It's wedding season in Varanasi. You know what that means.

I went shopping for saris on Saturday. I was excited to go. It was my first time. I’m going to admit to you now that I didn’t adequately prepare myself for the experience. It was kind of like braving the crowds you encounter at the local mall in the weeks leading up to Christmas, mixed with the fierce competition you’d find at a sample sale for wedding gowns. High estrogen, lots of elbows, and not enough A/C.
So anyway, there we were, in the thick of things, when my fellow intern spotted a beautiful sky blue sequined number from across the room. By the time she navigated her way over to the salesperson, he had made the sale. Blast! We needed to move more quickly—the only problem with this practical advice was that there were literally mountains of saris in our way.
We made our way into our fourth store, and I was getting exhausted. Before the day began, I had an idea of the colour I wanted. That idea had faded. Instead of focusing on my future sari, I was concentrating on ducking my head as henchman threw vibrantly coloured sequined silk over my head from every angle.
I made my way upstairs to where they keep the slightly more pricey saris, which helped slimmed down the density of the crowd. I blurted out some colours in the same manner a gunshot victim would try to name his shooter while the cops questioned him on the emergency room table: “…Buh-lue…….greh-een….dark”. The salesperson held up the first sari that arrived. I caved immediately. “OK…I’ll take it,” I said, in a merciful plea to end the chaos. I emerged from the store dazed, but with an overarching sense of calm. I was victorious, and I had a midnight blue stunner to prove it.

- Kelly Anne

On the cultural similarities of Yo Mama jokes

Back to tutoring again, and I’m sitting in the back of a classroom, with three bright, albeit rambunctious, teenage boys. I am attempting some semblance of a work period, each student semi-working on whatever subject he pulled out of his backpack that day. An older man who tutors at Tulsi Kunj comes running in, and I catch the words “bunder” and “bahar” coming out of his mouth, along with a river of excitedly spoken Hindi I don’t understand. It’s as if he has transformed into his younger teenage self, eager to invite my students to come gawk at the monkeys outside the building. I’m totally shocked by this abrupt shift in personality; he’s the “Sir” you don’t mess with in TK—kids can’t get away with anything in his class.

Anyway, my students go out, stare, laugh, and throw a couple things near the monkey until my maternal instinct kicks in and I insist they cease and desist. Reluctantly, they come back to the classroom; however, the monkeys remain a source of entertainment. The following dialogue occurs:

Abhishek (to Rajesh, pointing to the monkey outside): That’s your mother. (Cue explosion of laughter).

Rajesh: No, it is your sister. (Second explosion).

Sumit (to both): No, it is your cousin. (Third, extended explosion).

I already knew some things crossed cultures: smiles, love, laughter. I am pleased to add Yo Mama jokes to that list.

THE MOBILE LIBRARY!

The Library on Wheels

The engine rolls, books bounce, packed lunches clink together in tiffins, I am off again, another day in the mobile library! Sitting in the front sea of the bookmobile with Uttam Ji, the driver/ librarian I feel an undeserved sense of pride, like I am co-pilot in full trust and belief in the arrive of this vehicle at our destinations; in full trust that our books will be read. Cows, manikins draped in saris, topless children, men laughing all pass by as Uttam effortlessly makes his way through a kind of traffic that any description would fail to describe. Slowly my stimulant sensors are given a break as the scenery changes from city to countryside. Dusty, dry fields are scattered with women in saris crouched over in work. Characteristic of my relationship with Uttam I joked before we left that today we are having another mobile library party and it kind of feels like that as Uttam grabs the stereo remote control to turn up the bumping bollywood beats. Flying through the country -side in a truck filled with books, blaring Indian pop music with Uttam smiling ear to ear beside me, life feels pretty grand.

We arrive at our second community for the day a village called Darekhun. The mobile library bumps along, up and down through ditches and gullies finally coming to a halting stop at the designated mobile stand albeit with rotary sign. Per usual the children run over flocking to the truck like bees to honey. Everyone is full of questions and curiosity, who is the new girl? I begin making notes as Uttam hands out the reading mats for the children to lay on the ground. Distracted by the presence of a new visitor, the books are yielding less of their usual appeal. This is my first time in Darekhun. In an effort to channel some of the buoyant energy I decide to play a game with the kids.

I divide the 30 plus kids into two teams, boys and girls. The kids are yelling and running all over the place with a level of anticipation and excitement that makes me think this might be the first structured game some of that have ever played. I can barley deliver the instructions to Uttam who attempts to translate the information to the rowdy hoards. The two teams are physically divided from each other. There are two representatives on each team who are blindfolded. I have two empty water bottles that I show each team. First I take one water bottle and hide it about thirty feet from where they are standing. Everyone on the team can see where I have placed the water bottle except the blindfolded person. I do the same for the other team. It’s a race. Which team can use the best communication skills, while not moving, to guide their representative to the water bottle first!

kids are off. There is a resounding chorus of yelling and screaming and it takes a few tries before the kids understand they cannot physically lead their blindfolded team member to the object. Towards a participant’s final steps to the water bottle you can barley hear the sound of your own voice amongst the directional commands. Even the boys have switched sides and are eagerly trying to help the girl locate the object. At last she stumbles among the bottle, tarring off her blindfold she holds up the water bottle triumphantly. The victory is not hers alone as she hugs all the boys and girls around her that aided her to this success. The competitive component of the game has become obsolete as both teams cheer with excitement for their friend, who, with the help of everybody, regardless of separate teams was able to find the water bottle! I feel like I am at an Indian festival or wedding! The cheering, laughter and hugging, it’s contagious and I too feel like hugging someone. The game ends with an award ceremony where left over women’s day march trophies are distributed to all the blindfolded participants. Working with kids and young adults over the years in a number of positions I can honestly say I have never witnessed the level of pure excitement and joy that I saw here today