The benefits of health education

A small but valuable service is provided by WLC in Varanasi and rural communities: health education meetings. During these meetings, members of our Mahila Mandals acquire useful knowledge about health issues that can affect community members’ lives. This past month, I surveyed 10 of the 20 health groups, to check up on where their knowledge level is at and how these meetings might be changing daily lives.
Though knowledge levels varied between communities, there were certain topics that everybody knew about. Oral Rehydration Solution (ORS) is a life-saving, simple treatment for diarrhea and related GI illnesses, and every single mother in every single group knew how to make it and when to use it because they learned about it in health meetings. The benefit of this knowledge may be immeasurable, but I’m certain that at sometime, for one of these women’s family members, it has made the difference between life and death.
And although malaria isn’t a major problem in Varanasi, every year some people in the community contract it. Women at WLC health meetings know how malaria spreads, how they can protect themselves against it, and how to recognize its symptoms. Their use of mosquito nets is high (in some places it's 100%), and when they don’t use a net, they use a mosquito coil. These women are empowered by knowledge that is keeping themselves and their families healthier. They also act as leaders in their community, telling neighbours, in-laws, and co-workers about information they learn at WLC health meetings.
It’s been a pleasure to conduct this survey, and I’m certainly grateful that WLC has declared health education a necessary service for the community. I’m hopeful that WLC can continue to advocate for community health by pursuing avenues in which the rural communities it serves in Ghazipur can build latrines—a vital part of sanitation in the 21st century.

TOP 10 THINGS I LOVE TO DO IN V CITY !

1. Sitting out on the steps of Assi Ghat listening to Ganga Arti (the daily ceremony that pays tribute to the Ganga river) and sipping on some chai from a cullard (clay) cup.

2. Taking a 20 rupee cycle rickshaw ride to Godwolia market to go shopping for saris, suits, fabric, jewelry, and more. Break time from the shopping madness usually consists of us grabbing a fried snack from a local trustworthy vender. “Aloo tikki anybody?”

3. Taking a 20 rupee cycle riksha ride back from Godwolia to Assi Ghat, and stopping along the way at Cheersagar (sweet shop) to pick up a large box of sweets for all of us to eat at home. Here’s my regular order: “Ek jalebi, do laddu’s, char coconut burfi’s, teen gulab jamun, paanch malpua’s, achaaa ehhh ek hor gulab jamun dado !”

4. Playing Scrabble competitively with the other interns. It is becoming a nightly ritual for Kelly Anne, Andrea and I to play Scrabble before going to bed. Each of us play solely for the purpose of winning, so we can brag about it after ( “ I am the Scrabble Queen….”)


5. Going to I.P. mall every Sunday. This eventful outing usually starts at 3pm, when we auto rickshaw it to I.P mall, grab a late lunch at McDonalds or Dominos and buy tickets for a 4:30 show of a recently released Bollywood movie, usually of my pick of course.

7. Eating cakes and pies. My god! Lalu is the cake master who is making the online game “Cake Mania” into a reality. So far we have tried the vanilla cake, banana cake, carrot cake and my favorite: apple pie cake. Lalu has made us all into little “gol gappas” with his home made yummy treats.

8. Walking, sitting and napping on the roof. Usually after having a large dinner made by Lalu, which of course always includes dessert. I end up walking around the roof 20 times to digest all that deliciousness. Also there are times when it is so hot and my room feels like a sauna, I end up lying down on the cool cement and star gazing. This is when I feel most at peace.


9. Watching goatman yell “chaal hut” to herd his goats up the stairs of Assi Ghat. I know this seems like a boring thing to do on my list, but honestly it’s remarkable to watch how the goats follow this tiny patient man who has such a controlling voice.

10. Calling out Lalu’s name when I come home from work, and asking for the same fried snacks that I know he will not make. A typical conversation sounds like this……
Herleen: “Laluuuuuu! mujko bhooke lagi hai”
Lalu: “ Kha khanna hai ?”
Herleen: “Aloo tikki, GOL GAPPA !, chaat, samosa, jalebi”
Lalu: “Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!” ….Smile……. “No possible ! ”

Non-reserve trains and grade 11 physics

In the midst of our week long vacation to the Indian northwest, Andrea, Herleen and I were in the Amritsar train station hoping to buy some non-reserve tickets that would get us halfway to our next destination, Dharamshala. After defending our place in the ladies ticket line and partially dodging bombs of pigeon crap (it landed on my backpack, not head—thank God) we secured our 17 Rs. tickets to Pathankot.
Walking onto the platform was not unlike other train station experiences, save and except a much larger than normal congregation of passengers near the end of the platform on the left. I spoke aloud to myself, “I wonder what they’re all doing over there,” but didn’t give it much more thought. One of us set out to purchase our go-to travel food—Parle-G biscuits—while the other two stood waiting. Not more than ten minutes later, a train moved its way into the station. “Great!” I thought, “It’s on time!” It seemed like a positive omen for our next leg of travel.
My optimistic thoughts took a drastic downturn when I noticed how abnormally short the train was, and I immediately realized why those astute Indian travelers all stood near the end, while we naively stood in the middle.
The train was no more than 8 cars long. My brain went back to high school physics and tried to calculate how fast we needed to run to score a seat on that thing as it glided past us with the cool, indifferent composure of Meryl Streep in The Devil Wears Prada. The answer came to me quickly, and it was simple; we needed to sprint. Fast.
There was a chaotic herd—think wildebeest stampede circa the Lion King—of people trying to get onto that train. Grown men were flinging themselves into the open windows, as mothers with children displayed no caution in charging toward any open door.
From behind me, I could hear Andrea and Herleen call out, “Kelly Anne!!!!! We’re not gonna make it!!” as I panted with my luggage in the 45 degree weather, trying to find a car with empty seats. The last car on the train had a locked door and initial attempts to open it from the outside were unsuccessful. I moved on.
I had already caught up to the second last car when I heard my name called again. I turned my head quickly to see my fellow interns floating onto the last car of the train in the front of a current of pushy travelers.
I blurted an expletive and adrenaline propelled me toward that open door. Surprisingly, I made it on and found one seat—one glorious, shining, open seat—waiting for me in the first row. I sat down, and settled in for an otherwise non-eventful 3 hour ride to Pathankot.

Lessons I’ve Learned

If life is a classroom then Varanasi is a lecture hall that I find myself frequenting daily. As time continues to passe, I am able to observe the emotional ebbs and flows this experience has produced for me. Have I been inter-culturally effective? Manulea, our CIDA facilitator with whom we took an ‘intercultural effective course’ prior to our departure to India, might diagnose me as ‘right on track,’ the point in the trip where the graph levels out. With the honeymoon and homesick phases over and done with I am now feeling like a regular Varanasi resident, so much so that I would like to drop in at a city meeting and voice my opinion re: electrical power outages; but that’s a whole different blog.

My Varanasi residency brings with it an uncanny sense of familiarity with the city. The warmth and unmatched Indian hospitality create this feeling, as does the daily encounters with the chai walas, the slow moving street cows who have been great teachers in patience. My patience has also been tested in the Tulsi Kunj library. The combination of deadlines and scorching heat have had an exhausting effect on my energy levels, which are consistently tested by the ‘hard to say no to’ faces of children pleading me to play with them. As I write this blog in the Gandhi room of the Tulsi Kunj library I have eight of these beautiful young faces who are, periodically peering up at me from their books, begging me to entertain them. At last I oblige and show them pictures from a wedding I attended last night.

The epic and long anticipated wedding has come and gone. Shitanshue, The Banaras office’s program director, is married! The excitement for this wedding rippled down to us interns who, I can confidently say, have been looking forward to this wedding since our arrival three and a half months ago. An opportunity to buy and wear a sari might have had something to do with our level of anticipation. Shopping for saris: a monumental event alluded to in a former blog.

After the wedding, on our late night rickshaw ride home, buzzing with happy exhaustion, we began tailing the rear of a tractor pulling a truck full of men chanting a haunting chorus: “Ram Ram Satya Ram, Ram Ram Satya Ram.” The disturbing and evocative mantra moved us from our post wedding contentment into sober reflection. The men were traveling to the Ganges with the body of a dead relative. Their chant translates into “Ram is our God, Ram is our God.” Aware of the stark proximity of life and death in Varanasi, for me this was a palpable example of how vivaciousness lives a rickshaw away from mortality in this city of contrasts.

I remember our first meeting in Toronto when Mamta Mishra described Varanasi’s ability

to cultivate resilience in the absence of the West’s artifice surrounding death; now I can see that she was completely right. Watching a boy fly a kite next to a funeral pyre on a burning ghat or leaving the bliss of a wedding only to run up against a funeral procession has stripped away some of my fear of and blindness towards death. A beautiful Buddhist proverb says: “when you were born you cried and the world rejoiced and when you die the world cries and you rejoice.” Death has a whole new meaning in Varanasi, an ancient meaning. As the days march on I know the lessons I teach my students in the Tulsi library will always fall short of the lessons I continue to learn from the ghats of Varanasi.

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