Three Days of Building Bridges

Somehow, I find myself in the back of a large, open air truck with forty Indian school children. We're thrown into the air with every bump in the cracked, rural roads we're traveling on, and the experience is somewhat reminiscent of a hayride. Except that hayrides often have hay, usually don't last three hours, and rarely involve a hot South Asian sun beating down on you.

The group of ten year olds I'm with in the back of the truck are in so many ways alike. They're all from similar socio-economic backgrounds, all go to similar public schools, and all come from areas that have been affected by communal, or religious, violence.

It's their differences, though, that account for their presence here with me and the staff of the NGO I'm working with. I look around the back of the truck, watching the children, and distinctly see that there are two separate groups there. The Hindu children were talking and laughing with Hindu children, and the Muslim children were only talking to other Muslims.

The week or so beforehand I had really been anticipating the coming weekend when Salokha would have its first interfaith residential camp that brought together the two religious communities that they've been working with for over five years. I was curious though how I would be able to distinguish the two groups to really watch the dynamics between and amongst them. The answer should have been obvious to me from the start. When the children arrived it became clear; all the Muslim kids were wearing white skullcaps. And so throughout the weekend I was able, to some degree, to watch how much and what kind of interactions were occurring between the children.

The truck finally stops and we all get out, rattled from our long ride through the hills of Northern Maharashtra. Our venue for the weekend is the largest organic farm in the state, which surprises me as I didn't realize that were any organic farms in India. Our accommodations are a bare but pleasant farmhouse, and what it lacks in physical comfort it makes up for with its incredible atmosphere. It's one massive room, and there are no walls at all; the roof is held up by so many pillars along the side and scattered around the room. Breezes rush through the room and I see that I'm not the only one who's enjoying being away from Bombay's pollution and congestion. Kids are running around making mischief, playing cricket, and taking naps on cots. This type of place is in my opinion the best for bringing groups together. Everyone has to share space, eat, sleep and live together, whether they like it or not. Here, there's communication about who you are even when nothing is necessarily being said.

One of the main things that always shapes my experience when I go out to observe and participate in field work with my organization is language. Ironically, this time I'm not the only one for whom language is an issue; the whole group needs to accommodate to itself. The Hindu kids present attend Marathi-medium schools, Marathi being the local language of Maharashtra. The Muslim children attend Urdu-medium schools, Urdu being the language that Muslims primarily speak in South Asia. In a symbolic twist, it's decided by the staff that the language we will use for the weekend will be Hindi, a language that both groups know enough to converse in. Hindi has its roots in Sanskrit, the ancient language of the Hindu Vedas, but is also heavily influenced by Urdu and Farsi, languages that have long been associated with Islamic communities. The two groups, like the languages they use, are in many ways similar but also different in significant ways. And while we are quite lucky to be dealing with groups that know a common language, I hear small complaints and groans when the decision is made.

The weekend is peppered with a range of activities from educational sessions and group bonding exercises to skit practice and games. In sessions we talk about religious traditions and their similarities and differences, but focus heavily on the stereotypes associated with different communities. Aside from the intergroup aspect though, the weekend reminds me much of my own experiences in summer camp in the States. The kids sing songs and play group games and sports, are unruly and boisterous when they have free time, and even have a dance party one night. But instead of playing Simon Says they play Gandhi Says. Cricket replaces Baseball and Hindi pop tunes take the place of American camp classics. In the morning we have yoga, and five times a day the Muslim kids run off for Namaz, or prayers.

I watch those white skullcaps intensely as the weekend goes by, worried as they are the smaller group. Only twelve or thirteen of the forty-something kids with us are Muslim, but this is even an over-representation considering that on the national level they only make up about fifteen percent of the population. It becomes clear though that it's not simply a matter of numbers. The Muslim kids that are with us definitely have an insular feel to them, the whole group often bunching shyly together in pockets during any activity. The staff is working actively to involve them as much as they can, but is finding it difficult. Part of the issue is compounded by the practice of Namaz. It was an unforeseen issue on our part, but is having a large effect with the Islamic kids running off for prayers and being absent for a good number of activities. The issue brings up some touchy questions. How are group workers to integrate an already isolated group when they're not present for some activities? And how can this be done while still acknowledging and respecting the religious practices of the group?

The end of the weekend comes, and though these questions aren't fully answered, they also are not completely unanswered. I think what is clear is that these are still two different groups, and that integration and tolerance doesn't mean that both groups need to act in the same way, but simply in a way that has a sense of harmony and respect. The kids impressed all the staff members on the last night when mixed groups put on sketches dealing with the themes of inter-religious cooperation and brotherhood, which, while filled with the overacting that is the hallmark of Bollywood, were well rehearsed and delivered. And now, as the truck is thrown up with every bump, I watch as Hindu and Muslim kids exchange emails and telephone numbers. Others sit in groups, talking and laughing, and I see many more skullcaps interspersed than on the way here.

It can't be said that the weekend caused all of the tensions to dissolve between the two groups, but the wounds that these two communities have inflicted upon each other are deep here in Bombay. It will take a long time for them to heal, and for the hatred and enmity to die out. But I do think that is it a step in the right direction. The children were provided with an experience that can't be taught. They were exposed to each other and saw each other's humanity, and this is the first part of building bridges.

Rediscovering Bombay

It’s been over four months since I stepped off the plane at the international airport in Northern Bombay. Not all that much time from some perspectives, from others, a lifetime. It is long enough, for instance, to begin a new life, to have relationships to develop in unimagined ways and to learn volumes. Short enough, though, to go by in the blink of an eye. Only now, two thirds of the way through my time in this city, I’ve begun to realize the finitude of my stay here. I always knew that it wouldn’t last forever, just as in my mind I know that nothing in fact does. But knowing intellectually and knowing with your experience are two different things. Knowing in experience means that one is more likely to act upon that knowledge in a more active way. And so that’s what I have been attempting to do.

Taking a stronger eye to the things that at this point strike me as normal but that are, in fact, phenomenal, has been a big part of rediscovering Bombay. The shocking living conditions that I pass on the ride to work do not shock me any more. My tongue barely burns now when I taste the chilies that find their way into all the food here. At the end of the day as I kick off my sandals my eyebrows only raise if my feet are clean. At first I was amazed at everything, but after four months the excitement, allure and exotic nature of life here that so many who visit speak of hides itself from view. It’s amazing how normalcy creeps up and simply inserts itself into life, in most unassuming ways, though with a presence akin to an elephant in a room.

That’s not to say that I would like to revive the experience of stepping off the plane, or that I wished that I knew nothing of what I know now about what life is here. On the contrary, what I take out of my experience here only becomes greater as time goes on. At the same time though, the learning experience can stagnate or atrophy if I decide that things here are a certain fixed way, and if I base my actions in a set of behavioral patterns that can be limited.

And so I take this knowledge that I’ve recently acquired, the knowledge that I won’t be here for too much longer, and I go out. I find different ways to rediscover the city. I go out with my camera, seeing things through a glass lens that changes the observing process, and makes me encounter insular moments with renewed interest and curiosity. I explore different neighborhoods, wander through areas that have always been close but never been traveled. My Hindi, for a while, stayed at a fixed level, so in my last month I’m starting up private lessons with our yoga teacher. These actions, taken on their own, are good and positive, but I've been taking them as all being part of this spirit of rediscovery that I want to nurture.

Yesterday, as I waited for a friend of mine at the train station, a man came up to me. He was speaking in Hindi and speaking fast, but it was clear that he was asking me about the red string that I had tied around my wrist. During pujas, religious rites done my many Hindus honoring certain occasions, red strings are tied around the wrist to mark the occasion. The one I had was from Dusera, a festival that occurred just as I arrived, when the director of my NGO invited me to his house for the puja. I told the inquiring man where I had gotten it, and he shook his head as he indicated that it had faded from red to pink. He pulled out of his pocket a ball of red string and wrapped it around my wrist a couple of times. As he did this he recited a prayer in Sanskrit under his breath. He finished, took a small knife out of his pocket, and cut the old string from my wrist. I looked up at him, somewhat astonished, and before I could process how fast the exchange had occurred, he was gone. Though I’ve been here a long time, I’ve never been blessed by a stranger in a train station. Bombay has so much more to be discovered, and I’m learning that if I keep my eyes open I find new and vibrant red strings hanging from my wrist.

Midnight Stroll

Sitting at home last night, I decided to take a walk. Leave my book. Leave my apartment. Leave my flatmate. Not that I don't like these things. My book is interesting and well written. My apartment is one of the nicer ones I've had the opportunity to live in, and is, in a pinch, my current home. My flatmate is fun, thoughtful and frightfully easy to live with. I just wanted to go outside and get some night air.

The only thing phenomenal about it was that I don't often do this. I haven't really gone for a walk by myself, wandered aimlessly into nowhere, in a good while. I was simply at a point in my time here that a nice walk late at night was appropriate. And so I was excited for my walk.

I think that I decided before I even left that I wasn't going to wander aimlessly, that I knew exactly where I was going. And so I went where I knew I'd end up anyway, in the Bandstand, the boardwalk that overlooks the sea. I love the Bandstand, especially late at night. This is kind of funny, as I've only been there late at night two or three times. But I guess sometimes you can go to a place only once and know that you love it, just as I know that there is undoubtedly something special about the Bandstand at midnight.

A big part of what makes it special is that it's quiet. Granted, there are a number of places in Bombay that are quiet at midnight. But the Bandstand is quieter, and it's quiet in its own way. The breeze is just strong enough to make it cool, the waves are just loud enough for you to know that you're on the ocean even though it's dark, the air is fresh and it's quiet in a way that reminds me that while Bombay is wild and crazy and loud, its people still go home at night to their families, eat dinner, and go to sleep. It's an important quiet for me to hear.

As I walked down the boardwalk I saw one of the other things that I love about the area. All the couples. Couples walking, sitting, whispering sweet nothings, I imagine, into one another's ears. Almost all college students and most young adults here still live with their families until they are married, so until then they come to the Bandstand and places like it to be alone together. They walk, they sit, they whisper sweet nothings, I imagine, into one another's ears.

And so I walked and I had my walk. I thought about the idea of taking a walk alone at midnight on a boardwalk overlooking the sea, and wondered if I was supposed to be thinking about the future, or about life, or about how I ended up where I am today, and I decided that it wasn't really necessary, and that I probably spend too much of my time when I'm not on walks thinking about those things. Then I laughed, and walked, and felt the sensation of my sandals making contact with the slate boardwalk, and listened to the couples whispering sweet nothings, I imagined, into one another's ears.

I sat down when I found a suitable spot, and watched the ocean and listened to the waves and noticed that I had begun to think about the future, and about life and about how I ended up where I am today, and then I saw a shooting star.

And then I sat, happy, watching the ocean and listening to the waves and replaying the image of the shooting star in my mind. I sat for about fifteen minutes before I started to get up to walk home, and then I wondered if only sitting for fifteen minutes was long enough for a solitary walk near the ocean at midnight on a Friday night. I decided it didn't matter, listened to the couples whispering sweet nothings, I imagined, into one another's ears, and walked home.