Honeymoon in the Himalayas: Part II

The Darjeeling Himalayan Railway started operation in 1881--the brainchild of some obsessive British engineers. The Darjeeling government bills it as "the first and most outstanding example of hill railway". Indeed, it has been dubbed a UNESCO World Heritage site and is renowned across the globe for its breathtaking views of the Himalayan mountains. Due to its small size and its antique-looking engine car, it is known affectionately as the Toy Train.

All that being said, our four-hour journey to Darjeeling on the Toy Train was shrouded in the same soupy fog that had covered us in Kurseong for two days. The train took a meandering journey up a hillside covered in towering spruce and cedar trees. To our left a thick blanket of fog and clouds covered what should of have been a panoramic vista of snow-capped mountains. Instead, we entertained ourselves by waving to villagers as we trundled noisily through a series of small mountain towns. Check out the slide show below to see images of our journey from Kurseong to Darjeeling.

****

On the train, we were lucky enough to meet up with a German couple who we had seen in passing at the Cochrane Place in Kurseong. Their names we would learn were Jochen and Birgit Bullinger, but they introduced themselves as Joe and Bea. They came from the small village of Wettstetten outside of Munich. Joe works as an engineer for Audi, which has a giant production plant in Wettstetten, and Bea is a social worker counseling abused and neglected children along with troubled married couples.

It turned out that Joe and Bea would also be staying at the same hotel as us in Darjeeling--the Dekeling (see previous post for website). They each carried heavy-looking hiking backpacks with walking poles. They explained they had come to West Bengal and would be going on to Sikkim (same as us, too) for some trekking. The area is, of course, a hiker's dream with winding paths that give awe-inspiring views of the mountains (at least that is what we had been told.)

We got to Darjeeling a little after 6:30 at night. The sun had already set, but Joe strode out from the train station with the confidence of a seasoned trekker. With map in hand he walked up Darjeeling's precipitously steep streets with Bea, Jenna, and I huffing a few paces behind. After a calf-burning ten minute walk we suddenly came upon the Dekeling. It sat atop a ridge line overlooking the city, now twinkling with thousands of lights. In the darkness and the clouds we could not see even the vaguest shadow of a Himalayan peak. Yet, we knew they were out there and we hoped to see some in the coming days.

Honeymoon in the Himalayas: Part I

The blog took a couple of days break owing to the fact that we spent much of Friday night packing up after the end of our TESOL course. Then, we spent much of Saturday traveling to the northern stretches of West Bengal province. Currently, we are in Darjeeling which is a famous hill station on the cusp of the Himalayas. This city--which now numbers more than 100,000--was established by the British in the 1800s as a sort of "vacation capital" away from Calcutta's torpid climate. In Darjeeling, we are staying at the Dekeling Hotel, which is perched atop a ridge overlooking the city. Behind us is Mt. Kanchenjunga, the third highest peak in the world and the tallest in India. We plan to walk around tomorrow and hopefully get some good views.

****

Friday was the final day of our course. We taught one last time--back at the all-girls school we taught at on Tuesday. The girls were older, maybe 14 or 15, and probably had the most proficient English skills of any students we taught all week. The lesson was smooth and easy: a good culmination to the program. The ATI folks fed us a savory lunch of rise and chicken curry along with bhekti fish (fried in a sweet batter) and gulab jamun, which is now my new favorite dessert: milk, flour and butter fried in a ball and doused in syrup. It tastes like an extra dense doughnut hole covered in honey. I had five.

After saying our goodbyes, we came back to our guesthouse one last time and packed up. We both admitted that we would be sad to leave this place, which had served as a good first home in India.

****

The next day we flew from Kolkata to Bagdogra, a small provincial airport outside the metropolis of Siliguri in northern West Bengal. Some say the state of West Bengal is shaped like a chicken with Kolkata residing somewhere in the imaginary gut. The state winds and narrows northwards along a strip of land known as the Chicken's Neck. Siliguri and Bagdogra Airport lie in what must be considered the chicken's head. A map of West Bengal will give a good visual. We would be spending the first few days of our week in Darjeeling district, at the very northern edge of the state.

From Bagdogra, we drove to the nearby town of Kurseong along a pleasantly circuitous route through tea plantations. With the windows down, we noticed a dramatic change in the weather as we began to climb altitude. Our driver--who had been spent by our hotel in Kurseong--zoomed through this route which he seemed to know by heart. He wound through the switchbacks and up the narrow roads constantly pumping the clutch and ripping into different gears. By the time we reached the Cochrane it was 3:30 in the afternoon, but the sunlight was already fading and clouds were rolling in.

***

Much of our time in Kurseong was spent admiring the excessive fog that had rolled into the valleys below our vantage point. There was the sense of mountains and wide vistas just beyond our grasp but much of it was obscured by the opaque blanket of white in front of us. Luckily, the clouds broke on a few brief occassions long enough for us to take pictures. (The picture at the top of this post is the view out our hotel balcony in Kurseong.)

We took a couple of walks into the main town and admired the tea fields that tumbled down from the thin strip of asphalt that served as the primary road into the village proper. Houses and variegated apartment complexes were stacked haphazardly on the hillside above the hotel. Precipitous stone staircases led down to the tea plantations below. As we walked we could actually see rain clouds blow in from the east, roll over the hillside and fall down into the valley.

Due to the soggy climate, we did not wander too far and spent much of our time in the confines of our hotel Cochrane Place, a rambling Victorian-style lodge with antique furniture and creaky floors. The encroaching fog combined with the atmospheric moaning of floorboards made us feel as if we had gotten lost in an Agatha Christie mystery.

The food and tea were excellent, though, and the service impeccable. The manager ordered us a cab for Sunday morning to take to the train station in town. From there, we took the famous Darjeeling Himalayan Railroad--known affectionately as the Toy Train--to our next stop: Darjeeling.

Sugar and Spice?

We had our second day of teaching at Netajinagar--the all-boys school. This day went more smoothly, thought the problems we face on Wednesday did not disappear completely. Jenna and I taught in the same classroom, and it was a different group of boys from the ones either of us taught the previous day.

The picture says it all. They were high-spirited and eager, and at the same time did not want to show too much eagerness to their peers (with a couple of notable exceptions.) There was the definite "too cool for school" crowd in the back corner. Funny how those types always find the spots furthest from the front. Jenna and I actually had to move one of these boys to a seat near the chalkboard so he would stop talking to his brother. He got up with a sheepish grin and kept on a mask of disinterest the rest of the period.

Our lesson asked the boys to practice a conversation and then listen to another dialogue on tape and answer a few questions. My lesson focused on Cooking and Jenna's was on Birthdays. The boys seemed to grasp both concepts with ease, though getting them to answer questions and participate was another matter. However, the ones who did participate were vibrating bundles of energy. When called upon, these individuals would stand up and shout the answer (or sometimes not even wait for the teacher to call on them; they would just stand up and yell.) "Cooking, sir! Cooking, sir!" They would repeat the phrases of the practiced conversation with relish and when I would walk by they would bow slightly and say, "Thank you, sir! See, sir?"

Overall, it was a a joy. The process was still noticeably more exhausting than teaching a roomful of compliant girls, but the messages of the lessons were still received.

***

On the ride back from the school, I sat crammed in the front seat next to one of our observers--a middle-aged man named Alex Fernandes. He was a Kolkata native, with a trimmed gray beard and neatly cropped silver hair. I had to ask him: "Where did you get your name?"

"My family is from Goa, which was settled by the Portuguese. Way back, my family converted to Catholicism. Practically everyone in Goa is Catholic and we all have Portuguese names. But I am Indian. I was actually born in Kolkata," Alex said. He explained that he had been a teacher and had worked for ATI helping them observe training teachers. He mentioned that he had been active in Catholic charities. I coyly asked if he had ever met Mother Teresa.

"Oh yes," he replied matter-of-factly, "many times." I blanched. "Really?" I asked.

"My organization used to do quite a bit of work with the Missionaries of Charity (Mother Teresa's mission). We still do. I would see her usually once a week," he nodded. "It is funny but it was hard at the time to realize how great a person this was. She was so holy and kind. But since I saw her so much..." he drifted off and looked out the window. He came back from his brief reverie: "Have you been to Motherhouse?"

I told him that we had. Jenna and I had gone to Motherhouse--Mother Teresa's biggest mission in the city and the place where she kept her home in Kolkata--the previous Sunday. We had attended mass and had seen Mother Teresa's tomb and the austere room in which she had lived most of her life.

"That is good that you have seen it," Alex said. "She was a great person."

Boys Will Be Boys...

After one of our peer teaching sessions, Sangeeta, our course instructor, said to me, "Jenna, I find you to be a little too stern. With these English Language Learners, you need to smile more." As always, I took the comment personally, but Kyle reminded me that we'd been teaching at Hogg, not India. Not smiling was my survival tool, and being businesslike in the classroom saved me from being eaten alive on many occassions.

So, I've embraced her advice these past two days of teaching. Like Kyle said, I have "actually enjoyed" teaching, and we have both found this teaching practicum to be the most enjoyable part of the course. The rides home from teaching have been jovial--filled with feelings of success and unadulterated adulation for our adorable Indian students. Kyle and I both commented on how fulfilling it was to just "teach"; management just wasn't an issue. It was heavenly, and I was finally feeling like I really could "smile." That is, until today...

Packed into the van, we drove down the winding streets of Kolkata. We were all equipped with our materials. I would be teaching our students about Movies, and Kyle would be teaching about World Travel. We asked our observer, Sangeeta, about our school. "Well," she said, "it's an all-boys school. Your classroom management is going to be tested. Girls are good; boys are trouble." Our honeymoon with Indian schools was over. We, or at least I, arrived at Natajinagar Vidayamandir more nervous than

when we had started out that day.

The warm-up to my lesson (Simon Says) went smoothly. They all wore short-sleeved blue shirts and navy bottoms and were equally adorable as the female students that we had taught the previous days. However,that's where the similarities ended. Whereas my smiling face and saying "OK, eyes up here and listen" turned the girls into silent wonders, those same words did nothing for the boys. Instead, there was pinching, yelling, squirming, and laughing. Things completely fell apart when I tried a partner-activity where the boys lined up in two lines facing one another. I asked them to reach across the aisle and touch hands with their partner, which quickly turned into a mosh pit of 20 boys. Needless to say, the lesson was unfinished and unsuccessful at the end of the 40 minutes.

When I walked out of the room, the "smile" that I had easily put to use the past two days had disappeared. The feelings among my classmates were similar,who used adjectives like loud, squirrelly, and inattentive to describe the boys. Instead of the usual optimism, comments like "How am I supposed to get them to be quiet when they can't understand me?" and "They just wouldn't listen" filled the ride home. Kyle and I both remarked that this experience more closely resembled what teaching is really like--a fact that our classmates didn't seem so thrilled about .The mood became even more sullen when we found out that we would be returning to the same school tomorrow.

Tomorrow is a new day, but I've definitely learned some things that will help me tomorrow. Boys will be boys, whether in the U.S. or India. And, smiling isn't a management system; I'll be putting my "smile" in my back pocket-- at least for tomorrow.

"Teacher? Autograph?"

We took a less adventurous ride on our second day of teaching in Kolkata. This time, the school we taught at was only about 20 minutes away from the ATI offices. We passed through some more affluent neighborhoods to get there, with smoothly paved four-lane roads and apartment buildings with security guards and locked gates. We also passed a sprawling complex with a high brick wall and concertina wire all around. The front gate let us know this was the main training ground for the Kolkata Police.

We turned down some side streets and made a typically circuitous way down some narrow lanes--nearly side-swiping pedestrians, dogs and bicyclists along the way--and reached Khidderpore Ballika Vidyavathan. This was another all-girls school. It sat clustered on the end of a crowded block across from a park. The building was three stories high and the school itself comprised only the second floor. We trudged up a twisting set of stairs and found ourselves in our classroom.

Really, it was one large room--the size of a small gym. The space had been divided into three smaller "classrooms" by plywood dividers placed at intervals to split the room up into thirds. We would be teaching three at a time in these boxed-in areas.

The girls filed in excitedly, beaming and squealing. The school's teachers--dressed in bright saris--led them to their assigned spaces. They tromped in loudly on the hardwood floors and plopped their backpacks on the rickety wooden benches that served as seats. After a chaotic few minutes, all the girls were set and the first three teachers began: Summer on one end of the room, Philip on the opposite end and me in the middle.

The girls we taught today were slightly older--maybe sixth and seventh grade. Yet, their English skills were not as strong as the girls from Day One. Still, they were enthusiastic and polite. They all were dressed in matching teal skirts with white, collared undershirts. They had all braided their hair in tight pigtails and had teal ribbons in their hair. The lesson involved a lot of listening, and the space was not great for this purpose--hard floors, high ceilings, concrete walls and three loud teacher voices talking at once. Yet, the girls remained poised and on-task. Every so often I would catch some girls talking or whispering while I was teaching, and I would look closer to redirect them. (My teacher instincts told me, of course, that they were off-task.) However, on closer examination I realized the girls were invariably talking about the lesson or practicing the English I had just gone over on the board.

Jenna and I taught in the same space. It was fun to observe each other. We had different sets of girls. At the end of my 40-minute lesson, the school headmistress came in and ordered the girls to file out and a new group of rambunctious pre-teens came in and sat down. Jenna's group was a year older and slightly more proficient in English. Still, Jenna agreed that today's lesson was a bit harder to get through than Monday's. Still, the girls brightened our days. Jenna says she has "actually enjoyed" teaching the past two days.

One thing I will remember from this day, though, is what happened at the end of my lesson. As I wrapped up and the girls got ready to go, several of them got out notepads and pencils. They hurriedly thrust the pads and pencils at me, fighting each other for space. "Teacher! Teacher? Autograph? Sign?" they said pleadingly. They were asking me for my autograph, as if I was some big Bollywood star like Salman Khan. The ATI trainers had actually warned us about this phenomenon, and they had told us to politely decline. For if we signed one girls' paper, then we would be stuck for hours signing every girl's.

As we left, one of the ATI trainers laughed and said, "There will only be a few times in your life when you will feel like a rock star. That was one of them."

Teach For Kolkata

For the first time in nearly four months, Jenna and I stepped in front of a room-full of children and said, "Good morning, class!"

It was a wild day, one that needs some explanation. In short: it was a day only Kolkata could produce. We got to our training headquarters at 9:15. Fifteen minutes later, ten of us--six teacher trainees, three observers, and one driver--packed into a Tata jeep meant for six. Two crammed up front next to the driver. Three jammed in the middle seat and four of us (including Jenna and I) somehow squeezed ourselves into the carriage seats in the back. We got on the road--a gut-churning affair as always--and zipped into the single maddest bit of rush hour I have ever experienced. (Though, to be fair, I have never been to LA.) As we swerved between cars and nearly nipped several motorcyclists, I asked our observers how long it could take to get to the school. "Two hours, depending on traffic," one of them deadpanned. "You're joking, right?" I said. She wasn't.

I thought back to my time at Teach For America's Summer Institute in Houston. The bus ride to the school I taught at that summer was a 45-minute jaunt, in a half-filled school bus that was air-conditioned. I remember complaining at the time (along with all the other TFA trainees at my school) about the inconvenience of the drive, the uncomfortable seats, and the heat from the sputtering AC. In the back of our Tata jeep today, I dreamt of that bus.

About an hour into the ride, we hit a standstill. One of the observers suggested I trade places with Matt--another trainee and my roommate who was of much slighter build than myself. He was sitting right next to the driver up front. In the middle of stalled traffic, we got out and made the exchange. I plopped into the front seat only to find that I was straddling the gearshift. Traffic commenced and the driver downshifted right into my crotch. This is how I spent the second hour of the journey. By the time we reached Anandaashram Sarada Vidyapeeth--our school--my left leg was numb and my inner thigh was bruised. Not to mention, my back and armpits were drenched and a dark V of moisture cascaded from my front collar.

We walked into the building, a breezy rectangular structure with three levels painted mustard yellow and trimmed with dark maroon. A quiet courtyard sat at the center, filled with the bikes of students. Its open plan and cool hallways reminded me of a Greek temple. The steady din of high-pitched voices in another part of the building let us know school was definitely in session.

Within two minutes of walking into the building we were led to the classrooms in which we would teach our lessons. Jenna and another trainee Summer were led down the hall. Philip and I were brought to the first door on the right. Without a chance to catch my breath, we walked into a room of 54 fifth-grade girls. They all stood at attention when I entered. The teacher whose class this was, stood as well and said,"Class?" The girls all recited in unison, "GOOD MORNING!" Then, they sat down in one motion.

I taught first, and I realized as the teacher who had greeted us walked out of the room, that I was on. I put my backpack down and wrote my name on the board. I turned and found 54 pairs of small, wide eyes staring back at me. It had been too long since I had felt this. A tingle ran up my spine. I was teaching again. I introduced myself and quickly got into the lesson.

I won't bore you with logistical details about the lesson--it was a simple recitation of some common jobs and their descriptions. It involved a lot of call-and-response. With 54 students, it was hard to play the game I had planned but it still managed to work out. Things went smoothly mainly because the girls were perfectly well-behaved. They volunteered. They raised their hands. They repeated what I asked them to repeat. They answered questions when I gestured to them. They called me "Sir" and smiled when I said "Good job" or "Excellent".

Another trainee--Colleen--asked one of the teachers at the school later what type of families these girls come from. She responded that they came mostly from nearby slums and that their parents were typically the poorest of Kolkata's citizens. Yet, they came to school immaculately dressed in dull lavender dresses with red belts and red bows in their pigtailed hair. They carried backpacks or tote bags and all had supplies ready to whip out if they needed to write anything.

I admit that it was a small sample size. I only instructed them for 30 minutes. However, I came away astonished at their work ethic, their enthusiasm, their apparent desire to want to be at school. Shamefully, I must say that I had rarely experienced such impressions teaching in the US. Jenna and I both agreed that the experience today made us nostalgic for teaching. We wanted to stay and we want to go back tomorrow. However, we have a different appointment with a different school. And this time, we will be teaching teenagers.

High Culture in Kolkata

From the mass culture of Dabangg to the decidedly more high-brow realm of Bengali classical music: that was the journey that Jenna and I and our new friends took this week. A day after seeing Bollywood's biggest masala hit--Dabanng--we made a short walk to the Ramakrishna Mission Institute of Culture to see a group of studious men play sitars and tablas and harmoniums.

The concert was free and was held in a dimly lit auditorium that smelled of old wood and incense. The Ramakrishna Institute bills itself as a cross-cultural organization--a kind of apolitical think tank--dedicated to the teachings and philosophies of the great 19th Century mystic Ramakrishna (a man many followers believe was actually a god in man form). For more about the Institute, check out its website. In essence, though, the saint himself taught that all humankind was of one faith and one ambition. Secular and religious difference needlessly divided people and created conflict.

The crowd at the concert appeared sedate and intellectual: well-dressed men in collared shirts with a scholarly air, women in fashionable saris, a few younger people with backpacks and notepads. This was clearly a concert for the well-informed, the lovers of Bengali classical music. The entire thing--including the introductions and the short spoken digressions between songs--was in Bengali, so we understood none of it at the time. I had the good fortune of emailing the primary singer after the show. More on that in a bit.

The music itself was vastly different from what our Western ears were attuned to. Each song started off with the singer Sugata Marjit playing on his harmonium (which is like small organ that lies on the floor) and chanting a single phrase. As he repeated the phrase he would add baroque flourishes to each word or line and change it subtly, adding vocal embellishments and diving into pitch intonations I had never heard before. After a short time, he would nod slightly to his tabla player--the tabla is similar to a set of bongo drums but with a higher resonance--and the tabla player would start beating out a rhythm. The song would pick up. Another harmonium player would add his drone. And underneath all of it was the vibrating, twittering picks of the sitar player. To get a good idea what it sounded like, watch this video of Sugata Marjit performing. (This video is not the concert we went to, but the man singing is Sugata Marjit, the singer we watched. To the right in the video is a harmonium. And the woman in the background is playing a sitar.)

Some songs were slow and darkly melodic with a clear conveyance of sadness and longing. Others were more quickly paced with brighter chord structures that left the listener feeling ebullient. Overall, it appeared to be a fairly theoretical exercise. The singer Sugata would stop every so often after a song had started and explain something in Bengali. He would lead the band through a few musical phrases and continue his explanation. Heads in the audience nodded in agreement. A few audience members even raised their hands and asked questions or made comments.

After we left, I felt I needed some more information. I wanted to know what the songs were about and where they had come from. I emailed the Ramakrishna Institute the next day and they eventually forwarded the message to Sugata himself. The artist responded with a well-spoken email. He said at the concert from the previous night he had played some of his own compositions as well as some "legendary" songs that had been "wildly popular" in the 1940s and 1950s. He said most of them were devotional in nature--songs about God, nature and love. Like classical music the world over, he said, Bengali classical music was running into the boundaries of modern culture. These are his words, quoted from the email:

Bengali classical still holds its ground , but talents capable of performiong both pure classical type and Bengali Versions (popular music) have become really really rare. Markets are also looking for quick successes, parents are looking for quick fame. Original renditions of Bengali Classical music are taking a backseat. But at the end of the day , it is dearth of talent. Raw talent that mimics popular songs will be ineffective . It requires the same training and practice as in pure classical music. Talents who will endure hardship for years are rare.

But there is a huge pile of listeners, just waiting for that good
voice, well trained and pleasing.

Its a genre that never dies but wait for the right catalysts for a flare up.

I felt after this, that I had visited the two extremes of Indian culture--the Bollywood glitz of a mega-hit movie and the patient intellectualism of a classical music concert--and had come out all the better for it.

Morning Breaks...

Even in this Hobbesian maze of a city, mornings come quietly and pleasantly. That is why I have taken to the routine of walking out to get the morning papers. I usually step out about 6:45 am. At this time, the sky is a pale yellow color. The streets have a light gauze of moisture--evidence of the previous night's rain. And the day's humidity is just beginning to work to a good boil. Frank Sinatra sang that he loved London by night. If Ol' Blue Eyes had ever visited West Bengal, he might have said the same thing about Kolkata by morning.

The paper stand I go to (for in Kolkata, you must visit and re-visit the same businesses to build up a rapport) is about six blocks from our guest house, around two sharp curves and up a moderately busy street named Purna Das Road. As I walk, I pass day laborers rousting themselves from a hard night's sleep--gurgling water and brushing their teeth with their fingers as they squat in the gutters. Women dressed in variegated saris trowel the streets' refuse piles for recyclable materials that they can later sell for a tiny profit. Stray dogs lick and clean themselves as best they can as they lay plum in the middle of the crusty sidewalks. The lower classes wander to curbside water pumps to fill up bottles and buckets of water in order to wash themselves.

Laundry hangs from trees or simply lies on the concrete, having dried overnight. The sudden bleating of car horns breaks the hush every once and a while, but their frequency is refreshingly sparse compared to the near-continuous racket they make at rush hours. Entire families whiz by on mo-peds with father driving, mother propped precariously in her workday salwar-kameez on the back bump and daugther ('bibi') perched in front of papa by the handlebars in her school uniform. It is a constant amazement to me that I do not read more about fatal and tragic traffic deaths in the papers each day. I have yet to see such a story. Either they do not happen, or they happen with such frequency that it is no longer news. Other, possibly less adventurous mothers walk their sons and daughters to school, tugging impatiently at their little ones' hands as they dawdle and delay.

In little less than three weeks time, Kolkata's biggest festival--the Durga Puja--will begin. This five-day citywide bacchanal is spoken of in reverent terms by Kolkata's citizens. Each time a person learns that Jenna and I will be leaving before the Puja begins, they cast their eyes down disappointedly and shake their heads, clearly sorry for us. For the Puja, each neighborhood funds and constructs an idol house--a place where locals can come and worship images of the goddesses Shiva and Kali. These are imposing, impressive structures made of bamboo poles, towering as high as three stories in the air. There are two currently rising on our street. In the mornings, as I walk to get the paper, the laborers who are constructing these anachronistic behemoths are beginning their toil--bending the bamboo stalks, splitting them with axes, tying them together in an intricate latticework that belies the seemingly primitive methods of putting them together. This is not a mere hobby: there is real devotion and love that goes into these houses. And Jenna and I have been lucky enough to see these things grow from a mere pile of chalky bamboo into real structures, with roofs, stairways, and floors.

Once we leave Kolkata, I will not miss the car horns or the smells or the garbage stacked ankle-deep in the gutters. But I will miss these mornings. And the dewy feeling of a new day, and the sounds of bamboo being chopped and the vroom of a family off to work and school on their mo-ped. I'll get the paper in whatever places we go to in our journeys but I know--even now--that it will not be the same. Kolkata by morning is, indeed, a wonderful sight.

DABANGG

Jenna, Summer, and I had a thorough cultural immersion this evening. We went and saw Dabangg, the biggest Bollywood hit at the moment. In fact, Dabangg's opening weekend grossed the single highest amount in Bollywood history. Something like 490 million rupees in three days. The movie's release coincided with the Muslim holiday of Id last weekend, kind of like big blockbusters in America come out on July 4th or Christmas.

Of course, the movie is entirely in Hindi so we did not understand a single word--except the occasional Americanized phrase like "better luck next time". Still, grandiose fight scenes and melodramatic acting are universal. Bollywood movies--for those who have never been lucky enough to experience one--are like a cross between a telenovela, a music video, and a Jerry Bruckheimer film. The notoriously inexplicable choreographed dance numbers pop up about every 15 minutes and seem to be the most popular parts of the film. The crowd at our screening was small--maybe 30 patrons in a theater that fit a couple hundred--yet their excitement grew noticeably during the musical numbers.

Dabangg had relentless violence and has actually gained some controversy in India for being too graphic and sexually explicit. (Though really, the most X-rated it gets is a girl walking through a spritzing water fountain in a tight-fitting sari. This strategy is an actual technique in Bollywood film-making: the "wet sari scene". Look it up.) Dabangg's central character is Chulbul Pandey, a corrupt cop with a talent for bringing a party wherever he goes. After his mother dies, he goes on a rampage to get revenge on her killers. At the same time, he falls in love, makes nice with his estranged step-father, and helps his hapless brother escape a violent street gang. Of course, I had to look all that up after the movie. Yet, I think we got the basic gist as it was happening. There is little to interpret about exploding bombs and gyrating belly dancers. To get a good idea of the movie, watch this trailer.

More interesting was the actual movie-going experience in India. The cinema was a six-theater multiplex at the South City Mall, which is a couple of miles south of our guest house. The mall's looming glass face looks out on Prince Arwan Shah drive. When you walk in through the metal detectors, you find yourself in a cavernous, four-story space that can only be described as: American. Immaculate tile floors, shiny metal balustrades and whirring escalators leading up to the next level. The droning din of all malls the world over. The smell of a food court wafting over every thing. Stores and stores and stores--all enclosed in glass, all well-lit and vibrant. I do not mean to sound reverent, but it was kind of a shock.

We did a little browsing. We walked through the food court, which had the usual suspects--KFC, Subway, Pizza Hut, a Mexican restaurant, a Chinese restaurant--along with a few Indian twists--a kebab stand, a Bengali place, a Punjabi stall. We browsed through Starmark Books, a Barnes and Noble knock-off. Jenna peaked in at a clothing store. Then we went to the actual movie. Two tickets, two drinks and a good-sized popcorn cost the equivalent of $12.

We had assigned seats, which was comical considering everyone was placed in the top four rows. Yet, nobody moved once the lights went down. Everyone stayed dutifully in their spot. The India national anthem came on before the movie and we all stood as it played. At the exact midpoint of the movie (though an intense fight sequence was going on), the movie stopped and the lights went up for intermission. A yowling cadre of vendors came up the aisles plying hot dogs, nachos, coffee, tea, candy, and more popcorn. After ten minutes, the movie resumed right where it had stopped.

After the movie, we said goodbye to Summer who lived in another part of town and took a short auto-rickshaw ride back to our guest house. The first thing we did when we walked in the door was download the movie's title song--which comprised an impressive dance number at the beginning of the film. Don't laugh. Listen to it and try not to hum along. You'll have Udd Udd Dabangg stuck in your head the rest of the day.

Tuesday Morning Football

In a sign that we are adjusting to our surroundings, today can be considered a rather ho-hum day in Kolkata. The highlight--at least for me--was listening to the first half of the Chiefs' season opener online. They played the Chargers on Monday Night Football, and the game started at the ungodly time of 9:15 PM in the US. But this meant that I could listen to it as I got ready for class this morning. Had to leave after Dexter McCluster's electrifying punt return. The crowd sounded awesome, and it was good to hear Mitch and Len though I am thousands of miles away. The fact that the Chiefs won (unexpectedly) was an added bonus.

I told Matt my roommate about the game and I added off-handedly that I was "kind of disappointed" I did not get to watch it on TV. He laughed, "You Americans. Always complaining about what you miss back home. I don't get why you even leave in the first place."

The next Chiefs game will be harder to follow, since game time for Sunday's contest versus Cleveland will begin at approximately 10:30 PM my time. Any 3 o'clock games this season would start at 1:30 in the morning for me. Oh well, the Twenty20 Champions League cricket tournament is on pretty regularly. I will always have that...

Suddenly Howrah

**Jenna snapped some great photos on our trip to Howrah and put together a slide show. View at the end of this post.**

It has been several days since the last post but not from want of material. Due to last week's strike, we had class on Saturday. It went kind of long; then, to celebrate, the members of the class went out for some dinner. We ended up going to Kolkata's premier (read: only) nightclub Tantra. Jenna and two other girls from the class actually got snagged by a roving interviewer for Indian MTV and got asked some questions on camera. The club was small, hot and loud, filled with preening Indian men in all manner of Western-style attire. A sort of DJ contest was going on, and each contestant's partisans made loud rackets at the end of each "set". We left just as the winner was being announced. We were not really pulling for one.

On Sunday, Jenna and I and two of the girls from our class--Colleen and Summer--trekked through a large swath of northern Kolkata. We took a taxi to the Victoria Memorial and then hiked through the Maidan, a sprawling urban wilderness populated by goat herds and malnourished horses. A few soccer and cricket games were going on and men lazed about suspiciously in the tall grass. We eventually made our way to BBD Bagh, a square at the heart of old British colonial Kolkata. Around the square were imposing architectural gems like the General Post Office and red-bricked Writers Building (which was once a main hub for workers of the British East India Company). Since this area is presently home to much of West Bengal's state government, stern-looking army guards repeatedly told us not to take any pictures.

As we left BBD Bagh we encountered what you always seem to run into: a curious Kolkatan. He introduced himself as Ranu. He was smartly dressed in trousers and a button-up shirt. He had a finely trimmed salt-and-pepper mustache and wavy gray hair. He immediately told us he used to work for the local tourism bureau but was currently out of a job. He wanted to practice his English, so would we mind if he gave us a short tour of the area? Knowing this would cost us some money in the end but adventurous all the same, we said yes and dutifully followed as Ranu lit out at a calf-burning pace.

He headed north along the Strand Rd which abuts the Hooghly River and kept motioning to us impatiently with his arm. "Come, come. You look tired," he winked and nudged me in the side. "I am 56. How old are you?" I told him my age. "Ha! I am old man. You are young. You should keep up with me," and he quickened his pace further as taxis and buses screamed within inches of us.

As we stepped further north, the care of the buildings receded and the population living on the street increased. No part of Kolkata that I have been in yet has appeared pristine: that is, after all, part of the city's gritty charm. Yet this area seemed more dilapidated still. I glanced at Ranu and wondered where exactly he was taking us. He soon answered my question: "We are going to see the flower market. Only Sundays. Come! But make sure your camera is away. Not good to be out around here."

We turned a sharp corner towards the river, and we found ourselves on a street of mud lined on each side by shacks made of rotting wood and bamboo poles. Tarps and soiled cotton sheets served as roofs to these structures. In each place huddled families, some as large as a dozen individuals. Naked toddlers played in the alleyway. Ranu took us further. "Almost there. I take you through back door," he smiled, certain he was doing us a favor.

After a time, we reached a crowded area that was, as Ranu told us, the flower market. We passed under a steel pedestrian bridge and walked into a teeming den of barking vendors. Stalls and baskets of flowers filled every inch of available space. A narrow walk way of sludge served the impatient buyers moving from stall to stall. Strings of electric orange marigolds hung from rafters. Magenta hibiscus bouquets caught the eye. Heaping mounds of raw tea leaves filled the putrid air with an evanescent scent of the Himalayas. The aroma of flowers mixed with the typical Kolkata odor of sweat and garbage. A rank mess of mud mixed with the pungent pulp of crushed flowers beneath our feet, making the market's thin boulevards a slippery obstacle course. Ranu took us down what had to be considered the "main" path of the market and then he veered into a yet more-crowded maze of interior stalls. We pressed into other buyers and had vendors literally in our ears, plying their wares.

After several turns, we stepped through an archway and found ourselves suddenly and unexplainably on the banks of the Hooghly, right underneath the famous Howrah Bridge. A mass of half-naked Kolkatans bathed not 100 feet from us at the end of a concrete jetty. A naked boy ran up to us yelling "Hallo! Hallo!" and then he sprinted back to the brown water. Across the churning river we could see the crenellated edifice of the Howrah train station--busiest in India after Mumbai's Victoria Terminus. Lines of people crossed the bridge above us in an unending stream of humanity. Ranu had taken us through chaos and brought us out onto a spot that was, if anything, the most sought after view of Kolkata.

We snapped several pictures and then followed Ranu back into the market. "Everyone happy?" he asked. We nodded in wonderment. Whatever he would charge, Ranu's tour had been worth it.

A Walk in the Park

**Look for the picture slideshow at the end of this post.**

Every time you walk out your front door in Kolkata, you may run into adventure. For example, the other day Jenna and I took a ten-minute stroll to Rabindra Sarovar, a public park within a half-mile of our guest house.

The park is a rare zone of green space and solitude in this bustling city. It is sometimes called the "Lungs of Kolkata"--maybe because this is where many native Kolkatans go every morning to get their exercise. We saw hundreds of people out for brisk morning walks or leisurely strolls. Several people were jogging (the first time we had seen that in Kolkata). Others were walking their dogs. A few snappily dressed crew teams were rowing in the artificial lake at the park's center. Beyond a gate and thick grouping of low-hanging trees, a public bathhouse allowed men to simply walk into the lake and bathe.

Rain washed over the park about 30 minutes after we arrived. We saw it (and heard it) coming from the southeast. Water droplets began hitting the lake and trees slowly at first and then burst into a great timpani roll that sent everyone scrambling for cover. We had not brought any rain gear, so we cowered with about six other people under a large tree by the lake's edge. Like most rain storms in Kolkata, this one subsided after about five minutes, and everyone went about their business, a little soggier than before.

We walked along in the growing humidity, and after a while we heard what sounded like chanting. As we got closer, we could see a group of people through a stand of short trees with their arms raised. They were all bellowing in unison: "HA! HA! HO! HO!"

Jenna and I circled around to get a better look. The group had a leader, standing on a short concrete platform. He was a short, paunchy man wearing what looked to be a motorcycle helmet. "Okaaaaay! Touch your tooooeess!" he commanded, and everyone in the group bent down with their arms stretching towards their feet. "Now! One...two...three...four...five!" and everyone slowly raised their arms to the sky. "HA! HA! HO! HO!" they bellowed again. Then, we saw the sign: Safari Park Laughing Club.

We stood there for another fifteen minutes as the group went through a variety of different "laughs", some accompanied by rhythmic clapping. After a time, the group broke up and the members started to casually file off. We walked up to the sign, which also had a detailed explanation of the Laughing Club's purpose along with a prescriptive list of laughing's benefits. It apparently could help cure asthma, back pain, obesity and a variety of other ailments. Two women walked over and greeted us. The one who spoke better English said her name was Fatima. "Are you interested?" she asked.

"You mean, anyone can come and do this?" I asked. "Oh, of course," she replied with a smile. "Is it worth it?" I asked. "Very much so. It helps your physical well-being and also your mental state. Good way to start the day." I asked Fatima what time the Laughing Club started. "Six in the morning. Every morning." It looked fun, but I felt like I could hardly laugh at that time in the morning. I could barely crack a smile before 8 am. Fatima chuckled a bit. "Have a good day," she said and her and her friend walked off.

Jenna and I shook our heads and smiled. Only a city like Kolkata could drive people to seek out therapeutic laughing at six in the morning.

Birthday Wishes

I received a couple of birthday surprises today. When my parents called us on Skype this morning (Kolkata time), they sang me "Happy Birthday" along with Jack and Jess Layman (two members of our church), who had come over to my parents' house for that specific purpose. It was a great way to start the 28th year of my life.

At the end of the day, my roommate here in Kolkata Matt and his girlfriend Shardah threw me a surprise mini-bash. They picked up some bottles of Kingfisher beer (a local Indian brew) and Matt also brought out some of his native New Zealand vodka. Along with Jenna, we toasted and had a few rounds. Then, we went out to a "fancy" Indian restaurant. For most people around here, this restaurant--called Tero Parbon--would be way out of reach. We were able to walk in with shorts and flip-flops. Still, they ripped us. We got charged 120 rupees for an item we did not even get served. The waiter acknowledged the mistake and still insisted there was nothing we could do about it. It didn't dampen our spirits though. I mean, 120 rupees is still only about $3.

More about what Jenna and I did today to follow tomorrow.

Kalighat

Class resumed today after the strike, but before that Jenna and I visited Kalighat--the Kali Temple, the holiest spot in Kolkata. It is here where thousands of devout Hindus visit everyday to pray and worship and get marked with Kali's mark, a dollop of bright orange paint on the forehead between the eyes. We came to the temple through a twisting maze of alleyways. The entrance appeared quite suddenly in a covey of street vendors and beggars. Unfortunately, the temple security guards told us to keep our camera firmly locked away in its case.

As soon as we passed through the metal detectors, we found ourselves in the midst of chaos. (Though chaos has become a relative term in Kolkata.) This was chaos permeated by a religious fervor we had yet to witness in India. Pilgrims and worshipers crammed all around us on the outer walls of the temple, some gently knocking their heads against its brick walls. Others had their hands raised and their eyes turned in the direction of the temple's shining silver-domed top. All around us was a din of chanting and low-toned praying.

Before we could object, a young man dressed in a white kurta (a long-sleeved tunic) and lungi (loincloth tucked in betwen the legs) had sidled up to us and had begun giving us a guided tour. "This is Kolkata's most sacred temple. It is a public temple, though, so no matter your caste or level in society, you can worship here." He was motioning with his hands to follow. In the fervid mass of worshippers, Jenna and I felt we needed a little assistance, so we went along.

The young man led us towards the back where a strong scent of incense permeated. The bleating of goats wailed above the noise of the crowd. "This is our sacrificial spot," the young man said, pointing towards two goats tethered to a low brick wall. A few men stood around the goats expectantly. "These goats will be sacrificed and the blood will be offered to Kali." Jenna and I looked at the goats, whose hooves skittered wildly on the tile floor of the temple. "How do you sacrifice them?" I asked. "We cut off their heads," the man said.

He led us to another spot towards the side of the temple, opposite from how we had come in. "Please, take off your shoes." We dutifully slipped off our flip-flops and piled them on top of several dozen other pairs. The man handed us two metal rings painted red, a slender box of incense wicks, and a string of crimson hibiscus flowers. "Follow. Come. Please," and the man was off again. He led us into the heart of the maelstrom, up the temple steps and into the jaw of the temple's front room. Through a narrow doorway worshipers elbowed and jostled their way towards the image of Kali, tucked away in a nave-like room guarded by priests who were hanging from the rafters dotting people's foreheads with orange paint. In this space--no bigger than a one-car garage--at least 60 people muscled their way towards Kali's statue. Jenna and I, bound along on the tide of worshippers, found ourselves just outside Kali's sitting room and before we knew it, we had orange dots on our heads. "Touch your head with the flowers and throw them at Kali," the young man commanded. We followed his orders and then pushed our way out of the room.

Catching our breath, we followed the young man back around the temple. We passed the sacrificial chamber again, yet this time there were no goats. Instead, blood splattered the tile floor. A few stray dogs lapped up the mess. We picked up our flip-flops and followed the young man to another spot at the corner of the complex. We came up to a gnarly tree, enclosed in a red-iron box. "This is Success tree," the man said. "You pray here for success in life. Women come here to pray to get pregnant. Parents come here to pray for their newborn babies. Businessmen come to pray for success in job. You can pray to any god you want here. It is your private prayer."

He passed off to older man who greeted us with a passive smile. We still had the rings, incense and flowers in our hands. The older man told us to lay these things at the foot of the tree. "What are your parents' names?" he asked. We told him. He took off a petal from the string of flowers. "Pray for your parents," he said and he motioned to our heads. We pressed the flowers to our foreheads and the man took them and put them in a small container by the tree. "What are your jobs?" We told him we were teachers, and he repeated the process with the flowers. "Are you married?" he asked. We nodded yes. "Pray for your marriage," he said and we took more flowers. "Now, pray for happiness." He took the last of the flowers, we pressed them to our heads, and he took them. "Now, take rings and place on tree anywhere. Now take incense. We light it and put by tree." We followed these instructions.

The man got out a small notebook. "Write your names in here," he said. We did so. The man flipped to other pages in the book where others had written their names. There were numbers by the names. "People give donation for charity. Goes to poor," he pointed at the numbers. "Two-thousand rupees. Fifteen hundred. You give." It was not a question. I pulled out two one-hundred rupee notes. "For both of you?" the man looked skeptical. "That's all we have," I said truthfully. "We take American dollars, too. Give American money," the man said. "I don't have any. This is it," I replied sheepishly.

Though we had just prayed for happiness, the man looked rather sullen. He accepted my donation with a roll of his eyes. Kali, I take it, requires more than just goat's blood.

Labor Day

In America, it is common to have 'snow days', especially in Jenna's home of Minnesota. We had our fair share in Missouri, too, when I was growing up. In Texas, we also had two weeks of school cancelled one time for Hurricane Ike. And in 1992, I remember getting a so-called 'earthquake day' when a scientist predicted that the New Madrid Fault in southeast Missouri was going to rupture.

Today, in Kolkata, we had a 'strike day'. The city shut down completely due to a strike (or bandh) called by West Bengal's ruling Communist party. The politics behind the matter make little sense to me. Apparently, though, Kolkatans are use to this type of thing. All public transport was shuttered--including most auto rickshaws and the city's rather efficient subway. As a result, school was cancelled (including our TESOL course) and most businesses were closed, as well. The typically frenzied atmosphere of the streets was replaced by a laconic peacefulness. A few pedestrians were out taking strolls. A confectioner down the street from our guest house was open but not doing much business. The man seemed thrilled to have me as a customer when I stopped and bought two little doughy cakes. I had no idea what they were. I enjoyed one that tasted like maple but rather thought the other--which I think was supposed to be cherry--was too strong and tasted like astringent cleaner.

A group of school-aged boys were playing a game of street cricket one block up. I stopped on the corner and casually leaned against a light post to watch. After a while a snapped a few pictures. One of them--tall and lanky with a flopping mop of thick dark hair--came over holding a bat and said, "Where are you from?" I told him I was from America. "Ah, my cousin lives in Cleveland. She works at a research institute." "Case Western?" I asked. He smiled, "I do not know the name." Then he sprinted back to the game and began batting.

At 2:30 in the afternoon, I stepped into the middle of Rash Behari Avenue, the busiest street in our little neighborhood. Usually at this time, the street markets would be in full gear, workers would have begun returning home and women would be out shopping in droves. The street I was standing in the middle of would tomorrow be packed bumper-to-bumper with city buses, auto rickshaws, Ambassador cars, and yellow taxis. Today, all I spotted was a man lazily riding a bike along the curb.

I figured since we had missed the American celebration of Labor Day on Monday, this "strike day" would be a good substitute.