An acquaintance of mine who also stayed at the yoga center told me that she learned by chance that an old college friend of hers had moved to Gorakhpur a couple of years ago and that she had established a teacher training institute with her own funds and with a grant from the government. I was really curious to visit her program. From a telephone call it turned out that the institute was only 10 minutes away from the place where I was staying.
The next day Richa, the Director of the Institute, came to pick me up. We chatted in the rickshaw about her life. She had left her husband two years ago, because he used to beat her a lot. They didn’t have children, so she decided that she was not going to take it anymore. She used to be a school teacher and she loved her job, but she had to quit and leave her town in order to sever all possible relations with him. So, she moved here, but finding a job without connections and recommendations proved impossible. She wanted to explore options that would allow her to use her education, her experience and pedagogical skills. She applied first to be certified as a teacher trainer. Then she submitted a government grant proposal for a six week residential program to train female school teachers. When she was awarded the funding, she practically turned her home into an institute. She started out with only a few trainees who lived and studied at her house. With every new group the numbers progressively increased along with the amount of subsides she received to expand the building. She ended up working with over a hundred women per year.
The monsoon was at its ultimate peak. The weather that day was unbearably hot. The wind had died down completely. The rain had just stopped, only to bolster the vapor and the sultriness. The air was thick and the closer it was to the ground, the more visible it became. A haze of smoky-grey color had wrapped the neighborhood. The scorching heat and intense humidity made breathing difficult.
The rickshaw stopped several yards away, because the lane was strewed with mud and puddles. We carefully made our way stepping on clean stones and gravel. We were all wet with sweat. On one side there was an open sewage canal. We entered a gated yard where the powerful stench from the sewer was inescapable. It further thickened the air. It was smothering, leaving a harsh pungent aftertaste in my mouth, penetrating through my throat and getting trapped in my lungs. I was about to faint.
“What was I thinking?!” I said to myself. “I should know better! It’s 2:30pm. The worst time of the day to be out.”
I saw an unfinished house. The exterior walls of the first floor had exposed bricks and no stuccowork, the second story was uncovered with the steel rods sticking out of the concrete. I was informed that the girls were in their rooms having an afternoon nap. The Director took me to one open door and I sneaked a quick look. I saw about twenty women all wearing dark purple saris with yellow borders, lying on the floor in two rows wall to wall one next to each other. In the next room, there were more women on wooden beds arranged in the same orderly fashion. I am not sure if it was because the house was as hot as the inside of an oven, but a picture of lady finger cookies came to my mind, neatly placed on a baking sheet ready to bake. Outside it was 130° F, and I could only imagine how hot it was in these two rooms with over 20 bodies in each, breathing the hot air in and out… I was really about to faint.
Richa took me to her office to show me some of the materials she has collected for her teacher training. There was no electricity, she warned me nonchalantly. I looked up at the ceiling fan in despair. It was at a standstill. She didn’t have a generator, the plan was to get one for next year…I looked around in search of any source of draft. The door behind me was open, the window in front of me also wide open and yet, the air was not moving at all. I couldn’t imagine myself making even one single step. I felt weak. I was gasping for air. All my clothes were damp and sticky. I was perspiring all over my body. I was dripping sweat. I was melting. I was totally wiped out…
Richa, in the mean time, unaware of my misery, continued to talk to me enthusiastically about her program, as I had indicated interest in it on the phone and on the way here. She promised to show me something really special. She invited me to sit in her chair by her desk moments before I passed out and I collapsed in it barely conscious. She briskly pulled a heavy office chair from one corner of the room toward a big metal locker behind her desk, stepped on it, stretched both her hands upwards, grabbed the first cardboard box on top, pushed it to one side, picked another one from behind, shoved it to the other side, reached further in the back, took a hold of a third box, slid it to the edge of the locker, clutched it with both hands and threw it on the desk right in front of my face in a cloud of flying dust. It choked me. I started coughing. It completely drained whatever was left of my energy.
However, she continued energetically to explain how she trained her teachers with real toys to demonstrate the learning process and methodologies, which develop the cognitive skills of the youngsters. And in the meantime she was showing me what was inside the box. She cut the tape, opened the box, took out another after item wrapped in newspapers, vigorously blew dust off, unfolded them and arranged them in front of me on the desk. First, came out bagel-like rings of different size and color, which she pedantically showed me how to arrange – the blue one first, then the yellow one, followed by the red one and the green one… Next, she diligently put together a train set – the engine, the cars, one by one…After that, wooden blocks with the Hindi alphabet turned up, with which she assiduously spelled out G-A-B-R-I-E-L-A…Her voice echoed in my empty head. My eyes were fixed on the remaining packets to unwrap and the dust to spread in the air…
Fortunately, a few women peeked into the office and interrupted Richa’s demonstration. They announced that all have gathered in the main room to meet with the guest from New York. I have no recollection about how I reached the other room. I was sitting behind a table facing about 50 young women, who were sitting on the floor, lined up in seven rows. They were smiling at me and waiting to start our conversation. My head was spinning with one thought only – how much air was left inside to breath and how long I was going to survive when it was over. I was hoping that my weakness would pass soon, but suddenly a girl came in with a tray of cups of tea. She first served me and Richa. The wave of hot steam almost knocked me out. I must have lost color from my face, because the girls in the front row suggested first to sing for me, until I felt better.
I remember how everything started getting blurry and dark in front of my eyes in this little stifling room with not even one molecule of oxygen left, when these young women started singing. They took turns, some led and others joined in, when the lines were repeated. They urged the best ones to show their talent. They giggled and clapped dynamically in rhythm. They sung songs about the loving husband who had gone to work in foreign lands far away from his beloved wife, about his gentle promises before departing, about the gifts he was going to bring, about the anguish of separation and her expectations of the thrilling re-union coming soon22. I slowly started recovering. It was so interesting to enter their world through their folk songs. However, in their case, it wasn’t the husband, but the wife who was away. Certainly, such songs don’t exist, because it is not a typical situation. Even if such an opportunity comes along, many families wouldn’t allow it. Professional development for the daughter-in-law is not a usual consideration at all. Therefore, these women were really fortunate and exceptional.
Immersed in their vitality and romanticism, I slowly collected strength and started a conversation. They knew they were lucky, and although they missed their family and especially their children and husband, they fully enjoyed their experience, because they learned a lot, they had a unique chance to meet more people like themselves and to make new friends. They said they could act freely with no contemplation who was around them, they could laugh, talk, go out, shop, go late to bed without anyone’s permission or supervision, they shared their problems, asked for advice and most importantly, they emphasized, they had time for themselves. At home it was also nice, they added, but they were mostly in seclusion, mostly in the house, in front of their mother-in-law’s watchful eyes, they had to cover up their head, serve everyone else, and always think about the others’ needs first, so no time was left for themselves, let alone time to hang out with friends and chat over tea. Yet, it was great when everyone was together. And from time to time they would sing again as if to illustrate their point. Their songs also dealt with the fortune of being loved by the husband, the joy of living in a joint family and the pride of taking care of all the relatives, the guests, the house and the farm. They wouldn’t think of changing their life, they made comments on a few occasions. They could not imagine how people lived in the West and when in need for help how lonely they might feel and how they managed.
Marriage here does not represent only the relationship between a husband and a wife and does not depend on the couple’s emotional affairs. It is viewed as a fulfillment of the social and religious duty towards the family, sometime including three even four generations. All its members are ensured emotional and practical support, help with child-care, financial assistance, care for the sick. The elders have enough experience and knowledge to be in charge of the family’s decision-making and they advise the young. Then, after time, they are looked after by their grown up children in return. Everyone is a necessary brink in the chain of interdependency.
I remember what a friend of mine, a widow, would undertake when something needed to be done. Her fan broke down, she called her brother to explain what the problem was so that he would send a technician, he trusted to fix it for a small fee. She wanted to open a bank account and deposit some money, then she contacted a cousin who works in the bank, who personally accompanied her to a teller he knew, to make sure all was done properly. Her neighbors pl
aced their fence inside her yard, she asked her nephew, a lawyer, to put her in touch with an attorney, he guaranteed would fight for her case without ripping her off. She was about to leave on a journey by train, her brother-in-law would come to pick her up, give her a ride and assist her with loading her luggage and taking her seat to avoid possible mishaps. She always said:
“I consider having a big loving family my greatest fortune.”
The socially weak are safe, due to their family ties, which have proved to be so essential, especially, when facing troubles. If a relative has a problem and needs a favor, it’s solved right away without questions or hesitations. If something is to be done for someone else – tomorrow is also a day! Actually, it’s really hard to survive alone here. This is the reason why, it’s everyone’s duty to follow the family’s rules and traditions. Related to this is the responsibility to remember one’s own place in it and in the wider social hierarchy as well as to do good to the others. And everyone hopes to deserve in this way re-birth with a better life. God has created each individual. He has allocated a place and a path for each one to follow, and no negotiations or detours are expected. This life defines the next one. It is important what happens to your soul next, not what happens to your body now. People here adhere to simple moral principles and existential knowledge.
Alas, when the electricity came back and I heard the familiar buzzing sound of the ceiling fan, I was so relieved…
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22 See for more Raheja, Gloria Goodwin, ed. Songs, Stories, Lives: Gendered Dialogues and Cultural Critique. New Delhi: Kali for Women, 2003