Christmas on Prozac

Sorry it has been so long since my last post, our camp computer broke and I just now found the time to get to an internet cafe. I have much news. First of all, yesterday I turned 23 years old--with nothing but grace and dignity, I promise.
Second, as those of you who are following Obama's whereabouts know, this past weekend was a very special time in India. Just as Americans begin planning for the Christmas season as soon as bathing suits hit the sale racks (by the way, Thanksgiving deserves a new date--look at all that space between the 4th of July and Halloween!), so too does India begin planning for their big holiday, Diwali.

Diwali, also known as the Festival of Lights, marks the return of the valiant Lord Rama after his victory over the evil demon, Ravana. The celebration usually lasts for 5 days with the biggest day being Friday, November 5th at sundown, when families gather to pray, feast, and celebrate with fireworks.

The preparation for Diwali is like nothing I have ever experienced; it takes months. First, the houses are scrubbed and scoured relentlessly for a couple of weeks. Next the inside and outside walls are repainted bright colors and strung with lights and candles. Everyone--even many girls in the slums--gets a new dress for the occasion, and the week beforehand is spent at home making numerous tiny sweets to give out to neighbors, friends, and families.

With all these preparations, class attendance has been painfully low. I found myself in a difficult situation because it is important to show respect for the local religion and traditions, but it is also crucial for the empowerment project that I not lose much ground. In the end I compromised and gave Wednesday through Monday off for Diwali, as long as the girls promised to come up until that time. Despite their promises, attendance petered off in the last two weeks. The silver lining? Most of the girls sincerely wanted to attend the lessons, but their parents were the ones refusing. One of my poorer students, Rinku, brought her infant brother with her to class everyday for a week and rocked him in her lap for 2 hours as she listened to the lessons. Another girl was forbidden to come because she was supposed to be cleaning for Diwali, but snuck out to class every time her parents left for the market. These tiny efforts meant everything me.

To celebrate the girls' hard work and to remind them of how special they are, I threw a Diwali party. I found a CD player and bought decorations, sweets (thanks for the Kit-Kats, Chip), and juices. I also bought them each a little bracelet in the market and told them it was a reminder of their 'spectacular' (one of our new adjectives) academic accomplishments. For 2 hours we danced ourselves silly--I have never seen the girls happier. (However, not a single girl indulged in a drink or snack that could be taken home. When I asked why they would not open a juice box they all just kept hugging me and saying "big big thanks Lindsey," and eventually, I gave up.)

The girls were so grateful they did not know how to fully express their gratitude; instead, they kept feeding me--stuffing chips and candy into my mouth, all fighting to be the one who got to share with me. In my few weeks here I have found that this slum community holds a strong sense of  propriety and these young girls are no exception.