The Indian Rupee (INR) hit an all time low against the Dollar (USD) during our time here. We arrived in early October, now oh so long ago, and shortly thereafter, the dollar peaked at nearly 20% of what it had been just a month before we arrived. Nothing like some currency rates in your favor to help ease the budget! But as we scramble to buy gifts and all those things we won’t be able to get back home, it looks like our lucks run out. While the rate has returned to around 50 rupees for a dollar, at least that makes for simple math.

The school itself has made visible progress, in organization, supplies, and general schooliness. A tall cabinet stands against the far wall, neatly full of slates, chalk, lesson and storybooks, next to a low platform stowed with pots and pans, plates and spoons, and some dry foodstuffs. The corrugated metal walls are brightly lit with posters, diagrams and vocabulary charts in English, Hindi and Telugu.

The school community is also growing livelier. When we entered, a mother was sitting with and watching over a group of about six young children. Mothers’ cooking for the school has become a routine, lifting the burden off the teachers and Bhavani-ji, who already work so much.

The older children are 11: 4 Hindi students and 7 Telugu students. They’ve memorized the multiplication tables, but conceptually are mastering addition. Telugu students formally learn Telugu and Hindi students, Hindi, but overlap and exchange occur informally and socially.

We’re looking forward to integrating our curriculum into their lessons, making adjustments towards a comprehensive and adaptable academic framework for the school.

We prepared Badum Milk and Chai for one of our Friday Experiential Hindi Classes!

The geographies of these places have been site to my transformation from circumspect outsider to quietly thrilled enthusiast. The people I’ve meet—in classes, and through varied transactions from posting letters to buying cashews in the family grocery down the road from Tagore House—have been very open, indulging and jovial. What an incredible reward for reaching a little outside of oneself to get to know another in a new place.

On the hot days in the beginning, campus was a far-stretching wasteland before I realized I was expecting its life in pretty much the wrong places. Duke had led me to depend on concentrated pods of important places right outside my door or a 10 minute busride away from said door. (This year campus has been trending towards even further shrinkage with non-stop bus routes and a GPS bus-tracking map). At HCU, commuting is a window for alternating strategy and reflection. Auto-rickshaw, biking, walking, will I catch the campus shuttle, or a combination thereof? Meanwhile, I can’t really believe that I’m India, that when I look up I’m less than a speck on the opposite side of the planet from everything I’ve known. Such thoughts are punctuated by, “Wait, what time is it? Who has water? What’s the Hindi homework again, Rachel?”

This campus has entered out conversations often. On car rides down the main road, our professor Leela Prasad would tell us her memories of it from childhood and post-grad school. One day after class, we chatted with our fellow Community Media students at Gop’s canteen and shared our opinions of it–that conversation first articulated for me the candid joys that unhurriedly walking places could present during our time here. Although of course these people don’t live all the way back at south campus. (Target of resentment was another form the campus has taken in our talking.)

In my experience, the architecture has subtle and enduring charm. Almost every building has a courtyard with grass, benches, flowers and light. Canteens and chai stands bring causal delights: steaming treats, people-watching (plus snippets of Hindi when we’re lucky), and cool shade.

I’m really going to miss this place.

(The bulk of this post was written in a basket-rooved gazebo outside the canteen on III-T campus at about tea time.)

So, my plan was to wait until shortly before the test (it turned out to be ~1 hour beforehand), take the time to arrange them in a mnemonically-pleasing fashion, go, take the test, and be done with it. And, that was more or less what happened.

Over breakfast, I re-arranged the list, went and took the test ~1 hour later and all was well.

Well, until I numbered my list, that is.

There were supposed to be 55.

I had 53.

WHAT.

I filtered my way back through the list and found the logical gap in my list.
I knew where the two verbs I should have remembered should have gone.

Except … for the life of me, I couldn’t remember them.

I strained my brain for a couple minutes, decided it wasn’t worth it, and filled in two other arbitrary verbs (which counted, thankfully).

Later, when I pulled out my list to check the verbs I had forgotten, the irony almost killed me:

याद करना (yaad karna) — to remember
भूलना (bhoolna) — to forget

Once again, irony gains victory in my life.

Well, at least it was worth a good laugh.

<3

-Rachel

We entered so many beautiful scenes, simultaneously thrilling and serene. At one moment, we were seated cross-legged on a shining marble floor that stretched out like an ocean speckled by clumps of other visitors. The ceiling lorded over us and pulled our eyes to three tall statues of Buddha figures with wildly distinct facial expressions. Pillars flanked their brilliantly colored figures where dragons coiled with their tongues sticking out and colored shells in their claws.

There were information placards in English and Telugu. As we padded around the large room, squinted at the incredible detail of artwork on the wall, I spontaneously jotted down two quotes from these placards that I felt resonate.

The first was in reference to the angry or unhappy expressions portrayed in some of the many faces: “Just as the shape, size and color of the reflection of the moon differs in dependence with the type of water and container, likewise Buddhas appear wrathful to ferocious beings who inflict harm on others in order to tame them.”

The second was in description of the late Guru Padmasambhava, which said he “concealed many treasures for the benefit of future generations.” This was offered as an example of his credible divinity.

I sit struggling to settle these pieces of meaning into some rightful thought-place. Recently, a series of experiences have pushed my mind into a transmutable zone where I feel I could be anything and where my surroundings offer clues to questions like, what is valuable? What is true? How stable are things really? What lasts and what is the value to lasting?

These were among the disjoined ideas I took back with me on the long night-bus from Bangalore to Hyderabad, along with my bags and a sack from Lalitha’s incredibly generous mother filled with snacks for the group.

Always,

Hyderabadi Latina

Harrumph.

I declare this phenomenon nonsense!

Perhaps I’m just a bit excitable. Maybe this is an outburst of a build-up from over a long period of time. Either way, it is something I am refusing to be silent about for any longer!

Words like:
“मार्केट”(maarkat) (as seen on a sign in Nagpur) “market”
“ब्यूटी” (byootee)(as seen in a reading in class) “beauty”
“ऑलिव आयल” (aaliv oyal) (as seen in another reading) “olive oil”

I think the greatest frustration in regards to these things is that it’s not like there aren’t Hindi words for these — there are!

Market = बाज़ार (baazaar)
Beauty = सुंदरता (sundartaa)
Olive Oil = जैतून का तेल (jaitoona kaa tel)

It’s just that (sometimes) they aren’t used, for a reason which, to me, is yet unapparent. Therefore, it is incredibly discouraging when I come across these words, read them, don’t understand for a moment, and then, moments later, feel a mixed sense of shame/embarrassment/ridiculousness.

Sigh.

I must digress for a moment to acknowledge that, in Hindi (and in other languages as well) there are foreign words with no local equivalent, or words that have a universal usage.

Language is a tricky thing. There are always those words or phrases in some languages that just can’t be translated easily/well into others. Like the word “लगना” (lagna), for example. It’s a verb in Hindi that means a broad range of things: to strike; to appeal; to seem; to catch (of illness, fire); to be related, attached; to gather (of crowds); to be expended (of time); to begin to;
Obviously, this concept (which, to be honest, is still difficult for me to grasp in its entirety) is one which is beyond the scope of the English language to describe succinctly. As such, I don’t mind when there are words in foreign languages that are substituted into another when there are no such words.

Long story short: I’m fine when I come across a Hindi word that I don’t understand/can’t pronounce. I’m entirely understanding if that word has no same-language equivalent. I’m perfectly content to look it up.

BUT.

I’m not fine when I come across a ‘Hindi’ word that I don’t understand/can’t pronounce, simply because it is, in fact, not a Hindi, but a word merely written in Hindi from another language.

Sigh.

I feel that apart from this, I should note — I love Hindi. I really do! It’s a lovely language, and the script is beautiful, flowing. Some of my favorite parts of the day are spent in Hindi class, speaking and learning something new

It’s just that, sometimes . . .
Sometimes I have to sigh.
Or laugh.
Or maybe just sit in silence and shake my head.
Because things can get a little . . . ridiculous.
Or should I say . . . “रिडिक्यलस”?

That’s all for now.

<3

-Rachel

P.S. If you’re interested, here’s a chart of some words that appear in other languages that aren’t in English

Even though we’ve spent a lot of time in areas where Hindi is not the prominent language (Tamil in Tamil Nadu, Kannada and Telugu in Karnataka, and largely Telugu in Hyderabad), I’ve still been able to tap into, however shallowly due to my limited comprehension, a network of human vibrancy and exchange through the language. It seems that most everywhere we go, someone will understand our questions and/or engage with us, even just to haggle, where prices can get shaved down in tandem with the cultural barrier between seller and customer.

With language, you can gain an intelligible sense of other peoples’ lives, approaching or achieving moments of mutual empathy. This connectivity lends a new dimension to experiential immersion, enhancing the other senses–sights, sound, taste, smell, and feel–romanticized in travel writing about India, and which many travelers hope to satisfy when they come.

I’ve heard Hyderabad described as a very friendly and open-armed city, but without actively engaging with the language and opening your ears, your surroundings are mostly a blur of scenes, prices and of the senses, a sensual multitude largely indistinguishable socially from the dozen of other places people usually get to during their stay in India. I feel very appreciative and accomplished in saying I have known extended glimpses of the generosity and quotidian liveliness of Hyderabad, although more than ever, I want more.