Experience in Hinduism

On Saturday the 6th I woke up, aware that I was late waking up. We had a field trip planned for the day, to a temple called Belur Math, a good deal north in the city. I was up and showered immediately and out the door for a taxi. For a few reasons, we decided a taxi all the way there would not be the best mode of transport, so we had opted to get a boat down the Ganges from one dock to another. Our taxi took us as far as a dock at Babu Gath, a route that took us throw a wealthy district of the city. Despite knowing and seeing the type of wealth that exists in Kolkata, it is still bizarre to notice the change in environment from different levels of affluence. While the area we are living in is definitely not lower class, there is still a strong juxtaposition between it and the area we drove through today, which would have only been upper middle class. Even here the contrast between rich and poor is visually present, beside beautifully cared for parks and grand buildings, men sit and scavenge on the streets, cutting trees and chopping wood; a dismal reality of the discriminatory roll of fate for a person born in Kolkata.

When our taxi left us off on the side of the Ganges, between us and the dock lay a small thrown up market, customary of India. Temporary wooden shacks selling hot foot, drinks and cigarettes. The boats on the river are a commonly used, and cheap, mode of transport, so it makes sense that shops would spring up around the docks. Wandering through the stalls, a bigger one stands at the back where we buy our tickets up river for five rupees. We are told there is no boat that will take us all the way to Belur from here, but we can get a train from Haora, and a boat to Haora. We strolled down a wooden gangplank onto a large metal block sitting in the water, which served as a dock. When the boat rolled in, people clambered on and off; in true Indian style there was absolutely no concept of a queue, those who climbed first alighted first.All aboard, we were a smaller crowd than had gotten off, Haora was a central point of transport so I imagine it exports more than it takes in from these smaller stations. Haora bridge loomed out in front of us, a huge white metal structure stretching from bank to bank, and the boat rolled into the station. Getting off the boat was less of a struggle than getting on. We walked back up a very similar gang plank, had our tickets checked, and out an archway to be faced with a impressive red brick structure, dotted with fine arches and white stone columns. Haora train station surpassed Heuston in architecture and size. Between us and the station stormed no less than a hundred yellow taxis. We made the venture across and bought our tickets. With some time to spare, we bought some food and wandered towards our platform. Often when I am here, I am struck by the beauty of the small things in Indian culture. In most train stations I have seen there is an abundance of seats, nearly always entirely occupied. While there were seats available here, whole families sat on the floor together, a blank strewn beneath them. The simplicity of sitting on the ground is a very standard practice in India, and I find it a soothing image, complacency in simplicity, that is lacking in my home life.

Our train journey was about twenty minutes long in a very empty train, I still feel cheated out of of my genuine, manic, Indian train journey, but I'm sure I'll experience one before I leave. Getting off the train, the ground of the station was fine marble, the walls were a clean white paint. A tall archway and porch led us out to a similarly fine courtyard, which led to the street. One thing about India remains consistent 90% of the time, the streets are mayhem. Taxi drivers attempt to reel in your custom by flattering you or starting conversation, fruit stalls try to call you, rickshaw's only kind of try to dodge you. Walking in Kolkata is not meant to be a complacent experience. Down the street and across the road a much grander arch way led us into a wide avenue. Tall walls flanked a cobbled road. Here, at least, road traffic didn't bother you. On the right hand side, trees and stalls stood. A couple hundred meters saw us into the main temple complex. The ground was a smooth paved stone. Small and large gardens stood behind low fences, well kept from care and respect, they were totally untrodden. All the buildings seemed to be made out of the same pale pale yellow, almost white. To our left, its porch canopied by tree branches, stood the museum. To the right stood toilet facilities and a place to leave your shoes. We headed straight for the main temple as, unfortunately, beyond 6pm, visitors were only allowed here. Thankfully, it was the main reason we were here, although it would have been nice to wander down the steps at which the river lapped, or to view some of the other temples.. Looming tall on our left was the main temple. An impressive structure, the roof was arrayed with squared domes and spires. Below them stood decorative balconies in arches. The main door was close to 20 foot high, above which a finely carved circular design, similar to that often seen on the Indian flag, dominated.

Inside we took seats on the black and white marble floor, cross legged. We were in a long hall, revered in atmosphere and grand in design. Silence hung powerfully in the air, condemning inconsiderate noise. Above and around us a stone balcony shaped a rectangular viewing space over the prayer area. To our left and right columns, stretching at intervals the length of the hall, rose to support the ornately carved balcony. Beyond the pillars finely carved double doors, at separated from each other by about 8 foot, stood opened up onto the raised dais surrounding the temple, looking out to the gardens that bordered the area. I took a moment in my seat to breath deeply and appreciate to peace of the place. Soon, a bustling began, and the crowd sitting at the back of the temple began to move up, so we followed. Men in white kurtas and trousers had begun to arrive in the temple space, they were monks we thought, to prepare for the service. They rolled out mats between the rows of pillars; one for men, one for women and, later, a number closer up for the monks. From midway up the hall, on the men's mat, I could see the idol in the box at the centre focal point of the hall. I had, mistakenly, thought the statue for that of a man in remarkable stillness. The statue attracted specific worship over the course of us awaiting the prayers. People lay down in front of him and chanted before returning to their seats. These people were an inconsistent ebb and flow that continued almost until the beginning of the prayers, it included a number of the monks. For a time now, I closed my eyes. Light was beginning to fade and I thought the prayers must begin soon. A good time, I thought, to attempt to meditate.

For close to half an hour I had my eyes closed. It takes about half an hour for my knees to ache from sitting cross legged, a time I have actually been trying to improve on. Anyway, the ache tends to run away with my serenity and I opened my eyes. The sun had set more, but light still clung to the atmosphere. My eyes took time to adjust to the artificial dim from above us. The monks had grown in number, they were now dotted with orange amongst the white kurtas. Still, pilgrims lined up the pray before the idol until the sound of melodic drumming and strumming accompanied total darkness outside and the chanting began. At irregular intervals a ringing punctuated through the chants. The unified voices from around me washed over and, closing my eyes again, briefly, goosebumps rose on my arms. While not everyone in the room was chanting, the hairs on my arms said the sound came from everywhere. Male voices, presumably due to the dominance of the monks, seemed to make up the majority of the sound. The sonorous ascension and decension was repetitive and moving, sufficiently so to ignore the discomfort in my legs, which had spread to my hips. The chant continued for about 20 minutes, at intervals I observed and closed my eyes to let it wash over me. At the far end of the hall, in the idol's chamber, a monk led the procession. He waved a clutch of candles rhythmical and synchronized with the chants bowing before it.

At the end of the first chant I climbed to my feet and left the temple. Despite the peace I had felt during the chants, a semblance of intrusion remained, and our group felt it was time to leave. The peaceful air hung on the darkness outside, and we climbed back down the steps to leave.

On a highly contrasting point with the sentiment of the evening, alighting from the steps, one of our group discovered his shoes had been stolen from outside the temple while we sat in prayers, a real kill to the sanctity we had felt that evening.  

In the Sundarbans, Friday 28th and Saturday 29th

This post is partly sourced from a diary entry I made on Saturday the 29th of June, a day after arriving in the Sundarbans accommodation.I am going to edit and finish it here, hopefully making it a pleasant read from whatever I can salvage from my scribbles and recollections.

The Sundarbans.

After more than a little confusion, regarding transportation, and a squashed car journey, reminiscent of my childhood holiday car trips, we arrived in the Sundarbans yesterday afternoon. It is a stunning landscape. I hardly believe I have ever been anywhere as rural, or as naturally captivating as this region, about 150 km south east of Kolkata. The Sundarbans stretches east into Bangladesh, and covers the same area, roughly as Ireland. It is the natural habitat of the famous, and rare, man-eating Bengali tiger. I'd be lying if the hopes of seeing one, or a crocodile or snake didn't grab my fancy.

Due to it's rurality, we decided the best means of travel to the region was by a hired car. At about 8am I was woken up, we were due to be collected by 9am at Ruby Hospital. I was going to be pushed for time and a shower was out of the question. I was up, dressed and eating pronto. A scurried bit of final packing saw me rushing out the door, rushing back for my glasses whilst colliding with cartons of drinks and, to my later dismay, leaving behind my flip flops. Outside, on the street, we make a few final purchases of water, chocolate and similar long distance travel necessities, then hop into a rickshaw, which takes us as far as Kasba New Market. It is only five minutes away and situated on the main road, but we have to hop out here to get another, horribly expensive 5 rupee rickshaw going the opposite way down the main road. Another quick journey and we are on the other side of the messiest roundabout I have ever seen in my life. Ruby Hospital roundabout makes the Arc de Triomphe look like a baby could navigate it. Out of the rickshaw we see no sign of our hired transport. A phone call tells us we need to get a taxi to Garia junction, and before long we are staring at unknown rural roads. I had incorrectly assumed the direction of where we were going but are reassured by the group in a taxi ahead of us we are headed in the right direction. The taxi leaves us out, under a bridge at a taxi rank. The ground is dry dirt, and the area seems to have spawned a market. We are directed to Gariahad Junction; two minutes and a flight of stairs later we are overlooking the area. It took my until I saw the terminal to realize Gariahad Junction is a big train station, the market being an offspring to the traffic of pedestrians from the station.We can see no sign of anyone and nother phone call sends us back, confused, to where we started, Ruby Hospital. Finally, we have found our car. It was definitely not made to fit the ten of us, but we squeeze in nonetheless and try to deal with it in good humor. We eventually settle on the most comfortable combination we could think of, with the minimal sacrifice to foot blood-flow,  and we are off.

The three and a bit hours definitely weren't as torturous as the cramped conditions would have led you to believe. Almost immediately outside of Kolkata City, the landscape changes to an irregular spacing of villages and towns, and inconsistently developed roads, running through forested and remarkable areas. The staring drastically increases, which drives home the knowledge of the inward nature of these communities. We are an even more bizarre sight, even drawing some verbal exclamations at times. The serenity of the natural regions we passed coupled with a quiet phase in the car, allowed some time for peaceful thought. I had a reflective moment, staring at the inland bodies of water and the vivid green foliage flicking by me, a recognition at the improvement in my mood, and an ability to go with the flow that I have been aspiring towards for the past year. It was an extremely pleasant realization, one I doubt I would have achieved without Dan Millman's writing and this trip. As the beautiful scenery flicked by, sometimes slow, sometimes fast, depending on the state of the roads, an easeful mood settled on me.

It was with this sense of peace that I observed the oddities of the journey as interesting but not bizarre. Entering one of the towns, the traffic slowed to a halt, then advanced to a crawl. Rounding the corner of a street lined with stalls, we came to a similarly lined junction. The combination of the permanent street narrowing stalls and a nonchalant bull was creating a bottle neck. The bull did not receive a second glance, unlike us, and had an uncaring nature that, for some reason stands against my, probably misinformed, impression of bulls as aggressive animals.The next village on was in the midst of a large market. Sacks of fruit and veg filled the stone tiled town square. Further beyond, the towns diminished to villages, which decreased in size rapidly.Huts began to be the, irregular, dominant form of abode. They lined the streets and they hid back in the tress, ranged in size and material, some seemingly made of mud. Hidden away in foliage and mud a path led, around a pond of water, to the door of one brown wooden, single story structure. The roof was brown thatch. It seemed like a relatively large home. A woman stood at the door, staring out to the road as we drove by. The body of water, despite the algae, held an air of peace. Standing, up to his chest, in the water, an elderly man cupped water in his hands, lifted and poured it over his balding head. The grey of his beard stood out, wiry and strong like himself, in the creation of a simple representation of life.

A few turns off main roads took us down smaller and smaller streets. The size of the roads indicated to us we were getting close to our destination. Here too cows lie and stand in the street, and a vehicle has no choice but to go around them. Here, open fields loom to both sides, presumably cultivated for farming. Soon enough the compound looms out in front of us. The iron gates in the 6 foot walls stand open, and we immediately hurry to stretch our legs. The building is much bigger than I had anticipated, white and red stone manor, with gorgeous balconies dotted over the three storey structure. I have a little time to take it in before we are greeted by the Sundarbans team and are brought inside. First on the agenda is lunch, which was delicious. Sundarban prawns, potato curry and mango chutney make for an incredible meal. An after lunch nap is well received, and about 4 o clock we are woken up. As the Sundarbans team live in very close proximity with the children they teach, and have a field in the grounds, they regularly play sports with the kids after school. As the guests, we were invited to play football. A glance off the balcony at the field reveals children and saturated brown statues running after a ball. The field is covered in mud from the recent monsoons. Realizing what I'm in for, I resigned myself to a faceful of mud and headed down to the field. Within ten minutes we are all covered in the foulest smelling mud imaginable. Afterwards, we rinsed off under an outdoor pump, and a hose. Once clean enough to enter the house, I climbed the stairs and had a shower, fully dressed, and then further washed myself and my clothes, to no avail. I still smelt, there was still mud in my ears and my shorts were rank, but I was delighted for the fun of the game. After showering we headed into the local village area, which constituted a few dozen stalls selling the necessities, such as very fine chai, fried foods, groceries, clothes and phone credit. Sitting down to munch on vegetables, deep fat fried in chick pea flour and mustard oil, and a glass of some deliciously spiced and sweetened tea in the simple surroundings was a simple pleasure. That night, back at the house, we had dinner. Afterwards we shared stories and played some games.I was introduced to an interesting young man from Delhi, who was also doing placement in the Sundarbans. Conversation led to travelling and my interest in Tibet came out. He informed me that, were I to travel to Dharamsala I would get direct details from Tibetan exiles about their treatment in China, I am incredibly excited at the prospect of meeting with some of these people and hearing about their experiences. I don't think it's an opportunity I'm going to pass up.

The next morning is slept in until the afternoon, and after lunch we are taken on a easy walk, for a few hours, along the shore of the Ganges delta stream. Here, at points the river must be about half a mile wide, and I guess it must be wider again upstream. Seeing a river this size has never happened before, except in my mind, and I'm brought back to the thoughts of rivers I've been told about in fantasy books.The insurpassability of natures flow of water is often used in fiction to create a barrier, and there I could see why. The river's flow, while apparently slow, was probably far stronger than it seemed. I mused that, if one were to swim it, they would probably have to aim upstream, simply to reach their counterpart across. Walking further upstream the river does indeed seem to get wider. At one point it becomes very manageable to walk down the levee to the river's edge. A small fishing boat sat on the edge, the waters mildly lapping it to a casual rock. Out on the river, a number of such rowboats were in evidence, each bearing no more than two people.

Clambering back up the embankment, we walk away from the river and down an open track lined with tall slim trees. Either side of the walled path the ground dropped away three or four foot to an open, flooded, field, presumably used for growing rice. It's not long before the children, who have been following us since just before we climbed down to the river, are joined by more, and some adults. We are decidedly a bizarre sight and the children are joined by a small number of adults. Unlike the impression I would develop at home, there is no animosity in the staring. The children are friendly and excited, if a little shy. Rarely, in this country, have I encountered open vehemence. We may be an oddity, but we are greeted with warm hospitality in the majority of cases, and the friendliness does not end in the Sundurbans. For another half an hour, we wander back through farmsteads. Bales of hay, semi-clothed children, women in saris, goats and cows regularly permeate the area. This place, though sparsely populated compared to Kolkata, is absolutely alive in a way rural Ireland does not compare. On our way back we returned through the village. At this hour, 4pm, nothing is open. The shops and stalls will not start selling until dark, so we head for the house. On the way there we encountered a snake, so no crocodile or tiger so far, but still pretty cool!

That evening, I took another walk into the village with one of my teammates. The peaceful air led to a lovely relaxed conversation. We had a wander, a chai, bought some fruit and headed back for dinner. That night there was a thunderstorm, and on the way back we were caught in the downpour. After the heat we have experienced so far in this trip, it was utterly refreshing to be caught in it. That evening, after eating I watched the lightning in the distance. There was something comfortingly serene about being there, sitting on the floor watching the light blossom in the sky, through an open window. I was definitely a little disappointed when the rain stopped. We hit the hay relatively early that night; in the morning we would be taking a boat trip on the Ganges. I am aware that the size of this post grew a lot more than I anticipated, so I will leave the boat trip to another post. And so ends my first longer post, hope it was up to scratch!

Namoskar

A View From a Bengali Rooftop

A pensive mood descends as I gaze from a Kolkata rooftop into the distance. Clutched in my hand rests a comforting heat of a soothing cup of brew. Despite the non-Kenyan origins of the tea, it still has a homely, welcomed, aspect I find extremely relaxing. My other hand rests on the knee of my left knee. The foot is pressed, bare, against the rough concrete wall circuiting the rooftop, which rises to my seated shoulder. It leaves my perspective clear to the distance with a plentiful view of Kolkatan urban sprawl.Sprawl is thoroughly the most appropriate word for the disarrayed, mismatched collage of living spaces, so far removed from the uniformity of suburban neighborhood in Ireland. "A City of Contrasts", as it was dubbed by a good man I recently had a few conversations with, is title which expresses many of the elements of life in this particular concrete jungle, and the architecture is simply one area where this is quote is proven. In fact, it is simply the tip of the iceberg, below which looms the continued, and far more expansive trend of diversity for which India is renowned.

At this height, it is note-able that no two buildings resemble their neighbors, outside of their need to expand upwards, rather than outwards, atypical of such condensed city living environments. The need for greater living space in a smaller area stimulates the growth of three, four and five storey accommodations. Our own building looms four floors up, not including the rooftop, however I do believe that our landlord is close to unique in owning the entirety of the building. Architecturally, there is very little outward similarity in the edifices, not even the location of the windows or relief designs. While certain designs may resemble each other, or be similarly located, it is rare and even rarer that they would be both similar and similarly located, nor do the balconies and frontal structural designs share and commonalities. The size and shape of the buildings themselves lend the idea of mismatched jig saw pieces, not fitting in in size or shape.

The differences lay open the truth to the Indian inequality, which permeates all areas of life here. The condition of the building, a perfectly kept, yet gaudy purple, building stands proudly opposite of me, its neighbor is in disrepair, flaking yellow paint and streaked with mould. This may be indicative, but on its own would not lay indication of the true depth of the inequality in urban India. To understand that, you need to walk the streets and experience the sights and smells, observe the living quarters of those who own little more than a few garments and a shack of wood, from which they sell fruit or sweets. These shacks operate as stalls, and at night the erection of a mosquito net makes them a bed. Even these are wealthier than those with no livelihood but salvaging, whose children rum in the streets, delightedly, in the nip, from their shouting mothers, or the children who carry their younger siblings in their arms to tempt guilty feeling into a few rupees.

Contrasting this knowledge against the view in my horizon, rising over a dusty barrier which seems to separate any level of Kolkatan life from its economic superior, loom the flashing lights of a trio of skyscrapers, perhaps close in spectacle and display amongst similar glass structures in New York. The dusty horizon, to me, represents the stark divide of the lives of the rich from the lives of the many in Kolkata. The skyward bound monuments and their less, but still substantial, powerful brethren, flanking either side, climb to heights in a city where basic human rights are denied to the common people. The divide, physical and metaphorical, is conjured up as a chasm, insurpassable by the mundane tools allotted to the average citizen, and forbids the overlapping of societies dependent on each other or, more truly, on itself.

The Sound of the Monsoon

The Sound of the Monsoon
This morning the sun beams outside my window. It isn’t as hot as it has been for some of the last couple of weeks. Sometimes I could almost imagine myself burning in the shade. The morning sun, at 9.20am is a bearable 32 degrees, and a substantially lower humidity than usual means I didn’t sweat during my ten seconds outside. The cooler temperament today can only have been caused by yesterday’s weather.

Since hearing initially about the weather conditions during summertime India, the scorching heat and humidity have been the primary topic (generally considered to be a singular topic). Close on its heels, topic number two has been the relief brought about by the rains. Over the course of the last few weeks we have seen a few instances of rain, and heavy rain at that, but the thunder storm yesterday was unique in it’s particulars, perhaps not meteorologically, but, for me at least, metaphorically and emotively. It, coupled against the weather of the days either side of it, embodied one element of the extreme contrasts that are experienced during a stay in Kolkata and, I’m sure, India itself. For me, this thunderstorm was melancholic and beautiful. At times, its power was terrifying and humbling. But it was also delightful and inviting. This is my diary entry from that rainy morning:


Thursday, June 20^th, 2013. Kolkata, West Bengal, India.

This morning, a thunderstorm roars outside. I attempted to take a video of it, but I wasn't able to quite capture the audio and video quality sufficient to do the spectacle the justice it deserved. I’m unsure why this downpour is more important than the last, but it seems to carry weight. The window to my right brightens in flashes, nine or ten times a minute, and thunder follows with a grand roar. The rain that cascades would fit in comfortably in an Irish April. Travelling to school in this feels a bit daunting, but the rain, on the other hand, does hold a level of attraction. I would be lying if I said I didn't walk out, onto the balcony, into it, earlier. The temperature relief is palpable. Less welcome, however, is the sensation of rain drops on my back as I lie on my bed, my window must be leaking a tad.

I’m well prepared for my classes this morning, due to the fact that I alternate classes daily, I will be repeating yesterdays classes, which went very well, with another group, so I have ground to hope it will go very today too. As a result, I have allowed myself to relax and lie in this morning. It’s been nice to at ease, and the rain has given my easeful morning some atmosphere. On a side-note, I've been hunting for the possibility of finding a swimming pool somewhere, I’m craving a swim!

The thunder outside sounds like artillery! Occasionally, the lightning so powerful, it exceeds the usual sheet illumination in the distance and brightens my field of vision and the resulting thunder sounds like an explosion in our near vicinity. The visual is followed by, in a split second, remarkable aural effects. It feels like a real-life cinema, sounds like the monsoon to me.

Initial Sentiments of Teaching in Nabadeep

When Yesterday, Monday the 10th, rolled around, I have to admit the nerves had kicked in. I had told myself over and over that I was used to teaching kids, I knew English, and I had a total grasp on this, but the nerves niggled away nonetheless. After the weekend I was starting to feel like I was getting a grasp on Kolkata itself, but I was here to be put out my comfort zone, and to work, not to establish a level of relaxation and ease in a city on the other side of the world. So, waiting for the car to arrive to bring myself and my teaching partner to Nabadeep Coaching Center, I settled on a level of nerves and determination, not dissimilar to the sensations of anticipating the exam paper you have done very little to prepare for. My internal dialogue had no pity for my nerves, and sounded something along the lines of "suck it up", and I entered the car with a level of calm, tinged with colorful flourishes of nerves and excitements.

The car pulled away from the side street where our accommodation loomed, buildings much like Jervis apartment blocks, come Aladdin, and down the long narrow street, no wider than my own road at home. I, since my arrival here on Thursday, have been endlessly baffled by the lack of vehicle related deaths on this street. The swerving of taxis, auto-rickshaws, bicycles, bicycle rickshaws, and heavy vehicles, all amongst nonchalant pedestrians almost being skimmed by headlights, would warrant absolute shock in Irish traffic. When Dr. Collins warned me traffic accidents were more likely to cause me physical harm than illness, I didn't believe him, but I do now. We emerged from the stall and shack lined allies in this jeep onto the Rash Behari Avenue Connector, a main road similar to the Navan Road, where doing a U-Bend  and breaking red lights at high speeds is accepted fairly complacently. The Round-A-Junction at Ruby Hospital, above which a sign declared the temperature a mild 32 degrees thanks to the rain, brought us onto the dusty EM bypass. Out of the dust more tall buildings of Kokata's sporadic spread loom in the distance. We soon take a turn off  on the left, down a gravel side road and turn left, keeping the running water to our right hand side. A right hand turn takes us over a small concrete bridge, and one of the teachers, who escorts us, points proudly to a yellow building with a red slate roof, facing the water, released a storm of toddler shaped blue uniforms. "Another of our schools" she states. To the left of the road there is a twin of the building, but no children. The taxi marches on, turns right, and takes us under the overhanging bypass and up a concrete road. To our right, shacks made of black plastic and brown wood, stand almost uniform, black plastic taking the place of brick red on these streets. A left hand turn leads us up an industrial street, and I catch a glimpse of a Hyundai sign on a workers t-shirt as he lolls at the back door of one of the factories, ahead Nabadeep training centre stands a green three story building at the end of the field. We hop out early as a heavy machinery vehicle sits in the road, and walk for a few minutes.

Inside, we recognize one of the teachers, and are introduced to two others, all of whom kindly feed us. Under the impression we were running late, we were a bit at a loss as to how the class was operating, but one of teachers soon explains that not all the children arrive til after half one and that the rain that day would have some of them absent. She also tells us how we will split the classes, myself taking class V and VI on alternate days, but both for today. The alternating days eased a lot of my fears that I would be incapable of juggling abilities across two classes, even if they were only small classes. The reason for the split is to allow the children some variety in their coaching center hours, rather than studying English solely. I learn that the children who come to the coaching center in the afternoon, have been in school since 7am and come to the center for extra help. The children in the coaching center I move to after this session have been in school 10-4 and come for extra work also. After lunch with the teachers, mango sauce, banana, and veg fried in mustard seed oil, we meet our students and I glean some names. We are with them for two hours, roughly, and soon work out that the crux of the work they have been given in school is tenses, so I work on their reading and attempt to explain the concepts of past, present and future and some verb conjugations. I was really charmed and the name all children calling male volunteers, Uncle, was enthusiastic and heartwarming. I left the first coaching center feeling elated.

The walk to the second center brief, about five minutes, but rainy and as we turn down the path and a small blue concrete hut sitting under a tree comes into view, a football pitch and bodies of still water surrounding, my shows are quickly becoming sodden. I leave them outside, as is standard in India. The hut is even smaller on the inside, crammed with children, about 30, in a space built for about 10 people, at a push. For today, I was asked to take classes IV and V here, IV only being of one student. Here, juggling material between the two groups became a challenge. The smaller space was a tough deal too, and I left with my energy low, my joints sore and my moral a little low. Arriving back at the accommodation, it was safe to say I descended to a little grumpy, but a few chats with the gang perked me up.

Day 2, Today, went much easier. Again, we arrived early despite being panicky about being late due to delays in Gariahat, the market center, whilst trying to get our phones and internet up and running (I'm still bumming the Mbs of one of the coordinators, as I type this) and enjoyed lunch with the teachers. Today it was mango, peas and potato in an unknown, but delicious, sauce, a bizarre looking fruit resembling a rotten banana, which tasted far better than it looked, a grey lump which reminded me of my mother apple sponge. The meal was a thorough reminder not to judge food by appearances. Class started and the three two girls I had were an absolute pleasure. Towards the end of the class I simply got them to use some markers to draw pictures and write a few sentences out of. The use of colored pens made them very excited to write out their pronoun sentences, and made the class that bit more enjoyable. I also got my name written in Bengali on my copy for me. Class 2, again didn't go as well as class 1, but it still went better than Day 1. At one point the lack of facilities in the building resulted in one of the boys of my class leading me by the hand across a narrow path between the still water beds to use his family toilet. A surreal experience, as "Uncle, slow" led me onto more solid ground, what I can only surmise to be his sisters, grandmother and mother were there to show me to the toilet. The end of the class had me in a better mood than the day before, the class was entirely class VII and my energy was much higher, so as I type this I am exhausted but hugely optimistic about the coming ten weeks. Signing off for some coffee!

Namashkar.

Dr. Shovelhands.