December 29, 2012: Reminisces of the Pocketman

I’m seated now in the first-class car of an outbound train, the sun is rising over dew-soaked fields, the tea they serve is hot and good, but I can’t forget these kids and I hope I never do.

Patima, with her big-buttoned orange coat; smart and serious-minded; quiet; respected by her peers younger and older.  Norti; scar on her cheek; irrepressibly bold and charming; unconscious leader; occasional troublemaker; ambivalent about academics.  Mamta; dirty white dress coming unstitched at the seams; smart and assertive, charismatic, but troubled, moody, high-maintenance, family hostile to education. And the rest, some of whose names I know and others whose I never learned.

Patima, middle

Norti

Mamta, left

And Nutan.  One of my favorite people I’ve ever met.  Up at 5:00 every morning to clean and prepare meals for her family and two American students for whom she’s serving as a host family.  Picks the volunteers up every morning in her sari and faux-leather jacket.  Answers our questions on the way to the slum, then teaches with us until lunch.  Lunch with us; answers more of our questions; teaches with us in the afternoon.  Sometimes dinner with us.  Home to care for her daughter and prepare more meals for her household.  Between it all, makes contacts at the bazaar so her students can have better access to the job market.  She does this without realizing how extraordinary she is.  What makes Nutan unique is that she neither appreciates herself nor has any need to appreciate herself.  When I called Nutan “Superwoman” she liked the compliment, but neither expected nor needed it.

Nutan and me

She paid me a compliment I will not soon forget.  “I have learn from you,” she said.  “You are a good teacher.  All-time-smile.”

The children gave me much to smile about.  They were so excited to attend school, and against the background of the slum their smiles shone like stars against the night sky.  Many of them called me by a name Nutan gave me—“Pocket,” because the Hindi word for pocket is either “jeb” or “jev,” I forget which.  When we took the young kids to the park, they filled the park with high-pitched calls for “Pocket!” or “Pocketman!” as kids with inflatable balls wanted to throw them with me, kids on swings wanted me to push them, and kids on the slide wanted me to watch.  They did not know, and will never know, what a gift they gave me by making me a part of that joy.

The farms and fields out the window are soothing and beautiful.  But I will forget them long before I forget the faces and feelings of my city kids.

swinging

John hoists a young 'un

outside the slum

Jaipur train station

The view from the rails and a fine cup of instant coffee.

a particularly handsome traveler

Water buffalos.  Their keepers collect the excrement, pat it into plate-sized patties, then leave the patties in the sun to dry.  The patties will be fuel for cooking fires.