Some of you have asked for photos from India. I have to say that I was too overwhelmed to focus on photos, so these aren’t great. AND as I was often the only obvious tourist/white person around, I would have felt disrespectful trying to capture what were for me the important images. This respect issue has always inhibited my photography, so that’s why I tried to recreate images with my words and stories. Here are a few photos for you (perhaps more can be added later).

Through the work of the World Forum we have all learned about how advocates around the world use the United Nations Convention on the Rights of the Child as a resource in their work for children and families. The UNCRC has become, for many, the point of reference, the backbone for moving forward agendas around children. And at every international gathering, those of us from the United States must again experience the shame of the lack of support from our own country. The shame is growing stronger and it has been a continuous ache. In Belfast a discussion with Pam Boulton turned into a commitment to use our resources to stir the pot to make the U.S. ratification a reality.

World Forum Foundation and Exchange magazine have joined the Campaign for U.S. Ratification of the Rights of the Child (www.childrightscampaign.org). We encourage everyone to join us. As Pam says: “Ratification of the UN Convention on the Rights of the Child is an important part of being a global citizen. It is time to ask–intentionally and insistently–that our legislators ratify this convention and that we take our place among those who agree to promote and protect the best interests of all children.”

things not talked about

These are the images that I am working on; they don’t go away. This is the beginning of my education and there is much to learn and think about—and there will be responsibilities and opportunities to use that.

Seven women walk in a circle on the construction site behind the hotel. A man with a shovel fills a huge metal bowl with broken gray rocks. One at a time the women lift a bowl onto their heads (they have a ring of fibers that supports the bowl that they just keep on their heads) and walk 8 yards, lift the bowl off, dump the rocks into a bin, and continue circling. They chatter as they work.

We are walking down a major street in Bombay, hustle and bustle everywhere. Two very small children are in my path, both are covered in dust and dirt. The infant is crawling over the leg of the toddler. There are flies and there is garbage.

We are enjoying coconut waters, sipping from the coconut shells. This vendor only has the ones with water, not with coconut meat to eat. There is a small boy there and Riddhi wants to buy him a coconut. The vendor tells her not to do this. The boy wants it to eat, to make a meal, and his coconuts don’t have the meat; so the boy will go to his mother and she will argue that the vendor is cheating him and there will be a huge ruckus.

Two small children, wearing just shirts, are sitting by the side of the road, stirring the embers of a fire with big sticks.

I am sitting in the rickshaw, stalled in traffic. A young girl startles me by grabbing my arm. She smiles and holds out her hand for money. As she leaves she touches my arm again and smiles.

I am looking at fabric for Adam and Riddhi’s quilt, beautiful dupioni silks in many many colors. We talk with one clerk. Another clerk moves our choices from cabinet to counter and cuts the fabric, the first clerk writes up the bill, another clerk takes the fabric to the pick-up counter and hands us our copy of the bill to go to the cashier and pay. One person takes my credit card. Another person takes the credit card receipt and writes up a ticket and staples the paperwork together. Then I go to the pick-up counter and hand over my ticket. The fabric is now bundled. The clerk stamps the ticket and staples one copy to the package and hands it to me.

There is a water barrel in an entry nook in the jewelry repair shop. A customer waiting with us, takes the metal cup and rinses it out, then fills it. When he drinks the cup doesn’t touch his mouth. He replaces it on the shelf.

Women dressed all in white walk with a bowl in their hands. They are a religious order or sect. People give them food, but they must leave the door open as these women don’t knock—they wait. If they are touched by another person, they must fast for a day. They do not speak, they do not touch. They walk.

My last day in Bombay I began to think crazy thoughts:
Is this my last rickshaw ride?
When will I see my last cow?
And my overstimulated brain strained to take in every last impression, every possible sensation.

And then we piled the suitcases out of the rickshaw by the side of the road and looked across to the house. A crowd in white had gathered to mourn a neighbor who had died the night before—everyone in this house is like family, so the grief was heavy. Out of respect, we waited. Then they lifted the wrapped body and processed to the cremation site a short distance away.

Because we were engaged in something auspicious, we could not associate with the family in their loss. Before we entered Pallu’s home, Veena washed our feet because we had looked at the body.

I didn’t know it at the time but my presence as a guest created difficulties for the mourning family who were not to listen to music as part of their ritual, because Pallu and her sitar teacher prepared and played for me that afternoon. Just for me. It’s just interesting music, you have to let yourself be “in” the music, so there you are—and then they start “jamming.”

Goodbyes. Many gifts in many forms.

Final final errands, through the crowed sidewalk markets with Veena, picking up wedding items and food treats to take home. Literally pushing ahead. Crossing the street through perilous traffic with help from a stranger—we lived!

When I expressed regret that we weren’t able to say goodbye to the cook, Kaku, I was told, “She waited for all of you until 7:15, but then we had to rush home for the water. She only gets 15 minutes of water a day, so she couldn’t miss it.”

Mumbai to Singapore to Seoul to San Franciso to Seattle with 15 minutes of water to think about.

Unexpectedly, it was a four bindi night. I’ve known that there might be a ceremony around the first wedding invitation that involved both of Riddhi’s grandmothers, since neither is in health to travel, but what took place I couldn’t really have imagined.

While others spent the day preparing a feast (with water only from 7-10 AM and 6-10 PM), Riddhi and I ran some errands. The streets of the city, hot, crowded with people going every which way, school children (there are so many that young children go to school in the morning and the older ones in the afternoon) swarming the candy vendor, the tailor on his treadle sewing machine putting the finishing touches on Adam’s dopi (Nehru hat) for the wedding. Coriander from one stall, betel nuts from another. The Gandhi produce market, milk from a cart on the road. Textile shops seems to make me forget about heat and queasy stomach—chicken work.

Imagine. We walked into Palu’s livingroom, filled with people I’d met and several I had not, chatting away in their beautiful saris—and Riddhi, wow. Red and gold and make-up and hair and jewelry—she looked amazing. She moved to a low chair in the middle of the room and I was told to kneel next to Veena, who also looked amazing, elegant in torquoise and pink. The maharaaj was to my right, with a low table, green cloth, newspaper. Veena showed me the document he was going to fill out with all the auspicious dates and information for the wedding. He made sure that I had a place to sit and that I was given something to drink. (What follows is a jumble, but it happened something like this.)

The maharaaj gave Veena and me each a bindi, by dipping his finger into the red ink and marking our foreheads. Then he pressed rice into the wet ink. He tied a string around each our wrists as well as Riddhi’s, it had been blessed and I was told it was holy string. Veena gave me a bindi (this is where I’m confused in remembering). And I think she fed me jaggery and coriander seeds.

Then Palu called me away. It didn’t seem appropriate to leave, but no one said anything else, so I went. She had arranged for Muni to dress me in one of her saris, so that’s what happened. First was the choli blouse, which didn’t fit by at least 6 inches. This isn’t going to work, can’t I just wear my shirt. “I’ll make it work. I’m a beautician.” So she pulled and squeezed for several minutes—she was determined. “This isn’t going to work.” And then she got out the pins. “Don’t worry, I’ll cover everything up.” I was quite doubtful but powerless, so she used a multitude of pins to clip the top together, then the slip and then the sari. It was beautiful grey and burgundy with gold weaving for the design work on the borders and paloo. So all these lovely pleats were draped, and yes, pinned and tucked. Then the jewelry, which was perfect for the colors. A necklace and then earrings, “That’s not the hole,” I protested. “It will work!” And painfully, it did. Then the bracelets. They managed to push the one onto my left hand, but even with two people squeezing my hand, they had to give up on the right, so I had to wear both on my left hand. I was decked. And then a bindi sticker . . .

So I swished back to my place in the livingroom where things were moving forward. Astrology book was consulted. The official invitation was filled out, as well as another calligraphied one. One was folded and Veena put auspicious items into it which included, tumeric, betel nut, coriander seeds and ??? It was folded again and tied with the string. He drew the swastika looking design on the paper, and Veena added some marks, and then rice. This was repeated with the other document and then I put the auspicious items in and the steps were similar. The two documents were placed in a bowl of flowers.

Then the blessings.

This may be when Veena gave me the bindi rather than above—I’m not sure.

Veena made a bindi on Riddhi’s forehead and fed her the jaggery and coriander and tossed rice over her and gave her blessings, then I did the same. At one point I remember that everyone in the room was giving me instructions and I asked that just one person tell me what to do! Oh, and part of the blessing was to place folded fingers on Riddhi’s temples and then crack them on your own temples.

Or maybe this is when the Veena bindi happened.

In turn beginning with the grandmothers, everyone fed and blessed Riddhi

We rehearsed what will happen on March 28 when Veena will deliver the package of invitations to Roger and me, wherever we are. So she did the bindi and handed me the package and all that. Then Roger and I will deliver this to the wedding where it will be used in the ceremony. (I think Veena hopes we will be in DC with the new baby!)

We enjoyed a feast of so many foods prepared with so much attention and without water, sitting on the mat on the floor, eating with our fingers (which has become quite comfortable for me—in fact utensils seem a bit awkward), and talking (mostly listening in my case). Everyone was very happy and friendly and kind and welcoming. People ask how I like India. Hard question to answer since I really don’t know India—I’ve just had a taste of a few places, many wonderful people, many different foods and experiences. I’m not sure what answer would most please them.

Finally it was just women and the evening ended with us sitting around in our saris chatting away.