Pardon the sexist allusion, but the farther I climb up the Ivory Towers of academia, the more I learn that being a successful researcher requires more than a nerdy attraction to crunching numbers and coding words in a dark office. Conducting successful research requires management skills to move projects forward. Real researchers are surfers, paddling positively in packs. They position themselves to catch opportunities or propel over the swells, seeking better waves that may approach in the future.

Pleasure Point, Santa Cruz, CA

Effective managers surf on teeter-totter boards, balancing the cunning and empathetic aspects of their personalities and racing forward when they see promising waves. They strategically position themselves in the middle of the ocean where they anticipate the highest probability of wave breaks, being aware of the space around them and goals of others. They call out to other surfers when they see a good waves and paddle out into the abyss as quickly as they can, trusting that someone will help them benefit from their idea. They know who to shout out to when sighting waves and other changes in the environment because they understand the needs and motives of those they work with. Once properly trained, their fellow surfers don’t need auditory cues to know when to wait or paddle.

Though I mostly surfed alone during my Ph.D., I have become a manager during my postdoc. In my 1 and 9/24th years as a postdoc, I’ve learned that managing opportunities to work with others is vital. My work is useless and inefficient until I share the process and product with research assistants, colleagues, and the community. Why do we conduct research if not for those around us? Although coding numbers and words can quench the thirst for creativity, the interactional aspect of academia sustains it. Change is not created by adding one more article reference to one’s lonely, self-directed CV.

Working with 12 undergraduate research assistants teaches me that organization is the best way to catch the most waves and achieve the longest rides. As I’ve watched my girls (11/12 of my RAs are female) strive to improve their understanding of our research mission and their translation, transcription, writing and outreach skills, I’ve learned to delegate tasks more efficiently and gained invaluable insight from conversations with them. Some of my girls are innately gifted at coordinating busy participants’ schedules. Others prefer to listen to the wise words of our participants as they transcribe focus group audio recordings. Others paddle out bravely into the community, asking for support from the media and groups of people affected by the diseases we study. My girls are untainted by the frustrations of experienced academics and thus creative in their approaches to engaging community in advocating for change. After our team rides parts of the best waves together, we debrief on the shores of my office, enhancing the analytic and dissemination process.

Research Assistants working to understand pediatric coccidioidomycosis (valley fever) at Children’s Hospital Central California

The most tragic part of our current scientific research paradigm is its removal from “real life.” Most scientists steal samples from their communities, scrutinize them under microscopes and computer programs, and then publish them in journals that only other scientists read. Unfortunately, the results are rarely fed back to the community that donates their time, interest, and (usually private) information. Publications are many researchers’ purpose in life; their main drivers. While that paradigm (“Publish or perish”) might be effective in basic biomedical or computer science research (which “normal” people do not understand anyway), other fields should be ashamed. Why do we conduct research if not for our participant groups? Successful researchers are strategic businesswomen, creating and/or sustaining empirically-supported change (beginning with an experimental or observational plan and ending with an improved policy or practice).

Genetics have gifted me with skin that does not require an umbrella to match this cool, Ivory Tower environment. It’s my job as a researcher to go out into the light, spot the waves of change and ensure that others benefit from them. I only have one message for you today: Save an academic; teach them to surf.

PS: I’m still learning.

Compassion fatigue “is an expected and common response to the professional task of routinely caring for children at the end of life” (Rourke, 2007). It is a tragic stress reaction (often accompanied by PTSD-like symptoms) from caregivers who empathize with those who suffer. What can be done to prevent the damaging effects of compassion fatigue? In my case, mindfulness, sometimes generated through yoga.

After about eight years of practicing yoga formally and informally in the USA and NZ, I was excited to spend my last day in India at yoga centers in the “posh Bollywood hotspot:” Bandara. Treating myself to classes there was my relaxing reward at the end of an intensely stimulating two weeks in India (and 36 hours of infamous travelers’ health issues which caught up with me on Day 12 ½).

Yoga is a meditative practice aimed at calming both the mind and body. Yoga was introduced at the International Children’s Palliative Care Network Conference as a way to practice healthy self-care and prevent compassion fatigue. I liken it to giving oneself a massage while clearing your mind for fresh dreams. The term yoga derived from yujir yoga (to yoke). I used it after the conference to yoke my tired mind back to a body that had been missing its attention.

I participated in four yoga classes at two institutions on my last day. At the first leafy center (“Yoga Institute,” the oldest organized yoga center in the world) which smells like the fresh trees and shrubs lining the courtyard, I accidentally joined the second half of a teacher training course. The course instructors were not gentle like the ones I’d practiced with in Berkeley. They were not there to meditate; they were there to ensure that the future teachers were doing the stretches properly so that they could go on and spread the mission.

The second yoga class I sat in on was a woman’s yoga class. It was taught in Hindi, so I was thankful that yoga is like Catholic church: the prayers and positions are largely the same around the world; only the styles are different. The teachers of the second class were not there to meditate either; they were there to ensure that others received as many health benefits as they could. One of them did speak a word of English, “Enjoy.” She repeated this to me several times with a rather stern expression. I enjoyed the irony. The teachers spoke for long periods of time between yoga commands, which the lady next to me briefed me on after class. The teachers were giving nutrition and back care advice.

I rode a rickshaw across Bandara to the second yoga center, “Yoga House,” for a pregnancy yoga class (maybe I’m a few -100 months pregnant? They’ll never know) and an Ashtanga class.

I waited for the classes to begin in the café upstairs, sipping soup and contemplating which raw vegetable I would inhale first on my return to the USA. It was one of the most beautiful cafés I’ve been in with very friendly waiters and more trees than I’d seen in what felt like a lifetime.

Both classes at the second yoga studio clearly catered to foreigners. The instructors play calm, international (European) music and smile a lot. However, the instructions are still intensely loud and the teachers are not turned inward as many of the US-based instructors I’ve practiced with are. Those in India are there to provide a service; to help you walk rather than to walk with you. The instructor of the second class gave me a ride to the taxi stand, where I was transported safely to the 2-day-old “Terminal 2” of the Mumbai International Airport.

From a country of more people than the government can count, intense gold, orange and fuchsia, livid honking, and wafts of curry powder mingling with burning patchouli, a new lens was painted over my eyes. I am grateful those who traversed the land which is today incredible India.

I am thankful for those who pointed me in the right direction: everyday people skirting around cars on unpaved roads, doctors listening to the coughs of 70-80 patients per day, nuns hugging children and volunteers, shopkeepers and beggars reaching out to tourists, and others exchanging glances as they sip hot chai. Somehow, the residents of India still had the energy to share their time with me and teach me to see through this new lens of humility, awe, curiosity and compassion.

Namascar, India. Thank you.

Although I learned more from listening to the streets of India than from the famous doctors and professors who presented that the International Children’s Palliative Care Network Conference, I left the conference full of ideas and enthusiasm.

I spent many of my breaks with residents (doctors in training) from Holland and the U.K. One of them described a patient he’d seen in the previous week who had passed away when he was on the night shift:

A little girl with a Dutch name I cannot pronounce had been battling a degenerative disease for months. Her hospital room turned into a condensed campsite for about 20 members of her Evangelical family praying for her. Although the emotional support might have been vital to the family’s sanity, their campsite created a bit of a minefield for healthcare providers to traverse around. Doctors and nurses faced an obstacle course of humans each time they entered to monitor her vital signs and administer pain medication. The girl had been well-loved and respected by everyone at the hospital, but was mostly unresponsive to stimuli in her final days.  The family sensed that she was declining.

According to the doctor in training, the young girl’s last breath escaped when the new resident was alone in the room with her and her large family. The family screamed in pain “from their bone marrow.” Only the girl and the resident were silent. No one else was there to witness the family falling to their knees, raising their arms, flailing around the girl’s body and screaming. The new doctor could hardly hear her last heartbeat to establish the time of death.

Map of areas offering Pediatric Palliative Care services.

Doctors and nurses who choose to provide comfort to patients close to death have my utmost respect. Most of them do not go into the field with the intention of witnessing death or being responsible for a room full of screaming parents who would rather sacrifice their own lives than watch their child die. That, in most doctors’ books, is the definition of failure.

Death (and especially the death of a child) is unnatural. It is only those who are willing to “stand in the face of that which we do not know” (according to Sister Francis Dominica, the founder of the first children’s hospice in the world) that take up the task of caring for families in the scariest of places.

Thanks to organizations like the International Children’s Palliative Care Network, the NHCPO, CHiPPs, and others, training is offered to those seeking understanding and collaboration in addressing the needs of those at the end of life.

http://www.icpcn.org/special-projects/icpcn-conference-in-india-2/

Although I regret highlighting one of the things India is least proud of when describing it to potential future visitors, the poverty left the biggest impression of me. In Kolkata, I visited mostly impoverished areas, so have a skewed impression of the country, but one that will stick with me, thanks to the different types of beggars, offering various incentives for feeding their requests for money:

1. Window tappers

The first beggars I encountered tapped on my taxi widow. They were dressed in soot-covered, tattered rags and usually carrying tin cans of coins which they rattled. Since the traffic in Mumbai and Kolkata is thicker than split pea soup (a food safe for travelers since it is cooked!), the beggars situate themselves on street corners and tap on the windows of drivers and passengers, especially in airport areas.

This type of beggar does not usually offer any form of exchange in terms of goods or services but stakes their life on the pure pathos of passersby and the goodwill of drivers for not crushing them.

2. Gollum

The only beggar I fed and did not immediately regret interacting with looked like “Gollum” from “Lord of the Rings.” It was difficult not to get mesmerized by his swaying, tiger-like gait as he approached me on all fours. I don’t know what disabled him from walking, but he used his knuckles to support the upper half of his body. The tiny man’s face was thin with a tuft of untamed hair on top. His body was mostly naked and covered in dirt, though he probably bathed it in street water like the others. Thin skin covered his tiny bones and I noticed the delicacy of his fingertips as he reached his palm up toward my hip when I was buying water from a corner shop. I was worried I’d break them if I put anything in his palm.

I gave Gollum a bag of opened chips, which I bought with the water. The shop owner glared at me for leaving a swatter in front of his window, but I did not regret my action. I’d learned that it is important to open food before giving it to beggars to ensure that they eat it and don’t sell it back to the shops or give it to their pimps for drug money. I don’t think Gollum would’ve made it far enough to be able to share any food given to him anyway.

3. Ladies of Sudder St.

As described in a previous post (“Let them Eat Silk”), the ladies of Sudder Street are seasoned beggars. They can sense vulnerability and use their well-developed skills to entice naïve travelers with good intentions. They are poor grown-up children stuck in a dizzying wheel of drug prostitution.

4. Man carrying Man Cart

The unregulated services and goods far exceed the regulated ones (in the places I visited) in India. One of the most visible is that of men offering various modes of transportation. For a directionally-challenged traveler, these services are very tempting.

In Kolkata, the main modes of unregulated transport include rickshaws (tiny, three-wheels vehicles powered by men on bicycle seats of varying strength), auto-rickshaws (electricity-powered rickshaws), cabs, horse-drawn carts, and busses. There was one mode of transport which I found particularly demeaning, though. This is that of men who run, carrying people behind them by pulling a wheel-barrow-like cart on which the passengers sit. It is back-breaking work, and one can literally see the ridges of the spines of the “drivers.”

One morning, I found myself lost in the middle of a tangle of unpaved roads. It was about 6:30am, so the sun was only just peaking between the shambled buildings hugging the road. “Motherhouse?” a man called to me, asking if I was headed toward the exact destination I was trying to find. Noone in India speaks under a yell, so his shout startled me.

I sighed, relieved, “How much to take me there?”

“50 rupees.” (which is about 80₵)

I guessed he was grossly overcharging me, but I did not care.

“Yes! Can you walk with me?”

He nodded, looking as if he’d won a contest. I did not care to begin my day bartering with a man who literally carried the weight of rich people on his back.

He pointed to the seat, gesturing for me to sit on it.

“No,” I said, “You,” I pointed to him, “walk with me.” I made two legs out of my fingers and walked across my palm before pointing to myself.

He looked puzzled.

“I want you to walk with me,” I tried again, “No cart. 50 rupees I still give you.”

I started walking forward and motioned to him to join. “Motherhouse!” I asserted, “You walk me there.”

He pointed across a different road, picked up his cart and dragged it behind him.

I was glad I’d hired him. I clearly needed a guide.

It was only about a 10 minute walk to Motherhouse with lots of stares from the shop owners and street bathers. I thought about asking him to sit in the cart and trying to drag him there myself, but knew that my language would only cause more confusion. I wanted to know what it would feel like to be a workhorse.

When we reached Motherhouse, I gave him 60 rupees (laughing after his request for 100).

“Thank you!” I called behind me as I entered the convent, feeling as triumphant as his face looked.

5. Balloon babies

The most disturbing image of poverty in Kolkata comes out at dusk. Children between the ages of three and five line the streets in tourist areas with balloons. When they see anyone who looks like a foreigner, they chase after them, rub their tummies and beg them to buy balloons with their very high, angelic voices. It is painful to walk by them, but helps to remember that the money they earn goes toward glue for sniffing.

6. Child Labor Shop

The alternative to supporting the drug-sniffing “caregivers” of balloon babies is donating to child labor shops. Most of the items I purchased to take home to friends were purchased in one such shop, named after Don Bosco, which claims to feed the bank accounts of the orphan children once they reach a certain age. Orphans, of which there are thousands in Kolkata, are taken from their sites of abandonment and given shelter, education and trade skills. They then go on to create incredible textile, jewelry and other gift items tourists can purchase. The lady working in the empty shop I came across spoke with me for over an hour about her voluntary work, training the children, and the beautiful things they made.

https://www.facebook.com/donboscoashalayamkol

Between my morning shift at Shanti Dan and my afternoon shift at “Kalinghat” (Mother Teresa’s original house for the “Destitute and Dying”), I visited Kolkata’s Kalinghat Temple. It is the only temple in India which Brahman still make animal sacrifices, 40 of which occurred on February 8. The Bhraman that showed me around the temple explained that goats are usually the chosen animals to sacrifice to the goddess Kali, though oxen and coconuts are sometimes also used. Though I was grateful for the friendly Brahman who took me through the temple, spoke prayers for my family, and told me when to take off and put back on my shoes, watching a goat die only reconfirmed my vegetarianism. It was not the best introduction to the religion for me, so I will seek out other ways of learning about it in the future. I have difficulty believing that a higher power created baby goats in order to have their heads chopped off in a small, marble room and their blood drained into a chalice as they squirm, but I’m sure there are many other things that happen for reasons I do not understand. The rest of the temple was a lot like my perception of India thus far: vibrant, passionate, fragrant and loud. I was especially taken by the “tree of fertility,” which is wrapped in ribbons by women and was adorned with carnations on the day of my visit.

Contrasting with the lavish temple, Mother Teresa’s original house for the “Destitute and Dying” is modest and dignified. Consistent with the Jesuit philosophy of Mother Teresa, the simple layout includes 45 female beds on one side of the building and 45 male beds on the other. The women range in social ability from completely non-verbal to speaking a few words of English. I don’t believe that any of them were non-communicative, but not being able to speak Hindi or Bengali really limited my ability to understand their desires and stories.

I entered the house each day armed with about a dozen pieces of scrap paper and a box of 10 colored pencils. I walked down the aisles of beds: “Hi, would you like someone to sit with you?” I knew they did not understand my words, but they were used to volunteers, so knew why I was there.

Far more than I’d imagined can be communicated through eye contact. This can only be understood in the absence of all other modes of communication. It was not the volume of information transferred, but the quality of communication that sustained my craving for discovery. The first lady I sat with looked deeply compassionate. She made it clear that she was not interested in using my pencils, but still wanted someone to sit with her and chat. She spoke to me in Hindi and I spoke in English. I told her about how I’d tripped earlier in the day, using running motions and drawing a picture of the bus I’d been chasing. She pressed her lips together and furrowed her brows, leaning in and touching my elbow and knee. I had not told her the sites of my bruises and broken skin (knee, hip and elbow), but her educated guesses were surprisingly accurate. Empathy guided her intuition.

I spent most of my short days at Kalinghat with two ladies in the back corner of the women’s room. One of them loved to color and interact. She looked young and full of life, but probably not of a full mental capacity. The other did not interact to steer the direction of the room, but watched our every move. She was a tiny, wizened old woman who hid under a headscarf and refused every offer of help made to her. She walked at an almost-45-degree angle to get to the toilet (without assistance) and tucked herself in before anyone else could even offer to help her. I smiled shyly at the four-foot-tall woman frequently, knowing that only her eyes would smile back. I wanted to know where her fierce strength came from.

The more openly-interactive, younger woman expressed an interested in coloring. Each day that I returned to the house, she smiled at me immediately, beckoning me to sit on her bed and draw with her. We communicated mostly though art.

The first drawing I made was a tree, which was slowly joined by a river, hills, mountains and sky. I used it to explain where I came from, telling her that there were many fewer people, noises and cars in my land. She asked me how to say each picture she pointed to in English and repeated the words back to me, laughing after each repetition. She taught me to count in Hindi, which she also laughed at.

On my last day at the house, she drew a picture of what I perceived to be a vine (much like the vines she’d drawn on subsequent visits) with a black stalk and red, blue and purple leaves. She then told me a story I desperately wish I could understand. She painted her story with melodic, cascading intonations. One of the other volunteers who’d been eavesdropping (but also did not understand Hindi or Bengali) described it as “the story of her life.” About 30 minutes into her monologue, she began sobbing quietly. All I could do was mirror her expression, squeeze her hands, and rub her shoulders and back. I pointed to her drawing, which she smiled at weakly and kept on explaining. I would like to believe that the tiny, wizened lady understood. I’m confident that she could hold the tragedies of 100 other women and men if given the chance. I imagine she’d slap them on the back and command them to carry on as she had. Today, she only observed.

I stayed an extra hour at the house on my last day, leaving on the subway after dark and then asking a few of the other volunteers sit with her and listen in the days that were to come. I had opened the floodgates to an expression of tragedy, the cause which will forever remain unknown to me. I sat with the storyteller until she fell asleep, then caressed her hand and slipped the colored pencils and a clean sheet of paper under her pillow.

My second day volunteering for Mother Teresa’s successor (Mother Mercy Maria) begins as they all do: With a sunrise walk through the streets of Kolkata, a prayer at the Mother Teresa convent, a breakfast of bananas, bread and chai, and a bumpy, life-threatening bus ride to the girls’ home, Shanti Dan. Most days thereafter follow a predictable pattern of squeezing the open palms of girls who appear starved for attention, washing clothes, singing, teaching, feeding lunch, and putting the girls to sleep. At lunchtime, volunteers (called “Aunties” by the girls) learn to be mother birds: picking bones out of the fish curry that is poured over rice and spoon feeding or making sure they eat it all (with their hands, as is customary in that region).

Between 8:30 and 10:00am, volunteers scrub and wring out the girls’ clothes by hand in long troughs. We work swiftly with the local women who are employed by the house. We then climb 40 stairs with buckets of blankets, towels, night gowns, shirts, etc. to hang dry on the rooftop. It was here that I learn the intensity of the phrase “like wringing out a wet blanket.” Everyone should try wringing out at least one blanket in their lifetime. It’s infinitely easier if you have a partner to play tug-o-war with.

The resident girls are supposed to help with the washing process. One of my favorite girls, Asha, was my shadow this morning. She’s a beautiful, smiling child who probably has Downs Syndrome. All she wants is someone to love and pay attention to her; two very easy things to do. She greeted me on my first day with a big smile and a hug and persistently patted the seat next to her for me to sit on each time I passed by. This morning, she smiled wider than I knew was possible when I grabbed her outstretched hand and laughed animatedly when I counted her footsteps up and down the stairs to the rooftop where laundry is hung.

Just as I was starting to feel excited that the laundry was finished and the singing and “play therapy” was about to begin, one of the nuns called to me. “Auntie! Can you write in English?” I nodded and asked how I could help. She handed me a list of the children than received physiotherapy and told me to copy it onto 20 sheets of paper. My head spun a little. That would take hours. “Can you finish today?” she asked. I doubted it.

As I copied the girls’ names over and over on the papers, I reflected on the inefficiency of the daily tasks performed at the home. The homes are run without laundry machines, dishwashers or copy machines. Humans perform these tasks, despite the 64 girls that I believe would benefit far more from their intelligent attention. However, the philosophy of Mother Teresa’s order dictates that her followers live among the poorest of the poor and not above them. We are not here to save people, but to hold their hands and walk with them. Since they all come from poverty and simplicity, it is through those states we stride. I tried not to think of the 1 rupee I’d paid for a copy of my visa the day before and copied the girls’ names over and over.

My cohort of volunteers included girls from Australia, Korea, Taiwan, France, Spain, Portugal, China and Japan. We spoke Spanish on the first day since there were more Spanish than English speakers and most of the mashis only speak Hindi. A volunteer from Belgium came and sat next to me. She worked with the physiotherapists to stretch and strengthen the girls. As we “Xeroxed” away with our hands, she told me about the relaxed philosophy of Shanti Dan. In Belgium, she saw about 20 patients each day. At Shanti Dan, she worked with about five girls each morning and was constantly being told to take a break and rest. “‘Auntie! Why are you working so hard?’ zhey tell me,” she said in her charming Belgium accent, “Everything I do, though, I can now do wit feeling. I have zhe time to really und-herstand zhe guhrls.” The slower pace allowed her to feel less stressed and focus on things that matter: keeping everyone safe and nourished with more than just boneless curry, using human tools and unaided by financial incentives.

“Asha” means “hope” in Hindi (and different types of “hope” in different contexts). Interestingly, it was the most common name I encountered on the rest of the journey.

Victoria Monument is described as “White House meets Taj Mahal” by Lonely Planet. Queen Victoria’s grandson built it a few years after dear Vicky’s death. It reeks of imperialism, yet about 98.7% of the visitors there appeared to be Indian nationals. What Indian nationals think of the marble statues of old, British people jutting out in the middle of their city is a mystery to me, but the tone of the Hindi and Bengali spoken at the site was not disturbed. Had the grandson of Christopher Columbus built a 70-foot tall statue of him in the middle of a Native American Reservation, I’m not sure who would visit it.

As I was standing outside the monument, trying to capture a photo of a bird I didn’t recognize, a group of five boys approached me. “Madam!” one called. “A photo?”

“No, thanks,” I answered, “I’m just trying to photograph this bird.”

They looked confused. “A photo? You? Photo – you?”

I’d noticed the boys stalking me as I walked around the garden, but I’d gotten used to that happening here. Lone travelling women must develop a sense for how long to let it go on before spinning around and calling them out, putting a few speeding cars between the stalker(s) and herself, or deeming the situation harmless and ignoring it. The boys were young and there were lots of people and security guards around, so I did not feel threatened.

“No, I don’t want one,” I said, pretending I didn’t understand that they wanted to take a photo of me. Then I began to recognize the position of power I held.

After letting a few more seconds of confusion pass, I raised my brows. “Seriously?” I laughed. If they were going to shameless question, then I would ask them one, too.

My blond hair functions as a strange catnip to more of the people in India than I’d anticipated. It inspired my new nickname, “Dadi,” which is Hindi for “Grandmother” (since the hair is more white than black). To empathize with my ever-growing hypnotized audience, I liken my appearance to a person wearing traditional tribal garb, sightseeing in a conservative American town. I’m sure they’d get more than a simple glance.

There are plenty of tourists in Kolkata, but we are definitely the minority. Many of the people I come across can’t keep their eyes off my dumb blondness.

“Okay,” I agreed to their bemusement, “but you have to answer three questions first.” I wanted to keep with the Aladdin theme I’ve experienced here. “I’ll let you take a photo of me after that.” I watched their reactions closely.

They looked a little startled, but didn’t change their uncomfortable stares. I went on, “First, why does everyone keep staring at me?”

They shifted their heads back, jarred by my question, and snickered. They looked at each other, embarrassed and wordless.

“Seriously!” I laughed, “I was told that this would happen before I got here to India, but I don’t understand it. I try to dress conservatively and do as you do, but I still get stares. Why? And (2.) why do you want to take a photo with me? I’ll help you, but I want you to help me first.”

Two of the five laughed, stepped back and turned away, too embarrassed to continue the conversation.

“I show less skin of my skin than most of the Indian women here.”

I’d been surprised at the different areas of inappropriate exposure. Women of all ages and sizes wear open-back saris which really only cover the breast area and half of the stomach area.

“Why? The movies in your railway stations show half-naked women as well!” The movies I referred to were mostly very raunchy Indian pop / Bollywood music videos.

Several more empty seconds passed by and their stares shifted to each other, but they didn’t run away.

“I’m soorry,” said one in a very strong Indian accent, “Don’t speak English… English no speak. No understand… Photo?”

I laughed and raised my voice “You’re full of beans, sir! You speak perfect English! Why do people here stare at me? Is it my hair? Is it my clothes? What is it?” I named other potential factors, watching their faces closely and trying to compare them to the baseline.

“Movies,” one muttered under his breath. Then he spoke a little louder in Hindi. He was looking at me, but knew I couldn’t understand.

“There’s a start. English, please.” I laughed, “I’m sorry I can’t speak Hindi or Bengali, but I know you all can speak English!” They were all wearing nice, Western-style clothes and looked well-educated.

“Your earrings,” one boy said. I laughed; how polite!

After more back-and-forth English-to-Hindi non-communication, got the gist of it. To extrapolate, foreign-looking (Caucasian) women are perceived as loose to some people in India and grandma hair is sexy. I’d also noticed women staring and ask questions about the naturalness of my hair color. The movies make Caucasian women (and perhaps other non-Indian people) look loose, so they are assumed to be that way. However, I’m not sure that is true, considering the number of very suggestive Indian ladies I saw dancing on the screen.

Eventually, I pretended I was Lady Gaga and let the boys each take a photo with my sunglass-covered face. I told them I wanted a photo with the bravest of them on my camera:

“Okay, well thanks for the entertainment,” I laughed, “You are terrible liars. Good luck with taking photos with other sexy grandmas. Have a great day.”

I figured that I’d taken enough photos of Indians to owe a few back into the country anyway, and why not give the boys a picture with a fully-covered, “dadi” to talk about? They were harmless, I was unrecognizable, and I’d make sure they never saw me again. Like most other pack animals, once the first boy turned away, the second and third followed. I watched them look back toward me several times, trying to be subtle. I waved enthusiastically and smiled as widely as a Cheshire cat at each of their glances.

A few hours later, I bought some very loose pants, a long shirt, and a scarf to cover my hair with. When paired with sunglasses, it’s managed to deflect most unwanted attention, even despite its vibrancy of electric orange, pink and blue fabric.

For females trying to immerse themselves into India respectfully:

1. Make sure you cover your neck (up to where shirts button to) and legs down to your ankles.
2. Loose-fitting clothes are better not only because they’re less sexy, but because it’s stiflingly hot in India.
3. You can buy almost any clothing item you need for 200 rupees or less (the equivalent of about $3 USD).
   This set cost $8 (with bartering):

1. To a Westerner, it may seem odd that showing your midriff under a sari is okay. Exposing virtually all of your back above your waistline and sandals are also okay (as long as you aren’t afraid of dust).
2. Nothing is ever too “god-y” in terms of color, shininess or sparkle.

In conclusion, the burka is probably the only universally-conservative article of clothing. Alas, burkas are still controversial and are not gender-neutral, comfortable, temperature-regulatory or conducive to any sort of artistic expression. Unfortunately, not even burkas deflect attention or debate in most countries.

So far, I’ve broken three cardinal rules whilst in India:

1. Thou shalt not travel alone (especially if thou does not have male genitalia).
2. Thou shalt not give to beggars.
3. Thou shalt not eat anything thou cannot watch boil or burn.

The third broken rule was only breached by food consumed on Air India. It was among the best airplane food I’ve tasted, partly because I was starving and partly because it was seasoned with curry powder and turmeric. And I was among the majority of the plane in accepting the vegetarian option.

On February 5, 2014, I broke a forth:

1. Thou shalt not fall in love.

Mother Teresa’s “Shanti Dan” is a home for 62 beautiful girls. The girls range in age from 18 to 40, but their developmental ages range from about one to 12-years-old. The home also severs older, battered women with mental and psychological disorders. Mother Teresa’s successor asked me to spend my mornings there when I told her that I was a pediatric health psychologist. When I told her I was interested in palliative care, she asked me to go to Kalighat in the afternoons. I spent my first morning with the “birds” (nonverbal girls, some of whom are mobile but all of whom can communicate to varying degrees). Other groups include the “butterflies” who can walk but are nonverbal, the “rainbows” who cannot move or speak, and the “flowers” who cannot see. I’m never going to forget the love that the nuns (called “Sisters”), local women (“mashis”) and volunteers (“Aunties”) exchange with the girls, each expressing it differently.

Volunteers meet at the Motherhouse at 6:00am for mass and a breakfast of chai (hot, milky tea), bananas and plain (untoasted, unbuttered) white bread. The other “aunties” assigned to Shanti Dan then literally jump onto the crowded, humid, incessantly-honking bus to Shanti Dan.

The Shanti Dan facility is an oasis of green and blue in the middle of an intense, yellow-brown suburb. One can still hear the horns of cabs, busses and rickshaws inside the gates and see people bathing in the sewage from the rooftop but inside, life is safe. Life is structured and there are clean, loving little girls to hug. They want is attention. However, the house is not pure heaven to my Californian mind. The mashis (employed local women) are quite rough with the girls, and constantly yelling. I come to learn that the ladies are not releasing aggression, though; the ability to make noise seems to be an essential part of life here. Even my yoga teachers in Mumbai use harsh noises to instruct the classes, I learn the following week in Mumbai.

The four to five-foot-tall orphan girls are collected by nuns from streets, alleys and railway stations a couple of times each month. They do not receive the most advanced care in the world. The only help they receive comes from the followers of Mother Teresa, philanthropists and volunteers, but it is genuine and generous. I’ve found another home in this corner of the world. I wish I could stay longer than a few days, but turn again to the wal

l of “Mother’s” quotes for reassurance: “It does not matter how much you do, but the love which you put into it that matters.”—Mother Teres
a

I felt like a traitor wearing a ring on my wedding finger as I viewed the resting place of the honest, venerable Mother Teresa. However, it helped me hold up my head as I passed by jeering men on the road to “Motherhouse.” The road between the YWCA and Motherhouse, “Muzalfar Ahmed Street,” feels like a poverty-stricken version of the opening scene of “Aladdin.” In the strip of paved road, children sit on the asphalt, rubbing soap on their legs and wiping them down with fat, grimy sponges. Boney men on bicycles whiz by with dozens of freshly-killed chickens tied to the handlebars. Others sleep on wooden carts, carry vegetables or tourists in them, or tie them to the backs of horses. Only a few sleep directly on the street, somehow capitalizing on the short bursts of silence between unremittent honking.

Motherhouse is worth the journey. It contains a modest courtyard tucked between shops on AJC Bose Road. On arrival, visitors are greeted by smiling nuns dressed in the blue-striped white habits of Mother Teresa. Visitors are encouraged to view “Mother’s” tomb or room, participate in mass, or look at the saint’s sandals and read her quotes in the small museum dedicated to her life’s work. There is a cheerful spirit of attentiveness and sensitivity which the nuns carry with them.

After feeling kneeling next to the tomb, joining a mass of young priests-in-training and studying the quotes next to “Mother’s” tiny, modest room, I must’ve looked tired. One of the nuns called to me, “Come! Sit.” She patted a wooden bench near the entrance. I thanked her and asked her name and what drew her to the house. Sister Ruth smiled gently and told me that her parents had had high hopes for her. Her older sister had gone to medical school and became the publisher of a big, Indian magazine. But that was not her life. Sister Ruth summarized that which the house illustrated: compassion requires time and space. Most of us live our lives drowning in unnecessary possessions and desires. We have so many stimuli filling our heads that it’s nearly impossible to focus on anything, not to mention the preoccupations of others. Being fully present requires us to quiet these distractions and commit to the things we are called to do. Unadorned saris and the rejection of most technologies support the nuns of Mother Teresa’s order in their mission. Simplicity helps them to fully love those that society turns away from.

Mother Teresa said that the people she served hungered for acceptance more than food. Starving was not their biggest concern. They wanted compassion. As I walked back through the roaring road, the heckling men and suffocating dust seemed to disappear. My focus shifted to the sleepers and children. I wondered what Mother Teresa would have done as an overeducated, young woman as I paced back to the safer part of town.

A few hours later, a woman started following me. I sensed her presence and walked faster, “Madam! Madam! Do you want a henna?”

“No, thank you,” I answered regretfully.

She grabbed my hand and placed it on her stomach. “Some milk for my baby?” she asked as she stared directly into my core. She was unmistakably pregnant. “I don’t want money; just milk. You buy here. I don’t want money.”

I froze. My gut screamed at me not to, but she’d somehow created a connection in those two seconds. “Okay,” I said, and jetted over to a man selling it, trying to attract as little attention as possible. “Milk?” I asked. He pulled out a large canister of dehydrated formula.

“350 Rupees.” I calculated the conversion in my head… $5.50 USD… $6.50 NZD.

“That’s one month milk.” She said, “Thank you, madam.”

“It’s okay,” I said shakily, fumbling to get out the correct amount of currency without showing off my wad of cash. That’s 20 rupees less than I’m paying per night at the YWCA here in Kolkata.

I was not quick enough. Another four-foot tall woman showed up beside her, “Milk for my baby, too?” She asked. My gut cringed again, but my mind jumped back to the monetary conversion and then the value of $11.00 for me versus this woman. I suddenly wanted to give the two pregnant women the contents of my wallet. I shoved another 350 rupees at the milkman.

I should have stopped there. I knew in my mind that I needed to get away as quickly as possible, but the women followed me back to the street.

“Thank you. Thank you. What is your name?” They asked.

I remembered Mother Teresa’s quotes about treating “the unwanted” street children as human. I thought of the lasting effects of premature births and visualized the fetus in her stomach. “I’m Erin,” I confessed.

“Thank you Miss Ed-rin. Thank you. Do you like henna?” She showed me the art she’d created on her arm.

“No, but thank you,” I reminded her. “That looks nice; you are a good artist, but I don’t like putting things on my skin. I don’t even like makeup.” I laughed at my allusion to makeup, a luxury that these women will never have to worry about.

“Please, what can I help you with? I don’t like begging… Sometimes I cry about it. I cannot give my children food but I will not let them beg.” I thought of myself in give-and-take situations. I thought of my own desires to give back and all the questions I could ask these women about their lives. I though about my purse and hugged it to my waist.

“Okay, I’d like a henna tattoo, please.”

Immediately, the second pregnant lady took off her scarf and folded it on the ground for me to sit on. I felt awful pressing her clothes onto the dusty sidewalk, but hoped that she saw it as her expression of gratitude that I was not rejecting.

As the first lady squeezed fragrant brown paste onto my palm, I asked about the women’s (nine) children. The mothers did not send them to the streets (like the others that follow me here with balloons and other useless objects). The ladies wanted jobs, but there was is a shortage here and neither had enough capital for anything other than henna. They had been sleeping on the streets their entire lives. They told me about places to avoid and how I should never give money to children because they use it for glue for their parents to sniff.

I would like to be able to end my story here. When my tattoo was finished, I should have snaked away swiftly and shouted, “Thank you! Good luck!” behind me. I’m sure I could outrun them; their legs were half the length of mine. However, one of them asked if I’d like a sari.

I’d been admiring street vendors’ saris since my arrival, but knew that the sellers ripped off blond girls. “Yes, actually, do you know where I can get one for a good price?” I asked.

“Yes, we’ll take you!” My gut screamed, “Run away!” but I really wanted to find a sari to wear to the conference next week. I felt that the ladies could help me and really wanted to. I could tolerate a little more begging if it led to some mutual reciprocation. I’d rather support their children than be ripped off without knowing where the rupees were going.

The tiny, round ladies linked arms with me and we marched to a shop in an open marketplace. The first lady chattered to the shop owner in Hindi and then instructed, “You give her good price.” He pulled out eight pieces of silk material. I wasn’t in love with any of them.

“Thanks, but I don’t really like these.” The ladies looked extremely disappointed. After about five minutes of describing what I was looking for, I found one with red and white, flowers and polka dots that wasn’t too bad.

“1,200 rupees,” the man said.

“How about 800?” I asked.

“900?”

The last place I’d checked wanted 2,000. “Okay.” I searched through my bag for the notes, squishing my poor wet tattoo in the meantime. The ladies looked proud to have facilitated the transaction.

The sun was just starting to set, so I told them that I was going home.

“We’ll take you,” they chimed.

“Okay,” I agreed, mentally exchanging inevitable male stares for the hungry eyes of my new, pregnant beggar friends. “I’m going to say goodbye to you at Park St” (popular street a couple blocks from the YWCA).

Of course, the second lady, who had been more vocal and aggressive than the first (showing me photos of her children and asking directly several times for more money) talked about how cold it was at night and how she needed a blanket for her children (one of whom had a son of her own). We conveniently ended our walk in front of a blanket seller.

I had anticipated this. I honestly admitted, “I don’t have enough money for a blanket with me. Take my sari. You can get at least three blankets for this. I don’t need it.”

They both refused several times. “No, that’s for you, Ed-rin. That’s yours.”

“I have enough saris at home,” I uttered. “I grew up with more than I needed. And I don’t love this one. Trade it back for blankets, please, for your children. Or cut this into scarves and sell them. You are smart and strong ladies. You are good mothers. Teach your children how to make things. Use this silk.”

They refused twice more and then accepted. They hugged and kissed me and finally left me alone, feeling completely unsettled for encouraging that behavior, but not regretting most of it. I learned the next day that asking for milk powder is very common on Sudder Street. Many of the women that do are employed by a mafia-like group.

I’m not sure what to take away from that lesson. In the future, I’ll view giving alms like goals and gambling; I’ll set a goal, know my limit, and walk away once it’s achieved… and never breach my “Only give away opened food” rule (opened so beggars can’t sell it back).

I really believed what I saw in the women’s dark eyes. I know they were hungry. They hungered for empathy. They needed someone to sit with them perhaps even more than their unborn children needed formula to grow out of their slum.

2/3/14

                After dreams which incorporated the crow caws and elevator chimes outside my room, I woke up with a strong craving for chai and sunshine. It was only 6:00, so I skimmed the “Mumbai Times” before venturing downstairs to meet the 7^th person in the world with whom I share a birthday. My 7^th birthday twin, a warm girl from Goa, was at the front desk. She cheerfully asked if I was looking for the breakfast room. Her voice was musical and her head bobbled back and forth like a dashboard decoration as she spoke. Many Indians speak with this animated gesture; it seems to be used like the Western nod of acknowledgement or the Kiwi, “eh.” I smiled, nodded, and was escorted by two men to a buffet of hard-boiled eggs, roti, rice dishes, fruit and mysterious sauces. There were another five men pacing back and forth in the empty dining room, all of whom wore either tan military-like outfits or suits without coats. It was far too humid for coats or tea, but I asked for a cup of chai anyway. I took an egg which I felt confident was fully cooked, and pretended to read the paper again. Stories of the woes of public transport and education in India littered the page. There was one hopeful story about growing numbers of women in parliament, but the others were almost as depressing as the dusty, barred view out of my window.

After finishing my egg, sugar with tea, and bite of tempting dosa, I ventured outside to wander the humid streets of Bombay. The first thing I noticed was the incessant honking of yellow and black cabs and the lack of road rules. I’m not sure why the city bothered to pave sidewalks when the majority of the people walk in the street and most of the vehicles take shortcuts around them (on the sidewalks). I quickly realized that my driver from the night before was actually kind in his sideswiping of pedestrians. Most drivers in Mumbai probably never wash their cars; it’s much easier to wipe them off with the beautiful saris and shirts of people walking in the streets.

Street in Mumbai

The streets of Mumbai are lined with shops selling everything from live chickens (freshly and loudly butchered on-site) to vibrant scarves. Every couple of blocks, a stray dog or cat lounges among the rubbish. Cattle are tied to lampposts next to sleeping people, with their faces turned down in planters. I did my best to mirror the faces of those around me, confidently sidestepping around such obstacles. After an hour of doing so, flowing through the crowd became as natural as ashram. I also habituated to the stares resulting from being the only goldilocks in the five square kilometers.

Just like the fast-walkers of Kuala Lumpur, the cheerful children of Fiji, the happy families in the oncology unit, and the tuktuk driver in Thailand who told me that the flood survivors in Bangkok were having “noooo problems!,” the people of Bombay do not complain about the humid air or honking. It is a part of their lives and a part of incredible India.