As I finished up my cardio work-out at the gym the other day, I was approached by a tall, lanky elderly man. He commented on the color of my skin and then asked me where I was from. I told him, and apparently he had spent the last 40 years in L.A., where he raised a family. Now, he has recently moved back to Mumbai where he was born, to live out his days in a retirement community. He beamed at the convenience of his new housekeepers, maids and cooks - which he did not enjoy the luxury of having in the USA.

As I mentioned that I was indeed the only white-skinned person at the gym, he answered that no, he had also spoken to a tall gentleman recently who was also from the States. I said that that is my husband, and confirmed we were talking about the same man by pointing out his beard.

At that, the elderly man said the following:

"Well, you know, that beard isn't fully grown out, and he's lucky. If it was any longer, I'd think he was a Muslim!"

I laughed awkwardly, we said our "nice talking to you"'s, and I walked away with a grin - man, that guy must be pretty uncomfortable walking around this city then, what with such a large proportion of Muslims! I almost felt sorry for him.

Got my hair cut this week too. 

Sitting in the barber's chair in a hip salon near my house, the guy cutting my hair asked where I was from - 

"America" I said. 

"Ahhhh, Obama! That's great." he replied. 

I smiled and sighed.

Much better than the Bush years. That conversation usually went like this:

Random person: "Where are you from?"

Me: "America"

Random person: "Ah"

pause.

Random person: "This Mr. Bush likes too much war."

Me: "Yes. I know."

awkward chuckles and a sigh.

Of course, we'll see what people say about Obama in the years to come. Will may be right - he may just get a free 4-year pass due to his popularity. 

---------------

Anyway, the haircut was good, although minus the thorough hair washing and head and neck massage with accompanying warm cloth over my eyes, like I got used to in Japan. Now those were salons - for a decent price, too. 

There's something different also about walking out of the salon, feeling great with a new 'do, and passing by an old haggard, soot-covered woman begging on the street. No pretty haircut for her. :-(  What a different world. But then I'd bet she'd enjoy it just as much as I do if she could have one.

What a week in the first grade universe.

- A little boy lied about it being his birthday, and we didn't know he was lying until his mother dropped off his uniform an hour AFTER the class had sung Happy Birthday to him. Why did he lie? It's a mystery hidden in his look of shame upon being questioned. 

- Three struggling kids got their first full marks on the weekly spelling test. I just about fell over. 

- The usual, and not so usual, bathroom emergencies occurred. I won't go into detail. 

- One girl came down with the measles. Not a pretty sight! 

- A certain animated yet shy boy spotted a mosquito on his chair during class and let out a perfectly-pronounced announcement while leaping out of his chair: "MO-SKEE-TOW!!!!!" I wish he'd pay that much attention to lessons.

- Our helper quit. I don't know why - something about false rumours or not working a lot. Anyway, she's gone, and we're lucky to get a sweeping after the day is over now - I'm getting better at the natural-grass broom. I agree with my dad's wife - highly superior over plastic ones. 

- A local radio station came to record the kids for a Valentine's Day show. They didn't really seem like they knew what they were doing, but the kids definitely had a blast, dancing, shouting and singing. 

We have rats in our school building. Who doesn't?

I always assumed they got into the classroom by squeezing through a slightly open window at night, or under the door from the dank hallway. Their droppings scatter the window sill in the mornings more than occasionally.

But yesterday as I stood in the classroom after school, observing a group of animated, chattering mothers watching over their children finishing incomplete homework, a small piece of light brown trash flew in through the window, landing haphazardly on the floor near the women.

No one seemed to pay any attention, but I had a funny feeling.

As my eyes fell upon the trash fluttering on the floor, it became clear that what had flown in the window was not a piece of trash, but a medium-sized rat.

As it gathered itself from its landing, slowly, then more quickly, it scurried silently across the room and out into the hallway.

I had underestimated our urban companions.

After a very long time with a red, itchy right eye, I finally dragged myself to the private hospital today (Will found it was just around the corner last month) to get it checked out and get rid of it. I had assumed it would take care of itself, but apparently not!

I walked to the shiny, still-under-construction hospital, and found the main desk, along with some 15 - 20 other people. After filling out a new registration form, I handed it to a lady at the counter, and a few minutes later, she looked at me and said:

"375".

I was confused. I said "375 what? Room 375?"

"No, you pay rupees 375".

Oh. I've never paid for a doctor's visit BEFORE I saw the doctor, but ok! I paid the equivalant of $US 7.50, and headed to the second-floor ophthalmology department.

After a 20-minute wait in the clean, shiny, comfortable waiting area, I was shown to the doctor's office. I spent almost half an hour with the doctor, as he performed all sorts of tests on my eyes, with very expensive equipment. I wouldn't have expected any less back home. After a number of sophisticated tests, the doctor gave me a detailed analysis of the cause of my eye irritation - mostly allergies to the smog and a scratch - prescribed medicated eye drops and a cleaning regiment, plus a light glasses prescription for the computer, "just in case I decided to use them".

And off I went. No pulling out the checkbook. No going over services rendered. No big eyes bulging at the triple-digit $ amount.

Oh, U. S. of A., when will you take care of me like India and Japan do?

Today our class visited a home for disabled persons to perform a skit the kids have been working on for almost 2 months, and to visit and learn to communicate and make friends with different people.

The home was an all-tiled, open building, likely not less than 70 - 80 years old. It looked like it was from the old British era. The building was lined with open hallways around the outside. When we entered the front foyer (?), it was sunny and there was a large open space, with the nurse's desk on one wall, and couch/mattresses on the other walls. On three sides, long rooms spread back, where the residents lay on their beds in rows, just as in an old hospital (the kind I have only, until now, seen in the movies).

The kids arrived in 4 batches (4 different taxis), and we were the first 2. So, we all went around and said "Namaste" to the people who were awake. One very large man came slowly out to greet us. He walked on his hands, as his legs were missing from the very top. The children stopped at first, and I think a few whispered to me "Didi! Look!" So, I had the children walk right up to him with me and we all said "Namaste, Bhaiya" (Hello, brother), and then the kids were excited to shake his hands and chat with him.

Many residents were physically handicapped in some way. Many had lost, or been born without, both legs, some without arms. One woman's full body was severely burned. One old woman was physically fit, but did nothing but giggle and have a grand old time at anything that happened - it was wonderful!

When the rest of the kids arrived, everyone got into position in the foyer to perform their skit, and the residents were ushered out to sit and enjoy the show. There were about 20 residents or so that came out to watch. The kids performed very well - it was a skit about a little girl who never shares, but then she realizes that to have friends, she can have fun sharing toys with them.

After the skit, the class sang some of their favorite Hindi songs for the residents. A few got up and sang solo, to the great delight of the audience. Then, with the persistence of friends egging on friends, a handful of residents shared their own talents with us. One very old man, with no teeth and very large glasses, sang a song for the children. We had to hush their giggles, as the man was slightly off-key!

One young man told a few jokes, and two other men sang for us, the last one being absolutely mesmerizing. It's incredible the magic that lies beneath people's skin, just waiting for the chance to be seen or heard!

Then it was time for the kids to draw and color with their new friends. We set the kids up with colors and paper, paired them with the residents, and spent about 30 minutes with everyone just chatting away. At the very end, the residents kept the drawings they had made with the kids, and the kids handed out traditional sweets, then said hearty goodbyes.

It was a wonderful way for the children to learn about community service, connecting with people, and learning from people who are different from them. I must say, I learned just as much!

This week in our class:

Little Miss S. says: "Didi, I don't understand English. All here words, I no understand, what is this?? (pointing elaborately to our word wall) I fever 15 days, I don't know this English!" Apparently English speaking is not a problem though!

Little Mr. Sur: Holds up his banana as if it is covered in mud. "Didi..." he says. The look on his face betrays pure disgust. The one bite of the banana is the object of that disgust. I'd say he's officially not a fan of bananas. We found a taker to finish it for him.

Little Mr. Sh: Runs to grab the soccer ball during play-time in the auditorium. As he leans down to grab it, the corroded cement wall meets with his forehead. I call his name. He slowly stands up, turns around, and stares at me while his left hand catches the pool of blood gushing from his head. Not a tear, not a complaint, just 2 stitches and a few scared children. What a strong boy!

Little Miss S. Sheikh: Upon asked to spell the word "six", announces it is s-i-s. Turns out the pronunciation of 'x' is near impossible for this glittery-eyed, missing-front-tooth, beaming 7-year-old girl. Oh how I love her so!