We are thankful for our experiences in India, and thankful we have been able to remain safe and healthy while here. We are thankful for all the loved ones who check this blog and are concerned and interested in our travels. We are thankful for living in a place where it is currently 90 degrees instead of 9. We are thankful for the wonderful memories of this past summer when we got married and the blessed times that the big day brought. We are thankful for our families who are tolerating our absence this holiday season and loving us all the more for not being there. And mostly, we are thankful for each other: we have could not have gotten this far without each other’s constant presence and support. To everyone: Happy Thanksgiving!
Today's post:
The clapping started yesterday. The rhythmic staccato bursts of delicate hands thwapping together in unison accompanied by high-pitched female voices singing a lilting cadence. First, I heard it come from JM’s music room, which did not seem that out of the ordinary. Then, later yesterday I heard the ruckus on the third floor landing, which overlooked the teachers’ lounge on the second floor. The same day, I saw a group of boys in a corner of the school’s large rectangular courtyard doing a synchronized dance and beating silver discs against their palms.
“What’s going on?” I asked the headmistress Ms. Rama, as she stood outside the music room today peering in at a group of 9th standard girls clapping, singing, and twisting around in a circular group. In the center, one girl sat serenely on a plastic chair, her face a smiling mask of contentment.
“Competition,” Ms. Rama said in broken English. “Big competition. Many schools. Practice,” she said, jerking her head towards the girls in the room.
Six girls danced in a loose circle, twirling and ululating, shuffling their feet in intricate patterns that moved their bodies left, right, forwards and backwards—all in unison. The girl in the middle inclined her head every so often towards one girl in the dancing circle. Otherwise, she sat calmly, tapping her toe. All the girls were singing, their mouths barely moving as they danced but issuing forth a dizzying slide of Malayalam syllables.
“Looks impressive,” I said and Ms. Rama nodded smiling.
Later, during 4th period, a different group of girls (these from 6th standard) set up camp on the third floor landing outside the classroom I was teaching in and began the clapping and singing anew. After class, I lingered in the hallway near the landing and watched.
Again, a group of six girls pirouetted and gyrated in a meandering circle around another girl who sat stoically in a chair. Another three girls stood to the side, two of them singing another intricate song. They barely seemed to take in breath as they sung out the words in seemingly endless phrasing.
The third girl stood between the singers with a red bamboo switch. She tapped it against her leg and looked intently at the group of dancers. If she saw something not to her liking, she would step forward and yell a command. The dancers would stop in their places. The little girl with the switch—who I imagined to be some kind of Napoleon, or a miniature Cleopatra—would shout something in Malayalam and then whap, deliver a blow with the switch to the back of a girls’ leg. Clearly there had been a misstep.
The singers would clear their throats, the dancers would take their places, and the girl with the switch would say, “One…two…three…set!” And the dancers would begin twisting and gliding again.
A few minutes later, the Little General would yell again and the dancers would freeze, their faces registering the anticipation of pain. The General would mutter something, gesture wildly, and then run around the circle—whap! whap! whap! whap! whap! whap! All six dancers got it in the leg.
The singers would clear their throats, the dancers would take their places, and off they went again, the Little General tapping the switch against her leg like a riding crop.
After she stepped back from the circle having delivered her latest reprisals she looked over at me and smiled broadly, her face framed perfectly by her headscarf. A cheerleading captain crossed with a Dickensian headmistress, with the temperament of miniature Doberman pincher and the smile of an angel. She was the cutest autocrat I had ever come across.
“What’s going on?” I asked the headmistress Ms. Rama, as she stood outside the music room today peering in at a group of 9th standard girls clapping, singing, and twisting around in a circular group. In the center, one girl sat serenely on a plastic chair, her face a smiling mask of contentment.
“Competition,” Ms. Rama said in broken English. “Big competition. Many schools. Practice,” she said, jerking her head towards the girls in the room.
Six girls danced in a loose circle, twirling and ululating, shuffling their feet in intricate patterns that moved their bodies left, right, forwards and backwards—all in unison. The girl in the middle inclined her head every so often towards one girl in the dancing circle. Otherwise, she sat calmly, tapping her toe. All the girls were singing, their mouths barely moving as they danced but issuing forth a dizzying slide of Malayalam syllables.
“Looks impressive,” I said and Ms. Rama nodded smiling.
Later, during 4th period, a different group of girls (these from 6th standard) set up camp on the third floor landing outside the classroom I was teaching in and began the clapping and singing anew. After class, I lingered in the hallway near the landing and watched.
Again, a group of six girls pirouetted and gyrated in a meandering circle around another girl who sat stoically in a chair. Another three girls stood to the side, two of them singing another intricate song. They barely seemed to take in breath as they sung out the words in seemingly endless phrasing.
The third girl stood between the singers with a red bamboo switch. She tapped it against her leg and looked intently at the group of dancers. If she saw something not to her liking, she would step forward and yell a command. The dancers would stop in their places. The little girl with the switch—who I imagined to be some kind of Napoleon, or a miniature Cleopatra—would shout something in Malayalam and then whap, deliver a blow with the switch to the back of a girls’ leg. Clearly there had been a misstep.
The singers would clear their throats, the dancers would take their places, and the girl with the switch would say, “One…two…three…set!” And the dancers would begin twisting and gliding again.
A few minutes later, the Little General would yell again and the dancers would freeze, their faces registering the anticipation of pain. The General would mutter something, gesture wildly, and then run around the circle—whap! whap! whap! whap! whap! whap! All six dancers got it in the leg.
The singers would clear their throats, the dancers would take their places, and off they went again, the Little General tapping the switch against her leg like a riding crop.
After she stepped back from the circle having delivered her latest reprisals she looked over at me and smiled broadly, her face framed perfectly by her headscarf. A cheerleading captain crossed with a Dickensian headmistress, with the temperament of miniature Doberman pincher and the smile of an angel. She was the cutest autocrat I had ever come across.
And I would have to add that I am thankful each and every day for the two of you. Will be thinking of you on Thanksgiving day for sure.
ReplyDeleteAll my love,
mom
It was so good to talk to you this moorning. We are thankful that we can talk to you on Skype and that we get to see India through your eyes. On this Eve of Thanksgiving we are indeed blessed! We love you!
ReplyDeleteMom and Dad