The School Trip, the Temple and the Sadhu

NB. I am actually writing this from the town of Chandausi, which I am delighted to find actually makes an appearance on the Off Exploring Map! Not sure exactly how you lot access it, but thought I'd let you know.

Anyway, as usual I have more stories to choose from than you can shake a stick at, but I think I'll tell one that allows me to illustrate a few things that have become key themes of my stay at APK. It was Tuesday morning and Mauro and I were sitting outside having our usual breakfast (various kinds of porridge, made with buffalo milk, lots of sugar and sometimes instead of grains a thin vermicelli type noodle; and if we are lucky, it is spiced up with some raisins and coconut shavings!). We were contemplating how we would survive another day of stupefying heat...

I have been fighting a battle with the heat since my arrival here....who am I kidding?! I am being beaten to a pulp and utterly defeated by it. It greedily devours every last molecule of moisture, energy and life from me - seizing it out of me with the remorselessnes of a devil taking an innocent soul. It stalks me with alarming tenacity, the second the cold shower is turned off, and immediately on waking in the black dead of night where the heat has no right to trespass. The walls of my bedroom , formerly stalwart bastions of cool refuge, have turned traitor and stealthily soak up the day's heat, leaking it out like thick molten tar when the night falls. It is relentless and renders the slightest activity a Herculean task, leaving me listless, lightheaded, without appetite, and during the greatest heat of the day the only relief to be found is by sitting in wet clothes under the fan in room, my feet in a bucket of water.

Anyway as far as we knew it was a holiday - there are many of them at the moment (incidentally today is a holiday in honour of Gandhi), I am not quite sure what it was in aid of - and we had few plans. Then Arti, our coordinator, came over and tells us we are going to visit Japhapur, a goverment school nearby. We had thought that this was a casual drop-in type visit and that it had been postponed til the next day when it might not be so hot, but apparently it was all arranged ages ago and the children were coming to school on their day off to meet the foreign visitors! Another perfect example of how I never really know what is going on, what will happen next, or what is expected of me...there have been impromptu meetings, ceremonies, musical evenings; all of which Mauro and I have been completely unaware of till we are being in some way or another invited to join in, or lead a song, or teach some English! At first this is very unnerving, and feels almost inconsiderate or rude to my English (and Doel) sensibilties...but I am gradually getting used to it, that is just the way it is round here.

So we fill our water bottles and steel ourselves against the sun, bundle into the van and drive to the school about 30 mins away. I love these journeys..it is amazing how much more beautiful India looks, and how better able I am to overlook its dirt and difficulties, when I am seeing it all through the window of the van, a breeze keeping the worst of the heat at bay. The countyside seems to get more stunning with every journey I take, but I notice something else this time. In England, a trip to the countryside would have connotations of peace, quiet and a landscape devoid of people. There is the idea of escape, refuge, retreat. Here, the countryside is a working one (probably as England would have been 150 years ago). A hive of industry, there is never a view that isn't given its perspective by a buffalo and cart in the foreground or a distant flash of a colourful sari that tells of women working, crouched low in the rice fields.

Anwyay, we arrive at this school. A small, basic, but pleasant concrete building; all four classrooms have completely open sides leading onto the 'playing field'. We are immediately fixed with the gaze of 150 pairs of eyes. The staring and constant scrutiny is something else I have struggled to get used to. The intensity of the public gaze, often rivalling that of the sun's rays. It is hard to explain what is so uncomfortable about it; something in the way people look at me. Our attempts at making some kind of connection with smiles, or 'Namastes' are often met with completely blank, open-mouthed expressions. There is something in their look that suggests we are not of this earth, specimens of a completely different constitution and make-up,  with no acknowledgment or recognition of our shared humanity. This is not always so, sometimes, particularly by engaging with the children, a smile can be drawn from the parents (although a couple of children have actually started crying when they have seen me!), and the bolder amongst the crowd that gathers will come up and ask our names and where we are from. I realise it is, as I have noticed before, that there is a different notion of personal and private space here. Staring is not considered rude in the way it is at home. And just as my irritation levels start to rise, I remind myself that in the last two weeks I have not seen a single other white face. So, in some ways we are freaks, certainly deserving of a good long nosey at!

Back to the school visit....We are introduced to each and every class. I am immensely touched that these children have come in on their holiday to meet us and feel that what we have to offer in return is hopelessly inadequate. If we had known we would have prepared something. But we introduce ourselves, and answer quesions, from the mundane, "What is your favourite colour?", to the occasional curve balls that take us slightly aback;" What do you think about God / the caste system?". Again I am struck by how little common ground there is between us, so few shared cultural reference points on which to hinge my explanations. In Portugal the kids I taught knew famous pop songs, film stars, Buckingham Palace, Eiffel Tower etc, they ate a lot of the same food and shared similar pass times. It was easy to make up games and bridge the gaps. Here we struggle with everything from describing what 'pasta' is, to the concept that marriage can be a matter of choice, or that not everyone goes to temple. I am using every last social skill I have and it still feels pretty ineffectual. I never thought I would say this, but thank goodness for cricket, which offers some mutual territory! And there is some non-verbal humour and smiles that can transcend the cultural chasm.

It isn't helped by the fact that the education system here does not seem to encourage sponteneity or imagination in its pupils. Babuji has explained to us, during one of our evening discussions with him, that India's education system inherited its fundamental values and structure from the British Victorian education system, which had an emphaisis on conformity and manners. It has not moved from this. Both the schools at APK and this one are perfect examples of it. The kids seemed to have learned everything by rote; they are commanded to stand up one by one, and often with painful shyness, recite their introduction; "Sir, my name is Amrit. My father's name is..... I live in APK. I read in class twelve". Many recite this with a complete blank tone and expresson; the words clearly mean nothing to them. If you ask questions in the order in which they have learned them then they can often give a flawless answer, but thow an unexpected 'how old are you?' in there and many of the students are flummoxed, and have no idea how to respond. Mauro and I taught a lesson to the primary school at APK and found that the kids would copy EVERYTHING we did, even our instructions of "listen" or "louder". We would try, in typical TEFL style, to elicit information from the kids; "what's this colour?", but before any child could open its mouth the class teacher would answer and then the children, who were all looking to them for the correct response anyway, would copy parrot style.

I don't wish this to come across as criticising; although it is a difficulty that Babuji openly acknowledges. You have to remind yourself that many of these chlildren would not otherwise get an education, that the teachers have no training, that there are no photocopiers or colour pens, or up-to-date resources; that these teachers are just teaching in the way that they were taught. But it was weird to see it at first, and all I can do sometimes to resist the urge to try and shake things up a bit!

Anyway, these kids are all lovely and I am so completely bowled over by their welcome and as I said, them coming in to school on their holiday. After doing the rounds of the classrooms, we sit with the teachers and drink chai and eat bombay mix and try with great using our limited Hindi, to make conversation. It isn't long before most of the children have gathered around the raised platform we are sitting on and are clamouring for a song. This is another thing I wish i had known before; in a place where there isn't so much TV, CDs, cinema etc, song and music occupy a central place. It isn't the first time that we have been urged to sing something English / play the drum or dance. And it is pretty useless trying to explain that really we just don't do that sort of thing much in England, or pleading shyness - that just doesnt wash here. That is how I found myself singing "Green Grow the Rushes Oh" (the only song I could remember) to a group of bemused women during an impromptu musical evening at APK ( the only time in my whole life I have sung solo and unaccompanied in public), and how Mauro and I find ourselves trying to make 'Old MacDnald had a Farm' relevant to this group of students in Japhapour "..and on that farm he had a buffalo / goat / elephant!" It goes down a storm....so THIS is how you bridge some of those gaps and build relationships here! Songs, it appears are the social currency in rural India.

As we are singing the local saddhu (or holy man who has chosen to renounce all material possessions, and live hermit like) wanders in to the school grounds. No one raises an eyebrow as this old man, clad in loin cloth and turban style head garment and carrying a wooden staff approaches. Amazingly I am pretty unfazed myself, I am getting used to this kind of thing. He has come from the local temple down the road to inspect the foreigners. He looks us up and down with eyes that are set in exactly the type of face you would expect a Holy Man/Hermit type man to have; slightly wizened, wise looking, a somewhat unruly beard and busy eyebrows and a benign calm expression on his face. He appears equally unfazed by our appearance. And then we all make our way the five-minute walk to the temple. I can only begin to imagine what a picture we make; this pale white woman, Italian man, surrounded by sea of chattering, laughing school kids, teachers making occasional attempts to curtail any excessive exuberance and the old Sadhu. Just another day in India.