The
light blue sky was patched with pink when I sat down on a low brick wall near
the hotel to write. Indian music played
in the distance; children laughed around a corner. The air was cool and pleasant. A man drove by on a scooter holding a
smartphone to his ear. Another dumped
his trash can in an empty lot, adding to the exiting mess of plastic wrappers, disintegrating cloth, and rotting
food. This, I have learned, is India.
A
group of neighborhood children looked at me and I waved. Within minutes I was surrounded by a gaggle
of children, aged 8 to 12. They were
bold and well-spoken; their English was excellent. They asked about America. They gawked at my laptop and phone and asked what games I could play on
them. I asked about their
schooling. Multiplication and division
in math, Indian government in civics, and of course English. They liked soccer, dancing, and flying
kites. We talked about “Gangam Style,”
and when I imitated Psy’s dance moves the streets rang with their laughter. A twelve-year-old boy—maybe the most poised
twelve-year-old I’ve ever spoken to—told me about the shop where he worked and
explained that he wanted to move to America because India was too corrupt. An eleven-year-old girl told me about her career goals. The neighborhood kids wanted iPhones, aspired to be doctors,
and mused on moving to America.
Their clothes were clean and a few invited me into their homes.
neighborhood
kids fascinated with the iPhone camera
After
an hour it was getting dark and I said goodbye to the neighborhood kids. I returned to the hotel to write and to remember
the hours spent with “my” kids.
In the classroom this afternoon, the 12 to 16-year-old girls drew pictures inside small frames. They drew
with colored pencils, then decorated the frames with stickers. Almost every picture showed a house. Many drew flowers and one drew a water
pump. When the pictures were complete,
we sat in a circle and each girl stood to describe what she had drawn. Nutan translated because the girls’
English wasn't good enough for the description.
Over and over again, the girls—who live in wall-sharing slum homes connected by dirt paths and sewage ditches—said they wanted houses. They wanted clean water and flowers. They wanted candles. Not scented candles—candles so
they could see at night.
The
neighborhood kids wanted medical degrees and iPhones; my kids want clean water
and candles. The neighborhood kids had
clean clothes and internet access; my kids have maybe two sets of clothing and
little access to any written material.
The neighborhood kids spoke excellent English; my kids have a long, long
way to go.
Patima draws
her picture
Nikhil, John
and some students with finished pictures
kids coming to morning class
we took the morning kids to a park a few blocks away, where my hat became a coveted item
Mumta with stylish headwear
the afternoon students used stickers to make my hat even more stylish
one critter's trash is another's treasure
Nikhil teaches students the art of (chalk) graffiti
David and some young 'uns play in the schoolyard
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