The Things I Carried

I feel liquid anxiety dripping from my forehead as I swim through Mumbai’s humid air to catch the 12:05 CST train. The platform is crowded with all sorts of people - rich, poor, dark-skinned, light skinned, muslims, christians, even Europeans. But they all blur into one color as I race towards the second-class, ladies compartment. And as soon as I hop on, my daily ritual begins. Upon being seated at my usual window space, I place my tired legs on the empty seat across from me and, with a considerable amount of difficulty, haul my bulky bag onto my lap. I drag it inwards, holding it close to my body so I may take in its unique aroma - a combination of fresh henna, my mother’s special veggie stir-fry, the cucumbers and pears I bought from the vendor at the station for 20 rupees, and just a tinge of my book, journal, and growing stash of train and bus tickets. And as I take in the scent of my worn out, big, blue messenger bag, I feel a sudden wave of comfort wash over me.

My bag does not smell of home - it doesn’t smell of any place I have ever been. Rather, my bag smells of me - its distinct essence captures the very essence of who I am. I lift the leather flap of my holdall to find two nearly-depleted henna cones, which I had used earlier in the day to paint my grandmother’s hands. The cones remind me of the tale she had narrated to me of her migration from Pakistan as I had used them to color her wrinkled hands - rough from a life of hard work. More importantly, they remind me of how much I have yet to learn from her - of how many hands of hers I have yet to paint in order to gain her world of wisdom. I pull out my tiffin box that my mother has packed with such care. I can feel the jealous eyes of my fellow travelers on me as I savor each and every bite of home-cooked love. It reminds me of a day, years back, when my mother had taught me how to make her special dish. It motivates me to go back and learn more so that someday I can send a box of home-made love along with someone. As I dig deeper into my bag, I feel my fingers slide on the wet dew covering my pears and cucumbers. They remind me of the smiling, aged, vendor I had bought them from. He calls me “beti” - “daughter.” I put my newly-purchased produce back in its black, plastic bag and make a mental note to be more compassionate - to treat everyone as if they were my very own. I bring out my book, The Air-Conditioned Nightmare by Henry Miller - a gift from my grandfather. I have barely begun, but I know that once I finish it he will want to know what a thought of it. I will ask the same of him. As I think of another book I want to read I quickly jot it down in my journal. It was my father who had suggested that I keep it to note down my questions, thoughts, and reminders. I may share it with him when I go back home after summer ends. And lastly, I take today’s train and bus tickets and add them to the pocket in the back of my bag. They remind me of the boy who gave me his seat on the bus, the lady that allowed me to punch my ticket before her, and the poor old woman who gave me directions to find a bus home. They remind me that even though I walk among a sea of strangers, I will never travel alone.

My bag is who I am. It represents where I have been, who I have loved, and what I have learned. But more importantly, it represents where I need to go, the people I have the potential to love, and the infinite amount of things I have yet to learn.

Problems, problems, problems

This May I will be heading back to India to work on training rural health care workers. Upon sharing this information with some individuals, I was told that many of the problems in India are unfixable and not worth the effort. This is my response to them:

Between the corruption, the healthcare crisis and increasing socio-economic disparities between the rich and the poor, it is difficult to decide what is India's biggest problem. Many people see India as a country with a plethora of problems. But lets get straight to the point - India is just one giant problem. Nothing ever seems to work! The buses come late, the trains stop on the middle of the tracks, the electricity goes off every few hours, the internet stops working just as Tendulkar is about to make the winning hit on the cricket field. Nothing - nothing at all - works. And after a day of infuriating, delaying, annoying, and fixable problems, sometimes sitting on a train that's going in a single, right direction feels like a miracle.

But isn't anything in the world that happens correctly a miracle? Suppose we had a perfect world, devoid of chaos, corruption, dishonesty - a world devoid of problems big and small - well, that would be a miracle too, wouldn't it? A miracle made of tiny miracles - like a train going in the right direction, or a single rural medical practitioner not reusing a contaminated needle on a new patient. Granted transportation, healthcare, education are all huge, and seemingly unfixable problems. But they too are made of simple, tiny instances in which something small goes entirely wrong - simple problems which can be solved.

I know I am no miracle worker - I am not a professor, PhD, a Messiah, or a world-renowned member of the human race. But I do believe that I am an individual with the power to make small differences - small miracles. I don't know how many difficulties and failures I may encounter on my journey this summer - but I do know how I wish to view my failures and difficulties. I don't know much about anything - but I know that if I just listened to those around me I would end up knowing a lot. But most of all, I do not know in numbers and concrete ideas what I would like to achieve this summer - but I do know that if I leave just one word, one thought, one feeling smarter, I will have achieved.

So yes, India has a problem. A big problem made of tiny, itty bitty problems. But what country doesn't? Unfortunately for India, with a population of more than 1 billion individuals, tiny problems tend to add up fast. But with a little hope, a little effort, and a little love here and there, in that very population of 1 billion, miracles can add up quite quickly too. And it is that latter equation that I choose to be a part of - what about you?

New Threats to Freedom - the freedom to fail

This essay was written by me in response to Michael Goodwin's video on the freedom to fail.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oJLCbv5K0WU

MAKING THE NEXT CHOCOLATE CHIP COOKIE

By: Karishma Bhatia

At the beginning of all time, God created man and God created woman. And then in 1937, God placed on earth his greatest creation yet: the Chocolate Chip Cookie. Well actually, he didn’t; a young woman named Ruth Graves Wakefield from the Toll House Restaurant in Massachusetts did when she accidentally substituted pieces of Nestle© chocolate for her regular baker’s chocolate. By not following the recipe, Ruth Wakefield brought into this world one of the most revered foods ever. And as I enjoy this soft scrumptious serving of deliciousness during my aggravatingly short lunch period, I am brought to wonder “why? Why can my education not be more like the invention of chocolate chip cookies?” Today, when I look at my education, I don’t feel that it is my right to fail that I have lost. Rather, I feel as though it is my right to embrace and enjoy failure that has been lost.

It has been said that “the greatest barrier to success is the failure to try.” Our educational system does often limit exposure to failure through social promotion. However, suddenly handing society the right to fail is no way to eradicate the U.S.’s educational crisis. Why must we paint the ideas of success and failure in black and white? Why can both ideas not coexist – why can they not both be promoted? Failure is often misunderstood by society. It is associated with the idea of one miserably falling on his face, learning a lesson, picking oneself up and walking in the right direction. But must every direction be labeled right and wrong? Can one not simply create a new direction? In our country, so much importance is given to success that most fear trying and failing. There is no reward for failing, and there is no reward for trying - it is only success that is promoted, which is why even professionals (doctors, businessmen - teachers even) in our country have stooped so low as to cheat. Ask yourself, how is an enthusiastic, young teacher earning a meager salary supposed to see the benefits of failure in trying a new teaching method when her job is on the line? The consequences of trying are greater than the rewards - so why even make an attempt? The truth is, the right to failure is not even seen as a right by most Americans - it's seen as a sentence.

Life is often referred to as a journey – we must all follow paths to our destinies. But it is those of us who forge our own paths - those of us who dare to fail - that are ultimately successful. The path to success does not lie simply in granting a population the right to fail by making examinations more difficult or by making schools more strict - it lies in encouraging young minds to wonder, to make mistakes, to embrace failure, because the purpose of failure should never be to steer one away from what is wrong – the purpose of failure is to allow for discovery – to make way for the creation of new thoughts and notions.

Today, as an adolescent who has 13 of experience in the American educational system, I’m asking not for someone to tell me that failure is my right. I am asking to be taught to want this right. I am asking to be inspired to fight for this right. And I'm asking that I be able to look to the leaders of my country and know that failure is important and okay. But today, when I look at how my country is dealing with its educational system failure, I wonder, why is the first society to place man on the moon looking at China and Japan for a way to end its educational crisis? Why must we look at our failure to educate our children as an unsuccessful venture? And why should the idea of fashioning a new system of education scare us? Let’s make a couple of mistakes. Let us fail miserably and learn, or fail miserably and succeed. Come on America – let’s make the next Chocolate Chip Cookie!

Why I love the buses...

In a place so hot, wet and crowded, it is so very easy to become angry - to lose one's patience, to make an excuse for an inexcusable comment, or to forget one's humanity. However, when I pass these hot, wet, crowded roads, I rarely see anger. I see ambition, I see hope, I see survival - but anger, not so much. Maybe I haven't seen enough, but maybe I have chosen to not see what others want to. Perhaps I have chosen to pay attention to children playing in a puddle in their school uniforms instead of the irascible bus conductor. Maybe I find more fascinating the patient, aged man who sells bananas on the third cross road everyday rain or shine - not the woman who yells at me to move forward to make space for her in a train carriage already filled to the brim. Just maybe, I find my self unable to believe the tremendous amount of good that happens here on an everyday basis - not bad, as this place is known for.

The other day I was traveling to the station on a full bus - meaning the vehicle was so filled with people, that the bus conductor could not go from one side of the bus to the other without leaving the bus. The rain was pouring and everyone was rushing to close the stubbornly rigid windows making the atmosphere even more humid and stuffy. My "personal bubble" was being majorly invaded and my feet were bruised and muddy from being stepped on by the unfortunate standers being jostled as the bus moved through the conglomeration of ditches that are Mumbai's roads. I was lucky to have gotten a seat - very lucky. And then I saw an elderly man, desperately searching for a seat, so I offered him mine and joined the standing crowd.

A while ago, I was traveling to the station with my cousin. We were sitting and chatting when all of a sudden he got up and decided to give his seat to an elderly woman. His action moved me deeply - and since then, I have always made myself give my seat to someone who needs it more.

But that day, as soon as I forfeited my seat, a young man who saw I was carrying heavy bags gave his seat to me. On the other side of the bus I saw a seated, old man offering to hold a stander's infant for him so it might make it easier for him to stand and another young man behind me offering to collect an elder one's ticket for him as the bus was too crowded for the old man to walk through. And as the bus halted at the next bus stop, a new wave of passengers came in and I, along with several others, once again gave up my seat for someone who needed it more.

In that crowded bus full of strangers, I had already developed several relationships - relationships of kindness. Relationships which formed because people gave to others without asking anything back - because people still cared no matter how hot, humid, stuffy and irritating the atmosphere was.

Yes, the buses are noisy, suffocating, and a whole bunch of other negative adjectives. But it's not the cheap ticket that keeps me coming back - it's the opportunity to do for others, to make a relationship with an unknown person, to be cared for by a stranger. It is to observe the true meaning of community that I ride the bus.

When we are around so many people, we have three choices. We can do tremendous good, tremendous bad, or nothing at all. We all have equal potential to do either one of those three - but it is the side that we act out on that makes us who we are. Yes, this country has corruption - it has black markets, and piracy, and lying, and cheating, and prostitution and a whole bunch of other problems. But what country does not? With a population of 1.5 billion, there are bound to be several who chose to do tremendous bad. But riding in a Mumbai bus makes me realize that everyday, there are several people who do good - who would rather stand in a crowded bus than see an elder man do so, who wouldn't mind holding a child so a young father can stand more comfortably, who would console a fellow passenger whose child has just gone missing. I finally understand why here, in this country, the vegetable seller and the old man I gave my seat to refer to me as daughter, or why the kids call me elder sister. My relationship with these people doesn't have to be one of blood - it only has to be one of genuine kindness.

Discovering true wealth...

Working here has brought me to the conclusion that there is no such thing as poverty. It's who we are that makes us rich, not what we have. And in the end, we are the only ones who decide how wealthy we can be - not luck, not circumstances, not our bosses. I am glad that my superficial wealth didn't prevent me from coming here this summer - from feeling as if I were above these people, from thinking that I might not be able to adjust, or from being unable to connect with this once-alien world. But I wonder, if I had been wealthier, would I have refrained from coming? Would I have deprived myself of all the riches I have found here because of the material riches I had there? It is a question I know the answer to, but don't want to think about. Sometimes I feel as though equality is not material- because our equality lies not in what we have, but what we deserve. We all deserve respect - to be treated as humans, to be recognized for our true - not superficial - wealth, and to be accepted in what seems like an unforgiving world.

When I look at the kids, I don't feel pity. And I never will ever feel pity for them. Their riches make me look like a beggar - I am poor in their comparison. They love endlessly, forgive easily, smile lovingly. They are the ones who remind me daily that a little compassion, understanding, and forgiveness goes a long way. And they will be the reason that I shall leave here a somewhat wealthier woman.

The other day we took the Parivartan kids on a field trip. All 33 of us piled into 4 taxis and headed to the Nehru Planetarium and History Museum. On the way, the kids would point to certain landmarks and say, "didi, look at that!" or "didi, I've been here before!" Saiyma showed me where her dad catches the bus to go to work everyday and I showed her where I catch the bus to come to school everyday. As we all sat there sharing our lives and experiences with each other, I felt as if my world was getting bigger. The things that the kids notice and observe are so brilliant and so amazing, yet somehow so mundane. They see magic in what I view as commonplace. It inspires me to have more faith in how beautiful this world still is.

Upon arriving, the kids tumbled out of the taxi and immediately began pointing with excitement at the large dome ahead. As we entered the Planetarium, the excitement only increased. Their expressions of wonder as they gazed at the solar system model above their heads and discovered what their weight would be on the moon were priceless. Seeing their faces made me marvel once again at how far away space really is from our world - it allowed me to appreciate how vast, mysterious, and compelling our universe is. I had lost touch with that kind of enchantment. I thought it was kind of funny that though it was them I had taken to the museum, it was I that had learned the first lesson.

When the star show began I found myself sitting with Saiyma, Roshni, and Jainaam. As the screen lit up with the constellations, the theater erupted with "oohs" and "aahs" from all the kids. I let out a laugh only to be shushed by Saiyma who was intently listening to the explanation of how to find the Polestar using the Big Dipper. Throughout the show she held my hand and watched with the utmost attention. Every now and then, she would lean in and ask me a question and let out an emphatic "wow!" upon hearing the answer. When the show finally ended, I was bombarded with questions by all the kids. "Didi didi, what did that mean?" or "didi, explain why this happened." I tried to explain as my dad explained to me when I was younger - with patience guiding my words, and excitement lighting my eyes. As I was finishing answering a question by the curious Jainaam, I felt a tug on my sleeve. I turned around to see Saiyma, her face contorted in worry. "Didi," she said, "we must be annoying you with all our questions, right?" And although I had already heard several mind-boggling questions throughout the day, hers was by far the most difficult one to answer - not because there was no answer, but because there was no way I could explain it in a way she would understand. But I tried anyways - "No," I said, "hearing you ask questions gives me so much happiness. Never ever stop asking questions. I will always try my best to answer." I don't think I will ever be able to express to Saiyma how much I value her curiosity. My answers will always be meager compared to her priceless questions.

At the end of the day, all 33 of us piled into 4 taxis once again and headed back home. And again, we shared our experiences and lives with each other. Sakina pointed to a small unit in a row of wooden huts along the road, telling us that she used to live there before she moved to her house in Azaad Mahaula. And Nasreen pointed to a diner her father had once taken her to. And I...I listened. I listened to everything they had to say in their anxious voices. I listened to their questions and their concerns. I listened as they negotiated how they would take turns sitting by the window of the taxi. I guess I hoped that if I listened enough, I would find a way to become a part of their elite world - a world in which they reside as rich kings and queens. A world to which only a few people belong. A wonderful world which, alas, can only be seen by those who have discovered what true wealth is. It has definitely taken me a while to do so, but I am nonetheless very happy to say that I have finally discovered true wealth. And I must say, it's a lot more beautiful than anything money will ever be able to buy.

Chasing after Dreams...

Usually, if I'm lucky, I get a window seat on the bus to the station. The feeling of cool wind hitting my face as the bus moves through the sticky atmosphere is precious as is the feeling of traveling with the masses. But most precious are the new observations I make everyday as I travel down the city streets that have now become so familiar to me. Today on my way to the station I caught sight of a sign near a certain St.Blaise Church which read, "don't let this day pass without doing something to make your dreams come true." I dream. I dream that maybe I will be able to change the lives of the little kids I work with. I dream that I might inspire one of them to dream. I dream that someday they will be able to fulfill every single dream of theirs. And everyday that I watch these kids learn, question, think and achieve, my dreams come true. As I watched that sign go by, I realized how privileged I am to be given the opportunity to chase after my dreams everyday, how fortunate I am to have the resources to do so and how incredibly lucky I am to be encouraged and supported in all my ventures. Not everyone is so privileged.

The more I get to know the kids, the more aware of their astounding creativity I become. The other day we did a drawing activity about dreams. And for the first time, Roshni didn't copy off of Saiyma. It is unfathomable how scared of being wrong she is sometimes. But she's slowly building confidence to say and draw what her heart desires. It gives me so much happiness to see how far she has come. I've come to realize that she loves to draw flowers. And Saiyma loves to draw houses with mango trees on the side. And Salim - he loves lines and shapes. And little Nagma...well she loves everything. I call her "meri chotti bandar" - my little monkey - because she's always climbing up something or someone.

When I'm with the kids, I realize how vulnerable I am - to them, to my aspirations for them, and to reality. I want to be able to promise them the world. But I cannot - and that is the most difficult thing for me to face. I'm always wishing I knew more, had more time, or could be more helpful. And often, I can only console myself with the thought that it is only if I try that I may someday succeed in doing all those things. I remind myself that in the end, achieving dreams is only so beautiful, so meaningful, and so very worth it when we chase after them with our entire hearts and souls - undeterred by failure, unafraid of falling, unrestrained by barriers.

There are so many times I feel as if I have failed - as if I've fallen flat on my face, as if I will never be able to get back up. But then I look up and I see Roshni finally beginning to speak and draw her own thoughts, and Saiyma learning that reality is not a limitation, and Nagma singing a song that she has been dying to share with us, and Salim coming to school everyday even though he's the only boy that does so. I look up and I see that I have done exactly what I came to do. I look up and see my dreams coming true.

Helplessness....

I have slowly become used to the longevity of my two hour trek to Parivartan from home. Whenever I find myself having to repeatedly ask for a ticket on the bus or being forcefully pushed onto an overflowing 2nd class train compartment, I console myself with the notion that I am traveling with the people of this city. The rich and the poor, the dark and the light-skinned, the Hindus and the Muslims - they surround me wherever I go. I like to believe that I am one of them. I also like to believe that if you look from far enough away, we will all just be people and you won't be able to tell the difference between us. But no one is far enough to do that and when one is far enough, he would rather look at what is close. I cannot complain, I would do the same. Wouldn't we all?

The buses are crowded - sometimes there is no room to sit. And the trains...well those are even more crowded - there is almost never room to sit. But I've trained myself to ignore the chatter and the pushing and shoving and the somewhat-subdued fight for limited seating. In fact, it is traveling on Mumbai's infamous transportation system where I have trained myself to think - about life, about what I see as I zoom past a vegetable market, about the little girl who sells hair-clips for 10 rupees on the train and mostly about Parivartan.

Today, as I was thinking, I felt a drop of water on my hand. I turned my head towards the sky to see where it had come from, when I realized it had come from my eyes. Sometimes there are so many thoughts racing through your mind that you are unable to consciously assign emotions to them. You never realize when your eyes had begin to cry, or when your heart began to hurt. And even when you catch yourself midway, you forget that your mind has already come up with a thousand reasons for the next several precious drops of liquid emotion to fall to the floor. As I frantically brought up my arm to cover my face, I understood why I had expelled those salty teardrops. I understood why my heart hurt. I understood why it would always be hard for me to work with those children at the slums. I had discovered helplessness in its crudest and most unforgiving form.

Helplessness. It's difficult to observe, it's difficult to feel, and it's difficult to solve. It's one of the reasons why no one goes back to the slums after rising from poverty in this city. It's the reason that everybody locks away their emotions when they see the little girl begging for money on Wadala station. Helplessness is the reason why Vijay, the chai-wallah, can't go to school as other boys his age do.

There is not enough room in government schools for all the children in the slum to go to school. And although the Indian government has promised to provide free education to every child in India, the slum dwellers are helpless. Their voices are not enough to send all their children to school. Today for the first time, I've realized how important an education is. It gives us the key to set our helplessness free. It allows us to discover our own voices. And mostly, it teaches us to use those voices on the unfriendly platform that is this world. It is education that makes us recognize how strong our need to be heard is.

Today I have caught my first true glimpse of a tangled web of problems with no beginning and no end. It is a web I don't have the resources, the time, nor the knowledge to unravel. It is a web so vulnerable to breakage, yet so resistant to change. It is a web that will take me a lifetime to understand. Today I have finally come across the cruel truth that I won't be able to save the world. Today, I too have begun to feel helpless.