to put a smile on your face, but leave room for your smile to grow wider and your stomach to grow larger as the sliced mangoes are brought out for dessert. Mangoes are an Indian marvel of which I was deprived during my off-season semester stay last year, but this time around consuming multiple ones everyday quickly became a personal endeavor. There were days I must have had over twenty. Ankush and his family taught me about all the varieties, and I ended up learning about the tastes, colors, shapes, textures, and sizes of about 6 different kinds, including langla, mulamjum, sadulla, chompa, and sarenga. Ankush and I also took a brief trip to visit the palace at Murshidabad, near to his home. The stately palace is known for its thousand large doors; it was also the first court of the British presence after the colonialization process started. From there the capital of the British Raj was established in Calcutta, after being relocated to Delhi. Although my time visiting Ankush was a tasty experience, I needed to head back to the city with only a day or two more left in India, and Ankush had GREs to study for; he’s hoping on getting admitted to an institution in the US. I spent about 99% of the trip back with my eyes glued to the passing landscape with its palm trees, thatched-hut villages, and pristine farmlands, as always accompanied by a token cow grazing lazily.

A final memorable experience that comes to mind was when I ventured into the heart of the city (navigating street tram, bus, and underground metro) to get my camera repaired which had suffered a fall in Bangladesh. The Nokia professional said to come back the next day, and it would be repaired as long as the total fee was under rs. 2500, otherwise I would need to give permission to allow a more costly restoration. The bill turned out to be rs. 2400. My initial reaction included a hint of anger, thinking that he intentionally charged me the maximum amount. Thinking about it a few days later, I realized that the story could have gone a different way: The fee may have been rs. 2500 or slightly higher but he decided to save me the hassle of giving permission to continue and needing to come back a third day. It made me realize that we never know what the whole story of any situation is, not only because we don’t have access to another person’s perspective but also because we are embedded in our own. Wherever anger comes from, more often then not it seems to spoil the mind with ruminating cognitions that aren’t even well founded. In the Buddha’s words, “Holding on to anger is like grasping a hot coal with the intent of throwing it at someone else; you are the one who gets burned.”

Just like I didn’t know the story behind my camera repair fee, it’s hard to gauge how influential my presence was for the CRAWL slum children. Although I enjoyed getting to know them and trying my hand at teaching them something new, two weeks is certainly a very short time. Maybe pluralizing nouns and multiplying fractions wasn’t as ultimately influential for all of us as the memory of the overall experience as a whole. Maybe it’s summed up in the crayon-colored card a student gave me on my last day: “To Matt Uncle, Come back again, all students miss you.”

After a final mango, some last minute souvenirs, and some quick but heartfelt farewells to my new guesthouse friends, I was off to the airport again, this time back to Dhaka. While waiting for the plane I made sure to call any other friends in India from last year on my cell phone that only receives service in the country. It was refreshing to be back in Dhaka, not only because the air felt cleaner but because the people seemed even more open and interested in conversation than in Kolkata. It was also a funny feeling to be arriving without the Muhlenberg program guidance that I had a month ago. Fortunately I had gotten back in touch with Zeeshan who was happy to pick me up from the airport. As I waited I gazed at the crowd of Bangladeshis pressed against the fence that lined the pick-up/drop off zone. Every time I’d been to the airport I had noticed this strange crowd, and each time I wondered why they were there. Some people that I had asked said that they were waiting for their family members to come back. Others said that they wanted to get a glance of a foreigner. Whatever the reason, it was a haunting sight to see a crowd several people thick lined along the entirety of the fence with eager looks on their faces. The police had to shove them aside whenever the gate was opened for a car to enter the area. I wondered how the police decided who to let in and who to exclude.

It was great to see Zeeshan again, and he had brought his cousin and Atif along as well. When I asked him about the crowd of people he said with a shrug that they’re basically always standing there. I asked how the police knew who to let in. With a smile he said “We had to pay them 20 taka [about 30 cents] to let us pass without a fuss, but they wouldn’t let the driver enter.” As we circled the lot looking for our driver, I chuckled at how differently things work here and how I would never fully understand that massive crowd.

That evening I met more of Zeeshan’s friends and we engaged in the usual relaxing business of meeting for ice cream, lounging on the rooftop gazing at the city panorama, and enjoying the mangos, snacks, and other tasty dishes that the maids would serve. The air conditioning in Zeeshan’s house was a welcome comfort. That along with its stately appearance made the house feel very luxurious indeed. I made sure to eat my fill as it was my last day in Bangladesh, and I also enjoyed one last walk around the surrounding busy streets, attracting a very large crowd along the way. Every once in a while someone would muster up the courage to ask me a question, and soon there would be about four dozen surrounding curious eyes. Interestingly enough if a conversation lasted long enough it inevitably included topics like politics and religion. Emphasis was always made about advocating universal brotherhood and exercising religious tolerance (except unfortunately on one or two occasions with regard to the Jewish faith), and Obama as well was praised and Bush often chastised. I remember that day someone my age informed me that Hillary Clinton had broken her elbow the day before. Talk about being politically informed.

Although it was difficult to say goodbye to everyone, this month in Bangladesh and India has made me realize that such places aren’t necessarily as far away as they seem. Upon reflection of the past year, I realized that we never know what the future will hold in store for us. I never thought I’d be back having these kinds of experiences again so soon—only a few months after having come back from India the first time. The future really is an unpredictable place, and excitingly so.

Ready for yet another escapade on my return home, consisting of a flight back to New York (where I met up with my dad), a tram out of the airport, a subway train to Port Authority, a bus ride back to Allentown, and a long car ride back to Pittsburgh, I waved goodbye with a smile…A smile that showed how lucky I felt to have met all these interesting people, from lean village farmers to knowledgeable NGO presidents to giggly slum children to college students just like me looking for an exciting time…A smile that beamed triumphantly at knowledge and wisdom afforded through innumerable explorations and new adventures…A smile that had a better sense of who the person was making it…A smile that expected to see these friendly faces again somewhere down the line in a future that will fold into its story even more interesting characters, tasty food, unexpected turns, and fresh experiences.

Namaste and Assalam walaikum

Final 2008 experiences in India; Retransition back to the US and school

So there was a great deal of debate with my family over whether or not I’d return home right away; although I was scheduled to come back on December 16th, many wanted me back earlier in light of the recent terrorist attacks. The perspective of safety here again is different; during my time here there has been some sort of attack every month…although this one was one of the largest (if not the largest) in the country’s history, it was an attack that all the same you learn to cope with, living in a country where the risk of such an occurrence lingers much of the time, especially in urban areas. The problem also was that I had specifically planned to travel for much of my remaining time with Melissa, who was presently in Nepal and unreachable for communication. The plans were a few days in Calcutta, a day at Ankush’s house, 5 days in Sikkim where Bikram lives, Gaya (the tree where Siddartha meditated and became the Buddha), Varanase (great views of the Ganges etc.), and Delhi where I’d meet up with Sumedha for a day. After some struggle, I decided at least to go to Calcutta and then decide there what I would be doing after. That way I could meet up with Melissa and help her find alternatives for travel and also spend at least some time with everyone before heading home.

Our group consisted of Anu, Jonas (from Sweden), Bikram, Melissa, Ankush, and me. For some reason I was abnormally tired on the train and slept for about 14 hours that night. I certainly welcomed that situation, as the train ride in total to Calcutta was about 26 hours. I spent most of my waking hours standing or sitting by the open door, watching the fields of Orissa go by. We also all played a game where we each had a name on a piece of paper stuck to our forehead and each person had to ask “yes” or “no” questions to see if they can guess the person. Last time Bikram had written “Watson” on my piece, like from Sherlock Holms; it had taken a while for me to figure out and he thought that this time around I’d have an easier time with “Satan.” Not really. Simple questions like “Does he exist?” or “Does he live on Earth?” “In space?” or “Is he alive?” “Dead?” all yielded hesitant answers like “…Maybe” or “For some people, yes, others, no.” Not really getting anywhere and growing hungry, I said I was stepping out of the train at a stop to get something to eat. Everyone immediately implored me to keep guessing or at least take the paper off my forehead…they knew it wouldn’t be the best label to have stuck on you while walking around in public.

We arrived in Calcutta after dark. Heightened security at the Howrah station was evident; in addition to armed camouflaged guards everywhere, there were sandbag-stacked circular walls equipped with machine guns at the front of the station. It was there where we met Melissa, who had been traveling through Nepal for a week beforehand. She looked pretty beat up, yet satisfied, with her mammoth backpack, clothes that hadn’t been washed in many days, and bandaged twisted ankle. We were really excited to have been able to find her, but decided to wait to catch up and all after we had reached our hotel. It was there that I also called my mother to let her know I had arrived; she told me that the high school cross country team that my brother runs on just qualified for the national competition. I knew how much of an honor that was and told all of my friends, some twice, about it.

I was glad to have Ankush with us, he knew exactly where to go in the city to find our hotel rooms and knew the appropriate cab prices etc. Calcutta is unlike other Indian cities I’ve been in and immediately struck me as the first city I’ve seen in India that reminded me of cities in the US. First of all, there are few rickshaws and transportation mostly consists of boaty yellow cabs and cars. There’s also a big lit up suspension bridge over a river by the station and visible tall buildings packed closely that I saw when I glanced over the river. There are also wide sidewalks on either side of the road, great spaces for walking or stands that would sell anything from a haircut to fruit to sweets to fabrics to chai. The chai there is served in these clay cups; it was a big deal for Anu, who had seen them on television but never been able to actually drink out of one. It was also fun to smash them on the ground after finishing; I stowed mine away though to take back to the States.

That evening I found an internet café where I tried to cancel my flights to and from Delhi that I had scheduled for about a week and a half later. I was also hoping to find out if the funds could be transferred to a different flight like Indigo Airlines will allow. I called Air India and was given a different number to try. After calling it I was directed somewhere else. Then somewhere else. Sometimes the line would disconnect (hung up upon maybe?), sometimes the new numbers wouldn’t work on my cell phone. Sometimes I couldn’t be understood…there are few things more difficult than giving my last name over the phone to an Indian. I had to restart at least a dozen times and no matter how slowly I went, all of the ‘a’s were very confusing. It was comically difficult. It got to the point where IF someone would answer the number I was dialing and IF he or she could understand me, I’d immediately start begging whoever was on the line NOT to give me a transfer number (which never worked) and answer my simple cancellation inquiries. That kindof didn’t work either and so we all decided to go have Chinese food.

Our hotel room was wide and spacious, but not very tall; I couldn’t stand up without having to tilt my head to the side. Ankush and Bikram stayed at a relative’s house; Jonas and I were in one room, and Melissa and Anu were in the other. The next day after my cold bucket shower we met up with Ankush and Bikram who greeted us with a box full of sweets, for which Calcutta is well known. My favorite was oval in shape and dark gold in color; it had a uniform dense and crumbly consistency except with a small gooey center. The texture of it in my mouth was one of my favorite parts; it was so dense that it felt almost like having peanut butter in your mouth, but slightly grainier. The taste was hard to describe, something like a thick cake maybe.

That morning we walked around the main part of the city and found Ankush’s favorite restaurant/bar (called Oli’s) that was well-known for its non-veg foods. The multi-story, packed together buildings we saw had lots of character and age, but at their bases were modern businesses, such as brand-name clothing or stores, Hallmark, and a Jet Airways office. I decided to investigate my options there for rescheduling my flight while the others went to a palace that was built for Queen Victoria. I was able to change around my international flight, but my domestic flight to Mumbai still had to be rearranged. I attempted to consult Air India again on a pay phone; although I had even more difficulty than the previous day, I was finally able to get an answer! My flight couldn’t be refunded in any way. At least I knew now.

Over the past few days I had been considering exactly when I was going to opt to head home. Although I was excited to see Ankush’s home with delicious foods and the beautiful Sikkim where Bikram lives, I also knew how badly my parents wanted me home. They were adamant about my return; although I was across the world, it seemed like a battle that I simply couldn’t win. I decided ultimately on scheduling my flights for the next day while we were all still in Calcutta; after we left the city for Ankush’s home it would have been much more difficult to get to an airport. Walking into an internet café, I transferred the funds from my Delhi Indigo flight to a new one back to Hyderabad within ten minutes and printed out the itinerary. Then I changed the international Jet Airways flight for a fee of $100 and called my Dad to reschedule the flight from Newark home since it was under his credit card. We decided to keep my Mom out of the loop and surprise her with my arrival. I got a strange feeling knowing that I’d be leaving India within such a short while. It was like I was distant from what was around me, as if it were more evident than ever that this was not home and I didn’t quite belong there.

Walking back to meet everyone, these two people approached me and started talking at me extensively. Embedded within their friendly engagement were tales of their misfortune, how someone had stolen their things etc. The conversation on my end didn’t go much past one or two word answers, and I kept walking. Following, they started asking for money. I promptly refused politely. Over and over. That’s just how I approach it. I hate it when I see people that don’t acknowledge beggars. I guess if you can’t handle it, it’s easier to just ignore them. That definitely doesn’t necessarily prevent them from begging at you though! At least if you let them know you’re not giving anything, you acknowledge that someone is trying to communicate with you. If I were begging and someone blatantly refused to acknowledge me, I’d be pissed. Although I can’t control the emotions of people, and refusing to give to a beggar’s face may or may not make him or her more or less angry/upset, refusing to communicate in the first place sure doesn’t help anything.

I continued to search for the Victoria Memorial. Looking like I was searching, a man walking next to me asked if I needed help. I told him where I was going; he said he was a janitor there and would show me the way. Really funny and helpful man. A few minutes later Ankush called and said they were at the Sikkim Office getting entry permits. The man knew where that was too and redirected me. We talked the whole time about Calcutta and these elementary school kids he was teaching and my travels etc. He took me right up to the Sikkim office entryway and politely asked for a donation for his students, if I saw it was fitting. No one knows whether or not he actually had these students; there is no way to know and that’s not the point. I gave him rs.50 because he was a friendly, unobtrusive, and humble man; who knows, maybe he’d even get his students something. Whether or not that ultimately was the case, he deserved it and guided me right to where I needed to go. That was reason enough. Although he asked for rs.100, he was grateful for what I gave.

My friends were distraught to hear of my decision. It wasn’t completely out of the blue; Melissa had been trying to figure out what she was going to do with herself during the days that we had scheduled to travel together after I had told her that I was probably leaving. It’s just that leaving as soon as the next day was like a smack in the face. The worried, abject looks on their faces at the thought of not seeing me again for quite some time, if not at all, and hugs they all started giving sure didn’t make things any easier.

That evening we met up with Ankush’s brother and all went to a delicious Bengali restaurant. The food was delicious, included in the dishes we ordered was fish and all sorts of things cooked with mustard oil, characteristic of Bengali cuisine.

The next day we ventured around some of the less-upscale parts of the city. This was more what I had imagined Calcutta would look like, with grimy walls, many people, and tiny shops, sometimes covering an area less than maybe 3 square feet. We went to a museum and then a café where the college students in the area frequented. There Anu got a phone call from her older sister, calling to let her know that she was going to be married. Anu was shocked and very excited, then jokingly she became upset at her sister for not telling her about the engagement sooner. Melissa was feeling ill, so she stayed at the café where everyone would meet back up after I had left. The rest of us, stepping onto the street, got some sugarcane juice before heading back to the hotel so I could gather my things. It was time to go.

Ankush, Anu, Bikram, and Jonas accompanied me to the airport. On the taxi ride there I took a video with my camera of the streets, trying to take in every part of the environment. At the entrance to the airport I said goodbye to everyone; although everyone was joking like normal, there was a definite sense of heaviness in the air and I could tell how upset everyone was to see me go. Although I had intentions of coming back at some point to visit, no one ever knows what is going to happen in the future. As I stepped into the airport to check in, tears leaked out of my eyes.

After many security checks, I boarded the plane, less excited than on my first Indigo Airline trip to Jaipur several weeks ago. I felt very heavy, like the enthusiasm had been drained from me, and slept the whole way back to Hyderabad.

I got a bus back to Medhiputnam. It was exciting for me to be back in Hyderabad; it felt like home. I knew it, its quarks and idiosyncrasies; I was familiar with its people and how they acted when I walked down the street; I was acquainted with my favorite parts of the city, like Medhiputnam, where my friends and I had been so many times. I stopped at a sweet shop on the side of the road and purchased something that looked like my favorite sweet from Calcutta. It didn’t taste the same. I guess Calcutta is known for its sweets for a reason.

I was able to locate a shared-auto back to Gachibowli; a shared-auto (basically a larger auto rickshaw fitting roughly 7) is a great option of transport because you are able to sit down (unlike often on the bus), it’s cheap, and you can see the city out the window very clearly. The auto looked practically new, with cushiony seats and a solid metal frame that looked freshly painted. Inside on the way back I struck up a conversation with some folks from Yemen, they were excited to speak with me and were very curious about what my thoughts of the city were. We had a friendly conversation for 15 minutes or so before they disembarked. Back at Gachibowli I stepped out of the auto and started to walk away. After 20 seconds or so I realized that I had neglected to pay for the ride; I ran back to the driver and offered him money, but he waved his hand at me and said the fee was already paid. As he drove away I was confused until I put the pieces together. My new friends from Yemen had asked where I was going specifically when they got off, and talked to the driver for a few seconds; although I didn’t realize it at the time, they had paid my fare.

Back at school Mr. Das was more than willing to let me sleep in an empty room at the guest house overnight; there was only one other student there, Tess, and it was eerie to see the usually chatty house so quiet and empty.

Before retiring that night I visited Gops one last time and ordered my favorite usual, paneer masala and veg noodles. I ate alone, as none of my other friends were there, but the food was just as good as it always had been, since Ankush first introduced it to me many months ago. As I left, I tossed the remainder of my roti on the ground for the dog eyeing me nearby hungrily.

The next day I was slightly alarmed to hear that a police officer had been shot while in pursuit of a suspected terrorist in Hyderabad the day before. I needed to go into the city that day before I left, but wasn’t sure if that would be entirely safe. It seemed that renting a personal taxi for the day would be the best bet, as it would be the fastest mode of transportation and also would be able to escape quickly if something unexpected were to occur.

My driver, Chandrah, was very nice and willing to take me anywhere I needed to go in the city. First we went to a bank where I cashed my traveler’s checks into rupees. Then we went to Abids where the main post office was. There I had my tabla set prepared to be shipped. It was tied and wrapped several times in this burlap covering, the edges of which were held together with melted wax. It was going to cost only about $40 to have it shipped to the US, taking about 40-50 days. I could have had it flown over in like 15 days, but that would have required twice as much cost. We then stopped at a bookstore so I could find “fragile” stickers for the sitar I was bringing home. After, we stopped at a suitcase store so I could get another one for all the extra luggage I needed to haul home. Lastly, we stopped at a tailor’s shop in Lingampally where I was having kurtas tailored. The last time I was there they didn’t have everything finished; this time again, one was not finished. Although I vocalized how upset I was not to have all the articles finished now after two deadlines, I agreed to come back to pick up the last one in a few hours, hopefully by then it would be done.

Chandrah dropped me off at school and would be back in a few hours to take me to the airport. I spent my last few hours in Hyderabad organizing my things and eating at a tasty Punjabi restaurant in Gachibowli. Eggplant masala and malai kofta, my favorites. The waiters were so incredibly kind and full of hospitality, qualities that I feared I would miss back in the States. I knew what I wanted, requested it to be spicy, it came promptly, I let them serve me just like they always do, I ate with the hands just like I had grown accustomed to, and I was excited to get the bowl of warm washing water after the meal was finished. I asked to have the leftovers in a take-away parcel so I could give it to Batia and Rachel who would be back at the guest house shortly after I had left. They share my affinities to eggplant and malai kofta.

Back at school, it was time to say goodbye to Mr. Das and Tess; at least I didn’t have to say goodbyes to every student like those who left early had to. I was grateful for all of Mr. Das’ guidance that he had delivered throughout the semester, and before I got into the car I gave a hug to Tess. She was the first student I had met when I first flew into Hyderabad in mid-July, now she was the last I was saying goodbye to.

I nodded one last time to the gatekeeper at the entrance of the university, and said my silent goodbyes to the city as Chandrah headed to the airport on the road that had been under construction the whole semester, but had just recently opened up.

At the airport I offered Chandrah a healthy tip for all of his help that day; I insisted that he take more than his fee, but he politefully yet solidly refused. Jet Airways personnel handled my two huge suitcases and sitar. At the check-in counter I asked to have 3 bags checked; the website claimed that students traveling back to the US before the end of the year had the option to check another bag. Fortunately she agreed and assured me that the sitar would reach its destination unscathed, as I begged for its safety. It was as easy as that, no extra fees or anything. I tipped my luggage handler some extra money, and his partner asked for a tip as well (he had done nothing to assist me with my bags though). Such an occurrence has happened before, and I did just what I had previously decided to do: Smile and say that the tip can be shared if the man who was actually working was willing. The man accompanied me to the counter where I changed all of my rupees into American dollars. I wish he hadn’t, he was in awe (practically laughing) at how much money I possessed and requested that I give him some. I continued to smile at him and simply denied every time he asked.

After security, I stopped at the chaat vender and got kachori one last time. I would surely heavily miss its spicy, tangy, buttery, and salty taste. After talking with a food vender for some time who was excited to become fast friends, I boarded the plane and was off to Mumbai.

The airport there was as crazy as I remember after when I first arrived in the country: planes everywhere, areas being renovated with dry wall corridors, and beautiful blue granite bathrooms. On the bus ride to the international section of the airport, I became friends with the guy sitting next to me who was on his way to vacation on an island. He had been many places, including Dubai, where he explained that a private helicopter had been waiting for him at the airport to take him to the hotel. He seemed full of passion and was really excited for his trip. We continued to talk for probably over an hour in the airport and exchanged addresses as we parted ways.

While waiting for the plane, I explored around, called my mom to let her know that I was hiking in the mountains of Sikkim (she thinks I’m staying in India for about 11 more days, I couldn’t wait to surprise her), and flipped through some books at a stand.

The plane was just as I remembered it, stunning service, comfortable seating, great food, blankets, drinks, space. I felt jaded though. I had expected all of those things to be there. I had wondered throughout the entirety of my stay in India what it would be like to be on this plane back home; what would I be thinking? Who would I be missing? How would I have changed? Now here I was. It didn’t feel as glorious as I had imagined it to be, maybe partly because I was still thinking about India, not where I was going. Maybe I hadn’t expected it so soon. I had changed things around two days ago, and now suddenly the time to close my unforgettable experience had arrived.

I played the language game that I had tried on the way over in July. I recalled how I remembered the voice on the game sounding, I recalled how excited I was to actually learn Hindi at the same time. Now I had been through Bhavani’s class, the numbers were easy. I knew all the answers. I missed the freshness, the novelty…the anticipation of what would be coming. Now, I knew, I had been, I had seen, I had done…and the anticipation transformed into nostalgia.

I made it through the Hindi game easily. None of the other languages felt interesting. Neither did any of the other games.

I spent a lot of time sitting and thinking.

In Brussels I considered buying chocolates for my friends and family, but didn’t care for the prices. I was converting prices into rupee values, and was significantly dissatisfied with every one.

I walked around a lot, looking at things, watching people. No one was watching me though. Things were different here. Sitting and waiting for the plane, I tried to make a conversation with the guy sitting next to me. He was Indian, I guess I felt most comfortable talking to him. He lived in New Jersey. An excitedness and engagement was missing from the conversation.

Seven hours later we landed in Newark. I thanked every steward and stewardess that had served me and admired with a smile the spaciousness and fanciness of the premiere class before stepping off the plane. The corridor was cold. I stepped onto the terminal and followed the stream of people heading to customs around a walkway that was shielded from the rest of the airport waiting area with glass. I had seen this before, while I was waiting in those very seats I could see, eating my final meal in the US (a salad) before heading off to a very different world for half a year. It all hit me in a flash, all the anticipation I harbored while waiting anxiously before I had boarded my large plane. I had watched this stream of people disembark, behind the glass; they had just arrived from India, many had saris on, less than a day ago they were in the far-away strange land I was heading to. I wondered when I would be disembarking just like they were, when I would be part of that crowd, how I would be different, what things I would have experienced, how it would feel to be back in the US after so long. It all had seemed so far away. I wondered, and now I was one of those people behind the glass. Here I was, just like I had imagined. All that excited anticipation, and now here I was.

I started to cry.

Tears silently rolled down my cheeks even as I waited in the customs line for the man to check my passport. I felt empty. I didn’t want to have the recent experiences I had lived fade away into the past. What a unique opportunity, an opportunity of independence, of friendship, of exploration, of curiosity, of unexpectedness, of living the distant corners of unimaginable places and all manner of conversations with friends and even quick remote acquaintances, all of whom I cherished, yet all of whom I felt slipping away. The page had turned, and indeed unique chapter had been closed.



The journey here had been just over 24 hours. It didn’t make up for the difference between the two destinations. That flight should have been days and days.

It was difficult getting up and down escalators with two fully sized rolling suitcases, a backpack, and a sitar. Also getting into crowded trams.

The woman at the registration counter was loud but helpful, she told me where to go to see if my sitar could be gate checked back to Pittsburgh, and she said she’d let me balance the contents my suitcases so only one was overweight. She was also very frank about the luggage and overweight charges, which cost more than changing around all of my Jet Airways domestic and international flights, and certainly more than the free-of-charge checking that Jet Airways offered.

The sitar was just barely the maximum size for gate-checking. It was an interesting sight, the sitar going through the x-ray machine. The security guard was curious about it. It was a very different sight to him. The sitar made it back ok in the end, in tact and in one piece. The cold and lack of humidity though have caused two of the 17 strings to snap thus far.

The men sitting behind me on the plane were large, and they were loud. They loved to laugh. The magazine in my seat had so many things available for purchase in it.

The Pittsburgh airport was so familiar it seemed dull. A neighbor picked me up. It was very, very cold outside, my sandaled feet weren’t used to it.

My parents were watching Eric’s competition in Oregon. The house was empty. It was just as I remembered it though, and as soon as I had entered it felt like I had never been gone. My bed felt like a cloud. I wasn’t used to such a soft mattress though; it made my back curve uncomfortably while I was resting.

I woke up very early, it was still dark outside but I felt like I needed lunch; it felt like I needed lunchtime at Gops.

I headed out to Muhlenberg to visit friends. They were surprised speechless to see me. They didn’t really know what to say, and neither did I. There was an end-of-the-semester party that evening. I was so incredibly disoriented and would end up speaking in a lost, monotonous voice anyway, so I opted not to be a part of the crowd of loud people in the apartment. I fell fast asleep on the floor in my friend’s room.

I attended Muhlenberg’s Candlelight Carols service. The Christmas music was familiar although confusing, maybe because I hadn’t had Advent to feel “in the spirit.” Muhlenberg’s chapel and organ console had seemed so incredibly distant not so long ago. I was tired. It was hard to follow my friends who ran up to me afterwards, excited to see me for the first time in many months.

They ask me how India was, I smile and say that it was amazing, and then we move on with our lives.

Back at home my parents were coming in a few hours. I lit the fire and the Christmas tree, and waited by the kitchen counter. My dad knew I was there, my mom didn’t. She saw me as she came into the living room; she froze and an astonished, slightly concerned look came about her face. I could tell she was very confused, muttering questions like “…how?” Smiling, I gave her a hug, and could tell that she was very glad to have me back.

It was a nice winter break, visiting with friends, many of whom wanted to hear all about India. One conversation with a friend and his family about India lasted almost 6 hours. Christmas was hard, I became sick for many days. I saw Slumdog Millionaire, elements in it made me long for where I used to be. The movie was nice but its representation of the country alarmed me and was not entirely congruent with my experience there. Media like that likely contributes to conceptualizations of the country that prompt a question like “why would you want to go there?” in a conversation about my abroad experience.

I got used to being at home, playing the piano, keeping up with friends from India periodically through Facebook, visiting with close friends and brother just like always. It was nice to see all of them again.

Now I’m back at school, it’s been about two weeks. I’ve found it incredibly difficult to readjust, and a large part of me is refusing to readjust, probably out of fear that if I fall into what I’m used to here, what happened in India will be forgotten, will move into the more distant past. The ways people interact annoy me. What they wear annoys me. I don’t feel motivated to do academic things yet. I feel confused, and my academic direction feels lost, as I ask myself questions like “can I stay here for another year and a half?” “is this what I really want to be doing?” Things like choir continue on just like always, I realize that it did just the same even while I was away last semester. Teachers engage me just like I remember from last spring, it seems so familiar now, but it had seemed so distant in India.

I like to exercise when I can. I like to do yoga. Things like that calm my mind and allow me to focus because I feel ok with where I am and what I’m doing. It’s very distracting when you question where you are and what you are doing so much. It is also quite a fruitful learning experience.

My assignments, papers, and duties remain uncharacteristically disorganized in my mind and in my room.

I knew it wasn’t going to be easy; it shouldn’t be. If it were, what would that say about how deeply an experience like that affected me? Such a readjustment is a process, and the most difficult part of traveling it seems. Although being in India for the first time was disorienting and confusing much of the time, feelings like that are not as difficult to deal with as these.

I don’t feel like I’m a different person. I’m still Matt. But the study abroad experience has added and transformed dimensions of who I am. I feel like the country is part of me; if I were there again I imagine I could navigate and adjust to the mode of life there as if I had never left, although the country continues to change rapidly. I think more about what I actually value, not just what I should be doing. “Shoulds” can cause so much pain. I think more about the present, trying to do things I feel I need to then and there rather than put them off for later; no one knows what the future brings. I’m still working on lifting myself from the past, being the emotional and nostalgic person that I am. I feel in tune with a sense of what “different” means. The condition of so many things in India contradicted how I would try to make sense of them, so many things were inexplicable and incomparable to my frame of mind. Sometimes you can try to explain something or figure it out for ages, but nothing fully grasps the idea until you conclude with “it’s just different,” as unhelpful of a description that may seem. I remember trying to figure out the role of caste in Indian society; as I continued to investigate while I was there, I realized everyone’s own opinion, perspective, and setting within and about the caste system was different. Not only is India different from the US, but it is different within itself. So many multiplicities are there, so many unique influences that cause me to answer most any question asked to me about India with an “it depends” response. You question what you know, you question your conceptualizations of others, because you know more than ever how different people can be from one another, how people are influenced by so many things that contribute to their own unique perspective, yet also how we are all the same, sharing feelings and endeavors. I had to learn to set judgment aside in India, I knew nothing, and could judge nothing, interpret nothing. In a situation like that, you question yourself. You question the validity of your values; you question the way you see the world, your own perspective. There is no Right way, just a path that fits you; maybe this is why a solution sometimes isn’t as helpful as the right question, which prompts a potential world of knowledge and growth. People act the way they do because of reasons that influence specifically them, that’s what individuality means, and that individuality is only lived by one.

“Variety is the spice of life,” that’s one of the things that India had to say to me.