A Woman In Jounpur

I have not been able to write about this until now. I have needed time to process my feelings, my reactions, my thoughts -- everything has been so raw and so much at the surface, and then after it happened life became so insanely busy as it usually is, but it is there, never far from my thoughts. She is there in my mind, though I rarely see her these days -- she hides inside her house. 

It was just after dinner a few weeks ago, when we were relaxing with our volunteers, discussing the days events when Rohnit and Kajal came to me, very upset and worried and said, 'Aunty come quick! Preeti's father is beating her mother.' I remained in my chair, glanced at our volunteers, who were chatting happily among themselves.  Every fiber in my body wanted to jump up and run to her rescue, my mind racing with what could possibly happen to her, knowing the cruelty of her husband... and yet, I knew I could not go. Preeti's father has been so nasty to us, and for me to intervene would make matters worse, not so much for us, but for their mother. Reason told me I needed to stay away, but my humanity was fighting to go to her. Still I remained in my chair, conflicted on what to do. 

Preeti's mother married her husband some 10 years ago. The villagers tell me the relationship began happily enough. She was young and so was her husband -- an arranged marriage as tradition would have it -- but it was an amicable arrangement. Then the babies started coming. First, a girl -- Preeti. A girl is not as scorned upon as much in our area as it is in other parts of India. Girls help their mothers in farming so are seen as an important contribution to the family, and they are loved and cherished as any child. But one day they will marry and leave the family, so a son is still very much desired and necessary to provide for parents old age security and to continue the family lineage. So within a year another baby arrived, and it was a girl again. Now the family was concerned, and more so because Preeti's mother was not behaving as she should. She was depressed, and lethargic. She was not doing her chores and wanted only to sleep. She was neglecting her children. Her husband and his parents saw her as 'lazy', and her husband began to beat her. Her depression grew. Then two years later came another baby -- another girl. Now the family was furious -- what good was this woman? She was lazy and she gave only girls! The beating continued.

 It was about this time that I married Kunwar, and I came to know this poor woman. Just two months after our marriage Kunwar told me her husband was ill and the family was in a bad way. So I collected some basic food items and put them in a bag and delivered them to Preeti's mother. She never said a word, just took the bag and looked at me long and hard. Life went on, and soon we started our school. The two girls, Preeti and her sister, Reetu attended. They had difficulty in school -- it seemed to take them longer to grasp basic concepts, but we were small and we worked diligently with both girls. Soon they began speaking in English and seemed to be keeping up. But their hygiene was deplorable.  On several occasions I bought them soap and shampoo, and even outfitted them in new clothes. Kunwar would scold me that I was spoiling them and that the family would not appreciate the gesture, and they would only expect more. Then one day the girls' mother was at our door and she handed Kunwar a white bag. When Kunwar glanced inside, there was flour, tea, sugar, lentils -- but all dried and useless. It was the same bag I had given one year before. The village ladies told me afterwards, Preeti's mother had put it away in a trunk and had never used it. At this time, Kunwar went to Preeti's father and asked his permission to take her to a doctor to make sure she was ok mentally and physically. Her husband conceded and we took her to the local hospital in Mussoorie. The doctor did all kinds of blood tests, and in the end reported that she was 'fit' physically, but for her mental status she would have to see a specialists. We relayed this information to Preeti's father, but nothing came of it. Another year went by, and the girls continued to be neglected. I continued to purchase things for them, and they wore their new clothes everyday -- and every day they got dirtier and more worn, because they were never washed. One day the girls showed up for Rohnit's birthday party. All the children had bathed and had put on their 'good clothes'. There stood Reetu, Preeti and Arti (their baby sister) dressed in dirty rags. All eyes of the village children were on them. I quickly whisked them into the house and poured a bath for each of them. We scrubbed them from top to bottom and I dressed them in new sets of clothes -- thanks to the donations of clothing we had received from our supporters. When I was done the girls appeared at the party looking like little princesses and all our children gasped and clapped -- happy to see their little friends looking so nice. And then came another day -- Preeti's mother at my door, banging loudly and calling me. Thrusting a bottle of whisky at me and then begging me to call the police. She said her husband was beating her. He quickly followed her, and began speaking with Kunwar -- telling him his wife was on one of her 'crazy' rants again. I didn't believe him for a second, and I locked eyes with his wife -- hers pleading with me. "What should we do?" I asked Kunwar. "Leave it." Kunwar replied, "We can't get involved. Let them sort it out. If we get involved it can cause more problems." So that's what we did. Did I feel guilty? Did I feel like I had let her down? Yes, absolutely. But being a foreigner in a village where I am handicapped when it comes to communicating in the local language, I am powerless. I tried other tactics -- even suggesting to our ladies who make the dolls to include her in their group, but they all shook their heads -- saying to include her would only invoke suspicion from her husband that she might be sharing too much, and she could receive more severe beatings. So we let it rest. As time went on Preeti's father seemed to become more unbalanced. He became more greedy and began to turn against us, Kunwar and I, talking behind Kunwar's back, aligning himself with a very conniving and jealous man in the village who befriends those having difficulty and offers loans to them as a means of controlling them. After a year Preeti, Reetu and Arti were removed from our school and placed in the missionary run Hindi medium school in Sainji. "Preeti and Reetu don't like their new school Aunty", one little girl named Ameesha, said to me one day while walking home. "I am sorry for that honey, but I don't know what we can do about it." She nodded, "Their father is not a nice man Aunty."  Preeti had been the face featured on a book cover the headmaster from our partner school in Manchester had written. He had been captivated by Preeti, her shy and demure ways. When he returned to Sainji the following year he went to speak with Preeti's father, offering to sponsor the girls for their education if he would place them back with GEMS. The answer he received was a sarcastic, "Are you finished?" He had his answer. 

Just six months ago, a horrible accident occurred. Preeti, Reetu and a friend were on the motor bike with their father, riding along the steep embankment of the highway, when he had an epileptic seizure. All were thrown over the mountain. Luckily they landed 50 feet below on a shallow outcrop, otherwise they would have fallen to their deaths one thousand feet below. The girls were banged up, and their father received eighty stitches to his face, but all luckily survived. But this seemed to add to the anger directed at Preeti's mother. I learned that she was no longer allowed to come into the house, that often she was given no food and made to sleep in a room in the bottom of their dwelling, a room not fit for any human being. She was left to sleep on a dirty thread bare mattress. Ameesha told me Preeti's mother was eating grass one day as she had nothing else to eat. So I told Ameesha to come to my house and I would give her some food to take to Preeti's mother, but I asked her not to tell anyone about it, and certainly not to tell Preeti;s mother where the food came from. Ameesha would come by every day after school and I would hand her left overs from the previous night's dinner. Then one day Ameesha said to me, Aunty she knows the food is coming from you. "How?" I asked, "Did you tell her?" "No, Ameesha answered, "She just knows it is you." I asked Ameesha if anyone else was helping and I was pleased to hear that a few women had given her some money, but I suppose if you can't get out of the village, how can you purchase any food for yourself? 

Some nights I would stand at our back door and I would listen as she and her husband shouted back and forth. Her shouts were shrill, his answers low and laughing, mocking. 'He is egging her on', I thought to myself. It is mental torture. "They shout at each other every night!" Ameesha complained to me one day while walking home. "It is difficult for us to sleep at night" I could understand why as Ameesha lives above Preeti's house. "My mother tried to talk to her husband, but he told her to go away, to stay out, so we don't go down anymore." Susmeeta was with us this day, and she piped in, "Aunty, he is horrible. When there are weddings he locks the children out of the house, and they have nothing nice to wear. One day my mother felt sorry for them so she gave them some of my clothes to wear and he took those clothes and threw them down the mountain. He told my mother he didn't need her charity." I thought about this. Susmeeta's mother is divorced and has difficulty making ends meet, but she is a good person with a good heart. Her gesture was well intentioned and generous. This man, I thought, was just evil. 

On this night, I studied Rohnit and Kajal's faces. Both were near tears. I asked the kids if anyone from the village was there, and they said 'yes', so I felt a bit relieved that at least someone would intervene on her behalf. But...half an hour later they were back and this time, 'Rohnit was very upset, 'Aunty please, they have locked her in the house and her husband and mother and father-in-law are all  beating her!' They won't let anyone in, and the whole village is there. And then, his little face crumpled, 'There is blood Aunty, a lot of blood!' To hell with reason!  I jumped up and ran and I saw in the square all the villagers. I saw Kulpana, Kunwar's niece, and I went to her. She was crying. She said, 'He is a horrible man. He needs to go to jail.' I went around and I tried to get information from whoever I could about what was happening.  learned the villagers had tried to get in the room, but Preeti's father  locked the room from the inside. In turn the villagers put a lock outside the door and called the police. I went back to Kulpana. She looked up at me and with anger in her voice, she told me Preeti's mother had screamed, 'Help me! He is going to kill me!' Oh God, I thought, it is happening. He can kill her and she is defenseless in there.  I started circulating trying to ask if we could get all the men to break the door down. 'No, no. he could run away!' everyone replied. ' I tried to argue, 'but she can die in there!!' Everyone turned away.  I was ignored. Kunwar stood on the sidelines;He was talking to some of the elder men. He looked worried. I went to him, and I asked why the villagers wouldn't break down the door and rescue her. Kunwar looked at me, and calmly said, "Ah the police are coming. They will take care of everything." My husband who always seems to have such a deep understanding of village matters, who always seems to be right, and who I trust completely, didn't seem to have the right answer for me at that time. I judged him then, 'You are just like all the other men -- you won't get involved to save the life of a woman!' I was angry, scared for Preeti's mother, and have never felt so powerless in my life. 

After what seemed hours the police came. Everyone was excited. Many raced after them to the door of the little house at the bottom of the village, and those who could not squeeze through the tiny alleyway, rushed to the window of the house above to listen to what the police were going to say and do. I followed those ladies. One of our students translated for me. The police were asking how the woman had been hurt. The husband said she had done this to herself. "That's not true", argued Ajay, a young boy from the village, "You were beating her! We could hear you!"  The husband replied, "No, no, that was just me slapping my slipper against the wall."  After some time, the police took him in hand and guided him out of the village. "Good! He is going to jail." Someone said. "How is Preeti's mother? Where is she? Is she ok" I began asking everyone. "She is inside the house." someone answered. "But is she ok? Is anyone looking after her? Has an ambulance been called?" No answer. And then Susmeeta was at my side. "I will take you to her Aunty." We walked down the narrow path to the house. I could barely see, and bumped my head on the low overhang of the roof. Susmeeta guided me up the stone steps and along the narrow veranda and into the large brightly lit room. I could smell blood, and when my eyes focused to the light, I was taken aback. Everyone was seated in a circle along the walls of the room,her in laws among them. I studied her mother-in-law's face for a fleeting second -- what was that look? Remorse? And then in the middle of the floor, looking very small, and very dazed, crouched Preeti's mother. Her face was swollen twice it's size. Her lips were blue and bulged forth. Her hands were covered in blood, and I could see blood stains on the floor around her. But what struck me, what stood out the most was that no one was tending to her wounds, no one was by her side. I asked one of our students standing in the doorway to go and get my medical bag and antiseptic. I took her hand and tried to get her to focus on me. When she did, she began to cry. "He hit me Aunty. He wanted to kill me. They all did." When I lifted my eyes from Preeti's mother, I locked eyes with Reetu. She had been crying. I knew she had seen everything. I searched for Preeti, Arti, their little brother. All were traumatized, hiding like shadows in the background. Ony Reetu showed any sign of cognizance. "Reetu, honey, what did he hit mommy with?" I asked. "I don't know, I didn't look," she cried, fresh tears streaming down her face. My heart wanted to split in two, and I wanted to fold her in my arms and run away with her, protect her from all this horror.  I asked for help to get her up onto the bed, but as some of the men came forward, she cried, "No, I will not rest on  that bed. Take me downstairs!" The men carried her down the stone steps to the room she had been sleeping in for the past few months. A dirty, torn mattress was shoved underneath her. I asked for cold water and a cloth to bring the swelling down. I worried about what injuries she may have, and I felt helpless in my knowledge of such things. Then I remembered our volunteer Mandy. She had told me she had trained as a nurse. I asked the children to go and get her. When Mandy came, despite her medical background there was little more we could do for this poor woman other than to make her comfortable and try our best to bring down her swelling. By now both eyes were swollen closed, and she was going into shock. We placed a dirty blanket around her and tried our best to comfort and reassure her. "He hit her with the grass cutting knife, Aunty", one of the boys offered -- as if trying to explain her horribly swollen eyes -- "I saw him do that,"  he added. "Bappa!" She cried, Bappa means father in Jounpuri. "Bappa, help me. Bappa take me," she sobbed. I searched the room. Everyone was standing around us, talking, talking, talking, everyone offering their version of what had happened, what would happen to her husband, how terrible her in-laws were to have participated, "Dirty people!" someone muttered.And then I heard a familiar voice behind me say, "He's a terrible man, her husband." I looked up into the eyes of one of the village men. There was true empathy in his eyes. But just two years prior I have cared for his wife after he hit her in the face with pressure cooker, and two years earlier after he had beaten her with a stick.' Can a cat change it's spots?' I wondered.  "Can we call an ambulance?" I asked. More talking, and then, "You want the lady police to come Aunty?" one girl asked. "Why?" I queried. "Because if there is need the lady police will take her to the hospital,"  she replied. "Oh there is need," I assured her. Then the pradhan (village headman)  was summoned and a phone call was made. "Who will go with her?" I asked. Silence. I spotted my sister-in-law. "Will you go with her?" She shook her head. I moved down the row of women standing against the wall, "Will you? Will you? Will you?" And the answer came back the same, "no, no, no."  "Why? Why won't anyone go?" I asked. "Because if something happens we will be blamed," came my answer. "Then I will go with her." I said. Mandy nodded, "I also will go." I could see Mandy struggling with the knowledge that no one was willing to put themselves out to help this poor soul. But then came the words from one lady, "You can't go with her Aunty. If you do and she dies, you will be blamed for her death and the family will put a case against you." There it was. How could I be blamed for something I had nothing to do with? I was there caring for her. How could this be?  After what seemed like hours the police woman came, and quickly Preeti's mother, now unconscious, was hoisted on a chair and taken to the police jeep. I asked a male police officer, "Can I go with her?" "Yes, that would be good," he answered. I ran to get my purse. Mandy did the same. I entered our room and Kunwar woke from his sleep. "Where are you going?" he asked, "I am going with her to the hospital. She has no one." I said. Softly and slowly he said, "No, you can't go. You don't understand how things work here. If anything happens to her, his family can make a case against you. He might be with the police, but if no one makes a case against him, nothing is going to happen him and he will be released. The police lady will take care of her. And she will be in the hospital and she will be cared for. Now let it be. You have done enough." I stopped. I felt so helpless, but I knew deep down I had to listen to him.  Kunwar is a good man, a good person, not a mean bone in his body, and he knows the village ways from a perspective I will never have. And so I stayed. 

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The next day, the nasty man from the village went to see Preeti's mother and convinced her not to make a case against her husband. He was released that morning, and she was sent home to the village. It has now been three weeks. Preeti's mother stays in the room below her house. Her husband is staying in their cow shed. No one has been charged. Preeti's mother has received little medical attention, but I understand is healing from her physical wounds. The girls have resumed their day to day activities in the village, and life has carried on. But one day, Reetu and Preeti were at my house with some of the other children. I had a chance to pull them aside and ask how their mother was. Both bowed their heads, and muttered, 'fine.'  I asked both of them to look me in the eye, and I said this, "Your father is not a bad person, but he is sick and it is the sickness that made him do bad things to Mommy." No one deserves to be hit like your mother was. She did nothing to deserve this. And we might not be able to change her situation, but you do have a choice. You work as hard as you can in your schooling and you do your best, so that one day you will be able to stand on your own two feet and not have to depend on anyone to support you. And know that no one, no one has the right to ever hit you!' 

Both girls just looked at me and simply nodded. Did I get through? I don't know, but maybe, just maybe I planted a seed of change. I can only hope. 

Post script: I have no idea what Mandy is thinking or how she has processed what she witnessed that night. We never got a chance to talk much and I am sure, like me, she needed time to process what transpired that night. I look forward to hearing her thoughts on this. 
cockrell_uk@yahoo.com

The New Student

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The New Student

"Come and meet our new students", Kunwar calls me from the house. I go outside and seated at our table is one man from our village. He has a pleasant, humble face. He speaks in Hindi to Kunwar and I try to follow the conversation, but my eyes keep moving to the two little boys seated on the bench next to him. Not once do they lift their faces -- instead they study the ground below the table. I come close to them, put out my hand and tell them we are very happy they will be joining our school. They don't look at me and neither says a word. I try again -- maybe they didn't understand my Hindi -- nothing. 'Oh boy,' I think to myself, 'This is going to be difficult.' Their father tells us that the government teacher wants to hold the oldest boy, Nitin, back for another year. She says he is 'dull.' Kunwar and I exchange looks. There are only four students in the government school, and two teachers. Their students should be excelling.  Yet, we know.  A memory passes through my mind; one day I was walking past the government school and I saw the teacher seated in front of a little girl and then I saw her wind up and slap the little girl so hard they child nearly fell on the ground, and when she had righted herself, the teacher slapped her again. I was horrified. How could a child possibly learn this way? 

Today I was teaching in class six. Nitin sits in the middle row. I have asked our volunteers to provide him with special intensive English classes. Alex reports that Nitin is exceptionally bright, but he doesn't like to talk.  Today in class I try to draw him out. "Would you like to try to make a sentence Nitin?" I sit beside him and he draws away from me. "Nitin, just try honey. Just whisper it to me. It's ok. I am trying to help you." He trembles, and I feel my heart sink. He is afraid of me. "Nitin, honey. I am not going to hit you. I want to help you. If you answer wrong, it is ok. I will never hit you. I will never shout at you. I only want to help." Now some of the students have gathered around. Sakshi leans in to help, "Don't worry Nitin, Aunty and the teachers won't hurt you. You can answer. It's ok if you are wrong. Nothing will happen," she offers. Nitin looks from Sakshi to the other children who are all nodding their heads. 'Bless their hearts,' I think. They are so helpful and so willing to help each other. I place my hand on Nitin's back, and I say, "When you are ready, you can try." We continue on for the rest of the lesson.  I smile and I encourage the children -- I do my best, but I worry about this little boy who is too frightened to try, to even speak and I feel so sad. Class is almost over, and then... Sakshi says, "Aunty, Nitin wants to try."  "Ok, Nitin." My heart pounds a little faster. I want him to succeed. He opens his mouth and I can't hear, so I move closer. I put my ear close to him to hear him whisper, "Marley is so fat, he can't walk."  It is a sentence one of the other children said earlier, but it doesn't matter, because Nitin has stood up and said it. He is looking at me with his eyes wide, waiting for my reaction. "High five Nitin!" and I hold my hand up. He looks at my raised palm, and for a second I think I have made a mistake. Does he think I am going to hit him? And then the smallest smile plays on his lips and he raises his hand and every so lightly, taps mine. 

Making Dreams Come True | Nonprofits - YouCaring.com

Hey everyone,

We have launched a fundraiser to help support our school. It doesn't take much to lend a hand, just a few dollars, so please feel free to donate as much or little as you can because you will be helping a child realize their potential, and what can be better than that?
 Here's the link: http://www.youcaring.com/nonprofits/making-dreams-come-true/125740

Asha

This is a story I wrote for Asha, a child from a Jaunpur Village, not far from Sainji. Having lived in this area for seven years, I think it captures the struggles many families are dealing with, but more importantly highlights the strength and resolve I have seen in so many people here over the years. 

Asha with her Tarkhanna mother and father and sisters (l-r -- Nitu, Lalita, Goodie, and Nisha)

November 27, 2006

Dear Asha,

It doesn’t seem fair that I should begin telling your story by first talking about your mother’s death, but unfortunately your mother passed away early this morning at the Landour Community Hospital, here in Mussoorie. The doctor said she died peacefully, and was surrounded by her family and village friends.  She was just 39-years-old – too young to be departing this world. But the doctor said that there was nothing they could do for her. In fact, she was surprised that given the nature and intensity of your mother’s illness (tuberculosis) she held on as long as she did.  I believe she did because she wanted to know that you were going to be ok. You have been with Joy and Kyle, and your big sister Celia (or CC as she likes to call herself) for five weeks now. My, how you have changed, and you in turn, have changed all of us who have come to love you so much.

Asha, I truly believe that someone, perhaps you or your mother, called to us from your tiny village of Tarkhanna, nestled in the Garhwal hills. Long before I came to Mussoorie for my Hindi Language studies, I would get a strange excited feeling deep inside when I would think about being here, even though I had no idea of what Mussoorie was actually like, and knew nothing about the surrounding Garhwal Valley. But on my first day in Mussoorie, I took a walk around Landour, and I caught a glimpse of the Garhwal valley and all the little villages nestled in the hillsides. Every day I would stare across to the villages, and I knew that I would go there.

 Finally I got my chance. I was introduced to Omprakash and Sherifin through a German couple who came to stay one week at Rokeby Guest House where I was staying (and also where  your mother and father were staying). Omprakash and Sherifin are medical outreach workers who visit many of the villages in the Garhwal Valley to offer medical care and social welfare.  I am working towards my PhD in Anthropology, and I am planning to do two separate studies in India beginning next June. One is to be in a village community and the other in a slum in New Delhi. The focus of my study is to understand why so many children leave home, and to gain some insight into their family relationships. From what I have learned about the Garhwal Valley, it has been deeply affected by climate change in recent years. There is not enough rain or snowfall to produce healthy crops. As well, the population boom in the 60’s and 70’s led to smaller land plots for inheritance (i.e. more sons to divide land between). Hence many families are not able to grow enough to feed their families. Many men are migrating to the cities for work. Often they become alcohol or drug addicted, and some never return home again. Much of the work then falls on the women’s shoulders.

On my first outing with Omprakash and Sherifin, I met 16 women from 16 different villages. One of the ladies mentioned that in her village there was a family with five children and they were having a very difficult time economically. So we agreed that we would visit this family on our next visit. Two weeks later, Omprakash, Sherifin and I arrived at your village. We were led into a small room. There was no furniture, only a few boxes holding all your family’s worldly goods – blankets, a few clothing items, and some food.  Your mother was seated in the center of the room and she was holding what appeared to be a small bundle in her lap. On closer inspection, I realized it was a baby – you. I asked to hold you and your mother gently placed you in my arms. Asha you were so small, weak, and sickly. You kept coughing and coughing. Your eyes kept rolling back in your head, and you could not cry – only mew. I asked how old you were and your mother said you were 3 ½ months. I could not believe it because you could not have weighed more than 5 pounds. Your mother was very sickly and Sherifin indicated that she suspected she had tuberculosis. Your mother told us that she had no milk to feed you with. The only nourishment your family was able to give you was buffalo milk, and that was difficult to get, because your family had very little money to purchase it, so mostly you received chai (tea with lots of water and a little milk and sugar).

 I asked what your name was, and your father said you did not have one. When I asked why, he answered that he and your mother did not know if you would live. I swallowed the lump in my throat and I looked at you, and your big brown eyes were looking up at me. I whispered to you then that I would do everything in my power to make sure you did live, and I asked you to promise me that you would fight hard to live. Your big brown eyes held steady, and I felt as if you understood. I was sure you did.

A crowd was gathering outside your house, and everyone was smiling and pointing at me. I did not understand, but soon it was communicated to me that your parents and the villagers thought I was there to adopt you. My heart did a jump, and my mind raced to think of a way I could make this happen – but I am a student, with little money.  I am not married, and I am only here until December. I explained to your parents that I could not take you, but promised to help both you and your mother.

 After much discussion with your father, it was decided that you and your mother would be brought to the hospital the next day. I worried that this might be too late for both of you, but apparently your father wanted to consult first with the local pundit (holy man) to remove the evil spirit that was troubling both of you.

The drive back to Mussoorie that day was the longest one I have ever taken. I kept swallowing hard because I did not want to cry in front of Sherifin and Omprakash. I did not know them well, but now that I do I realize that it would have been ok, because they were as troubled and worried as I was.

When I came back to the guest house, I went to my room and shut the door, and then I let out all the tears and heartache I had bottled up inside. After awhile I was able to compose myself for dinner, but then after just five minutes at the table someone asked how my trip to the village was, and the tears bubbled up again. I went to my room, and  Joy (your mom) followed me. I told her what had happened, and we talked for a long time. We made a plan to go to the hospital the next day. Should the hospital not admit you, we agreed that we would bring you back to the guest house with us and nurse you back to health.  We would suggest to your parents that we keep you until you were well and then re-unite you once your mother was also in good health. And then we went about giving you a name. We thought Josha would be a good name as in Hindi it means ‘life’ or vigour. This was what we wanted for you.

The next day at school, we told our Hindi teachers about you and your mother. One teacher, whose name is Habib, and whom I hope you have come to know, suggested that the name, Josha although a good one, was more suited for a boy. He suggested that you be named Asha because Asha means hope in Hindi.  It is a beautiful name.

Joy and I raced down to the hospital after our classes. In the taxi your mother told me that your father had told her the night before, that whatever happened she had his full support and his blessings. He must have had a premonition. We met Omprakash and Sherifin outside the hospital. Your village mother and father were there, and you were nestled in your birth mother’s arms. The doctor had seen both of you, but you were not to be admitted into the hospital.  Immediately both your mother (Joy) and I told of our plan. Your parents shook their heads, and then added that they wanted you to be placed in a good home, that they could not take care of you, and that you would become weak again and die. I knew what they meant was, that in spite of the treatment they had been given, they still had no real means to nourish, and to take care of you. But mostly, I think your mother knew how sick she was. She wanted you to be placed in a good home where you would have a chance to grow and flourish.  Having five girls in India when you are poor is very difficult. There is the cost of marriage, and the need for a son and his wife to do the work in the home and fields, and to care for parents in their old age. So please do not be angry with your parents for the decision they made. I saw the way your mother looked at you, and there was nothing but love in her eyes for you. On the day she passed you over to Joy, she seemed so humble, so fragile. But she did it willingly, with purpose, and with so much love. The look on her face was peaceful and so loving Asha. She passed you over to your new family with love in her heart.

I sent e-mails to friends to tell them about you and your family. There was an outpouring of support from people wanting to help your family. We wanted to buy them goats as this is a sustainable livelihood and one in which your father suggested would help him a great deal. So after three weeks we had enough money to purchase four goats. Last week we returned to the medical center near your village. Your father met us and we purchased his goats. He was very happy. Then I gave him a photograph of you. He stared at the picture for such a long time. He kept stroking your little face in the picture with his finger. I told him your name was ‘Asha’ and he smiled. He said it was a beautiful name. Then he told us that your mother was not well, that she had taken a turn for the worse. I stood there on the road looking down at your village, and I wanted to go and see your mother for myself.

 I should have obeyed my instinct Asha. I am so sorry that I didn’t. It is an error of judgement that I have to live with for the rest of my life. None of us realized just how sick your mother was. I don’t think your father did either. When we returned to Mussoorie, we began making plans to have your mother brought back to the hospital for more testing for TB. But last night your mother was brought into the hospital, and she died early this morning.

  

For three weeks before your mother’s death I woke up every morning at 3 am to the sound of three knocks. I did not know what they were at first, and was troubled by it. Two nights before your mother’s passing I woke to the knocks. I lay awake, but with my eyes closed and watched the pictures in my mind. I was in the Garhwal valley following a butterfly down a mountainside, and then the butterfly turned into a light, and a woman’s voice in my ear said, ‘I will show you’. Then I saw a building with many emergency vehicles around it. It didn’t make any sense at the time, but now it does as it must have been the hospital. Last night I awoke again to the knocks. This time I saw a birthday party, and a little girl with long black hair tied back in a big bow at the back of her head. I realized the little girl must be you at about 8 years of age. I followed you, and suddenly the bow in your hair turned into a butterfly and flew away. I now believe that butterfly was your mother. She was showing me that you were going to be ok, and that it was ok for her to leave.

 Asha, every day I will think of your mother. She was very brave, and beautiful, and I know she loved you very much. Never doubt her love for you. She was a great lady.

I hold you in my arms and I wonder what great things you will do. I wonder who you will become. You must be destined for greatness because your call was so strong, and we all heard you. You are beautiful my ‘little dolly girl’ – oh how I love you!

Asha -- Seven Years Laterwww.gems-school.org

Asha (center) with new brother, Ephrem, Joy and big sister, Celia

Asha with father (Sobhan), and big sisters, Lalita, Nitu, and Nisha.

On July 7 of this year Asha will turn seven. Many have told us that she is 'a miracle'. The doctor who first treated her certainly believes that. He told me once that when he first saw her he felt she would not survive more than two days. She exhibited all the signs of impending death. Her hands and feet were drawn up and her little fingers were curled. She didn't release her grip for at least two weeks after she came into Joy and her husband Kyle's care. And her eyes were rolling around, never fixating on anything. As soon as she came into Joy and Kyle's care, everyone (including all the guests staying at Rokeby at that time) sprang into action. We had to take turns caring for her at night. At first she would only take a six ounce bottle of formula, and she didn't urinate for days. We were so excited when finally one day, while I was changing her clothes that she peed on my bed. I remember running out of the room with her little naked body in my arms yelling, 'She peed! She peed!' and everyone ran in to see the little puddle on my bed. The first few months she slept in a suitcase in her new parent's room, and in a drawer from the bureau in my room. We padded them with pillows and hot water bottles to keep her warm. It was impossible to find a crib anywhere in Mussoorie or Dehradun at that time, so we had to make due. And the medication -- there was so much -- seven different tablets to give to Asha throughout the day, at different times. The doctors suspected that her horrific, and persistent cough was tuberculosis. The could not be certain because the tests would have killed her. As a precaution she was given the medication for six month. Every day we ground the tablets with water and gave fed them to Asha with an eye dropper. Joy kept a record of what was given and when. And slowly Asha improved, but it was probably Joy who saved her. You see Joy had still been breast feeding Celia at the time, who was only a year and a half. So she had milk for Asha -- the magic of mother's milk -- the gift of life. Asha began to gain weight and slowly those little hands stopped clenching and she began to smile, even laugh. And when she was hungry, oh how she would scream. We all would jump into action! She grew and she blossomed. Her smile would light up a room, and she always has a twinkle in her eye. Everyone in Mussoorie came to know Asha and her new family. Every time we would take a trip down to the bazaar shop owners would welcome her and her big sister Celia. Asha would be propped up on counters and shop employees would coo to her and feed both children toffees. I remember how difficult it was at first to find clothes to fit Asha. Everything was miles too big. And then one day one of the local tailors showed up at the guest house with tiny little dresses he had stitched especially for Asha.  It was like that -- everyone pitching in and helping this wondrous little infant. Everyday Asha accompanied Joy, Kyle and Celia to the language school where she would be held and coddled by the loving arms of the teachers and students who were studying Hindi. Habib, the teacher who gave Asha her name would swing her back and forth, 'Mooya, mooya, mooya' he would coo. We all would laugh. And Asha thrived. 

Joy and Kyle chose to stay in touch with Asha's family, as did I. On a few occasions Asha's sisters even came to stay with Asha's new family. Almost immediately after Joy and Kyle took Asha into their carethey began the adoption process which has proven difficult as India has very strict adoption laws which require the child in question to be placed in an orphanage. Families are chosen from a list of nationals first, and then internationals are considered when the national list is exhausted. But Asha's family wanted Joy and Kyle to have her, and so Joy and Kyle have been pursuing the case through private means, which takes much longer. In the mean time there have been several visits to Tarkhanna, several reunions with her papa and her siblings. 

Today Asha is well under her birth weight and height, but she is bright and funny, and so full of life. Joy took Asha to one specialist after another to see if there was anything wrong with her. She is so very small. Finally one doctor looked at Joy and after running a gauntlet of tests said, 'Well there is nothing we can find that is wrong with her. So she is small. She certainly is bright. There is nothing wrong with her motor skill development, or her brain. So she is small -- nothing wrong with being small.' When I think back to the condition Asha was in when I first met her I think, 'Yes, she was a miracle -- a very small bright and alert miracle, a little spark that called to us.' 

Recently Joy, Asha and Celia have suffered a terrible loss. Kyle had gone to the US to try to find work to help their adoption case for Asha. In February he returned for Valentine's day to surprise his girls and new baby son. But he had not been feeling well, and had ignored all the symptoms of diabetes he had been experiencing. Three days after his arrival in Delhi Kyle was rushed to the hospital, but it was too late. His organs were shutting down and with Joy at his side he quietly passed away. I rushed to Delhi as quickly as I could to be with Joy and the girls. All I could think about was the first time Kyle came down the stairs at Rokeby carrying his new baby daughter. He couldn't take his eyes off of her. 

So now Joy, Asha, Celia and Ephrem must move on with their story, without Kyle. They were with Kunwar and I for a few days in Sainji and once again we all made the trip over to Tarhkanna to see Asha's sisters and her papa. They still live in their two room cow shed. And I feel guilty for not having been more present in Asha's sisters' lives. Our school has taken up so much of our time and resources so I have had little to give to these girls. Lalita is very bright and has won scholarships to continue her high school education. She is in class 12 now, and has dreams of becoming a nurse. For Asha's sake, for Lalita's, their sisters', their mother's sake, I need to find a way for this to happen. But it is not easy. Her village is so far from the bigger centers. It is not just a question of money, but of means, of accommodation, of transportation, of ensuring her father has help with the household and chores for supporting the rest of the family. It is complicated. It requires a lot of thought and planning.... 

For now, Asha is becoming who she is intended to be. What that is yet, we don't know. But for all who have come into her life so far, they will all agree that she is beautiful and special, inside and out. 

                                

Mina

We walked through the dimly lit corridors of one of Dehradun's finest charitable hospitals, peeking in doors of ward after ward, beds full of sick and poor people from all over Uttarakhand. After asking several nurses we, Kunwar and I finally located Mina's ward. We almost didn't see her, but there she was at the end of a row of ten beds, curled on her side, her beautiful waist long hair gone, her head shaven to reveal newly sprouted black fuzz. She jumped when she saw us and struggled to pull herself up. "No," we said, "Take rest, don't exert yourself." But to no avail. Mina pulled herself upright. I could see she was in pain. A long thin scar  traveled from the middle of her hairline at the top of her forehead to just behind her right ear. "Are you in pain?" I asked. "Yes, I have so much pain in my head," was her answer as her hand shook and touched the area behind her right eye. We had learned that the doctors were able to remove only part of Mina's tumour. If they were to remove all of it, they would have had to remove her eye as well, and possibly would have sent her into a coma. "Well," I wondered, "why didn't they remove her eye then?" At least they would have gotten all the cancer. "Because," Kunwar answered me, "her family would not have understood. They sent her to the hospital with a pain in her head to be fixed, and had they removed her eye, the family would have questioned, 'Why when we sent her  with two good eyes to these doctors is she now coming home with only one?"  Yes, I know this does not make sense -- for someone who is educated. But these things must all be considered from the perspective of an uneducated person. Another scenario is going on right now as I type. A man in another village has cancer of the throat. The doctors say they can remove the tumor  but it would mean the man can never speak again. Kunwar met the man's son two days ago, and the son said, "Not be able to speak? What kind of doctors are these? No, my father will not have that operation. These doctors are fools!" 

I took Mina's hand. We learned that she would be going for chemotherapy in another hospital in another city far from Sainji. Her husband was at home trying to raise funds to make this happen. Chemotherapy, the remedy for so many cancer sufferers. But in my mind I was thinking, 'chemotherapy kills the body's immune system. A person going through chemo has to manage a good diet, and good hygiene and protect themselves from germs.' I pictured Mina's house, the rough boards and the open fire pit in the corner of the room, the mattress she and her family slept on -- infested with bed bugs. Every summer Mina would bring her children to me, covered in bites and always it was the same instructions; 'Pull the mattress and all of your blankets out into the sun,  and boil all of your clothes and sheets. Bath the children every day with soap Mina, and I will provide the medicine to take care of their bites.'  So now Mina will return to her home after each session of chemo, feeling the nausea, feeling like she will die, with no comforts, no nutritious diet so necessary for a good recovery.  How will she manage? How can I help? Before we said goodbye to Mina I tried to offer her some hope, "You will get better Mina. You are strong, and you can fight this disease."  Yes, she said as she looked away and laid her head back on the pillow. A tear slid down her cheek. 

Mina and My Relationship

When I married Kunwar we moved into his grandfather's house, and I quickly became acquainted with our neighbours. They were a joint family composed of four brothers, their two wives (one brother was not married, and the older brother lived up the mountain in a cow shed), and their children. In the first week that we had settled into the house I heard a tap tap at the door. There stood Sagar, five years of age, holding a dirty bottle filled with water. "Auntie, my mother wants you to put this in your refrigerator please," he asked politely, his big brown eyes looking up at me. "Ok," I said. It was no problem I thought. I put the bottle in the fridge and went about my business, and then ten minutes later there was another tap tap at the door. There stood Sagar once again, "Auntie, can you please give me that bottle of water now," Sagar implored. "Ok," I answered, confused as to why they now wanted the bottle back. I handed Sagar the bottle, and then a few minutes later Mina was at my door, "Auntie, why didn't you put this in your refrigerator?  "But I did!" I replied. "No, it is still warm." "But Mina, it doesn't get cold instantly. You have to leave it for some time." Oh, well put it back in then. I will come back later," she answered and turned and left. I told this story to Kunwar later that day, and he laughed, "Oh if you start doing these things for these people, then the whole village will be asking to use our refrigerator. Don't do this. They can get cold water from the spring." 

A few days later, Sagar was at my door again. "Auntie my mother wants some tomatoes." "Oh, ok, and I gave four or five tomatoes to Sagar. 'Just being neighbourly,' I thought. But soon a pattern began. One day it was onions, another day it was potatoes, and then it was requested that I give some vegetables so they could have that with their lunch. 'Wait a minute!' I thought. 'Enough is enough!' Then one day Mina asked me to start giving breakfast and lunch to her children because, 'we made such nice things to eat'. At the same time I took care of numerous cuts and burns, infections, and gave out medicine for skin infections, fever and intestinal disorders. We even drove Mina and her children to the hospital a few times and paid the bill to boot! Finally one day I put my foot down when once again Sagar came to my door asking for some eggs. "Mina, I am not a FREE shop!" I called over to her. "Oh ho," she laughed. "Ok Auntie."  And that was the end of it, or so I thought. Rather there was a cooling off period and slowly the requests started to come again. I soon learned to give what was reasonable (medicine for fever, bandages for cuts, and the odd onion or potato here and there). 

One day Mina came with her youngest son, Abu. He was running a high fever. I gave him paracetamol and told Mina that he should see the doctor. She left without comment. A few hours later her sister-in-law was banging at my door. "Auntie, come quick! Abu is dead!" I raced into the house only to see Abu laying on the floor, Mina wailing, and a group of women huddled on the bed looking terrified. I felt for a pulse on Abu and found it. He had passed out. His temperature was high. I immediately asked for a basin of water and a cloth and began bathing him down. Abu rallied around and began to cry. I began to strip the layers of clothing which village people pile on a child whenever they have a fever and immersed him in the tepid water. "The child is dying and she is giving him a bath!" said one of the women, "Westerners have strange ways." "Now let's get him to the hospital Mina." I said.  Abu was treated at the hospital by a lovely and compassionate doctor who explained to Mina and I that Abu had a brain seizure due to his high fever. When a child's fever is quickly on the rise paracetamol  often has no effect, instead the body's defense mechanism kicks into gear and shuts the brain down, causing the child to pass out. It is the body's natural way of dealing with infection and fever. the doctor went on to tell Mina that I had done the right thing in cooling Abu down with a cool sponge bath. So Mina and I both learned something that day. A few weeks later when I was about to turn in for the night I heard Abu crying, and the splashing of water. "Mina" I called out, "Does Abu have a fever?" "Yes, Auntie," came her reply, "But I have medicine for him and I am giving him a bath." I smiled to know that Mina was putting into practice a new method she had learned to care for her child. There were many times after this that Mina's children became ill for one reason or another, and many times that I helped her. 

As much as Mina cared for her children however, she had an angry streak in her. On many occasions I witnessed her beating the children. One day I watched horrified from my window as she boxed Sagar's ears with her shoes, first one ear and then the other. Sagar's head bounced back and forth with the force of the blows. I called out, "Mina!" She stopped, "Oh children Auntie, they can be very naughty." One morning four year old Saniya was pushed down the cement stairs by an angry Mina. This time Mina's husband witnessed the abuse, "If you ever do that to one of my children again woman, I will push you down the stairs." I tended to Soniya's cuts and bruises that time. The little girl sobbed silently. And then there are the burn scars on Soniyas neck. The children in the village tell me those were inflicted by Mina with a hot poker from the fire. So many times I heard Mina raging at the children, hitting, kicking, punching. The wails that came from that house sent shivers up my spine. Yet there was little to be done. The whole village was aware of her anger, but few could do much -- "You can't interfere in these matters", Kunwar would say to me. "This is for their family to handle." And so it went, but there were also times when I saw Mina playing with her children, having so much fun, real belly laughs. One day I poked my head out the window to see what all the laughing was about, only to see Mina and the children having a water fight. I laughed too, because I couldn't tell who was having more fun, Mina or the children. 

One day Mina came to me with Abu. "Auntie he is having these big soars all over his body." I pulled up Abu's shirt to see an ugly boil festering on his stomach, another on his back and two more emerging on his legs. "Oh Mina, these are boils and they are caused by an infection in his body. He needs to see a doctor right away." I gave him medicine for the fever and showed Mina how to use hot compresses for the boils. "Will you take him to the doctor now?" I asked. "Yes, we will go when my husband comes home." After two days passed I thought I had not heard from Mina. We were living in a different house now, and I couldn't stop thinking of Abu. I was in the middle of making dinner, and for some reason I felt compelled to drop what I was doing and go check on Abu. I found him and his mother in their kitchen. Abu was lying curled in the corner, and Mina was hunched over the kitchen chulla (stove). Mina looked up at me when I came in. "He is sleeping." I went to Abu and laid my hand on his head. He was burning up. I had brought my thermometer with me. I guess I had a premonition that he would not be well. His temperature was 105.5 F. I began pulling his clothes off and asked for a basin of water. Mina began bathing him while I ran home for some medicine. I gave Abu the fever medication and I said to Mina, "Mina has he been to see the doctor?" She began to cry, "No, my husband said it was not necessary. I know he needs to see the doctor, but I can't take him alone." Well, we need to go now," I replied. I called Kunwar and he arranged for our nephew to come with the van to take us to Mussoorie, the closest hospital an hour's drive away. Mina called her husband and he said he would meet us on the road. "Oh, well if your husband is going Mina, then I don't need to go," I reasoned. But Mina was adamant. "Oh yes, you need to come. My husband will not listen to me. But he will listen to you. You have to come. I need you there."  I looked at Mina and her face was intent. "Ok Mina, but you know I can't pay the hospital bill this time. I have no money." She shook her head, "No Auntie, I have money. Look $1,000 rupees. My sister-in-law has given me this. And we are to take her son, Aman too, because he also has fever." So off we went, Mina, myself, Abu, and Aman along with our nephew, Sunil and Mina's husband. And all along the way, I listened to Mina's husband scold me, saying 'I was wasting his time, that Abu was fine now (the fever medicine doing its work), and I was just wasting his money. On the way to the hospital the lights died on the van. We had to hold torches out the window to see, and the fog was thick. In the back seat of the van, Mina and I held hands -- both so frightened of what could happen on the way to the hospital. But we arrived and the doctor confirmed what I was trying to convey to Mina's husband, that the fever is only a symptom of the infection that was wracking Abu's little body. Abu was hospitalized that evening, and he is better today. What I learned that night, the insight I gained into Mina's life, her situation shed so much light on the lives of most women living in these villages. Uneducated, powerless, yet intelligent women trying with all their might to raise children, to survive, to hang on to their sanity, in a world where womens' only value seems to be in producing and rearing children and working the land. On that day I saw a different Mina. I saw a scared and helpless girl just trying to manage her life to the best of her ability, and yet I also saw a strong, tough woman who would walk through fire for her children. I liked and appreciated Mina more than ever that day. 

And now, today she comes home a sick woman, a broken person. Does she have a thread of hope? I don't know. This story is not finished. I will keep you posted. 

Three Years Later...

Well it has been a long time since I began writing this blog. At that time, Kunwar and I had not even been married a year. So much has happened since then. I have so much to say, so many stories to tell. I want, need to write a book. Suffice to say I aim to tell my story here on this blog with the intent of eventually publishing the stories in a book one day. So I would appreciate feed back and comments from everyone who reads this. Since that last post Kunwar and I opened a school for the children in our area, and so my PhD was put on hold so we could focus on this project. I will speak of this more in the blogs to come because it has been quite a journey to say the least. Our reasons for opening a school were based on the low quality of education we saw in our area. For many years Kunwar had focused his efforts on bringing education to our area. He was solely responsible for bringing the government school to Sainji in the early 1980s. But that was a time when teachers would live in the village and were able to provide consistent education. After a few years however, things changed and teachers won the right not to have to live in the villages. As our area is in the hills teacher absenteeism became the norm. Teachers only had to pay bribes to officials who could not be bothered to even visit the area to check on teacher's attendance. Resources never reached the village schools, and the quality of education quickly dissipated. So Kunwar invited a group of missionaries to open a school in the village. At least the teachers were living in the village and providing daily education, but again their funds were limited and the teachers who were hired were poorly educated themselves. In India a passing grade is thirty three percent. This is the strategy of the government to counter the high drop out rate experienced throughout India. In order to pass into the eleventh standard children must write a board exam. In our village some children had to write the exam three and four times just to pass. One evening children were coming to our home to ask Kunwar to check their test results via the internet. I watched as they scanned the lists for their name and was surprised when they broke out into smiles having marks of thirty five percent. "Why?" I asked. "Thirty five percent is a terrible grade." "But it means they passed," Kunwar explained. I shook my head. I had set up a small library in our home and was encouraging the children to read. I had offered volumes of Harry Potter to children in ninth and tenth grade thinking they would really enjoy the books, but with each child they would return the book to me the next day, saying it was too difficult for them to read, and would end up settling for a book intended for a second or third grade level of reading. That night after the students had left with their results Kunwar and I talked and that is when we decided to open an English Medium School. We sent word out that we were considering this project and wanted to find out if there would be any families interested in sending their children to our school. The response was immediate. Families of eight children said they wanted to enroll their children and when the local missionary school got word of this they immediately expelled those children from their school. We had to open our school the very next week. Having no time to prepare we began teaching in a room in our house. Two weeks later we had secured an empty hospital building and began our classes. Our niece, Neelum was my only teacher at the time. Together we worked as best we could. Kunwar taught too, but while he has many wonderful attributes, teaching is not one of them. I still smile when I recall the time I checked in on his kindergarten class and saw him holding a long wire (trying to hook up a new light for the classroom, while four year old Mukhul stood at the blackboard, pointer in hand, directing the rest of the kindergartens in reciting the alphabet. After three months we were asked to leave the medical building and had to find another location. We resorted to our cow shed, a few meters down the road. I cried when I saw it the first time. The cows were still inside. But the fathers of the children came and they worked night and day transforming an ugly stone building into a beautiful little school. Our rooms were lovely, all different colours and we painstakingly painted sums and words, and rhymes all over the walls, benches, and tables. The children were so happy with their new school, and took such pride in keeping it nice. Everyone would help to keep it clean, even the littlest ones would pick up brooms to sweep the classrooms and pick up garbage. Soon after we hired another teacher and the number of students began to increase. By our first summer there were twenty one students, classes kindergarten to class 3. By the following year we had eighty students, and before the year was finished we had 125 little GEMS enrolled. It was time to move to a new location, and in April of 2012 we shifted to our present location where on the first day of opening we expanded to 230 children, offering classes from Lower Kindergarten to class 7. We now employ eleven teachers, three teaching assistants, two bus drivers, one cook, three guards and one caretaker. There was so much that happened in this time, and I want to tell the stories so I will relay them over time, one by one. This is only the beginning of a very long tale. For more information about our school you can visit our website at www.gems-school.org.
www.gems-school.org

Well this is my first blog, so I am not sure where to start. I am a Canadian citizen -- a student actually. I came to the Himalayan region of India at first to study Hindi as a pre-requisite for my PhD in Anthropology. But then I fell in love with this mountainous region, the villages and the people. My Indian friends here and my friends and family at home in Canada used to tease me and say that I was going to spend my life here in India. I laughed at them, and told them that while I would love nothing better, it was entirely out of the question. You have to be an Indian citizen to live here. But as fate would have it, completely out of left field my future husband appeared one evening at my door step and there was just something about his eyes, and the way he spoke that captured my attention. After courting for just a few months, we decided we should marry. So now, I am sitting here in the front room of our house, located in the small Jaunpur village of Sainji. 'Now where is Sainji? And what is Jaupur?' You ask. Well, Sainji is not far from the Indian Himalayan Hill station of Mussoorie -- the 'Queen of the Hills' as it is commonly referred to. We are in the Jaupur block of the newly formed state of Uttarakhand, formally a part of Uttarpradesh.

Uttarakhand lies in the Central region of the Himalayas. It has two divisions, the Garhwal and Kumaun. The Garhwal region, where we are located, stretches over an area of 29, 968 km², and is comprised of seven territories: Uttarkashi, Chamoli, Pauri, Tehri, Rudra Prayag, Hardwar, and Dehradun. The terrain is characterized by steep terraced hillsides traversed by several streams and rivers, including the Yamuna and the Ganga. It has long been called Devbhoomi, "abode of the gods", and is home to some of India’s holiest Hindu shrines. For more than a thousand years, pilgrims from all over India have made the long trek to visit the numerous holy shrines and temples scattered throughout the region.

The Garhwal territory of Tehri is further divided into Jaunpur and Jaunsar-Bawar and Rawain districts which are situated along the Yamuna River. The village of Sainji is located in the Jaunpur district, and is just one hour’s drive from the famous hill station of Mussoorie. The village is home to just 300 people of Jaunpuri descent. Jaunpuri people are Hindu, but like their Jaunsar-Bawar neighbours on the opposite side of the Yamuna River; they are set apart from the more common form of Hinduism practiced in the plains by their culture, language (Jaunpuri), caste organization, diet (meat eaters) worship of local deities, traditional marriage practices, festivals, dancing, dress, architecture, agricultural system, and animal husbandry. You can visit our website at www.kanhaiyahouse.ca if you want to learn more about this area.

So I have been living here for almost two years now. I am trying to write my dissertation, but I am like a vulture right now -- circling my prey -- trying to figure out the best approach before I dive in and tackle it. So I guess this blog is a way of helping me process my thoughts. Everyday that I am in the village I am inundated with new experiences that I have to process, and it is not easy at all. People talk of experiencing culture shock when they visit foriegn countries. I experience it all the time. It is an adjustment -- living in a small village where the culture is so different. It is not just the culture, but learning to understand a whole different way of thinking and doing things.

As an anthropologist I was first working and living in the small village of Kolti, just a few kilometers down the mountain from Mussoorie. I had to walk about 1 1/2 hours down the mountain to reach the village. Despite it's close proximity to Mussoorie (just 3 kilometers) this village might as well have been 300 kilometers away.

Jaunpuri people hold fast to their local traditions. Houses are made of wood and are colourfully painted, and on the walls of some of the older homes dating back some five hundred years, carvings can be found depicting Jaunpur’s ancestral connections with Rajasthan from the time of the Mogul empire when Rajasthani Hindus exited Rajasthan on mass and migrated into the Himalayan Hill Regions. Women continue to wear colourful pleated skirts and blouses. And on any given evening the young people will gather outside in the local square, despite the cold frosty air to sing the local folk songs.

The fifty families who live in Kolti and Ladhure practice a unique subsistence strategy that is truly representative of the Garhwal region. For six months out of the year, during the growing season most families migrate from Kolti to Ladhure where they tend their crops on the steeply terraced hillsides. During the winter months they return to Kolti which is located on the sunny side of the mountain and is much warmer in the winter months than Ladhure.

Despite the rich traditional aspects of the village, life is very difficult for everyone. At one time people were able to meet their daily needs through subsistence agriculture. However, in recent decades population growth coupled with long-term exploitation of natural ecosystems in the Himalayas (i.e. the extraction of forests by the British and later the Indian Government) has resulted in scarcities of water, food, fodder and fuel, making it difficult for everyone living in this region to maintain even a subsistence existence. Because of the system of land inheritance whereby land is divided evenly amongst sons, and population growth since the 1960s’ (largely due to immunization and the consequent decrease in child mortality rates) field crops are small and most people can no longer survive on what they produce. Hence, nowadays people must purchase much of what they consume. In Uttarakhand this has led to an increased incidence of under nutrition. Recent studies indicate that roughly 80% of the children living in the Garhwal region are malnourished. The hill regions are also adversely affected by: difficult mountain terrain; poor natural resources; dependence on uncertain rains; the high cost of economic development in the region; and lack of and generally poorly maintained roads; all of which contribute to endemic poverty.

For virtually all of the families living in Kolti, meeting even the basic daily requirements is a struggle. Since there is no road linking the villages to the major markets, the men of the villages travel each day five kilometres up the mountain to the hill station of Mussoorie to sell their produce. They are limited in what they can sell by what they can carry on their backs or, if they are fortunate to own one, by what their mule can carry. Owning a mule is certainly an asset, but can be a costly one should the mule happen to lose its’ footing on the steep mountain side, as was the case recently for one unfortunate villager who had only recently purchased his mule for a staggering amount of $500.00 which he borrowed from the village cooperative. Last week the mule lost its footing on the mountain and broke both its legs. Hence the mule had to be destroyed, and the villager is at a loss as to how to repay his loan, and also how to support his family of six children.

Winters are cold in Kolti and the growing season extends only from April to October. Few foods are stored for winter, and as winter sets in, most vegetables are sold for cash to buy staple foods such as rice, dhal, tea, and sugar. In the winter months, men on average find work for no more than 15 days a month, earning about $2.50 per day, barely enough to purchase one day’s food ration for a family of five.

Maintaining adequate is difficult in the village. Animals are housed beside or below residential quarters, such that animal excrement and flies are rampant within the village. Cooking takes place inside the homes over an open hearth. Hence, the rooms are smoky and eye infections are common. Water has to be carried from the local well, and no houses have toilets or bathing facilities. People bathe and defecate in the open outside of their houses.

Health care in the region is non existent. Government hospitals do not recognize these villages as part of their jurisdiction because they do not have a road. Most charity outreach programs only service those villages with road access. At the same time it is not possible for the sick and the elderly to make the steep climb to the hospital, nor do people have the funds to pay for health care. As a result, the incidence and death rate from diseases such as tuberculosis, diarhoea, or treatable disorders such as gull stones, or appendicitis is quite high. Children also suffer from many respiratory infections, fevers, dental problems, and skin diseases.

I settled here and began my research, focused on how children understood their situations and responded in accordance to their limited resources. I did not realize it at the time, but being an outsider actually provided me with much inside information, and flexibility in my research. People regarded me as something of a novelty and hence I was always invited inside people houses, offered cups of chai, and people also liked to come to my house to see how I lived. Conversations with Kolti people revealed a great deal of information. People seemed happy to share their thoughts with me. However, I cannot be sure that all of the information I was given was accurate. That is the beauty of anthropology; we don't take everything we are told as truth. Much of what is observed is weighed against what people tell us. Nonetheless, life as a researcher in this area, in the capacity of a foreigner and outsider seemed relatively simple.

After marrying into the village of Sainji, life as a researcher began to change. I had decided half way into my research in Kolti that I needed to do a comparative study with a village that had benefited over the years from development projects. Sainji seemed like the perfect study sight. At first I thought, 'Oh great, now that I am married into this village I will be privy to information that I may not have gotten having been an outsider.' I miscalculated that assumption by a mile! I quickly learned that being married into the village meant that I was now not just a new daughter-in-law, but that I was now part of a family within a village that has a history of disputes and hence political alignments among families. So I learned over time that there are some families who are very friendly with us, some who are neutral and others who keep there distance. As a researcher, this means that I can no longer randomly interact with people. If I try to engage someone in conversation about a research topic I run the risk of being misunderstood as trying to collect private information from them. Hence, I am shut out. On the other hand, if the village person happens to be on friendly terms with our family then I often am more privy to information -- as one lady commented to me one day, 'you are one of us now, so I am telling you the truth as I know it.'

I am also constantly battling the desire to be of assistance to the villagers and trying not to become a 'well of financial assistance'. I experienced this to a limited extent when I was in Kolti, but now that I am married into Sainji, I find that both my husband and I are inundated with requests from people requiring financial assistance. We don't mind helping where there is need, but we also have to watch our resources. I am living off a student grant at the moment. We have started a 'cultural stay business' as well, but it is slow to get going, so we have to be careful with our finances. In the meantime we have started a NGO to try to help the villagers, but so far the lines between our personal contributions and what is given through the NGO seemed to be merged together as one in the same, by the villagers. We keep a supply of medicines on hand, paid for from our own pocket, and we offer medicine for basic needs when someone asks. But lately it seems people think that we have received funding for their benefit and that it is their right that we should provide them with medicines, pay for their hospital stays, or whatever other needs they may have. This makes life difficult at times...... Yet, the other side of things is my own desire to overlook the expectations and to offer assistance when I can. The other day we assisted with a health camp run by the local hospital for our area. One of the villagers had come to us the night before and asked if we could help an old lady in the village who has no family. She said the woman had something wrong with her leg and needed an operation. Feeling financially pinched I turned to my husband for help. He told the villager that the woman should go to the clinic and let the doctor decide what should be done. The next day when we were leaving the clinic we saw the old woman on the road. She had not come to the clinic because she didn't know about it. So we loaded her in the car and took her back to the sight of the clinic, where the medical crew were just finishing their lunch. The doctor agreed to look at the woman's leg, and my God, she has been carrying around a four inch diameter, six inch long tumour. The doctor thinks it is benign. He asked the lady how long she had had it for, and she answered 'about 30 years.' So yes, somehow we will find a way to foot the bill for her surgery, and we will take responsibility for her well-being. Poor soul, she has no one else. How can we refuse?