Six Soaked Socks

Before

Happy Thanksgiving! As promised, here are the before and after photos from the oh-so-skillful painting/beautification project.

After

In the last entry I was worried about seeing Kathputli Nagar after all that accumulating rainfall. This turned out to be a well-founded concern; it was quite an epic journey. First, I had to pay the rickshaw driver a small fortune just to get to the slum neighborhood because the roads were so flooded. We glided through the steaming swampy streets of Jaipur at a leisurely pace like lovers on a canoe (though my lover kept spitting out the sides of the tuk-tuk and calling people sister-f***ers in Hindi). Once we pulled up to Kathputli Nagar  he refused to drive into the area for fear of getting his auto stuck in the mud, so I begrudgingly paid him (enough rupees to marry off his first daughter) and began the slippery trek into Kathputli Nagar on foot.

Last week my translator explained to me that 'Kathputli Nagar' means 'puppet settlement' in Hindi, which adequately describes the illegitimate status that the slum holds in Indian society. It is also a perfect way of describing the eerie surreal feeling I got from walking through the flooded neighborhood. Since the rain was so devastatingly quieting throughout the city, I expected Kathputli Nagar to be something of a ghost-town, combed only by stray cattle. However, it was quite the opposite. Animals and people were roaming about, clamoring to the tops of pitcher's-mound-sized garbage hills that line the road, walking barefoot through the icy brown pools, and carrying on with their commerce. If I haven't said it before, Indians are tough people: they don't need toilets, old women carry lumber on their heads, men sleep in  bicycles and whole families sleep in road medians, they fast even when they're malnourished, and they work 6 days a week.

Before

After

By keeping to the road's perimeter and walking mainly on the trash hills, I made it to the entrance of the alleyway. In order to reach the school you have to walk about 40 paces down a winding dirt alleyway, which is so narrow that even Keira Knightley would have to turn sideways a few times (questions about how I managed will not be well received). Once you reach the metal door you must climb up onto a large boulder (their version of stairs) below the school's door in order to reach the concrete doorway, which is elevated about 2 feet off the ground. Without the stone, the door would be unreachable, floating in the middle of a concrete wall like something from Hogwarts.

Navigating the alley as children chase after you screaming is difficult enough, but add rain to the equation and you feel like you are getting 'punked'. As I stood at the alley's entrance in stagnant puddles of opaque chocolate water, I couldn't help visualizing what was being lapped into my ankles: the frequent fresh mounds of cow dung (I hope you weren't eating) and the week-old curry-dinner trash, I half expected Ashton Kutcher and his camera crew to rush out at me laughing. Instead, a lone child's flip flop drifted towards me surrounded by some unidentifiable collection of green froth. There was nothing to do but wade through it.

On the one hand, the river/alley was only about 3-4 inches deep, but on the other hand my sneakers were specifically designed to 'breathe and ventilate,' and this was slum water. It's nothing like the puddles in the United States; we don't urinate (legally, at least) and defecate in our roads with our farm animals.

I think I have blocked out the next 40 paces or so because I really don't remember much; I will have to recount it for you 20 years down the road when some soft-spoken therapist pries the memory from the foggy depths of my mind. However, when I finally arrived at the school and took off what was left of my sneakers at the door (which is the custom in all establishments in India), I was touched to see six pairs of soggy shoes lined up, and six little girls sitting cross-legged with wet brown socks, waiting.

Though participation in my program is small (the slum population is estimated to be at 2,000 people and only about 15 girls come to the female empowerment classes), they are a dedicated bunch. The girls could have easily lied in their beds all day, but they are fiercely loyal to their commitments, to their futures, to "getting out" of the slums, and to their education.

As soon as I arrived the girls stood up like a flank of mini-mothers and began fussing over me. "Your shoes! So wet!" they exclaimed over and over as they crowded around my feet, pushing to yank off my soaked socks despite my adamant protests. Sometimes I feel more like their pet than their teacher.

The girls were grateful that I had showed up, and that's when I realized why they were so thankful: they truly feel that they don't deserve any kind of schooling or attention from adults--especially not cool, white, Western adults (yep, I said cool). The least bit of effort means so much to them.

Kathputli Nagar, pre-rain

After they were satisfied that I was dry and okay, we spent the rainy afternoon learning 'adjectives'. We practiced by describing the beautiful women in the pages of the magazines (only the ones that I had deemed appropriate enough to rip out and bring). Each time we came to a model in the advertisements the girls would say 'stunning like Lindsey' or 'she is very pretty like Lindsey'. They persisted like this all class even though I begged and ordered them to stop. I know that they don't actually think I am like a model (although you can see where they got confused), but this flattery is just one of the many ways they show their immense appreciation for me trekking through the slum sludge to teach them. Even though the girls are acutely aware that they have nothing to offer me in return, they do their best to show gratitude and to let me know how happy I have made them. Nothing goes under-appreciated; they are so thankful that they make giving easy--addictive even. They make me want to be better, to walk through filth everyday, just because they deserve the best.