tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-62488863631408341242024-03-23T06:03:37.356-05:00Bernie Poole's Fulbright to IndiaThis is the story of my six months living with, lecturing to, and sharing in the lives of the Indian people in schools, colleges, universities, and other institutions of education and service.Fulbright to Indiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03562429223157950825noreply@blogger.comBlogger63125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6248886363140834124.post-63915338665356856022010-10-08T16:19:00.008-05:002011-01-29T18:18:20.466-05:00Kanniyakumari to Tirupathi--a trip to rememberI'm writing this entry in my “Fulbright to India” blog long after I completed my teaching stint in India—it is over three years, in fact, since I returned to the United States. I'm far from diligent as a writer; well, I'm far from diligent, period. But today, October 10, 2010, my mind has wandered back to the eventful return trip I made May 9, 2007, from Kanniyakumari in Tamil Nadu state to Tirupathi in Andhra Pradesh. It started out so scripted and carefully planned and turned out to be punctuated with unexpected experiences which, in retrospect, were as typical in the life of this absent-minded child as they are still typical in the life of this absent-minded (but very, very lucky) adult. I never wrote about it then and I should, which is why I do so now.<br /><br />By way of reminder, Kanniyakumari, also known as Cape Cormorin, is the town at the southernmost tip of the Indian sub-continent. I’d decided to do just one touristy thing on my own before the end of my tenure as a Fulbright scholar. I’d been invited to give lectures in Coimbatore, in central Tamil Nadu state, and it seemed like the obvious thing to do to continue on down the line to India’s Land’s End. I took a train out of Coimbatore west to Cochin in Kerala state, then all the way on down the agriculturally-rich and lush Kerala coast before crossing back into Tamil Nadu, to the end of the line at Kanniyakumari.<br /><br />I’d planned to spend two nights in Kanniyakumari and had reserved a hotel in advance. After settling into my room at the Sea View Hotel, I wandered out for a stroll in the early evening, taking a left-hand turn which took me down an unpaved street defined only by the stick-built structures on either side. The street was lined with simple, open market stalls and shops selling everything a tourist could desire. I was travelling light and so browsed without buying anything.<br /><br />The next day I awoke early to see the sun rise and watched a fleet of small fishing boats, powered by outboard motors, scurrying back to shore to sell their catch of the day. Later I took a boat to the nearby offshore rocky outcrops to visit the monuments to Saint Thiruvalluvar and Swami Vivekananda. I was the only recognizably non-Indian tourist, so the scene at the various sites was a kaleidoscopic swirl of saris and shalwar-kameez, the beautiful Indian female dress which always brightened my days.<br /><br />The evening before I left Kanniyakumari, after dinner, I walked out to the end of a quarter mile of rock-strewn breakwater pier where, surrounded on all sides by the lapping waters of the merging oceans, I enjoyed a spectacular sunset. On my way back to the hotel I passed through streets lined with the hovels of the local residents, mostly fisher folk, and was reminded—again—that poverty is never far away in India. I stopped at the taxi stand in front of the hotel and arranged with one of the drivers to be there for me in the morning to take me to Trivandrum (Thiruvananthapuram) for my flight to Chennai; then, at the hotel desk, I arranged for a wake-up call.<br /><br />I slept soundly after my day of sight-seeing in Kanniyakumari ("Land's End at Journey's End"). The mingled waves of the Arabian Sea, the Sea of Bengal, and the Indian Ocean lulled me into blissful sleep. In my dreams I revisited the wave-swept monuments to Thiruvalluvar and Vivekananda--dreams that frequently recur to this day, as daydreams during my waking hours.<br /><br />And so, early next morning, my return journey to Tirupathi began. My driver was waiting outside the hotel in his Ambassador automobile to take me on the two hour drive to Trivandrum. I had allowed four hours for the trip in case of mishap along the way, but we arrived safe and sound well in time for the flight to Chennai. I settled down in the airport lobby with a book to keep me company while I waited for the Air Deccan desk to open so I could check in for my flight. Time passed and no airline personnel appeared at the desk. I asked discreetly when the desk would open and no one knew for sure. Fifteen minutes left till my flight was due to take off. Yikes! What the heck was going on? Then it suddenly dawned on me that I was not booked on an Air Deccan flight at all; I was booked on Jet Airways, for heaven’s sake!<br /><br />I rushed to the Jet Airways desk (which had been noticeably busy an hour earlier) and tried to check in. The clerk told me I was too late; the plane was ready to leave. But he called the flight deck anyway, just to confirm. Lo and behold, God bless India, I was told I could go ahead and board the plane as long as I didn’t check any baggage. I had my one small, “rolly” suitcase with me, which had to go through security before I could board the bus that was waiting to take me from the terminal to the idling plane. I’d intended checking the suitcase in and had thus stowed in it my Swiss Army penknife, which had served me so well in myriad situations during my stay in India. The penknife, of course, failed the security check; I was not allowed to take it on the plane. So I abandoned it to the airport authorities, thankful that at least I had kept it safe till the very end of my tour.<br /><br />As it happens, I was not alone on the transit bus that took me from the terminal to the plane. An elderly gentleman in traditional South Indian male dress—a long white dhoti (wraparound sheet-like skirt), white shirt, and a beige waistcoat—was waiting patiently for me to climb on board. I still was not sure if I would catch the plane before it left, so I asked the gentleman if we would make it on time. “Of course,” he said. “I am here, am I not? The plane cannot leave without me.” To this day I have no idea who that gentleman was, but he either had considerable clout in that part of the world, or else he had hutzpah beyond belief.<br /><br />The plane took off soon after I buckled into my seat and climbed north-west out of Trivandrum on the north-westerly-aimed runway, affording me a view of the Kerala coastline before the plane banked north-east, headed for Chennai. Less than two hours later we landed at Chennai airport where, easily now since I was experienced, I negotiated an autorickshaw to take me to the railway station for the final leg of my trip back to Tirupathi.<br /><br />The autorickshaw driver dropped me at the station and left me to find my own way onto the waiting train. I had my ticket in hand, with a numbered reserved seat in AC Executive Chair Class on the Chennai-Tirupathi Express, leaving at 5:00 pm, arriving in Tirupathi some three hours later.<br /><br />Until now, every time I’d travelled by train in India, I’d either been with others whom I followed to my reserved seat on the appropriate carriage (seats in AC class are always reserved), or I had been chaperoned to my seat by some solicitous soul prior to departure. Thus I had never learned how to “read” the system for myself—rather like being driven from point A to point B and never learning how to get there.<br /><br />Stupidly, instead of asking someone to help me, I decided to guess at which end of the train I’d find my designated carriage—and I guessed wrong. By the time I’d wandered all the way to the end of the very long train, I realized it was the wrong end and, rather than risk missing the train by walking all the way back to the other end, I jumped on the very last carriage without noticing that there was no way, once the train was moving, of getting from this particular carriage to the next. I was stuck where I was, and where I was was on a Third Class carriage. Every seat was taken, and the only standing room was in the open “T” at the end of the carriage formed by the space between the doors on either side and the small corridor of space between the two toilets.<br /><br />The stench from the filthy toilets was something else, but I soon got used to it. I propped my two bags (a rolly suitcase and the bag containing my laptop computer) against the far wall between the toilets and stood opposite them in the corridor between the doors so I could keep an eye on them. As we pulled out of Chennai station, there were half a dozen other men occupying the same T-shaped space at the end of the train, but I thought they would be getting off at stations down the line and that I should soon be able to move into a seat in the carriage as we got further from the city. I’m such an optimist! At each station no one got off, and more got on. I was soon completely hemmed in by people, mostly men, to the point where about the only floor space I had to stand on was defined by the size of my shoes!<br /><br />Mercifully, after about an hour of this, the carriage started to empty and I was able to move to an open seat. I reflected to myself that at least I now knew firsthand how the other half travelled in India, that my stupid mistake had thus been a blessing in disguise.<br /><br />About ten miles (14 kilometers) from Tirupathi, the train for some reason had a scheduled or unscheduled stop for an hour at the town of Renigunta. My good friend Dr. Thasleem Sultana lived near there, so I called her on the phone and asked her if she could have one of her employees take me on his motorbike from Renigunta to my house in Tirupathi. No problem; about 15 minutes later I was being whisked in the dark along Airport Road, my suitcase precariously balanced on the handlebars of the young man’s bike.<br /><br />What an experience! During what turned out to be a long, hard day’s journey, I’d travelled by taxi, plane, autorickshaw, train, and motorbike to get to my destination. The people I’d met and chatted with along the way were, as ever in India, personable, pleasant, and, above all, kind. I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.Fulbright to Indiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03562429223157950825noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6248886363140834124.post-87279047657527014342007-10-14T15:28:00.000-05:002007-10-18T07:04:00.595-05:00Land’s End at Journey’s End--Coimbatore and Kaniyakumari:May 7 saw me boarding a train at Tirupati station, bound for Chennai and, thence, for points south in India—way south, to Land’s End! I was to fly from Chennai to Coimbatore in Tamil Nadu State. I planned to stop for one night in Coimbatore, where I had been invited to lecture at the Tamil Nadu Agricultural University (TNAU). Then I had a sleeper-AC berth booked on an overnight train which would cut across the state of Kerala and sweep down the coast, via Cochin and Trivandrum, to the southernmost tip of India—a place called Kanniyakumari.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhICuM8dSYzFF9SnxF3FRDtaRGkKHbCZOOqDOkIgc4GRWbdkVlpsxhP69w01wj3wlgDnAnyAwn_-Y045Ojv3EUCFcRX7q1dNLMqUg17NFih1ifz29W946hFchKIVw6ak39RIv9IS7fcF4s/s1600-h/Jamuna,+Gunashekar,+Dipti.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhICuM8dSYzFF9SnxF3FRDtaRGkKHbCZOOqDOkIgc4GRWbdkVlpsxhP69w01wj3wlgDnAnyAwn_-Y045Ojv3EUCFcRX7q1dNLMqUg17NFih1ifz29W946hFchKIVw6ak39RIv9IS7fcF4s/s320/Jamuna,+Gunashekar,+Dipti.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5122645372839554562" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKZ3LcId6IzzhAX8I5xHHYEhyphenhyphenkoyNWE18tnq62za91vmD7xCgKpomKrVbWeGR4J4byS1B4dmaHpbNAHeKWItYoTAflBQU38W3BBeKxRIkxC6R3EhCH7K0Z399BXyiiYcICqX2QRJYv5sI/s1600-h/Jamunah,+Bernard,+Gunashekar.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKZ3LcId6IzzhAX8I5xHHYEhyphenhyphenkoyNWE18tnq62za91vmD7xCgKpomKrVbWeGR4J4byS1B4dmaHpbNAHeKWItYoTAflBQU38W3BBeKxRIkxC6R3EhCH7K0Z399BXyiiYcICqX2QRJYv5sI/s320/Jamunah,+Bernard,+Gunashekar.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5122645381429489170" /></a>My good friend, Dr. Gunashekar (Guna), made all the travel arrangements for me and I’m ever grateful to him for that. The same is true for Dr. Jamuna, his wife and my facilitator while I was in India. Officially, as you may recall, Jamuna was to help me for just the first five days after my arrival in Tirupati, but she and Guna took care of me until the day I left. That's their daughter, Dipti, sitting with Guna and Jamuna in the first picture above. I can’t imagine what a problem it would have been for me if I had had to make all my travel arrangements on my own. I guess I would have learned the ropes soon enough if left to my own devices, but I’m glad I didn’t have to.<br /><br />Guna had reserved a comfortable seat for me in an air-conditioned compartment on the Tirupati-Chennai train, and the ride through the afternoon was pleasant enough. When I arrived at Chennai station, the place was packed with people. Guna had advised me about how to pre-pay for a taxi to get me from the railway station to the airport, but I decided to save some money and go by auto rickshaw instead. I’d been told how much that might cost, so when one driver after another came up to me and demanded outrageous amounts of rupees, I haggled hard to get the price I wanted. I guess they realized I knew what I was doing because it didn’t take long before one driver agreed to my price and we were on our way.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-fB_H2GJ5VCmwsOhlvU8bbEVFGJLuR5xLOPLLIl1zXwRoZa4VKlQ9-NX1ZoNt3XrMv01YJ9hrehyphenhyphenPKhXsfJgzY-6Hz4tjtTYJ1jbU_czy8Njl6EqeknR4zmrSVbmaBHYxMiEJNmti1x0/s1600-h/auto+rickshaw+1.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-fB_H2GJ5VCmwsOhlvU8bbEVFGJLuR5xLOPLLIl1zXwRoZa4VKlQ9-NX1ZoNt3XrMv01YJ9hrehyphenhyphenPKhXsfJgzY-6Hz4tjtTYJ1jbU_czy8Njl6EqeknR4zmrSVbmaBHYxMiEJNmti1x0/s320/auto+rickshaw+1.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5122644526730997186" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3sYkvO6DOTnFLi5gfdD7vClKKAew4r9xfGFxnIvzPEjP7f5Zk_xv3ou4JZJUrbZVOYFHnXe9eyf9k_F1V_Zsquq5tOv-z9A-SgBgNjoTOSxg_OQ0SMIQ37dFaBapMD9G3Vz2LKRwjVy4/s1600-h/auto+rickshaw+2.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3sYkvO6DOTnFLi5gfdD7vClKKAew4r9xfGFxnIvzPEjP7f5Zk_xv3ou4JZJUrbZVOYFHnXe9eyf9k_F1V_Zsquq5tOv-z9A-SgBgNjoTOSxg_OQ0SMIQ37dFaBapMD9G3Vz2LKRwjVy4/s320/auto+rickshaw+2.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5122644531025964498" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3mh-x3ZPj92tP-V41vyRz5eFVI8LA6nOJWoDtB5sYDPVCRI-EBiUeaHdmL71G6M1fuJ2Y7hBXtkEkwzj__W898vE8e9Ypkl6P9FqWgZCV_6l1GH-dgYYlSyNA_L4OqsBO5USO9o8UExs/s1600-h/auto+rickshaw+3.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3mh-x3ZPj92tP-V41vyRz5eFVI8LA6nOJWoDtB5sYDPVCRI-EBiUeaHdmL71G6M1fuJ2Y7hBXtkEkwzj__W898vE8e9Ypkl6P9FqWgZCV_6l1GH-dgYYlSyNA_L4OqsBO5USO9o8UExs/s320/auto+rickshaw+3.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5122644535320931810" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGasORTtaVHHbr97tquolcAHlhqkL1nGk8E0dpg0mvSd4MeFAfHhYBEuVHiMCCyDgQY_w5IrowmJosKWYQjDPVHiiKRcAVNd3NK6RrNg6Y21Dz1DQyoBGuBIUV7UP206t2qM_Pb9WqTdU/s1600-h/auto+rickshaw+4.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGasORTtaVHHbr97tquolcAHlhqkL1nGk8E0dpg0mvSd4MeFAfHhYBEuVHiMCCyDgQY_w5IrowmJosKWYQjDPVHiiKRcAVNd3NK6RrNg6Y21Dz1DQyoBGuBIUV7UP206t2qM_Pb9WqTdU/s320/auto+rickshaw+4.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5122644539615899122" /></a>To my amazement, what transpired next was déjà vue all over again!<br /><br />The auto conked out half way to the airport, just as had happened soon after I arrived in India when I was at a conference in Orissa state! The last time this happened, as attested to by the pictures above, taken by Dr. Jyostna (Josi), my friend and companion in the auto, I helped push the auto into a nearby gas station and the day was saved. But this time it must have been a mechanical problem of some sort because my driver didn’t take long to do what he did next.<br /><br />I was keeping an eye on my watch since time was of the essence and I didn’t know how long it took to get to the airport. My auto driver, however, was unperturbed, which did nothing to relieve my anxiety. He soon solved the problem by flagging down another auto rickshaw. He haggled with this other driver to get the best price he could on the cost of the remaining leg of the trip to the airport. Then he asked me for the agreed amount of money that he and I had originally settled on back at the railway station in Chennai. All the while he assured me that I would not have to pay any more to this new auto rickshaw driver when I arrived at the airport.<br /><br />What choice did I have? I had to trust this man. It was either that, or I was stranded at the roadside, flagging down some other auto or taxi in the hopes that I’d make it to the airport on time. But here’s the point, as far as I was concerned. By now, after more than 5 months in India, I had become comfortable with the people and with the culture of India. I gave both auto rickshaw drivers the benefit of any doubt and I was once more on my way.<br /><br />As was always, always the case throughout my stay in India, I was not cheated. Everyone I dealt with in India was, in my opinion and based on my 64 years of experience, honorable and fair. No, Indians are no more or less perfect than anyone anywhere else, but the Indians that I got to know have proved to be perhaps the most delightful and trustworthy people I’ve ever had to deal with in my life.<br /><br />The rest of my trip to Coimbatore was uneventful. I was met by a driver at Coimbatore airport and taken to the TNAU guesthouse—easily the most palatial and well-appointed guest house I stayed at in India. It helped that it was spanking new, like the one I stayed at in Dharwad, Karnataka State. But this one provided me with a suite of rooms with all modern conveniences, including cable TV! A delicious South Indian dinner was served in my room and I slept soundly after my long day on the road.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhw04fvdRtvqW5rM9H6cgkr6Rs6YjhBEOH5y3IcKQppFrLH3TpRcvSc7XqzS2jy_l5j2UEACXnqnvmlfWCXV0tOruKSo6BPPyHBvyzEBxoTctOcLS3aIiwEDdjfAaJvA7JOrkACTdwZq7k/s1600-h/DSCN1639.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhw04fvdRtvqW5rM9H6cgkr6Rs6YjhBEOH5y3IcKQppFrLH3TpRcvSc7XqzS2jy_l5j2UEACXnqnvmlfWCXV0tOruKSo6BPPyHBvyzEBxoTctOcLS3aIiwEDdjfAaJvA7JOrkACTdwZq7k/s320/DSCN1639.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5121299699456175490" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGUblRXD8yZScd2AWBZTCHnI55VDKyINR5MStKPinFjcOTQETTRwCmT8Tnl7h5VJ0LzlTRkxGEmZzJ-Dn3EwHxWQ8ATLbZR5hfJJXrdbUkA5YRSphZRt_djCCTt-QRP8yInL-KLcKufoY/s1600-h/DSCN1640.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGUblRXD8yZScd2AWBZTCHnI55VDKyINR5MStKPinFjcOTQETTRwCmT8Tnl7h5VJ0LzlTRkxGEmZzJ-Dn3EwHxWQ8ATLbZR5hfJJXrdbUkA5YRSphZRt_djCCTt-QRP8yInL-KLcKufoY/s320/DSCN1640.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5121299703751142802" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLTf28WaNVfWXPvtVvYmmVJlHhURo0Fia6-mWHSSLR7l0WjFbqPBEV6ISBMTaBP35KQmMkJQbG3aaA9LgOTwO1cgTvZZcpFgYm9axfDHzwlXb79DsrKT5mAxCTGSE_sJpaIPNFDYtF9M8/s1600-h/DSCN1641.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLTf28WaNVfWXPvtVvYmmVJlHhURo0Fia6-mWHSSLR7l0WjFbqPBEV6ISBMTaBP35KQmMkJQbG3aaA9LgOTwO1cgTvZZcpFgYm9axfDHzwlXb79DsrKT5mAxCTGSE_sJpaIPNFDYtF9M8/s320/DSCN1641.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5121299708046110114" /></a>The next morning I was brought by a driver to the campus at TNAU, founded in 1865. The university was relocated to Coimbatore in 1909. My breath was taken away by the Indo-Sarcenic architecture. It is very beautiful indeed—and well-maintained, too.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr6UTERGtN0NAY4mA54GZBJMHns461uE-Xzo6a6OPmQM20ZgI5Rndw5GBTg2fBBl9hqj0V3w17y7koypR7OvNobZdRKzmfAFBhmb6EUEPzDiAJ1zCor6nCl5TrWW_vGYR6AoSLJx6KnQs/s1600-h/DSCN1634.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr6UTERGtN0NAY4mA54GZBJMHns461uE-Xzo6a6OPmQM20ZgI5Rndw5GBTg2fBBl9hqj0V3w17y7koypR7OvNobZdRKzmfAFBhmb6EUEPzDiAJ1zCor6nCl5TrWW_vGYR6AoSLJx6KnQs/s320/DSCN1634.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5121299686571273570" /></a>On arrival at the campus I was met by the Dean of the Psychology Department and he immediately took me to the auditorium where I would be giving my presentation. I was amazed to see a huge banner on the wall behind the dais, probably 4 feet high and 10 to 15 feet wide, welcoming me to TNAU as a guest of the university. Technicians were on hand. I’d brought my laptop and projector along, just in case, but it turned out that the whole hall was wired for overhead projection and sound amplification, with a booth in one corner where the technicians monitored the equipment during the course of a lecture. I gave the technician my pen drive, showed him where my PowerPoint presentation was stored, and left him to get everything ready for me.<br /><br />Meanwhile I was taken to the office of the Vice-Chancellor, Professor C. Ramasamy. Over tea and biscuits, I chatted with him for a while about his goals for the university, especially as regards technology, since that was why I was there. I have met the Vice-Chancellors of a dozen or so universities while I’ve been in India; I think Professor C. Ramasamy demonstrated the clearest understanding of what it takes to effectively—<em>effectively</em>—integrate computer-based technologies into teaching and learning.<br /><br />He knew it was hard, and that it had to be done right. He didn’t just sort of wave a wand and assume that tossing a few hundred computers at buildings and offices would somehow magically transform how things were done at his university. The reason he had invited me to travel all the way from Tirupati to talk, at his university’s expense, about technologies for teaching and learning, was because he wanted to learn as well as to do.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiJhZgWceSFtJJYwd-MjQQsios9DLeYi2tuGo1VrlIzOqSZFvHzap4slHlwOlG9rqfv7L1RPb96g61Wkt3lRUnHZDKdFTs_45VSXuI46Np_8Q9uTU9sKG6t8qDXxSbl25phlmuWmufSKA/s1600-h/DSCN1638.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiJhZgWceSFtJJYwd-MjQQsios9DLeYi2tuGo1VrlIzOqSZFvHzap4slHlwOlG9rqfv7L1RPb96g61Wkt3lRUnHZDKdFTs_45VSXuI46Np_8Q9uTU9sKG6t8qDXxSbl25phlmuWmufSKA/s320/DSCN1638.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5121299695161208178" /></a>I thoroughly enjoyed giving the lecture, as I hope the audience of professors and students did, too. There was a journalist there from the Times of India, and afterwards she sat down with me for half an hour or so to find out about me and about the Fulbright Scholarship and, especially, about technology in education.<br /><br />After the interview, I was taken back to the guest house to rest and get ready for my 14-hour, overnight train journey to Kanniyakumari (also called Cape Cormorin)-—India’s Land’s End. The train departed Coimbatore station shortly after midnight. I had a berth in an AC sleeper carriage and slept soundly till dawn, when I got up to greet the new day.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_dm0tki5fu_FoaMshC5YOh0af2NzLgRdlcpnxRrKnSlRbhRH2zweoFVjRC1CsWoJtV4eMZV1pra6hTSvt9ONisADcnsA6rCVXDh8MXXqHFrLBYthjWGKgKBhPn43w6HtBkWZZiKs33OA/s1600-h/DSCN1672.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_dm0tki5fu_FoaMshC5YOh0af2NzLgRdlcpnxRrKnSlRbhRH2zweoFVjRC1CsWoJtV4eMZV1pra6hTSvt9ONisADcnsA6rCVXDh8MXXqHFrLBYthjWGKgKBhPn43w6HtBkWZZiKs33OA/s320/DSCN1672.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5121296392331357458" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjc50bY_JJzIElQVYRcjeDBs9j3xYihG112ZVdtUNM1WM0et8I4cw3hG0roCy_XBsDOySPZ9UhQIF9CWE59u8SwCDsZMzluuBf0oITTpCbOGaCbcT8Z1U-ldga83ZtGoup23Ef5Qjc3UmQ/s1600-h/DSCN1677.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjc50bY_JJzIElQVYRcjeDBs9j3xYihG112ZVdtUNM1WM0et8I4cw3hG0roCy_XBsDOySPZ9UhQIF9CWE59u8SwCDsZMzluuBf0oITTpCbOGaCbcT8Z1U-ldga83ZtGoup23Ef5Qjc3UmQ/s320/DSCN1677.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5121296396626324770" /></a>For the next few hours, till I arrived in Kanniyakumari in the early afternoon, I took pictures of the Kerala countryside. It was wet and lush and green, quite unlike anything I’d seen in the states of Andhra Pradesh, Karnataka, Maharashtra, Gujarat, or Orissa. This was verdant, fertile country. Fruits of every kind grew in the fields amongst the rice paddies and plantations.<br /><br />The people were out there in those fields, working away, ten or more hours a day. I’ve been given to understand that some of these workers are paid, at the end of each day, not with money, but with food to eat—-some rice, whatever. In inflationary times, food is better than currency, but how do the many millions of poor in India get to escape their poverty if they are only paid enough to survive till the next day?<br /><br />This I do know for sure. I didn’t see much of any laziness in India. People can’t afford to be lazy. Even the beggars work hard to make a living.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8n1J1q4Cc0_8bslexeGKeaCZ8WBTiERyhaD1b1Bz2LxaQqdLOWBn1BaMZ4Wi91BmI8tlQKmQihBvYYGrp_GcznawPOPqMiZ-vd1l6cpdSc3y8WByMoqdrWXK1BXw-uf1sMGFeRxgRUpQ/s1600-h/DSCN1683.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8n1J1q4Cc0_8bslexeGKeaCZ8WBTiERyhaD1b1Bz2LxaQqdLOWBn1BaMZ4Wi91BmI8tlQKmQihBvYYGrp_GcznawPOPqMiZ-vd1l6cpdSc3y8WByMoqdrWXK1BXw-uf1sMGFeRxgRUpQ/s320/DSCN1683.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5121296409511226690" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsak2X2pma1tPI96DB7gDzNUgr3GtWeHkDSsuCPj35YMGwDgTV0TPYQEX4ctAvi5w1oJquSL2yKiYWT_hJoTJVKdHRlWYjxEZDF8gHwjR-8JJW1GnSLlSeCsGDeXyQAf8rF2WkwX5n9ig/s1600-h/DSCN1687.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsak2X2pma1tPI96DB7gDzNUgr3GtWeHkDSsuCPj35YMGwDgTV0TPYQEX4ctAvi5w1oJquSL2yKiYWT_hJoTJVKdHRlWYjxEZDF8gHwjR-8JJW1GnSLlSeCsGDeXyQAf8rF2WkwX5n9ig/s320/DSCN1687.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5121296413806194002" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNpr7TRhL9wZj04v4UsToE2sMluQdIRuZP4ZZ39HO6BGaBfJsbHE3dTV4Dp2WnfJ431ISU3QscRZzQv-IL0AR30thpQ2DTuMw441uYpVTl8WzHi0qJO5ZV5dO0NfDHOCfXatgUJZgQMU0/s1600-h/DSCN1681.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNpr7TRhL9wZj04v4UsToE2sMluQdIRuZP4ZZ39HO6BGaBfJsbHE3dTV4Dp2WnfJ431ISU3QscRZzQv-IL0AR30thpQ2DTuMw441uYpVTl8WzHi0qJO5ZV5dO0NfDHOCfXatgUJZgQMU0/s320/DSCN1681.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5121296405216259378" /></a>It was great to get to Land’s End, even though there’s not much to see there, other than the two impressive monuments built on rocky outcrops a mile or so offshore. One is to Swami Vivekananda, arguably the greatest social reformer and saint that India has produced. The other is to the Mahatma Ghandi, whose ashes were placed in the memorial here the night before they were scattered in the waters of the Indian Ocean. I stayed overnight at the Sea View hotel in a room with a huge picture window overlooking the ocean. To my left, in the east, I could see the Bay of Bengal; to my right, in the west, the Arabian Sea; and dead ahead, where both seas merged in the south, lay the mighty Indian Ocean.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUPac_Hd4PBoW8kL-MWVOrUW-n654cwLnvb4_2ozK0VWA2ub0NVeE79jN20BXDnmzdX3l_m07gLQYLAeLj2_5UQcmZsedAjgyTlC9jR1UDq4LBSQwA9FgoLYxQUcl8ogconK8PXhbnqQk/s1600-h/sunset+from+quay.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUPac_Hd4PBoW8kL-MWVOrUW-n654cwLnvb4_2ozK0VWA2ub0NVeE79jN20BXDnmzdX3l_m07gLQYLAeLj2_5UQcmZsedAjgyTlC9jR1UDq4LBSQwA9FgoLYxQUcl8ogconK8PXhbnqQk/s320/sunset+from+quay.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5121558582904909234" /></a>The trip to Kanniyakumari was the only major touristy thing I did while in India. I didn't see the Taj Mahal or the Himalayas. Maybe next time. But I just had to make the effort to get to Land's End and I’m so glad I did. I enjoyed the sunset looking back from the far end of a long, rock-built quay that had me perched alone on the edge of the watery ocean void. A stiff, warm, zephyr breeze kissed my skin. My eyes watered as I stood there soaking up the sunset. Tears of joy welled up as I reflected contentedly on how far I had come to be where I was that day, Land’s End at my journey’s end.<br /><br />Thank you, India. Thank you, my Indian friends. Shukria. Danyawadalu. Thank you, again and again.Fulbright to Indiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03562429223157950825noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6248886363140834124.post-67523266774922775322007-10-09T03:16:00.001-05:002010-10-09T16:27:44.866-05:00Duplicating excellence in Baroda<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirRRpgC9mw9mYk7T7eZyLkQQGxkY9meALjootrmNEm6S9x6y9XhsaJyL46HjOzfWhlq5SUikxn2MOx3FMokvFanj06nsTo2KfREF2ZAjv6o-8AxkQyyAP2zRiT6Y4x6RtpUD7xHyZH1E0/s1600-h/working+hard.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; FLOAT: left; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5119254466094591170" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirRRpgC9mw9mYk7T7eZyLkQQGxkY9meALjootrmNEm6S9x6y9XhsaJyL46HjOzfWhlq5SUikxn2MOx3FMokvFanj06nsTo2KfREF2ZAjv6o-8AxkQyyAP2zRiT6Y4x6RtpUD7xHyZH1E0/s320/working+hard.JPG" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBOcLzEkoYjaS63T9nglBTAM05REZEZTSd9o3WSkYa_kXnAChXag2kDKvFE3MrfIRuK4-0i6HndB4qd03pf-iBjm1PNzOidTcV9_cZhiBCwxbTVp58s134JAwSgxC2YNfSQiWfceBhMlM/s1600-h/MSU+professors.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; FLOAT: left; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5119254483274460370" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBOcLzEkoYjaS63T9nglBTAM05REZEZTSd9o3WSkYa_kXnAChXag2kDKvFE3MrfIRuK4-0i6HndB4qd03pf-iBjm1PNzOidTcV9_cZhiBCwxbTVp58s134JAwSgxC2YNfSQiWfceBhMlM/s320/MSU+professors.JPG" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-qBIXV4OcbBA9VfPSr8ckB8fAxhZVqdw78yJYs2C2i_xlAwjblQUsF8k_JyhHeFcJanoLD-dgatlYHqsPOa0kzatTIullk0dwxEX-90znAGh3J4lkOIFrxVFS5k2YsTM5-sTtVoEfgwg/s1600-h/Dr.+Push.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; FLOAT: left; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5119254487569427682" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-qBIXV4OcbBA9VfPSr8ckB8fAxhZVqdw78yJYs2C2i_xlAwjblQUsF8k_JyhHeFcJanoLD-dgatlYHqsPOa0kzatTIullk0dwxEX-90znAGh3J4lkOIFrxVFS5k2YsTM5-sTtVoEfgwg/s320/Dr.+Push.JPG" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbCr6SuL0Hv5A1RyQPNnxPLQbJRkVpRBLMbkc1LenwkOIlCypHaRV7ja3TAZ5KuTOOQF6DsRm79VQnHbFNByCFHowHLVpVe60nZtqy4ZKByRiGsDejXF9wMYPD1v_wZW61tp3fOWXHw8k/s1600-h/Maharajah+Sayajirao.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; FLOAT: left; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5119254496159362290" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbCr6SuL0Hv5A1RyQPNnxPLQbJRkVpRBLMbkc1LenwkOIlCypHaRV7ja3TAZ5KuTOOQF6DsRm79VQnHbFNByCFHowHLVpVe60nZtqy4ZKByRiGsDejXF9wMYPD1v_wZW61tp3fOWXHw8k/s320/Maharajah+Sayajirao.JPG" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNND1x96Z8V2SYX-ODLY_LR4gcJE-XkkXX9N6Z4C_VpggVoY9a16QMxyvmF_6FQ6jMmwmbTPbVCtXncq8EawI7fr6_K5LS9vp2Rqvu-OaBAbB6B-vJ3nNyktXUE7_THfgut_LKDAhrf0w/s1600-h/Baroda+Chemistry+Professor%27s+family.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; FLOAT: left; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5119254504749296898" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNND1x96Z8V2SYX-ODLY_LR4gcJE-XkkXX9N6Z4C_VpggVoY9a16QMxyvmF_6FQ6jMmwmbTPbVCtXncq8EawI7fr6_K5LS9vp2Rqvu-OaBAbB6B-vJ3nNyktXUE7_THfgut_LKDAhrf0w/s320/Baroda+Chemistry+Professor%27s+family.JPG" /></a>SATURDAY, MAY 5, 2007<br /><br />I arrived in Baroda (also called Vadodara) in the early afternoon of May 2nd. I’d travelled there by car from Ahmedabad on the Ahmedabad-Vadodara Expressway, which is a 98 km piece of the National Highways Development Project. The expressway has apparently cut travel time between Ahmedabad and Baroda from 2.5 hours to 1 hour. That’s about how long it took us do the trip.<br /><br />In May it is hot anywhere in South India, and Baroda was no exception. I was scheduled to give a presentation to the faculty in the School of Educational Administration at the famous M.S. University, named for Maharaja Sayajirao, reformist ruler of Baroda from 1875 to 1939. Long before Indian independence, Maharaja Sayajirao banned child marriage, did away with untouchability and, in 1906, introduced compulsory, free primary education in his state of Gujarat—the state, by the way, in which Gandhi was born. Gandhi never acknowledged this in his autobiography, but I do wonder if his own enlightened views on such matters were informed by the Maharajah’s example and influence. The Maharajah also established the university where I was to give my seminar on educational technology. He gave one of his palaces to the university and it stands there proudly today amongst the hallowed halls of academe. One of the illustrious alumni of Baroda’s M.S. University is Dr. B. R. Ambedkar, the chief architect of the Indian Constitution.<br /><br />I gave my presentation to an attentive, appreciative, and incisively questioning M.S.U. faculty. I had brought my laptop and projector along with me, but it turned out I didn’t need it. These people were on the ball. All I had to do was give my USB flash drive to Dr. Pushpadanam and, in no time at all, my presentation popped up on the screen.<br /><br />One question that made me think came from a professor who specialized in the economics of educational administration. I had talked about “duplicating excellence,” a concept I conceived some years ago to describe the ease with which teachers can now share, on the internet, the teaching materials and ideas that they come up with every day. The professor raised his hand and asked: “What about peer review?”<br /><br />Good question. I had to think for a moment, because no one had ever asked that before. But then it quickly occurred to me that peer review really is built into the World Wide Web. If people value your ideas they’ll come back to your website; they’ll tell everyone about it; they’ll hopefully quote you in their own papers. Quite literally, peer review takes care of itself. If you have nothing of value to offer, you’ll quickly disappear out of sight. If, on the other hand, you share material and ideas that are useful, maybe even valuable, they’ll be gobbled up and duplicated around the globe.<br /><br />I spent two delightful evenings with Dr. Pushpanadham in the company of another M.S. University professor and her two children. They wined and dined me and made me feel very much at home. I have to tell you, though, that the first night I spent in the M.S. University guest house was horrible. My room was plagued with mosquitos and the air-conditioning didn’t work. I moved my bed directly underneath the ceiling fan and fell asleep right away after an exhausting day travelling and presenting. But the fan didn’t help much at all. I woke up at 2:00 in the morning to find that I’d been more or less eaten alive. I spent the rest of the night insanely killing mosquitos, but it was a losing battle. They had my scent and I had nowhere else to go. I bought mosquito repellant the next morning and left it plugged in all day long so that my second night was blissfully undisturbed.<br /><br />I set my alarm for 4:30 am, May 5th. A taxi came to the guest house at 5:00 am to take me back to Ahmedabad for my flight to Hyderabad and thence to Tirupati, where I am now. Never did I think that I would ever travel around India lecturing like this. One of these days I’ll wake up and discover that it was all a dream.Fulbright to Indiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03562429223157950825noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6248886363140834124.post-27359527571277044462007-10-08T09:02:00.000-05:002007-10-09T03:46:26.180-05:00Update on my blog's status<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbISGqmQdx3HvN7j4fzqz13qUgr2M5kvpNKAbWYsxKZrgtu7C3rNmPJ_QKGVv_JURkixm7MTrBguuZuRH-jteIB2DmgI-DFOtE8Yf0bDSnUZfR_zuk9FgDtp2fGwVX-gTgeDAeKWCTAYM/s1600-h/In+the+office.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbISGqmQdx3HvN7j4fzqz13qUgr2M5kvpNKAbWYsxKZrgtu7C3rNmPJ_QKGVv_JURkixm7MTrBguuZuRH-jteIB2DmgI-DFOtE8Yf0bDSnUZfR_zuk9FgDtp2fGwVX-gTgeDAeKWCTAYM/s320/In+the+office.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5118967549394316466" /></a>I’ve been back in the United States for a while now, since May 16 to be precise, and it’s now October 8. I’ve not been idle, and I haven’t neglected the blog. I still have a half dozen or so postings to write, covering the period from May 2nd through May 15 when I finally flew out of India to return to the US. I’m about to write those blogs now.<br /><br />Before I do, I want you to know that I’m working with a colleague at SPMVV, the university where I was based in Tirupati, India. Her name is Dr. Indira Jalli and she is translating my blog into Telugu, the local language of Andhra Pradesh State. We have a publisher lined up and the book should be published before Christmas of this year, all being well.<br /><br />So what I’ve been doing over the past few months has been to revisit each of my blog postings, one by one, and rewrite them all, editing where necessary and adding this and that here and there. It’s been fun; an opportunity to relive the incredible time I had in India, an experience beyond my wildest dreams.<br /><br />So there you have it. You’re all caught up. Now let me get back to work.Fulbright to Indiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03562429223157950825noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6248886363140834124.post-36889295301575639732007-10-08T08:39:00.000-05:002007-10-09T03:45:40.374-05:00May Day at the Mahatma Ghandi Labour Institute<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicvKPCC1OodhVmvU9pVauMru2D9LJ7jihyME5LbuxPRilakUZVcnfsdlKgfapRCMDktFm5-ZZE3Zg1L-plLy8td67zBNZ2L6FSZJtW5RyA0B3cEapcOre7IUrCFtaoChWPDAv3k5VkqtM/s1600-h/FSCN1500.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5118961115533307026" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicvKPCC1OodhVmvU9pVauMru2D9LJ7jihyME5LbuxPRilakUZVcnfsdlKgfapRCMDktFm5-ZZE3Zg1L-plLy8td67zBNZ2L6FSZJtW5RyA0B3cEapcOre7IUrCFtaoChWPDAv3k5VkqtM/s320/FSCN1500.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3Nh_JBJQGLp7wnDnHdwkRrhqMsBX40-mrLQ0bhtKnO4gcV4Kp8VYbP90fuqd4lJwA0yMHDPev0_fJXZR8EIBl1VXI5PIdns87ZR27-tI8T-9Bge06A_TEx32g0sQZ7B-Y6Yd6sHtdbDI/s1600-h/Harshida.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5118961124123241634" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3Nh_JBJQGLp7wnDnHdwkRrhqMsBX40-mrLQ0bhtKnO4gcV4Kp8VYbP90fuqd4lJwA0yMHDPev0_fJXZR8EIBl1VXI5PIdns87ZR27-tI8T-9Bge06A_TEx32g0sQZ7B-Y6Yd6sHtdbDI/s320/Harshida.JPG" border="0" /></a>This morning, May 1st, 2007, I’m at the Mahatma Gandhi Labour Institute in Ahmedabad, Gujarat State, where I’m attending a two-day conference timed to coincide with May Day, otherwise known as Labour Day around the world. As with most of my engagements since arriving in India, I’m here at the invitation of a professor who I chanced to meet at a conference elsewhere. In this case, my acquaintance is Dr. Harshida Dave who is a professor of Women’s Studies at this Institute. I met her when she came to SPMVV to attend the International Women’s Day conference held in early March at my university in Tirupati.<br /><br />The conference here has not yet begun. Its theme is Gandhian Trusteeship, on which subject I’ll be speaking tomorrow morning. As I understand trusteeship in Gandhian terms, it has to do with the responsibility of those who accumulate wealth to share that wealth with the masses of the people, especially the poor. My take on this in my presentation will be that education is key to raising the status and prosperity of the destitute and deprived. In a country such as India, where this community of desperate and deprived people numbers in the hundreds of millions, technology can, I believe, hasten access to education and, therefore, to shared prosperity. All it needs is will and willingness on the part of those in control of wealth—Federal, State and Local government, wealthy individuals, national and international organizations such as the United Nations (UN), the World Bank, the United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization (UNESCO), the World Trade Organization (WTO) and the like.<br /><br />These umbrella administrations must be determined in their commitment to supporting the hundreds of thousands, if not millions, of good people at the grassroots level in India—philanthropists such as several of my new-found friends in Tirupati, and so many others—who are not themselves poor, nor are they rich, but they are in a position to spearhead the trusteeship work of helping the masses of the poor lift themselves up by their bootstraps from the grinding poverty in which they live out their days.<br /><br />But these grassroots philanthropists can do no more than scratch the surface of the problem if they are left to work in isolation. So Government at all levels must, in my opinion, reach out, gather together, and recognize such local efforts so that they become, collectively, a mighty force for the alleviation of poverty in India, as elsewhere in this world of ours. Failure to do this will be catastrophic, in my humble opinion. It’s just a matter of time.<br /><br />Meanwhile, the gathering of Ghandians was impressive. It was quickly clear to me that I was privileged to be amongst national leaders in Ghandian scholarship. As so often since I joined the Indian academic community last December, I have been humbled by the credentials and clear intellectual credibility of the men and women with whom I have been associated in Indian academe. At the conference on Ghandian Trusteeship at the Mahatma Ghandi Labour Institute I made my contribution. I learned much and I consider myself blessed to have had the opportunity to take part. Thank you, Professor Harshida, for the invitation.Fulbright to Indiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03562429223157950825noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6248886363140834124.post-57261083183750789162007-05-18T13:39:00.003-05:002010-10-11T10:15:55.237-05:00Mumbai<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUK6w5xIC_QNddNDjX8ltVvfhCWe3OBsVClGgO8IT8ydrjaMbxKOfppAlmjmIfpVMy7SdPaeoNzJo_NR-UHDg28S4hYItDFz1bERMGIbMM4xEktQt4SMzTq1keLF-mxtyZMFH8C_yB4_U/s1600-h/DSCN1452.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; FLOAT: left; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5065981024332291090" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUK6w5xIC_QNddNDjX8ltVvfhCWe3OBsVClGgO8IT8ydrjaMbxKOfppAlmjmIfpVMy7SdPaeoNzJo_NR-UHDg28S4hYItDFz1bERMGIbMM4xEktQt4SMzTq1keLF-mxtyZMFH8C_yB4_U/s320/DSCN1452.JPG" /></a><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEig_hNM4MGOSu5sb8FtAlaVJ9nAvbG3ufLOlC5cRhw0jUANYMjl8o8wqiwK_0xOrU-qcqSp3Ljo2yEy5pg5gvDZwh4jG7P1mGeGQ71qwmpBqGqQ9Z7WCbx9oeIE13RCeDbu0RgQNjc_0xw/s1600-h/DSCN1456.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; 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FLOAT: left; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5065975436579838658" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBrGuJK2qBJ5jdJ5cgz2qkb6yhnYQWwbzBmPk1Ib5J5YezXcL0iLygXqpg1vSvnrfjDT7JtepHQa91F-uh0HbYA6QRzE2I_bpR57iCPfudOjDhiMnUxyQs9ilrVZh5WWBHJoJmCKnRs38/s320/DSCN1435.JPG" /></a><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnyTCWZEU3ZuGrna4Ac3zweKsW5d20WrWZGFwO8dx5gwT23NkFeUWLlI8jgHMg9nHJNSw-3LLCD2z-w9wXlsXcHvrI_yBYzlHZ0BtggHvfzOrRU9wi4s9VYtfI7KM_JMefDXgEgqcsA04/s1600-h/DSCN1444.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; FLOAT: left; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5065975110162324146" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnyTCWZEU3ZuGrna4Ac3zweKsW5d20WrWZGFwO8dx5gwT23NkFeUWLlI8jgHMg9nHJNSw-3LLCD2z-w9wXlsXcHvrI_yBYzlHZ0BtggHvfzOrRU9wi4s9VYtfI7KM_JMefDXgEgqcsA04/s320/DSCN1444.JPG" /></a><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM4RqSnAiJEaiOkHGB2mA1w8MhOngL1Vo4yFwZgJKpWIVsvpN3RCs8QbsNM-I884E-thMjz5d4_QBYKNA74HsvzFoGZoKtZeK5pq3dUqpA768rN24r-lo83x_JPYqpf32UK209yGbtZVI/s1600-h/DSCN1445.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; FLOAT: left; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5065973289096190626" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM4RqSnAiJEaiOkHGB2mA1w8MhOngL1Vo4yFwZgJKpWIVsvpN3RCs8QbsNM-I884E-thMjz5d4_QBYKNA74HsvzFoGZoKtZeK5pq3dUqpA768rN24r-lo83x_JPYqpf32UK209yGbtZVI/s320/DSCN1445.JPG" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg59MvaGo_3ft4PcwR1MdEQAFD9kR00LtoWYRinT9FQ_MmiPoqp9XYW81Ti6TJrcP100C_QlQGocxUUJ_-cYn1hP2wDBC9spVSGvbsrBH-hFZMR82vZOd4mn0XVYYJ9p3KY2w-rkJBmJCE/s1600-h/Ambedkar.gif"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; FLOAT: left; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5066127675990613026" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg59MvaGo_3ft4PcwR1MdEQAFD9kR00LtoWYRinT9FQ_MmiPoqp9XYW81Ti6TJrcP100C_QlQGocxUUJ_-cYn1hP2wDBC9spVSGvbsrBH-hFZMR82vZOd4mn0XVYYJ9p3KY2w-rkJBmJCE/s320/Ambedkar.gif" /></a>I am in Mumbai for three days. Mumbai, the financial hub of India, is the capital of Maharashtra State. Mumbai is also the center of India’s Hindi-language film industry, otherwise known as Bollywood. I’m here to conduct a seminar at SNDT university, about which more anon in another blog. I spent the first full day (Sunday) touring the city with a local driver as my guide and discovered more about India that touches my heart.<br /><br />It was fascinating to visit the Gateway to India, built to commemorate the visit to India in 1911 of Britain’s King George V and his wife, Queen Alexandra. The only way I’d seen it before was in film (Gandhi, Passage to India, etc.) or in picture books. Now, here I was standing before the real thing. My own father, William Gerard Poole, was born in South Asia, just a few hundred miles from Mumbai (Bombay as it was then), in the hill town of Maymyo, Burma—Pwin Oo Lwin, Myanmar now. Throughout my stay in India I have wondered wistfully about how close I am to my dad’s birthplace, where, growing up, he must have experienced a way of life similar in some respects to what I am experiencing during my stay in the traditional, olde worlde town of Tirupati, in South India.<br /><br />I feel like I am retracing my roots. My father was the first of 5 children of my grandfather and grandmother on my father's side. My grandfather was a non-commissioned officer in the British army during the halcyon years of the British Raj. My father was seven years of age before he saw for the first time England's "green and pleasant land." I like to think that this is the reason why I have not had the slightest difficulty adjusting to Indian cuisine. My mother, engaged to my dad and no doubt anxious to please him, learned how to cook a hot Indian curry from her future mother-in-law. Needless to say, we children grew up enjoying those Indian curries, too.<br /><br />It is Sunday, so during our morning and early afternoon drive around the city, I enjoyed the relatively traffic-free sweep of Mumbai’s boulevards and beaches. My driver/guide was careful to show me only the more salubrious side of the city. The architecture runs the gamut of styles from traditional, old-Bombay's balconied apartments, to the mostly Victorian, neo-classical, governmental monuments to the British Raj, to the glistening, glass-faced skyscrapers of modern times. It was not until two days later, when being taken by another driver to the airport, that I discovered the other, seamier, side of Mumbai—the bleak, neglected, ramshackle, rampant poverty in the backstreets where the majority of Mumbai’s twenty million citizens live.<br /><br />Religion is never far from people’s lives in India. I saw it represented in Mumbai by majestic, pseudo-Gothic Christian church spires, colorful, marbled Hindu temples, and a particularly striking mosque, the Haji Ali Mosque, poised on the extreme end of a spit of land that reaches into the Bay of Bombay. The arcing semi-circle of ocean beach is lapped by the waters of the Arabian Sea. At night, the bay is defined by a glittering necklace of lights that strings along Marine Drive.<br /><br />But the highlight of my touristy day in Mumbai was a visit to Mani Bhavan, the house—now a museum—where Gandhi lived not long after he returned to India for good in 1915. It’s a rambling, colonial, three-storey building in a quiet corner of the old town, not far from the center of the city. He lived here with his family from 1917 to 1934. Prior to that he had worked as a lawyer in South Africa where he learned, developed, and honed his skills in satyagraha—peaceful, non-violent resistance to the injustices inflicted by the strong and powerful on the weak and defenseless.<br /><br />We arrived at Mani Bhavan before opening time, but a word from my driver to the attendants who were hanging around outside gained us early entry right away. They opened up the house just for me and I had the run of the place for a good half an hour before anyone else showed up to disturb my quiet, pensive, somewhat dreamlike enjoyment of this place in time, this piece of history that memorialized the impressive achievements of the man who led India on its march to independence.<br /><br />The house was wall-to-wall pictures, photographs, dioramas and artifacts that recalled Gandhi’s life and times. As I wandered the corridors, stairways, and rooms, I was moved over and over again by memories triggered in my mind by my lifelong love of all things Indian. Here I paused over the very place where Gandhi sat spinning cotton—a place I’d only previously seen in photographs. There I gazed from the balcony over the front door where, in the company of his wife and Jawarhal Nehru and others of his political devotees, he greeted the crowds gathered to see the man who made such a relentless nuisance of himself in his dealings with the representatives of the British Raj.<br /><br />I’ve learned much about Gandhi since coming to India. Everywhere there are statues to his memory—iconic depictions of well-known milestones in his life. The icon most frequently captured in monumental stone or cast metal is of a sandaled ascetic, head pressed forward, stubbornly stepping out, staff in hand, to lead the people in a non-violent challenge to the “authorities” over a Salt Tax. The “Boston Tea Party” in the American Revolution comes to mind as a parallel political statement of discontent. It is significant that tomorrow I fly to Ahmedabad (pronounced Am-da-bad), capital of Gujarat, the state in which Gandhi was born. It was from his ashram in Ahmedabad that Ghandi began his 400 mile march to the salt-strewn shores of the Arabian Sea.<br /><br />Gandhi, who trained as a lawyer and was a politician to the core, devoted his entire adult life to advocacy on behalf of the underprivileged, such as the migrant Indian workers in South Africa and the Indian peoples subjugated by the British during the time of the British Raj. With all his faults—and he had many—it is only fair to recognize the success he had in galvanizing against their oppressors those people whose rights were being abused, whether in South Africa by the Boers or in India by the British.<br /><br />Gandhi carefully and shrewdly cultivated an image of austerity and self-denial and he did so with great effect. He wanted to be identified with the poor and oppressed even though, as his popularity and fame grew, it was hard for him to live a life of abnegation. He courted imprisonment but, because of his standing, was rarely, if ever, treated as a common criminal.<br /><br />It took more than a mere image, though, to place him amongst the pantheon of God-like figures in India’s storied past. Winston Churchill is quoted as saying: “I am not concerned about what history will say of me, because I intend to write it myself!” So, too, Gandhi. He was accompanied everywhere on his travels across India by an amanuensis. His every word was recorded in writing for posterity. The biographies of Gandhi that I have read thus far unashamedly toe the Gandhian line, usually quoting directly or indirectly from Gandhi’s own autobiography, which I read first, soon after I arrived in India. I’m looking for a biography of Gandhi that uses more than Gandhi’s autobiography as a primary reference.<br /><br />That said, I do admire the man. I certainly don’t have the guts, determination, chutzpah, and high threshold of tolerance for discomfort and pain that Gandhi had. Nor do I have his charisma. In many ways he was a public relations genius, but above all he had an extraordinarily focused mind. You’d have to have a focused mind to doggedly hold on to non-violence in pursuit of political goals when faced with the indignities and physical suffering inflicted arbitrarily on his followers and himself by the South African and British overlords.<br /><br />So I take my hat off to the Mahatma Gandhi and sing his praises, even as I hold onto my personal reservations about him until I’ve had the opportunity to study the man more.<br /><br />In my studies of Gandhi, the name Ambedkar keeps popping up, especially when I read anything written by someone other than a Gandhian devotee. Bhimrao Ramji Ambedkar (1891-1956) is considered the father of the Indian Constitution. Ambedkar was a dalit—a "broken one," one of the Hindu outcaste "untouchables." He championed the dalit cause as did no other. An Indian friend of mine reminds me that Bombay belongs to Ambedkar, too. I'll have a lot more to say about Ambedkar in an upcoming blog.</div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div> </div></div></div></div></div></div>Fulbright to Indiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03562429223157950825noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6248886363140834124.post-72098627547425149882007-05-05T03:09:00.000-05:002007-10-08T08:51:06.635-05:00"Hope springs eternal in the human breast"<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3D2jhieyiQbUGtD5CZR8tNnmFRCeeoCMgGf7kjCn5TyLWCgwB_BBwbtpwd6dBOrbt8TJW6jLFikuXbf-2cmHxwIpsvvHrV7mErzgrD9ekBcK-zVpm1u-IQX8_00k2Q0FJTYnSfD6VAnc/s1600-h/I-0Y-03.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5060992451608442066" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3D2jhieyiQbUGtD5CZR8tNnmFRCeeoCMgGf7kjCn5TyLWCgwB_BBwbtpwd6dBOrbt8TJW6jLFikuXbf-2cmHxwIpsvvHrV7mErzgrD9ekBcK-zVpm1u-IQX8_00k2Q0FJTYnSfD6VAnc/s320/I-0Y-03.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXFBZH-28ZD_TEQpf-uCnSereqIxROxF4usahsOeOdBbrqTnoeFKO5fGylb9_iv67z7Z0snPBN0yrzWOMlSZTFEzunEn0w4lLOqy1gLJdOrqjsoIeOtimXXYcVdUxiMq7Bqd8CJzyccok/s1600-h/I-Y-12.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5060992202500338882" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXFBZH-28ZD_TEQpf-uCnSereqIxROxF4usahsOeOdBbrqTnoeFKO5fGylb9_iv67z7Z0snPBN0yrzWOMlSZTFEzunEn0w4lLOqy1gLJdOrqjsoIeOtimXXYcVdUxiMq7Bqd8CJzyccok/s320/I-Y-12.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_TOaqjFmyHGfT7Qyu3OsHX3DLemxC0n9NikAYRSnDdPcCX5-CZjRUKLHNmOu_rdVPxM0Aj72UwXD1H_DqagBa5q3VeTuQ6Z26x1G_g5YwTk5oaX2AxEFjNERx11EhJ5yLV8lcSVH_iEE/s1600-h/chalkboard.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5060991811658314930" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_TOaqjFmyHGfT7Qyu3OsHX3DLemxC0n9NikAYRSnDdPcCX5-CZjRUKLHNmOu_rdVPxM0Aj72UwXD1H_DqagBa5q3VeTuQ6Z26x1G_g5YwTk5oaX2AxEFjNERx11EhJ5yLV8lcSVH_iEE/s320/chalkboard.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbYLjTq9Yx7yqKLUQKtvfPeDq4AP5EamYmL75RelpfZYgaJTB9n5OKZ-1nL1Gbg7akcL5HA60nO4eur-GvNIIjmT4eYkJu5oR8mudYWUIFAv7_PnVzosw5nI3JOCM39bPbFm5uHmXiQKA/s1600-h/I-Y-17.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5060988229655590050" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbYLjTq9Yx7yqKLUQKtvfPeDq4AP5EamYmL75RelpfZYgaJTB9n5OKZ-1nL1Gbg7akcL5HA60nO4eur-GvNIIjmT4eYkJu5oR8mudYWUIFAv7_PnVzosw5nI3JOCM39bPbFm5uHmXiQKA/s320/I-Y-17.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5yAhRgpune4gzDuH1Kq0TMxoOaLfo4MvzAcnjiRDKhgxtRCeLlE4bwMXx9RmKG7JgZS07zcKasn_Q5ZfdwxUqpfS6JDuc9pu8G8ZemVGN4NKPWZHVodI0l_y40_fpXi1QMOQseHhtrPU/s1600-h/I-Y-13.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5060987813043762322" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5yAhRgpune4gzDuH1Kq0TMxoOaLfo4MvzAcnjiRDKhgxtRCeLlE4bwMXx9RmKG7JgZS07zcKasn_Q5ZfdwxUqpfS6JDuc9pu8G8ZemVGN4NKPWZHVodI0l_y40_fpXi1QMOQseHhtrPU/s320/I-Y-13.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifzIqjq1TYSlcdSIuONuVSDt-yHm_XAXyRvMBIJcPyKAweQ1_LdEnqom9PVHaR_OJYedv1x_rHejY7yK14i92wpUybKcLnqfvfmvPREgJBdUAPmeWMe8ZS_XNZ6nO7ioNEqPacP-kgOEo/s1600-h/I-Y-02.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5060987439381607554" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifzIqjq1TYSlcdSIuONuVSDt-yHm_XAXyRvMBIJcPyKAweQ1_LdEnqom9PVHaR_OJYedv1x_rHejY7yK14i92wpUybKcLnqfvfmvPREgJBdUAPmeWMe8ZS_XNZ6nO7ioNEqPacP-kgOEo/s320/I-Y-02.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8h9yUsOBIOd7W2g_Jocr5U1CJbrovQnVBnuS1L9GXUsiTCxixIoFR668mTGVc4d_uJRiiSLQrBXubvHTdvJhOYJN9ZGp1tkILHela1WlACtlVWTp5z-cTt-ufSK_kPlf5TabXeqXbgu4/s1600-h/I-073.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5060987031359714418" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8h9yUsOBIOd7W2g_Jocr5U1CJbrovQnVBnuS1L9GXUsiTCxixIoFR668mTGVc4d_uJRiiSLQrBXubvHTdvJhOYJN9ZGp1tkILHela1WlACtlVWTp5z-cTt-ufSK_kPlf5TabXeqXbgu4/s320/I-073.jpg" border="0" /></a>Soon I’ll be leaving India. I have a packed schedule till May 12, when I fly out of Tirupati bound for Hyderabad and Frankfurt en route to the United States. Yesterday, though, was very special. I finally got to see what I had been looking for—an elementary/secondary school where modern computer-based technology is sensibly incorporated into teaching and learning.<br /><br />Granted I’ve seen only the tiniest fraction of India’s schools. I’ve visited some 15 universities and half a dozen elementary or secondary schools in 7 southern states. Not much of a sample on which to make a judgment or draw any conclusions. For this reason, I’ve been careful to reserve judgment, for the most part. Yesterday, however, was a bright spot in my Fulbright experience, giving me further grounds for hope that India is moving in the right direction to implement its long-range goal of free and compulsory education for all children.<br /><br />I spent the morning at one of the Bright Day Schools situated in Gujarat. Dr. Pushpanadham of M.S. University in Baroda, brought me to the school, located on the outskirts of Baroda (Vadodara), and introduced me to the principal, Ms. Rupa Sharma. Rupa took us all around the school and I was able to interact with the students and see everything that was involved with the school’s day-to-day running. It was quite a tonic after what I had seen elsewhere.<br /><br />First of all, the whole school was well-maintained, brightly and freshly painted, airy and clean. Then, to my surprise, every classroom has a computer system installed in such a way as to make it easy for integration into teaching and learning. I’d never seen a setup like it. The flat panel display was fixed on the wall right beside the chalk board in front of the class. Speakers on either side of the display provided good quality audio. The system was wired to the internet. I asked one teacher to bring up my home page on the Web. The access speed was not bad at all, though the teacher said she usually downloads ahead of time any pages she planned on using in class.<br /><br />What I liked was that the display was visually aligned with the chalkboard. I’d never seen an arrangement such as this and it struck me as very practical and ergonomic. The screens need to be bigger (the ones I saw were only about 17” displays), but a screen can be easily upgraded when money becomes available. It also would be easy enough to connect a projector to the system for display on a larger screen. If you only have one computer in the classroom, this, it seems to me, would be a good way to go.<br /><br />The teacher-pupil ratio at the school is 1:27. There also are 120 uniformed “maids,” two assigned full time to each class. Their job it is to keep the school clean, fetch-and-carry for the teachers, cook and serve meals, and so forth.<br /><br />I met, and chatted with, many of the teachers. I was treated to delightful impromptu singing and dance performances in the music department. I spent quite a bit of time in upper level classes. I discovered, to my surprise, that almost all the students had computers at home! When I asked them how much time they spent using their computers, the answers ranged from half an hour to three hours a day. This is in India! This is in Baroda, an out-of-the-way town in Gujarat! I never saw anything like this in Mumbai or Bangalore, where they’re supposed to be so ahead of the times.<br /><br />I also stopped off in the kindergarten and pre-kindergarten classes where I was entertained with whole group song and finger play recitals. In one classroom, a three year old boy came running up to me as soon as I walked in, his arms out, inviting a hug. I bent down and scooped him up into my arms where he immediately clamped onto me like a limpet.<br /><br />I have 34 nephews and nieces and 48 grand nephews and nieces, so I’ve scooped up many, many children in my time. I’ve never before been held like this child held me. After a minute or so, the two teachers in the class came up to take him off my hands, but this kid was having nothing of it. He held me tighter than ever and wrapped his legs around me, too. I could feel the heels of his shoes digging into my sides. It was incredible; it was also very, very moving. I’d have been quite happy for him to stay stuck to me for the rest of the day. He weighed no more than a feather and it felt great to be so wanted and loved.<br /><br />Turns out the kid thought I was his grandfather, who’s also bald as a coot! Eventually the teachers prized him off me limb by limb and we were able to proceed on our way.<br /><br />What a great school! It’s all happening in India. I predict great change in the infrastructure of education over the next 20 years, with technology being more and more integrated into what goes on in the classroom. India’s already taking its place amongst the leading nations on the economic front. Watch out when India eventually implements its goal of 100% free and compulsory education for all.<br /></div></div></div></div></div></div>Fulbright to Indiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03562429223157950825noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6248886363140834124.post-62039099062053315612007-05-01T15:32:00.000-05:002007-10-08T08:38:52.721-05:00Of Women, Widows, and Child Brides<div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVtEVQ_t3UsgaawZMuQiFLMqVzNOi2AJDbQS1O7cNouMvKtoqjsVsU-eAt9tAug1aj-p3bN5Hekg7TIl6bJ4pNyrxmSARnvlnOZw038LURZ3tNWop63dLmXNXDPIh5gGrCCap3Jy1d1EY/s1600-h/FSCN1503.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5059736126429721682" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVtEVQ_t3UsgaawZMuQiFLMqVzNOi2AJDbQS1O7cNouMvKtoqjsVsU-eAt9tAug1aj-p3bN5Hekg7TIl6bJ4pNyrxmSARnvlnOZw038LURZ3tNWop63dLmXNXDPIh5gGrCCap3Jy1d1EY/s320/FSCN1503.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhULAbGznbxrKlQEfkjgJRDuHBBdKZ4hQWujzbT59JiOC6jklQ4QRAOddIEsYAW9rdxefjh2d3g6Th8Fdl_yQ2KOT9sbCXGCtJMhSPd8l-FH_QRe2nQoetlHXtONJkiK-_-xao0PCWO6YQ/s1600-h/FSCN1502.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5059734077730321474" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhULAbGznbxrKlQEfkjgJRDuHBBdKZ4hQWujzbT59JiOC6jklQ4QRAOddIEsYAW9rdxefjh2d3g6Th8Fdl_yQ2KOT9sbCXGCtJMhSPd8l-FH_QRe2nQoetlHXtONJkiK-_-xao0PCWO6YQ/s320/FSCN1502.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4l8S-D48x827oZYtwCGXc2Rhy7fFs7dtpRnO83woBaH_9dVNxyktCFDhxdLZkD6Chl5OZKyu1zVr_nZq4bvQARiiQb080TOOj1w9FYvmFtHUHsVualvBoqdap5MsethplKSJwqpQIDQM/s1600-h/FSCN1501.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5059705907039826994" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4l8S-D48x827oZYtwCGXc2Rhy7fFs7dtpRnO83woBaH_9dVNxyktCFDhxdLZkD6Chl5OZKyu1zVr_nZq4bvQARiiQb080TOOj1w9FYvmFtHUHsVualvBoqdap5MsethplKSJwqpQIDQM/s320/FSCN1501.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5059702599915009058" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMqL0imOhQMXEdh35sRnP3nHOwLk6O8zrDBD2H5rdyi_4bqWMTbLUMDJuWylQ6DZpoJHiukujr4fCXmRTvxyND49BOwXNosytJrYk-gDNJuQqL4nrzqBIOIQ4P1o5Mg4VWx6IbS7TcWy0/s320/FSCN1498.JPG" border="0" />Yesterday I had a truly delightful time with the faculty and students of the Department of Educational Technology at SNDT, the first women’s university in India. For the record, I googled the acronym SNDT (Shrimati Nathibai Damodar Thackersey) Women's University and learned that the university was founded in 1816 by Dr. Dhondo Keshav Karve in response to a crying need to educate women—specifically Brahmin widows—as the only way of escape from the degrading realities of their lives, a reality which still lingers in modern Indian society.<br /><br />Widows? Why widows? Why were widows, in particular, in need of an education? Well…<br /><br />I’m lately learning about widows in India—more specifically about widows in Hindu India. I’m reading a book by Uma Chakravarti about the life and times of Pandita Ramabai, an eminent Indian Christian social reformer and activist, especially concerned with the plight of Indian women who survive their husbands. The rules for widowed women are relaxing now, but in 1816, and still today in some areas of the country, a woman widowed may not—may not—remarry. She belongs to her husband even after he has died.<br /><br />Now there are plenty of widows, including my mom who’s been a widow since my dad died in 1965, who don’t want to remarry after their husband has died. But at least my mom, in England, had some choice in the matter. Women in Hindu India had no choice then, in 1816, and many widows even in present day India feel like they have no choice now.<br /><br />It takes a long time for cultural prescriptions to die.<br /><br />The fact is that widows in India have been treated disgracefully in the past. They were forced, by Brahminical law, to have their heads shaved and to labor in the household of their dead husband where, essentially, they lived as a slave for the rest of their lives. Rather than face this miserable future, many a widow preferred the option of suti—immolation on her husband’s funeral pyre.<br /><br />Apart from the gross injustice of forcing anyone—literally or figuratively—to do something they don’t want to do, many a Hindu girl, in the old days, was widowed young. Brahminical law made this an inevitability.<br /><br />In 1816, Hindu (i.e. Brahman) law required that girls be married off by the age of 10! The reasoning was that a girl married off by the age of 10 was unlikely to lose her virginity (read "purity") to anyone but her husband--a very important consideration when the goal was to maintain the "purity" of the caste system. But the outcome of this practice was that, inevitably, before medical science had advanced to the degree it has today, far too many women died in childbirth, including young women married to old men.<br /><br />Indeed, it seems that it was not remarkable at all for a man to marry one, young, under-age-10 bride after another, until he died. Thus, when he did eventually die, he inexorably left behind a young widow.<br /><br />In 1860, obliging British overlords, bent on legal compromise, fixed age 10 as the legal age for Indian girls to marry—not before! So I guess that’s progress. Did the British legislators condoning that 1860 decision have their tongue in cheek, or did they honestly think that this was OK?<br /><br />We’ll never know.<br /><br />By 1884, because of deaths of child brides as a result of too early sexual abuse at the hands of adult husbands, there began serious discussion to raise to 12 the youngest age at which girls were married off. Still today, as I read in The Hindu newspaper just last week, child brides are married off (sometimes to child grooms) in their early teens, though it is now, thankfully, the exception rather than the rule.<br /><br />In the 19th and early 20th centuries, men always married child brides, who were not older than 10. This is because there weren't any other women to marry. Every girl was married off by age 10. If a wife died, say, in childbirth, the man would marry again, and again it would be to a child bride. There were no other brides. All the girls were married by the time they were 10 because it was required by Hindu Brahmanic law.<br /><br />Strange that widowers were allowed to remarry, but the same didn’t apply to widows. Oh, silly me. I forgot that men wrote the law!<br /><br />It was not unusual for a man to marry several times before he died, which meant that his final marriage was at an advanced age. What was a girl to do when her aged husband died within a few years of the marriage, as was not uncommonly the case? The child bride became a child widow. She could not remarry; she was shunned by society; she was a slave in her dead husband’s home; she had to have her head permanently shaved as a kind of enforced castration.<br /><br />What was a girl to do?<br /><br />Suti, not surprisingly, was sometimes preferable to a fate worse than death. Thank goodness for men and women like Dr. Dhondo Keshav Karve, Dr. Ambedkar, Mahatma Gandhi, and Shrimati Pandita Ramabai, who railed against injustices such as this and did what they could to right these egregious wrongs.<br /><br />We, too, today and every day, should do our part to work, slowly, but surely, for a society where everyone—-male, female, black, white, homosexual, heterosexual, disabled, non-disabled, red, pink, yellow, sallow, brown, light brown, bald, hairy, whatever—-has an equal opportunity to enjoy the good things of life on this beautiful earth of ours.<br /></div></div></div></div>Fulbright to Indiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03562429223157950825noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6248886363140834124.post-35695497523901931822007-04-21T13:09:00.000-05:002007-04-21T13:19:33.350-05:00Hi, Auntie!<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKOlDfzX6pWR28Zpq9yT-3ZpKOqGENG1UePltaRcNwBEdltsgwjb2Arwt4R3MSRl4PJLmZIMe8Wc8pYmO1IxMCFz24S3yXyLPKV6zdWOCObCk-1MKixpk4WHhpY4artfJEq6nwQXYZak8/s1600-h/Hi+Auntie.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5055947595091253746" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKOlDfzX6pWR28Zpq9yT-3ZpKOqGENG1UePltaRcNwBEdltsgwjb2Arwt4R3MSRl4PJLmZIMe8Wc8pYmO1IxMCFz24S3yXyLPKV6zdWOCObCk-1MKixpk4WHhpY4artfJEq6nwQXYZak8/s320/Hi+Auntie.JPG" border="0" /></a>This is cute.<br /><br />Every day when I walk into class, I give my laptop bag and the projector case to my students and they set up my system for me while I chat with other students before the class begins. As it happens, I have a picture of my wife, Marilyn, on the computer desktop. When the machines fire up, there she is in all her glorious beauty smiling down on the class.<br /><br />One day I overheard one of the students refer to her as “Auntie.” Only then did it occur to me that, just as they sometimes call me “uncle”—a term of respect for an older man in India—so “Auntie” would be the corresponding term of endearment for my wife.<br /><br />And so it goes.<br /><br />Now every morning, when Marilyn’s picture comes up on the screen, I tell everyone to say “Hi, Auntie!”<br /><br />And they do; and I think it’s sweet; and I hope you do, too.Fulbright to Indiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03562429223157950825noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6248886363140834124.post-76259524018410606482007-04-21T07:49:00.000-05:002007-04-21T21:16:28.615-05:00Lionized<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAUl5Cif1lCMh2u1mxokGEL-SFjKlaQ6nXcEOmFZYmxHY-Cul_HKvHEpWDDbYiy5quczMGnjh8kw9ei1gMT_1sEyo9h50RwX5AnjOIUK558pFr8htuCm0WKCA33E4GINjiv7WsyRYq7Rc/s1600-h/10+copies-DSCN1124.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5055943828404935138" style="FLOAT: left; 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MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAJE1n7cHZryRQMNvgtMX9c16tKv9jBP9jXzOAvKDJW9x7V3zDMz9GVoDqAxBmsi1GOxXwzT_7hUFjnULRML47b9boO8UpS_HJuVnPb8r2bI3wCo_c1dXmY_zVL07uqyIXVcDwsXPExL4/s320/DSCN1179.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgc2XBYx3bizaCmxU4DZaamF0X8uQ4_cD8wmT1DzS2E_7HzHFo5pZtaqO9zpbygJz-Yy2PA1GMtKFhRh8L75F3N8qRTOfwq0m9DzcwlsfjwZzfHvqCuxrhuLU9pjrplg6_LMJmFjcaj3Ho/s1600-h/DSCN1188.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5055875585669568754" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgc2XBYx3bizaCmxU4DZaamF0X8uQ4_cD8wmT1DzS2E_7HzHFo5pZtaqO9zpbygJz-Yy2PA1GMtKFhRh8L75F3N8qRTOfwq0m9DzcwlsfjwZzfHvqCuxrhuLU9pjrplg6_LMJmFjcaj3Ho/s320/DSCN1188.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguSQ_MtLrildQAZD6WDQH8EOdQjldepcd39cbi7mZ5vjzlVRLN-1vM7a8W14UxKH2nr83xbTWvMdYWlGnjDW1dc2UMgKPwrE9cNdu5eeF-k16k5NgdEAWLYKzhKbGV7ziGzffh99QbVdE/s1600-h/DSCN1194.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5055871904882596066" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguSQ_MtLrildQAZD6WDQH8EOdQjldepcd39cbi7mZ5vjzlVRLN-1vM7a8W14UxKH2nr83xbTWvMdYWlGnjDW1dc2UMgKPwrE9cNdu5eeF-k16k5NgdEAWLYKzhKbGV7ziGzffh99QbVdE/s320/DSCN1194.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvM75zWiBoCtRvibyarn2KSameL8idiMiIMeUF-xILUtNbfhkmGZxyrG1tnPJpKnmSUZw3anL8XCIjq8mx0OPk-aZO98KoWL1UFL1cEBLnJXrkBxqNKV2NTuo8iCJvc0hDHXGz3YMmt4g/s1600-h/Venkateswara+School+Renigunta.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5055866136741517506" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvM75zWiBoCtRvibyarn2KSameL8idiMiIMeUF-xILUtNbfhkmGZxyrG1tnPJpKnmSUZw3anL8XCIjq8mx0OPk-aZO98KoWL1UFL1cEBLnJXrkBxqNKV2NTuo8iCJvc0hDHXGz3YMmt4g/s320/Venkateswara+School+Renigunta.JPG" border="0" /></a>Things here are heating up in more ways than one. Yes, daytime temperatures consistently soar to 100F; but things are heating up as regards my schedule of engagements, too.<br /><br />Today is Saturday, and this week alone, aside from teaching my regular classes, I’ve been involved every day with one extra-curricular activity or another.<br /><br />I’ve given presentations at my university, to the faculty of the Education Department (Monday) and the English Department (Tuesday).<br /><br />On Wednesday (9:30 pm) and Thursday (12:30 am!!) I gave online presentations at the Teaching in the Community Colleges 2007 conference out of Hawaii, USA.<br /><br />Thursday morning saw me at Akshaya Kshetra as the chairperson of a three hour workshop for elementary school children on “Integration.” 100 children from a Renigunta primary school spent time with the Akshaya’s disabled residents learning about the plight of people with a disability.<br /><br />On Friday I was guest of honor at the Valedictory function for our graduating Masters of Education students. It was a beautiful ceremony where the students performed with recitals, songs and a short skit in between speeches by all and sundry. I was “felicitated” once again, garlanded and shawled, perfumed with sandalwood paste, my forehead daubed with a flash of red paint. I also was presented by my students with the most gorgeous gift of a beautifully carved figure of a Indian woman in tribal dress.<br /><br />Today, Saturday, I’m not long back from the Sri Venkateswara private elementary and secondary school in Renigunta, from which the children came for Thursday’s Integration workshop at the Akshaya Kshetra.<br /><br />I'm used to what I call "Indian time," where the starting time of anything is never--I mean never--at the appointed hour, and usually as much as half an hour late. But this morning was ridiculous even by Indian standards. The car to bring me to Renigunta was scheduled to pick me up at the guest house at 7:30 am. It eventually showed at 8:45 am!<br /><br />To add insult to injury, the car was a truly clapped-out banger, a bone-shaker of a thing, which stalled every time the driver took his foot off the accelerator! No A/C, of course.<br /><br />We eventually got to the school in Renigunta at around 9:30 am and I told the headmaster that I was on a very tight schedule. I absolutely had to leave by 10:30 so that I could be back at my university in time to teach my 11:30 class. I also said that I simply had to have a more reliable vehicle for the return trip--a motorbike, a scooter, a push bike, even a bullock cart!--anything rather than the jalopy they brought me in.<br /><br />A deal was struck. I gave my speech, after which I posed for photos with the students and staff. Then I foolishly accepted one student's request to sign her notebook. Next thing I knew, I was absolutely mobbed by students thrusting notebooks and scraps of paper at me.<br /><br />I scribbled a few more signatures, then I realized that I'd be there all day if I continued. So I threw up my hands, refused to sign another one, and pushed my way through the throng of clamoring boys and girls.<br /><br />It was like swimming against an ocean tide. Everyone wanted to shake my hands on the way back to the headmaster's office, where I gratefully sought refuge and downed a thirst-quenching bottle of coffee-cream milk.<br /><br />An air-conditioned jeep was commissioned to take me back to Tirupati. Now that's more like it! I made it back to the university with five minutes to spare.</div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div>Fulbright to Indiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03562429223157950825noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6248886363140834124.post-85005505842153655532007-04-14T17:12:00.000-05:002007-04-14T22:15:27.857-05:00Wedding Bells<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhss_EzrsdHL6K_hiHjcRCPsD7kwR3zTwZx4KYoXPui70BPi4825wcAAsQfuon0pbehI-TkHnCMc3F-uS9B_HZTxLUqt9UXIrKEeE3GiQFZySVenxkaTeIwRjqxMCArOQA-P-wgiLMWkD4/s1600-h/Musicians.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5053426284798283026" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhss_EzrsdHL6K_hiHjcRCPsD7kwR3zTwZx4KYoXPui70BPi4825wcAAsQfuon0pbehI-TkHnCMc3F-uS9B_HZTxLUqt9UXIrKEeE3GiQFZySVenxkaTeIwRjqxMCArOQA-P-wgiLMWkD4/s320/Musicians.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYSlmgypvAlOPYnOAMImuVf74HEFuAx_9yusppnuQruyGNNjYYtOxB5mUon885gntm3mq81amJ8H_89VkOm4hhDQ1hYfXgjJ_ZUnTuNBif6IhSmViJ_7p-0C-7XJt0BkM0OSHSwYXSF-8/s1600-h/Preparing+the+groom+2.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5053425412919921922" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYSlmgypvAlOPYnOAMImuVf74HEFuAx_9yusppnuQruyGNNjYYtOxB5mUon885gntm3mq81amJ8H_89VkOm4hhDQ1hYfXgjJ_ZUnTuNBif6IhSmViJ_7p-0C-7XJt0BkM0OSHSwYXSF-8/s320/Preparing+the+groom+2.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGS4IzWg-CiMrkn5v1-avYsEduxKt5U5U-RLWy-_I0d5XyErVG3iWB2azGaNS9QpmzVyOxbbskMIT9JN5WTit4_0Gjed5vk1mip_fMFFp0meh8bq8K9FbHvvAb9j94IRlY1AJmNWKIylw/s1600-h/Preparing+the+groom.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5053423596148755698" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGS4IzWg-CiMrkn5v1-avYsEduxKt5U5U-RLWy-_I0d5XyErVG3iWB2azGaNS9QpmzVyOxbbskMIT9JN5WTit4_0Gjed5vk1mip_fMFFp0meh8bq8K9FbHvvAb9j94IRlY1AJmNWKIylw/s320/Preparing+the+groom.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZ6-ZL0_NDBzKqjx6K3sGZGVJOsASGEk2g_o-3wvNybh77wZBWGvfHiGecP-dyR4dRzey-TqwG5sM3ki_TC46X_NEV66b2AlqN4MIly6JTkOrCP8-fqg3rjzCnbEdp52GHm8A91dTgxa4/s1600-h/Tying+the+knot+1.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5053421976946085090" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZ6-ZL0_NDBzKqjx6K3sGZGVJOsASGEk2g_o-3wvNybh77wZBWGvfHiGecP-dyR4dRzey-TqwG5sM3ki_TC46X_NEV66b2AlqN4MIly6JTkOrCP8-fqg3rjzCnbEdp52GHm8A91dTgxa4/s320/Tying+the+knot+1.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMsPh6Nlktj9RflP_xTsAvOpyL9G8JkHvOA5KxUc_h_A1KZfgvNd22oYsRwAkTK05nH1EZ2j-T97PXVhyphenhyphenxbP2fMcnllHilNoPJsVwBYDSZop27ld2UM0cFc8AAn9arQVeUEEeOtjWJGWQ/s1600-h/Tying+the+knot.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5053417029143760082" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMsPh6Nlktj9RflP_xTsAvOpyL9G8JkHvOA5KxUc_h_A1KZfgvNd22oYsRwAkTK05nH1EZ2j-T97PXVhyphenhyphenxbP2fMcnllHilNoPJsVwBYDSZop27ld2UM0cFc8AAn9arQVeUEEeOtjWJGWQ/s320/Tying+the+knot.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi13ECKJuuSIYaMVyrqiYdecUHFjfqFhjFOaxB7V2xkX7lydQJLtLiZiRZ8UodMsDLQOvLZ2thbqXO6ZBataxrlI9NCvskWsqeS_EvvcdQAwsTeHuvstonuAqRTD83lTU2Oqe2E5t9w4i8/s1600-h/Tying+the+knot+3.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5053415427120958658" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi13ECKJuuSIYaMVyrqiYdecUHFjfqFhjFOaxB7V2xkX7lydQJLtLiZiRZ8UodMsDLQOvLZ2thbqXO6ZBataxrlI9NCvskWsqeS_EvvcdQAwsTeHuvstonuAqRTD83lTU2Oqe2E5t9w4i8/s320/Tying+the+knot+3.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUh5QaQ970CgKembhLMnqh3QsVGpk99PT55dcTqVUie_yJzV1O5kzX7HA6flYsskL7uww7S6hbN0jthRgYa5WViDOehjd3ltdOEam_sF4WqfliPJsHY5qy9iHclkfm0knRkmC_apU5sNE/s1600-h/Felicitations.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5053413515860511922" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUh5QaQ970CgKembhLMnqh3QsVGpk99PT55dcTqVUie_yJzV1O5kzX7HA6flYsskL7uww7S6hbN0jthRgYa5WViDOehjd3ltdOEam_sF4WqfliPJsHY5qy9iHclkfm0knRkmC_apU5sNE/s320/Felicitations.JPG" border="0" /></a>Last Wednesday I attended a reception and dinner for Srikanth and Vineela on the eve of their wedding. Srikanth is the son of Dr. V. Kodandarami Reddy, a professor at Sri Venkateswara University. Vineela is the daughter of Mr. and Mrs. N. Rosi Reddy, probably related, though not necessarily so. Reddy is a very common surname in these parts, like Smith or Jones in England.<br /><br />The reception was held at R.K. Kalyanamandapam, a wedding center in Tiruchanoor, a suburb of Tirupati. A couple of hundred guests milled around in an open space in front of a stage where Srikanth and Vineela, after a formal ceremony of betrothal, were greeted by, and photographed with,a succession of guests, including eventually myself. This was not the wedding, just an opportunity for everyone to meet the bride and groom before they "tied the knot" the next day.<br /><br />The next morning, bright and early, determined not to miss a thing, I took an autorickshaw back to the wedding hall for the wedding proper. Breakfast was served in a large hall, a very informal affair where everyone sat down where they pleased at long tables while waiters came by with tasty South Indian tiffin tidbits such as idli, sambar, rice, chapatti, curry and so forth. In South India light meals and finger food is always referred to as "tiffin," an Anglo-Indian word meaning 'snack'. I love this stuff!<br /><br />Just after I finished breakfast and moved outside, the groom arrived at the mandapam (marriage center) and the musicians swung into action. Srikanth was dressed like a maharajah in a full cream and gold-lined coat and pants and matching turban. With mom and dad in tow and an entourage of attendants, led by the musicians he proceeded to the hall where the wedding was to take place.<br /><br />The reverse of what is customary in America or England, the bride was already there awaiting the arrival of the groom. This is because the mandapam, in a city setting, represents the bride's home. The groom comes in procession to claim the woman who has been chosen to be his mate and the mother of his children.<br /><br />In the foyer of the hall, the groom is prepared for the wedding. His feet are bathed. Garlands and gold chains are placed around his neck and gold bracelets on his wrists. Gold is everywhere. Everyone's dripping with it. Indians, especially the women, love gold; they can't get enough of it. It's passed down from generation to generation; it's an important slice of the dowry the bride's family has to pay for the pleasure of being absorbed into the family of the groom.<br /><br />As you perhaps see from the pictures above, the bride is bedecked in a gorgeous red and gold sari. The gold thread is real gold, by the way. She's also covered in gold jewelry from head to toe. She's beautiful.<br /><br />The wedding ceremony proper, being Hindu, is supervised by Vedic priests. They chant mantras and direct the groom while he "ties the knot"--<em>Kappu</em>, the holy thread--on the bride's wrist, which is meant to ward off evil spirits. The groom also ties the gold <em>Mangala Sutra</em> around the neck of the bride. She will wear this to her grave. Holding the bride’s hand, the bridegroom now walks seven steps with her. This is the most important part of the marriage ceremony, and only when they walk seven steps together (this is called <em>Saptha Padhi</em>) is the marriage legally complete. The belief is that when one walks seven steps with another, one becomes the other’s friend.<br /><br />Finally, the guests file up onto the stage to congratulate the bride and groom, pouring rice on their heads to wish them prosperity and the blessing of children. Not too many children, though. "We two, ours two" is the guideline given by the Government of India to try to limit the number of offspring. India's population, over one billion and growing, is second only to China, and it's projected to become the world's most populous nation by 2030.<br /><br />Fortunately, Indians have always, for thousands of years, had a yen for settling in different parts of the world. I don't know how many Indians live in diaspora, but there must be many millions of them by now. Srikanth and Vineela will be joining them when he takes his bride back with him to Lexington, Kentucky, where he's gainfully employed as a Firmware Engineer.Fulbright to Indiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03562429223157950825noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6248886363140834124.post-71480210485515013782007-04-08T09:08:00.000-05:002007-04-08T17:09:44.402-05:00Let me live…. Or let me die<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGfAh2ZBh27imltzFUIPXVYqO874WjjZ2dPas71K7tb5A-RyP4YmWPNN9M5_mJxbcxY_H4xws_6_PBpTbkxqdA8qXe3wU1r0os2P3SKNCH8qLfjoWAdnMXmqhu5biFMPVhs___-3FF2cA/s1600-h/Ramachandras.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5051064840736564818" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGfAh2ZBh27imltzFUIPXVYqO874WjjZ2dPas71K7tb5A-RyP4YmWPNN9M5_mJxbcxY_H4xws_6_PBpTbkxqdA8qXe3wU1r0os2P3SKNCH8qLfjoWAdnMXmqhu5biFMPVhs___-3FF2cA/s320/Ramachandras.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9GhT3nt3_Z-eXo8Xd61CnNc_mrg0dO1qUBSrNGPUWuvYW7EbkPIzENRsHZs2WhgJhseZsjCra4RwB2hiTHE91yENiCq7CUJGf9B5UP7ejnL9KRSenjlXDVRWgnGkg8HO5tVPKLcQ5j0I/s1600-h/Mr+and+Mrs+Ramachandra.JPG"></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLkbB9w_uovIH8a2K8OP1FW0P5H5GOs-eMfaxEmjE_k82UjZX0wfutW441R6RTVrPKzivaFbHFCWcJwlZ-gWyCTvPLp58MTTijPK_qynksyIZaFmFW_1SnKsOLQGPdOLD07RHy3REcjmg/s1600-h/DSCN0773.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5051063560836310578" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLkbB9w_uovIH8a2K8OP1FW0P5H5GOs-eMfaxEmjE_k82UjZX0wfutW441R6RTVrPKzivaFbHFCWcJwlZ-gWyCTvPLp58MTTijPK_qynksyIZaFmFW_1SnKsOLQGPdOLD07RHy3REcjmg/s320/DSCN0773.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHNEfFe-kQjyajgeAUHZ1UgPjJ2M2tu2uEjPLzWr27ncdqZRnAb4An_frnyP8ztLy3DhymG2o8Yqy5f135ba9OAks55CxsfPBujEToWSRuND1FoUZzDDs1aNRBGwH8rfz19Lzpe3ETAFk/s1600-h/DSCN0774.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5051063565131277890" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHNEfFe-kQjyajgeAUHZ1UgPjJ2M2tu2uEjPLzWr27ncdqZRnAb4An_frnyP8ztLy3DhymG2o8Yqy5f135ba9OAks55CxsfPBujEToWSRuND1FoUZzDDs1aNRBGwH8rfz19Lzpe3ETAFk/s320/DSCN0774.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQ0AnuhUAvfcl3W4863sNOgEA4SqR4Q_bLPDHs1gjZylPS54yc0ObYwiYAn_oBQ377SDJZlP59wH2a5ybBA6uhLrcS6609_QxdXfhMTQV8rECsI6Kv07vkM_yvnsYcyfq7Gd8iBgsf1j4/s1600-h/Mr+and+Mrs+Ramachandra.JPG"></a>Those are the words of Ramachandra, the teacher at Akshaya, a school for children with disabilities in Renigunta, about 20 miles from Tirupati, which I visited yesterday afternoon. That’s Ramachandra and his wife in the picture above. Ramachandra, at the age of two, contracted polio and has been unable to use his legs ever since.<br /><br />Ramachandra is a beautiful man.<br /><br />I’ve known him for only a few hours, so how can I say such a thing? Simple. Because I choose to do so, and because I sense that this is so.<br /><br />Life is constantly thrusting at us realities which we choose to either accept or deny. One day, about two months ago—every day seems like an age here in India where my experiences are so frequently fresh and new, like those of a new born baby—there was a knock at my door in the guest house. In walked Thasleema, with her friend Madhu.<br /><br />That’s Thasleema, wearing the off-white sari third from the left in the front row of the group picture above.<br /><br />I’d never met Thasleema before. I <em>had</em> met Madhu. We bumped into each other by chance at the Mother Teresa convent next to the Catholic church where I go every now and then for Sunday mass. On one side of the convent compound, the sisters and their aides take care of the elderly; on the other side, they take care of children with severe disabilities. I wrote about them in my blog in January.<br /><br />Madhu was at the convent with some of his Hindu friends, distributing food to the old folks. Ours was a chance acquaintance, like ships that pass in the night. I never expected to meet him again. But we’d exchanged business cards, so anything was possible.<br /><br />A few days later, along comes Thasleema, brought by Madhu to visit with me and ask for my advice. She’s about to defend her dissertation. Any day now she’ll be Dr. Thasleema. Her area of expertise is Special Education; it’s been her passion all the way through her undergraduate and graduate studies. She’s driven to help people with disabilities.<br /><br />“What do you recommend I do, now that I have my doctorate in Special Education?” she asked.<br /><br />“Why don’t you start a school for children with disabilities,” was my reply. I expect she already had this option in mind, but maybe she needed to hear someone else say it to give her the courage to go ahead. Who knows?<br /><br />Fact is, Akshaya, Thasleema's school for children with disabilities, has been open for two months.<br /><br />Like the Don Benny school I visited a few days ago, Akshaya is a beautiful place, out in the countryside, surrounded by the sun-burned, fractured, gnarly hills of the Eastern Ghats, with lush green rice paddies nearby. The school grounds are blessed by a steady, cooling breeze that softens the air, especially at dusk, and sighs soothingly across the wide open plain.<br /><br />Paradise.<br /><br />But paradise with a purpose. These children need help. The challenge is well nigh overwhelming if one dwells on the huge scale of human suffering, of human disability. We all suffer, of course. Indeed, we all have disabilities of one sort or another. But there are so many whose suffering is extreme.<br /><br />My friend Yvonne was born with severe cerebral palsy. Ramachandra has been without the use of his legs since the age of two. In the United States, with all our magnificent medical care and limitless supply of cash, there are 54 million people who are registered with a disability. That’s one person out of every five or six of the population.<br /><br />If your family doesn’t have someone in it with a disability, count yourself lucky.<br /><br />In India, the ratio must be at least equal to that of the United States. So I estimate there must be around 180 million people in India with a disability. From what I’ve seen, many, many more of those people than in the United States have a severe disability, like Ramachandra.<br /><br />But people with a disability like Ramachandra don’t want our sympathy. They want our empathy; they want us to understand their plight. They don’t want us to feel <em>for</em> them; they want us to feel <em>with</em> them. Above all, they need our help.<br /><br />Thasleema’s husband, Latif, who has supported her through school and who provided the seed funding for this venture of hers, was on hand for my visit. Latif and Thasleema are Muslim. Madhu is Hindu. I’m Christian.<br /><br />Latif, Madhu and I joined hands and had our picture taken to capture the simple symbolism of our common brotherhood.<br /><br />It’s not about religion. It’s about human compassion and human love. Those are the eternal values that make a difference in this world of ours.<br /><br />Before he got involved with the Akshaya, Ramachandra wrote a story about his life and gave it the title: “Let me live… Or let me die.”<br /><br />“Help me,” he pleaded. “I’m trying all I can to overcome my disability. I’ve put myself through school and qualified as a teacher. Someone, please give me a job. Let me use my skills. Let me do something useful, too—-or let me off this hellish merry-go-round we call life.”<br /><br />People with a disability anywhere in the world, regardless of qualifications, have a notoriously hard time getting meaningful, gainful employment.<br /><br />Ramachandra's article caught Thasleema’s eye when she read it in the newspaper. She remembered him when she came to start her school. She needed a teacher for her children with disabilities; Ramachandra needed a teaching job.<br /><br />Perfect fit.<br /><br />Thanks to Thasleema and Latif and the community they’ve gathered around them, Ramachandra and his wife of two months now have a lot to look forward to, as the beautiful smiles on their beautiful faces attest.</div>Fulbright to Indiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03562429223157950825noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6248886363140834124.post-31162644786617761282007-04-06T02:16:00.000-05:002007-04-06T15:18:13.453-05:00Sigh...<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXafgOaMD_-ZmpLqRd1LeGX0XizqIisjnEtFzqSA2B1YLD2FeUozKPiJCh1O8pre7uwPfPD7usR3DNOwDAYlEO2ucRZWI-uptYhtpVRl6UKpcY2nNOpwAuYr2brxmsCQd5vmrRYy4O49c/s1600-h/bush+burned.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5050411052224832994" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXafgOaMD_-ZmpLqRd1LeGX0XizqIisjnEtFzqSA2B1YLD2FeUozKPiJCh1O8pre7uwPfPD7usR3DNOwDAYlEO2ucRZWI-uptYhtpVRl6UKpcY2nNOpwAuYr2brxmsCQd5vmrRYy4O49c/s320/bush+burned.JPG" border="0" /></a>My butterflies are gone.<br /><br />Do you remember them? They used to greet me every morning when I took this shortcut through the bush on my way to school.<br /><br />My butterflies are gone, their habitat scorched to nothing by fire set to clear the bush. I understand the need to clear the undergrowth; it stimulates fresh growth, including amongst the trees that occupy the space. But it’s a shame my butterflies have had to flutter off to another place.<br /><br />When I saw what had happened this morning, I couldn’t help but muse on what we humans do to the planet in our pursuit of personal well-being. Each one of us looks for space to plant our feet, space to live, space to support ourselves, space to support our families and friends.<br /><br />How much space do we need?<br /><br />Well, I guess that depends on how much we can afford. Rich people like to have lots of it; poor people are sometimes lucky to have the space they find themselves in at any point in time. Rich people surround themselves with luxurious spaces that poor people can only dream about.<br /><br />What do we do when everyone has the wealth to buy themselves a sizeable piece of the planet’s pie? What do we do when billions of Chinese and Indians and South Americans and South East Asians can all afford houses and cars and shopping malls and six lane highways, just like the Americans and the Europeans and other rich folks?<br /><br />What do we do when they all want the same space as us? How many people can the planet sustain when each person has the kind of impact on the planet that I do?<br /><br />David Quammen, a sociobiologist graduate of Yale and Oxford universities, said this in his beautiful book “The Song of the Dodo: Island Biogeography in an Age of Extinctions”:<br /><br />"Let's start indoors. Let's start by imagining a fine Persian carpet and a hunting knife. The carpet is twelve feet by eighteen, say. That gives us 216 square feet of continuous woven material. Is the knife razor sharp? If not, we hone it. We set about cutting the carpet into thirty-six equal pieces, total them up--and find that, lo, there's still nearly 216 square feet of recognizably carpet like stuff. But what does it amount to? Have we got thirty-six nice Persian throw rugs? No. All we're left with is three dozen ragged fragments, each one worthless and commencing to come apart."<br /><br />What a frightening analogy for what humans are doing to the planet earth! We're inexorably dividing it up into smaller and smaller sections, smaller and smaller habitats, squeezing out the larger species other than ourselves because they need a larger space to survive and we're taking it away from them.<br /><br />We're getting to the point where the larger species can survive only in zoos.<br /><br />There seems to be no way of stopping it, no end to the steady depletion and destruction of this our earthly domain.<br /><br />I sometimes think that we humans are a kind of cancer. We invade our own place, our own space, slowly overwhelming it, till it’s incapable of going on--till it dies.<br /><br />Am I the only one who feels this way?<br /><br />Maybe the best thing that could happen to the planet is that we just go ahead and render it uninhabitable, like a bush fire that destroys most everything in its path--except for the life that survives to live another day.<br /><br />I hope my butterflies are still there after we're all dead and gone.Fulbright to Indiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03562429223157950825noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6248886363140834124.post-2111048392011729912007-04-05T00:11:00.000-05:002007-04-05T01:18:47.570-05:00An amazing place<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitVEJl4gi-G9F0zo-DamJLyyEPdJBPocbDKZ_kjfXj3GIGE2Rb-1bOWKiWLWrFz1xsSPsy0hkiOdc__ASXruBYfH7tul6860p7p2AAnGskp4b7LcphYTr3VHmEEXhjq2HCa-7tJsamjU8/s1600-h/DSCN0715.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5049824106289128898" style="FLOAT: left; 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MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWbcc_qRCMgsUeIDLXVJXl3GdagY8muIz0wF8HTYl-uoidGb38ZgT29uZvSpx1Dib2eQyu9u7Grh6TPx3e518jF0X9WRB6wdoEFUVa_40k3HLG8pFT_MCLVGg47oMw43FrZo3Bj_cFcNc/s320/DSCN0744.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtR41jwk6pbZM25vBZ-BolaVl533GPGI89ECrr7o-QBOAkekPUyrwsntWlu5T14F2OtRKUzUeSno6pi1JMJwwcXjd2FcHhlucPBssuwi8dI7JJfPHDMYOvSW8aZBXrWA9dysPAuaQVsRE/s1600-h/DSCN0745.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5049813008093635826" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtR41jwk6pbZM25vBZ-BolaVl533GPGI89ECrr7o-QBOAkekPUyrwsntWlu5T14F2OtRKUzUeSno6pi1JMJwwcXjd2FcHhlucPBssuwi8dI7JJfPHDMYOvSW8aZBXrWA9dysPAuaQVsRE/s320/DSCN0745.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIG2TIcNOQkmXy6ljfUJyueMTWRS4GYdcvfyKxrWuet5akL-lKgMFFrRbRlicSGBokjTs8yLPIz_Xp2kXree23OADOHL4bmwlONrepTFVp-T2TTnGkhF6MBL-Mx_FxeAlUvmfWE-J4XjU/s1600-h/DSCN0748.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5049813016683570434" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIG2TIcNOQkmXy6ljfUJyueMTWRS4GYdcvfyKxrWuet5akL-lKgMFFrRbRlicSGBokjTs8yLPIz_Xp2kXree23OADOHL4bmwlONrepTFVp-T2TTnGkhF6MBL-Mx_FxeAlUvmfWE-J4XjU/s320/DSCN0748.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPLMommrg9Qtxgp1qM6N55evy42R6xeR4QV07GU3j8YX7XozrHDVw8MXCw3i4LbehUDoDvErzC58idJuMSzACJcIQL8niFUKeRDVTaFoOZA9zEvHUBFP3R1kyN6fZMm2elAPZVRMNzuTk/s1600-h/DSCN0750.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5049813020978537746" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPLMommrg9Qtxgp1qM6N55evy42R6xeR4QV07GU3j8YX7XozrHDVw8MXCw3i4LbehUDoDvErzC58idJuMSzACJcIQL8niFUKeRDVTaFoOZA9zEvHUBFP3R1kyN6fZMm2elAPZVRMNzuTk/s320/DSCN0750.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><div>Yesterday afternoon, at around 3:30 pm, I was picked up at the university guest house by Mrs. Ivy Katherine and taken to the Don Benny Public School. It’s a couple of miles outside of Tirupati in what is still a rural area. The school—actually a private school—is the dream-child of Ivy Katherine and her husband, Ramesh, who bought the land on which it stands 12 years ago. Over the ensuing time, they have developed it into the awesome, ashram-like place it is today.<br /><br />It is a school for children from kindergarten through age 14-15. All classes are taught in English. Class sizes are small (max 25 students) compared to most other schools in India, where class size is normally anywhere from 40 to 50 students. But the best thing about this school is its location, in the middle of nowhere, yet close enough to the town of Tirupati to have a ready catchment of students.<br /><br />From the moment I arrived I was captivated by the serenity of the place. The 200 or so students, along with the faculty, were all assembled in an open area under the trees, where they were sitting quietly while Ivy Katherine and Ramesh took me on a tour of the establishment. Fortunately, there was a cameraman on hand to take pictures, so I gave him my camera and told him to shoot away whenever he pleased. The photos above give you some idea of the beauty of the school, set, as it is, amongst the surrounding hills.<br /><br />Mrs. Ivy Katherine, soon to be Dr. Ivy Katherine, is the principal of the school. Her husband, Ramesh, is a Phys Ed teacher at a college about 50 miles away, but the Don Benny School is as much a realization of his dream as it is of Ivy Katherine’s. He manages the plant and supervises all the construction, which has been ongoing over the past 12 years. He also coaches the sports teams and I watched him later in the evening playing soccer with some of the boys. For a 49 year old, he’s remarkably fit, agile, and full of energy in a very quiet, unassuming, really beautiful sort of a way.<br /><br />Together, Ivy Katherine and Ramesh have created what I consider to be a model school where the children are able to grow up as part of a close-knit family in an environment where homespun, simple, unalloyed values can be nurtured and acquired. To see all the children sitting around me, from the little kindergarten kiddywinks to the soon-to-graduate 15 year olds, I couldn’t help but feel that I was in a kind of time warp, like I was stepping back 50 years or more to a time and place when innocence had not yet been shattered by modern mass communications.<br /><br />I was introduced to the students by Ivy Katherine and one after another they came up and presented me with garlands and bouquets to welcome me to the school. Then I gave a little speech. As you can see from the pictures, I had a lot of fun, and the children seemed to enjoy it, too.<br /><br />Afterwards we had a photo shoot with the teachers and with the different age groups of students. The students were then dismissed for the day. I sat down with Ivy Katherine and her daughter and we chatted for about an hour while watching Ramesh and some of the students playing soccer. After that we went indoors (Ivy Katherine and the family live in a house on the school grounds), and watched a movie while dinner was prepared. Dinner was delicious, as usual. I love South Indian cuisine and Ivy Katherine seemed to know all of my favorite dishes.<br /><br />Around 9:00 pm I said my farewells and, with a wistful sigh of inner contentment, settled onto the back of Ramesh’s motorbike for the ride home.<br /><br />What an amazing country this India is. I'm falling in love with it more and more with each passing day.</div></div></div></div>Fulbright to Indiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03562429223157950825noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6248886363140834124.post-91447324060329877852007-04-04T00:39:00.000-05:002007-04-04T14:41:11.698-05:00Suma<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfkpVpWd2VWHpi3kG4p_Yw8sp2_RZn_Jlda4l6znypA-8XH6416XSsXsZhcUJxMMzU_fLrIYqv1IpSTjoMoeEf3bD3Ucj4-AczYNP1B6QDP7unKhtJ-ge9uWIaIDjoCx1sYciFkfcjPcI/s1600-h/DSCN0699.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5049446179231851714" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfkpVpWd2VWHpi3kG4p_Yw8sp2_RZn_Jlda4l6znypA-8XH6416XSsXsZhcUJxMMzU_fLrIYqv1IpSTjoMoeEf3bD3Ucj4-AczYNP1B6QDP7unKhtJ-ge9uWIaIDjoCx1sYciFkfcjPcI/s320/DSCN0699.JPG" border="0" /></a>Yesterday evening, April 3rd, I was invited to the birthday party of authoress M.Suma.<br /><br />I first heard about Suma when her mother, Dr. Rama, gave me a book Suma had written and which had just been published by the printing press of the school she attends. The book is titled “The Wings of Dreams,” and it is the story of a young girl’s Harry Potter-esque adventures in a fantastic realm of make-believe.<br /><br />Dr. Rama asked me if I would like to read the book and comment on it. I readily agreed to do so.<br /><br />That’s Suma, wearing the green sari in the picture above. The other girl is one of her classmates. As of yesterday, Suma is 15 years old, but her age belies her maturity. Over the phone, prior to my meeting her in person, she came across as very much an adult in her tone of voice and use of language. I would never have guessed that she was only 14.<br /><br />When she came to the guest house with her father to bring me to her home for the birthday party, I didn’t recognize her from her picture (which is on the cover of her book) and wondered who was visiting me unannounced. I was expecting a young girl. When she told me who she was, I was mildly flabbergasted. Suma is a graceful, eloquent, refined young woman who, in her appearance and demeanor, would not have looked out of place amongst my Masters of Education students at the university.<br /><br />I enjoyed reading her book. Since I’d been invited to comment on it, I read it with editor’s pen in hand. It quickly was apparent to me that Suma had not benefited from an editor’s touch before her book was published. I learned in conversation with her during the birthday party that she had hand-written the manuscript in a note book, then had the manuscript transcribed onto the computer by someone else, and the electronic file was then passed directly to the publisher for publication, without further ado.<br /><br />I could have “read” her book, as others had done, and ignored all the errors. But I thought it important, for Suma’s sake, to give her a critical evaluation. So, as my wife, Marilyn, did for years with her student’s papers, I identified every mistake I came across. I marked up oodles of mechanical errors, just as the editors of my published books had marked up my own work.<br /><br />I loved the story, and the writing style, though I had one question when I was done reading it: “Where’s the rest?”. It sort of peters out at the end.<br /><br />Well, Suma is aware of this and is already writing the continuing saga of young Felishia Adornis Yaflowne, affectionately known as Fay, and that of the cast of characters who progress through the first part of her tale. I'm looking forward to reading more about Fay’s further adventures, and about her blossoming relationship with her magical, winged friend, Levion.<br /><br />Suma has a computer at home, so I asked her why she hadn’t used it to prepare the manuscript for the publisher. It would have allowed her to edit her own work. Most important of all, the computer would have enabled her to present the publisher with an electronic version of the manuscript, thus eliminating the error-prone process of transcription by a typist who may or may not have had much familiarity with the English language.<br /><br />When I asked her why she hadn’t used the computer, Suma just shrugged her shoulders and told me it hadn’t really occurred to her to do so. Anyway, she much prefers to do her writing pen in hand, rather than typing directly into a computer, as I prefer to do.<br /><br />But Suma does have the electronic version of the manuscript on a CD-R, so she’ll easily be able to update it based on all my edits, prior to adding the sequel to the story. Along the way, she’ll no doubt tweak things here and there as new ideas, insights, and intrigues come to mind. A work of art is never finished, as such. It reaches a stage where the creator feels compelled to let it go, and thus it becomes, so to speak, etched in stone. Even fiction writers, though, will sometimes revise their books between printing runs when given the opportunity to do so.<br /><br />I’m looking forward to reading the next edition of Suma’s book. As she told me in our conversation during the rooftop gathering of family and friends, every character in “The Wings of Dreams” reflects a part of her personality, so it will be fun to find out more.<br /><br />Meanwhile, you’ll no doubt be alarmed to know that I was invited to sing at the party! “No way,” I said. “Even if I could sing, I don’t know the words to any songs.” But then I thought: “Wait a minute. I do know the words to one song.”<br /><br />And I stood up and got everyone to join me in singing “Happy birthday to Suma!”Fulbright to Indiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03562429223157950825noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6248886363140834124.post-85035414814695506572007-04-01T13:23:00.000-05:002007-04-03T04:27:28.492-05:00Uma<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhi820uIH18OP1QaWhSbMoPPeaVItHrs3UzVTP5G8WNAAlCtQWaFzVtvvq19DX1gR3UCXvs-RrKHSYrWKsd3kscP0IthLc79LMlyRArbyId28iMgWwXY82uMe0T88tiE3l-ctMfPwoU0NQ/s1600-h/1+copy+too.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5048528407809032834" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhi820uIH18OP1QaWhSbMoPPeaVItHrs3UzVTP5G8WNAAlCtQWaFzVtvvq19DX1gR3UCXvs-RrKHSYrWKsd3kscP0IthLc79LMlyRArbyId28iMgWwXY82uMe0T88tiE3l-ctMfPwoU0NQ/s320/1+copy+too.JPG" border="0" /></a>Uma, pictured here, is one of my students. Intelligent, sharp as a tack--and thoughtful, kind, and considerate to boot. She’s also highly articulate and skilled in computer use, the most skilled of the 51 students in my M.Ed class.<br /><br />She'd be a great snag for a would-be suitor.<br /><br />Well, guess what? Yesterday, shortly before I took this picture, she gave me an invitation to her wedding. She's to be married in four days' time.<br /><br />Uma and I get along pretty well. I was surprised she hadn't told me before that she was so soon to be married. I asked her when it was that she first found out.<br /><br />"About ten days ago," she said.<br /><br />"Did you know the man before the announcement of your engagement?"<br /><br />"Oh yes," she said. "He's my cousin. My uncle’s son."<br /><br />Not necessarily a first cousin, I hasten to add; maybe second or third cousin. I don’t know. As in Africa, in India the term “cousin” and “uncle” can have various interpretations. My students often call me “uncle,” for example. It’s used out of respect and is a polite term of endearment.<br /><br />The families of Uma and her beau had put their heads together and arranged for this marriage to take place. I don’t know how much choice Uma or her husband had in the matter. For all I know, the marriage may have been arranged by the parents a long time ago. In South India, as elsewhere in the world, all kinds of considerations factor into the family selection of marriage partners for the children. Love is not usually one of them. Love is expected to come later--maybe.<br /><br />But Uma was bubbling with excitement when she gave me the invitation. She was passing invitations around to several of her classmates, too. Uma is about to become the wife of a man who will whisk her away to Kuwait in the Middle East, where he works as an accountant.<br /><br />Together they’ll make a fortune and a family and live happily ever after.<br /><br />If it’s customary for marriages to be arranged in India, what’s the harm in that? The divorce rate here is about 1-2%; in America and England it’s over 50%.<br /><br />They’re even beginning to wonder, in England, if it’s worth getting married at all.<br /><br />Which system works best? You decide.Fulbright to Indiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03562429223157950825noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6248886363140834124.post-36212339523724410922007-03-29T21:34:00.000-05:002007-04-06T20:51:31.223-05:00March Madness<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEik85EY3wiBsWya-YfILcAZ0Ik-Jql5VuO52n6nd4mdlQ9LqQpfViaCyQ1bQb508y0IYUKAatJ5nD6lhSEXrkaC9WnOWuihJc4xZpikVhah7HKyhOsiJggjCUxIhGNgsXgJMeTS6C4XGuw/s1600-h/DSCN14630645.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5050422953579210226" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEik85EY3wiBsWya-YfILcAZ0Ik-Jql5VuO52n6nd4mdlQ9LqQpfViaCyQ1bQb508y0IYUKAatJ5nD6lhSEXrkaC9WnOWuihJc4xZpikVhah7HKyhOsiJggjCUxIhGNgsXgJMeTS6C4XGuw/s320/DSCN14630645.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFTdBKOuv3cemboul7te0oHbFeNIi5h3cmmMcFcGfyQ1cPVJ9z5Lw0ILfYDELZDwHhAd6OwMXmGldaxrZ8p8nUlcPv0GEFnrNHOpjR_jTg4XyyrudxFEDC3saor0MHN4hw2oaSJ2Bibn0/s1600-h/DSCN1557.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5050422962169144834" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFTdBKOuv3cemboul7te0oHbFeNIi5h3cmmMcFcGfyQ1cPVJ9z5Lw0ILfYDELZDwHhAd6OwMXmGldaxrZ8p8nUlcPv0GEFnrNHOpjR_jTg4XyyrudxFEDC3saor0MHN4hw2oaSJ2Bibn0/s320/DSCN1557.JPG" border="0" /></a><br />It’s that time of year. Conferences, workshops, seminars, symposiums--you name it--are springing up like crocuses and daffodils in Spring.<br /><br />Money that has been made available for grants to cover the cost of academic gatherings must be spent by the end of the financial year, which, in India, is the end of March. So everyone’s been scrambling to spend it.<br /><br />As a result, in recent weeks I’ve been kind of inundated with requests to speak here, there, and everywhere. I estimate that I’ve addressed well over 1000 people in the past two weeks alone. Not that I've received much of that grant money that's been floating around; my services are usually given gratis.<br /><br />I’ve been guest speaker at a gathering of Sanskrit professors. I was the “opening batsman” at a conference of the National Academy of Psychologists. I was the keynote speaker at a two-day workshop on “Open and Distance Learners” for the Directorate of Distance Education at Sri Venkateswara University here in Tirupati. At the same university I addressed the graduating seniors in the College of Commerce. The following day I spoke to the students studying for their Masters in English Literature.<br /><br />I’m obviously not being asked to give speeches because I’m famous or anything. Nor am I being invited because I’m recognized as an expert in any particular field. I’m being asked to speak because I’m willing and available and can be slotted in at a moment’s notice.<br /><br />For example, I was asked to give the Keynote Address for the Open and Distance Learners conference only five days before the event! I’m guessing that originally they must have had someone else in mind; but they failed to snag whoever it was, so I was an afterthought. What also happens is when some professor will come up to greet me after I've given a presentation and ask me if I’d be willing to come to his or her university to do the same. I’m in the habit of saying “Yes” to all such invitations, so inevitably I’m kept busy.<br /><br />No problem. Put me behind a podium, flip the switch, and I can talk the hind leg off a donkey. It’s fun, having a platform where you can express your opinion. It’s even more fun when people appreciate what you have to say.<br /><br />You won’t believe this, but after one presentation in a town called Guntur in Andhra Pradesh state, I was mobbed by students wanting my autograph!! Honestly; I was mobbed. For the first time in my life I appreciated what it must be like to be famous.<br /><br />There’s no question of this "celebrity status" going to my head, by the way, even though, as my dear wife, Marilyn, will attest, I am “a legend in my own mind!”<br /><br />Believe me, any inflated delusions I might have had about where I fit in this grand scheme of academic affairs were very effectively deflated when the university where I was to deliver the Keynote Address sent a motorbike to bring me to the venue!<br /><br />A motorbike, for heaven’s sake! No private, air-conditioned car; no air-conditioned taxi; not even an auto rickshaw.<br /><br />But I’ve come to love riding on the back of motorbikes and scooters. It’s a great way to experience India and, as I said in my Keynote Address at the Open and Distance Learning conference, I’ve come to love India, too. One way or another, I hope to experience it a whole lot more in the years ahead.Fulbright to Indiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03562429223157950825noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6248886363140834124.post-25630949408019066832007-03-27T11:43:00.000-05:002007-03-28T04:00:40.599-05:00Thwack! Thwack!<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkMCHO3JO4OyxoBF8pxXr0co4UoWJpLSU7Oqq_1TORl6yn17PsjS6xRBMtu0tjmibgFITQPjqNcDd8BiCYLjwkdvFO0N9iVgKOBlahNHfU-8J3p9omvT-Ppu42ltbIvGuVWr2di0olyuY/s1600-h/laundry+2.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5046895877854921298" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkMCHO3JO4OyxoBF8pxXr0co4UoWJpLSU7Oqq_1TORl6yn17PsjS6xRBMtu0tjmibgFITQPjqNcDd8BiCYLjwkdvFO0N9iVgKOBlahNHfU-8J3p9omvT-Ppu42ltbIvGuVWr2di0olyuY/s320/laundry+2.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgG8JgIf3m0gu3mKthofRO1e6Gnx94MX9_pokgjn6Ed-TeINz2vvIZLiIiRkBF7zZbJhKxpl2vohDTbLmhLvc6lf02b7orMUyOV7bzbABapVnAupghBJ7fvYgMlLK8s19zeTwdZ6EoVMvc/s1600-h/Laundry+1.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5046648383513336498" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgG8JgIf3m0gu3mKthofRO1e6Gnx94MX9_pokgjn6Ed-TeINz2vvIZLiIiRkBF7zZbJhKxpl2vohDTbLmhLvc6lf02b7orMUyOV7bzbABapVnAupghBJ7fvYgMlLK8s19zeTwdZ6EoVMvc/s320/Laundry+1.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmuPj3cfGpCXEJm1qxBi-Lm4njRTjZti88xFpMS9IRkiURgZq-i53oWkrogV7Cm1cSAochfHgs4ZuyyYBejztH0r3kM5fqHmz1J5i0wdE6wQBqaDMl4nFeftP6n_N5SUicZLPtQpIoWX4/s1600-h/Laundry+2.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5046648387808303810" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmuPj3cfGpCXEJm1qxBi-Lm4njRTjZti88xFpMS9IRkiURgZq-i53oWkrogV7Cm1cSAochfHgs4ZuyyYBejztH0r3kM5fqHmz1J5i0wdE6wQBqaDMl4nFeftP6n_N5SUicZLPtQpIoWX4/s320/Laundry+2.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjH0psmhx0itTYdE9Uu1fCiiGPN_hcu1VxCqaQVtKVxUDtBaTG19XxtatndTmcgyaIfhv6gYOP0smbWWgr2xVvftDtf3i93ryCu8oK-Q4YztlU7hc5J6mpH4GLSI7TNBme4RT2YR2hO8XY/s1600-h/Laundry+3.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5046648396398238418" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjH0psmhx0itTYdE9Uu1fCiiGPN_hcu1VxCqaQVtKVxUDtBaTG19XxtatndTmcgyaIfhv6gYOP0smbWWgr2xVvftDtf3i93ryCu8oK-Q4YztlU7hc5J6mpH4GLSI7TNBme4RT2YR2hO8XY/s320/Laundry+3.JPG" border="0" /></a>I hear this every morning around 7:30-8:00 am when I’m in the bathroom taking a shower--or reading the newspaper, if you know what I mean. It’s the sound of one of the women next door doing laundry.<br /><br />As you see from the pictures above, all you need is a ready supply of water, some soap, and any kind of flattish rock or stone slab. The process requires the repeated smacking of the cloth against a hard place. The lady is doing her washing on the banks of the river that runs by the temple of Sri Kalahastri. The gentleman is the dhobi who does my laundry, so those are my duds that are being beaten to death.<br /><br />It’s fun to watch. The sight and sound conjure up timeless images of a simpler lifestyle, before we industrialized ourselves into our present ecologically precarious state.<br /><br />Don’t get me wrong. Doing laundry this old-fashioned way is hard work, so I’m all for washing machines. It’s just that, with 6+ billion people on the planet and rising, the human impact is going to be devastating if everyone has a washing machine—and a house with a TV or two, and a car or two, and a microwave, and a telephone-computer, and a water supply and electricity, and a fancy wardrobe, and so forth.<br /><br />Right now, it’s the small minority of people on the planet who enjoy such earth-depleting “luxuries.” What on earth are we going to do when all the Chinese and all the Indians have enough money to join the club?<br /><br />Population isn’t going to decrease any time soon. Conservative estimates put world population kind of peaking at from 10 billion to 12 billion by the end of this century. The desire for the good things in life is what makes humans get up in the morning. With globalization, more and more people are joining the ranks of the reasonably well off.<br /><br />Really. Whatever are we going to do when the planet’s overrun and everyone wants a piece of what’s left?<br /><br />One of the reasons I so hope there’s a life after death--somewhere comfortable where I can sit in an armchair sipping a G&T—is because I want to watch and see how things pan out.<br /><br />It’ll be very, very interesting indeed.</div>Fulbright to Indiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03562429223157950825noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6248886363140834124.post-15622904811490161402007-03-25T12:02:00.002-05:002007-03-25T21:37:41.925-05:00Religion and politics<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3mbYA2zvyM9vyRO7b0IkeOsjxJcD4NRTvhjt3aDf7vUlwROIQIE6zqA47XdcZAADwsRczqC15Jdd0RP2ciYUpBwOM22XWPXTyqIUBL3h0OKiPW-yVIY0AzgQT6KDFUCC3YZ0eRc8kfgg/s1600-h/gandhi.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5045909427045675346" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3mbYA2zvyM9vyRO7b0IkeOsjxJcD4NRTvhjt3aDf7vUlwROIQIE6zqA47XdcZAADwsRczqC15Jdd0RP2ciYUpBwOM22XWPXTyqIUBL3h0OKiPW-yVIY0AzgQT6KDFUCC3YZ0eRc8kfgg/s320/gandhi.jpg" border="0" /></a>I was out enjoying my evening walk just now. I had to take a different route than normal because, these days, the university campus is out of bounds after 6:00 pm to anyone other than students, or so it seems.<br /><br />While I was in Aurangabad two weeks ago, one of our students committed suicide. It is difficult, if not impossible, for me to understand what would bring someone to such a point of utter despair, but it's not that unusual. Every day I read in the newspapers of people committing suicide because they've gotten themselves deep in debt, or, in the case of students, because they've cracked under the pressure of family expectations in the face of public examinations.<br /><br />So sad. When one looks around one, there's a lot of sadness in this world of ours. Perhaps this has always been the case, and perhaps this is why a lot of people turn to religion to find solace and meaning in what might otherwise, according to their perceptions, be a pointless life.<br /><br />All I know is that the specter of religion has reared its ugly head in the aftermath of this girl's untimely death. She apparently had converted from Hinduism to Christianity and there's a feeling around India, amongst Hindus, that some Christian groups go to excessive lengths to gather folks into their fold. I won’t repeat the stories I’ve heard, because they don’t ring true to me, but the fact is that the university has been in a semi lock-down mode for the past two weeks, with extra security on hand and a curfew of sorts.<br /><br />Hindu concerns are sometimes well-founded. On a few occasions, I have had to resist some blatant Christian proselytizing myself. This very evening, indeed, towards the end of my walk, two men on a motorbike sidled up, announced that they were evangelicals or something, and invited me to their church service at 7:30 pm.<br /><br />I told them I was Hindu and that I was up for Darshan at the nearest temple, if they cared to join me!<br /><br />Why does religion, where everyone professes love and peace and brotherhood, so often result in hatred and violence and enmity between people? It’s very odd. I’ll never figure it out. No wonder some people are driven to despair despite their affiliation with some religion or other.<br /><br />I was brought up Catholic, though I long ago eschewed Catholic practice. Any alignment I might have with Catholic thought is purely coincidental. I think what I think, and believe what I believe, because it makes sense to me, not because I’ve been told to by some priest or pope.<br /><br />I recently read a beautiful quote from Mahatma Gandhi who said: “After long study and experience I have come to these conclusions, that: (1) all religions are true, (2) all religions have some error in them, (3) all religions are almost as dear to me as my own Hinduism. My veneration for other faiths is the same as for my own faith. Consequently, the thought of conversion is impossible. … Our prayer for others ought never to be: “God give them the light thou hast given to me!” But: “Give them all the light and truth they need for their highest development!”<br /><br />Now that makes complete sense to me. The world would be a whole lot better place if Gandhiji’s philosophy were understood and accepted by all.Fulbright to Indiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03562429223157950825noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6248886363140834124.post-59315907780028122532007-03-23T11:27:00.000-05:002007-04-21T21:26:35.747-05:00Hot, hot, hot!!<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8m9gk6_biqqijoDEYN6e_FqJpZDxLeLG9-O_o55T2ITQQ41IpiEuZFIjdrB6zIMiWYD34wKxVqFuf8gfqErUqZ5hzk3EmXBKrgTBM9H98dfqWKK9vPLvvJpdNkxj3BJjzoyrGQFzRjLc/s1600-h/Hot!+Journalist.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5056072539984861698" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8m9gk6_biqqijoDEYN6e_FqJpZDxLeLG9-O_o55T2ITQQ41IpiEuZFIjdrB6zIMiWYD34wKxVqFuf8gfqErUqZ5hzk3EmXBKrgTBM9H98dfqWKK9vPLvvJpdNkxj3BJjzoyrGQFzRjLc/s320/Hot!+Journalist.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-hhxiWD8b0uM0z5IG6ROye92wgjVozOjTnTMh_FAt0hTi_k_L9V_xvuK1XNLZu0DdtibqqGRH3_lsVWhWOyt8l_iXIK0nltpZI12u6VfWpiIUIRR9GyVNApsfAFZPCM72BeBuD06-UgI/s1600-h/DSCN0564.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5046655586173491938" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-hhxiWD8b0uM0z5IG6ROye92wgjVozOjTnTMh_FAt0hTi_k_L9V_xvuK1XNLZu0DdtibqqGRH3_lsVWhWOyt8l_iXIK0nltpZI12u6VfWpiIUIRR9GyVNApsfAFZPCM72BeBuD06-UgI/s320/DSCN0564.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbZNs3PCEQGYWfy4bTaGrc-04ZgEGnpjFOlC2MdVT0uP4lAIK_b3Ga_Py7_0G0lSDTBc0lUEKT4gp8un4qLXgb9kPmxFZc3wCXdl6p01Rk5uNLDXIO2Kf-3lnh7dsTwCE41BkLghawIQo/s1600-h/DSCN0554.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5045434910468878642" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbZNs3PCEQGYWfy4bTaGrc-04ZgEGnpjFOlC2MdVT0uP4lAIK_b3Ga_Py7_0G0lSDTBc0lUEKT4gp8un4qLXgb9kPmxFZc3wCXdl6p01Rk5uNLDXIO2Kf-3lnh7dsTwCE41BkLghawIQo/s320/DSCN0554.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8NkZG9AgkchlmD51eNvvm4sBF2JAizbwwV8RNgySekdDmO8h-42UmH9tFqEMcUdjCmoYTC_GEnS6zrXF28ZJdfd2L4o8ROVKbzQxNoOgVnWlmTNsp3jdrnyrVH9DVNGwQ5qJpqUkXt3Q/s1600-h/DSCN0555.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5045434919058813250" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8NkZG9AgkchlmD51eNvvm4sBF2JAizbwwV8RNgySekdDmO8h-42UmH9tFqEMcUdjCmoYTC_GEnS6zrXF28ZJdfd2L4o8ROVKbzQxNoOgVnWlmTNsp3jdrnyrVH9DVNGwQ5qJpqUkXt3Q/s320/DSCN0555.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ9eGw0YJLnDo88RvKDYif1MIcODbhKU6paFpW6h3B5BjWGIY-GFqQOqWG97GdPWF9rqXiGs-jZtM_jMVu86XuvOJ2Wgy7jhQEjJ8bd3VRo_6luOZY11XD_N8wzpssuk3juRS9mXpa3h8/s1600-h/DSCN0552.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5045167342596272418" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ9eGw0YJLnDo88RvKDYif1MIcODbhKU6paFpW6h3B5BjWGIY-GFqQOqWG97GdPWF9rqXiGs-jZtM_jMVu86XuvOJ2Wgy7jhQEjJ8bd3VRo_6luOZY11XD_N8wzpssuk3juRS9mXpa3h8/s320/DSCN0552.JPG" border="0" /></a>Things have been heating up in South India since the middle of January and now the soaring temperatures are something to be contended with. Typically, these days, we have a high of around 37C (99 F). Whichever way you look at it, that’s hot.<br /><br />It’s a dry heat in Tirupati, though, so not unbearable. The same was the case in Saudi Arabia, where we experienced temperatures that rose well above 40C (104F) by early afternoon.<br /><br />So, as you see in the picture above, when walking outdoors in the middle of the day, I use an umbrella to protect my bald pate from the direct rays of the sun.<br /><br />Even some of my Indian students use umbrellas to protect themselves from the sun. Alternatively, they’ll cover their heads with the yard or two of extra cloth at the end of their saris which, in most cases, they otherwise drape gracefully over their left shoulder.<br /><br />If they’re wearing a salwah, as shown in one of the pictures above, they’ll often cover their heads with the long, loose, silk or cotton shawl that they wear from front to back across their chests and over their shoulders for purposes of adornment and decorum. They look beautiful to me when they do this with their saris or shawls, their faces framed by the flowing dress material.<br /><br />This afternoon I saw a girl on the back of a motorbike covering her head with a newspaper.<br /><br />It’s hot!<br /><br />In the steamy sub tropics of Nigeria and Florida, because of the humidity, it gets distinctly uncomfortable in the summer months. In Florida we can count on air-conditioning, so we can go from our air-conditioned houses, in our air-conditioned cars, to an air-conditioned store anywhere in town. In Nigeria, on the other hand, where I lived for two years in the 1970s, there was no electricity, so no question of air-conditioning or even fans, other than those made by the locals out of straw, which we held in our hands and flapped at our faces in a useless attempt to try to cool off the old-fashioned way. The energy required to flap the fan actually generated more heat and just made matters worse—and I couldn’t afford a servant to do it for me.<br /><br />Ah, for those halcyon, decadent days of the British Raj!<br /><br />Earlier this week, in Visakhapatnam (Vizag), which is on the ocean, the humidity was predictably high. I was housed in a hotel where there was no air-conditioning, but I did at least have a fan. I figure I can survive any kind of heat if I have a fan. I just collapse in a comfortable chair and flake out under the fan.<br /><br />They didn’t have air-conditioning in any of the classrooms or lecture halls at the universities or colleges I visited in Vizag (a college in India is a school students go to for the two years prior to university). I didn’t benefit from the fans in the lecture halls, either, because I like to move around; it didn’t even occur to me to park myself under one of the fans. So by the time I was done with a presentation I was usually soaked with sweat. I swear I could have wrung out my shirt and produced a glassful of the stuff if I’d chosen to try.<br /><br />Drinking water has become liquid gold, nectar indeed. I carry a bottle of it with me in my laptop bag and ply myself with it at every opportunity till the supply is gone. Then, when I get home from the university, I engorge myself from the 25 liter bottle I have in my room, before stepping under the blissfully soothing shower, where the water from the cold faucet is almost too hot from the sun's beating on the rooftop tank.<br /><br />Believe it or not, in order to cool down the hot water coming from the cold faucet, I turn on the hot faucet. The relatively cold water from the geezer's tank in the bathroom mingles with the hot water coming from the roof and makes it cool.<br /><br />Go figure.<br /><br />Barbara Gasdick, my wife Marilyn's best friend, asked me why I wear long sleeved shirts when it's so hot. Well, I'm very susceptible to skin cancer and have been treated for a couple of lesions over the past few years. So I cover up as best I can.</div></div></div>Fulbright to Indiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03562429223157950825noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6248886363140834124.post-80100052611078571122007-03-21T13:22:00.000-05:002007-03-24T12:54:20.643-05:00Visakhapatnam<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWiYftyPAte4rKw3Odu4Yopq7Xlp7atBV-RHUftTiNJyCU6ruYwVw3ukyR8ms43lTP4N5c8uzfdtbhdU32cqycFilRyAxs51jOqTsqsOsnEYMHEi37wuwVCJT0ZtX8oxgUFNx-zwUFQC4/s1600-h/DSCN2888.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5044902325934240018" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWiYftyPAte4rKw3Odu4Yopq7Xlp7atBV-RHUftTiNJyCU6ruYwVw3ukyR8ms43lTP4N5c8uzfdtbhdU32cqycFilRyAxs51jOqTsqsOsnEYMHEi37wuwVCJT0ZtX8oxgUFNx-zwUFQC4/s320/DSCN2888.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqXZ-Cv4ehG99XO59QwY34IYbr_IyRZ0fjrpQhJpttlb-airZ4Gzx2K2P7bsdd3SBx00Tm1kXnWZsia_x0y3lzQJMQpI2NmAzVNlxf1vnGbzkwFaDxv7s10-rYaRjOxQVAkCOklA3Ijrc/s1600-h/DSCN2893.JPG"></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7mEYg6XkNqMQgpaJExN_g-jCQEY0i8E-Zn_gtU6OMu_T_OB6q59JMM61dj6b86iPc42o3GWbO6_ODHxO7eVUE6aRT_L0abWNHkhgVe_4feiIToonPkw3KpjcVFTXV-gjFGAC8y-LMPU8/s1600-h/DSCN2901.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5044901363861565698" style="FLOAT: left; 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MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOhlJVYfbrc4gK2t6kHiT2sAQRMmkmgcxlL6nbwGcUKXc96QHtwUzbHuCruab_WxRunUT1mvaiUm14GdiQbgVZ07PfjZjJi9i7bNjLCQ6wX8GZ3c23WiVCk-fD4NEaOQYTqPyDnBBiwKU/s320/DSCN0269.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiysucuJkyIkMY-SkfrX5N2Wfm5dXVdGSmzUr0AmsZS4N23xCspSb33tVRXjChW6OCgj5VUJUccpHOIUs29QV2EFQEGFAesBm3w_mBZqTusMpkwqLEUzZHc6iGOs5FuYdh-RXEC_bFOHXY/s1600-h/DSCN0285.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5044542545113788274" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiysucuJkyIkMY-SkfrX5N2Wfm5dXVdGSmzUr0AmsZS4N23xCspSb33tVRXjChW6OCgj5VUJUccpHOIUs29QV2EFQEGFAesBm3w_mBZqTusMpkwqLEUzZHc6iGOs5FuYdh-RXEC_bFOHXY/s320/DSCN0285.JPG" border="0" /></a>This city, called Vizag for short, is on the shores of the Bay of Bengal, in the northeast corner of Andhra Pradesh. I flew here from Tirupati last Sunday (March 18) at the invitation of Dr. Prasad, Dean of the School of Education at Andhra University.<br /><br />He’s kept me hopping! He’s pretty much unflappable, sharp as a tack, and really good at adapting quickly to unexpected circumstances. If I were a military man, I’d be very comfortable with Dr. Prasad as my fearless leader! By the time I leave Guntur tomorrow, I’ll have lectured to four groups of faculty and students at four different colleges or universities and visited two local schools, where I’ll have been given the opportunity to check out the state of technology-integrated school curricula.</div><br /><br />I will have addressed close to 500 faculty and students.<br /><br />Right now, I’m on the train with Dr. Prasad, bound for Guntur, about 300 miles south of Visakhapatnam. I’ll be lecturing there tomorrow at a School of Education and visiting a local elementary school where they’re doing good work integrating computers into the classroom.<br /><br />More and more elementary and secondary schools in India have computers. The model, for the most part, is to put them in a computer lab where the students go to learn how to use the computer. It is rare to find computers in the actual classrooms. Very few teachers have computers; they’re too expensive. So there’s next to no attempt made anywhere to integrate computers into the curriculum.<br /><br />There are, however, exceptions to every rule. This morning, for example, after climbing to a high point above Vizag to get a view of the bay and the city below, I visited Visakha Valley School, a private high school, with Mrs. Radha Chary. Radha is one of two Pre-Service Program Mentors in Andhra Pradesh, for an ongoing project, funded by Intel Corporation, called Intel <em>Teach to the Future</em>. If you want to check the project out on the Web, you can go to <a href="http://www.learninglinks.org">http://www.learninglinks.org</a>. Other interesting and related websites are <a href="http://www.educationinindia.net">http:www.educationinindia.net</a> and <a href="http://educate.intel.com/in/ProjectDesign/UnitPlanIndex/GradeIndex/" target="_blank">http://educate.intel.com/in/ProjectDesign/UnitPlanIndex/GradeIndex/</a>.<br /><br />I met first with the Principal, Dr. Sharada, who just happened to have lived in Pittsburgh for a little more than a year in 1988 when her husband was a consultant with the Bureau of Mines. Our paths may well have crossed during that period of time. It’s a small world anymore. Dr. Sharada was gracious and welcoming. In our introductory conversation, we talked about the challenge of introducing computers for teaching and learning. It was quickly clear to me that she knows what it takes to successfully integrate technology into the curriculum.<br /><br />Judging by what I saw, albeit all too briefly, her students are using computers across the curriculum to bring learning to life. I attended a session in a classroom where the students demonstrated what they were doing with the computers. Their teacher, Mr. Prasantha Kumar Panda, is one of the Master Trainers in Intel’s <em>Teach to the Future</em> program. I saw two classic science projects where the research the students were required to complete involved social studies, language arts (writing and speech communication), mathematics, art and design, presentation skills, along with a solid core of science.<br /><br />Very impressive, and it was evident that the students loved using the computers to help them do their academic work. Radha told me that Intel has funded this project in India since 2000. There are offices in every state and I would love to see more of what’s being done. I asked Radha lots of questions and I have many more that have occurred to me since we parted ways at the railway station in Vizag this morning. Fortunately, we’ve exchanged email addresses, so our dialog will be ongoing. I intend to follow this project closely over the years ahead.<br /><br />I’d like to know if Intel pays for all the hardware and software in the schools where they are training the teachers. If so, how often do they update it? If not, how often is it updated by whichever agency is the source for the money? Does Intel provide the essential technical support? If not, how is technical support handled? What percentage of the students in the Intel schools get to use the computers for the kind of learning across the curriculum that I saw demonstrated this morning? Are there any other non-government organizations as seriously involved as Intel in this effort to help Indian schools?<br /><br />Radha will be reading this posting and I look forward to hearing from her. She’ll be sending me some of the pix she took during our sessions together and I’ll share them here soon.<br /><br />It’s nearly 11:00 pm now and I’m settled in my rooms for the night at a Catholic college in Guntur (St. Joseph’s College of Education for Women). It’s a convent, and I spent a couple of hours this evening watching World Cup cricket with one of the nuns. Cool. I’ll be lecturing here in the morning; then, after lunch, I’m off to visit another school where they’re making an effort to integrate technology into the curriculum.<br /><br />I’ll let you know how it goes. Meanwhile, the pix are of the seafront in Vizag taken from the balcony outside my hotel room (the local YMCA). Then there's me and Radha at the Academic Staff College, where I gave one of my presentations, and me and Radha again at Kailasgiri, the hilltop viewing point above the city of Vizag. The rural scenes were taken in the Araku Valley, a spectacular volcanic geological formation that runs for miles north out of the city of Visakhapatnam.<br /><br />We took a day-long trip through the valley, stopping along the way to visit various locations of interest. Amongst the pictures, you can see Dumbriguda waterfalls. During the rainy season, this whole area is deluged with rain and the waterfalls explode into raging torrents. The women working by the truck are digging up silt and loading it into the truck so it can be used to make concrete. No backhoes here; labor is cheap (these women probably earn little more than a dollar a day doing what they do), and the people of India have all the time in the world.<br /><br />At a reservoir not far north of Vizag, there's Dr. Prasad (waving), his wife, Esther, and Dr. Rao and Dr. Douglas, during a boat trip to a lake island for a picnic lunch. Dr. Douglas, the gentleman on the right in the boat, is another pretty amazing guy; he has a PhD in Chemistry and he's now pursuing a second PhD in Educational Technology.<div><div><div><div><div><div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div>Fulbright to Indiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03562429223157950825noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6248886363140834124.post-87470475308391838662007-03-15T14:10:00.000-05:002007-03-16T08:39:51.976-05:00More pix from the Ellora Caves<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhL0CE6GKIbeLezom9O3M3-7QfKYaxaIZIDS_c6q5G47IO0Va0ZH7ZV-pFvYeCghJNqqVmgEWSES67IF6hjh1g0fOO_LhbOnHEiuUJYbT47V7biqdEYQ3zJe7eCm1GHKi27ZrNOvm-tlTM/s1600-h/Dancer+7.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5042515153028006962" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhL0CE6GKIbeLezom9O3M3-7QfKYaxaIZIDS_c6q5G47IO0Va0ZH7ZV-pFvYeCghJNqqVmgEWSES67IF6hjh1g0fOO_LhbOnHEiuUJYbT47V7biqdEYQ3zJe7eCm1GHKi27ZrNOvm-tlTM/s320/Dancer+7.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkqHmjAXV2vpcrH8ELleOlxuAvh-1lQvRZKY_Xl4fpjaHRJu-ypUdq1qEad7JDZBZXrmqXAxWFgtp2HGIa9GMwiYiE3Asau5GwApErQ_0aElkw7Q40PFTJSpjqD6f4JbF9AEVxMmQOQ_s/s1600-h/DSCN0188.JPG"></a><br /><div><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2cqOJHGN1I67asy_NO1uAbw7H4t1Iv5srjUfmXskhV33dQRmha1xcpcHrQAkVgnjbxCm63QwgvqKjlLhRZB3MG8uEAiADPyzHrqWpUyknxdhq-qUCU_DZDzxatrjWiYjtugqUO8rDRGg/s1600-h/DSCN0181.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5042233059576005570" style="FLOAT: left; 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MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgU_svWL5Jwfivv1OWudnjiV6c5NGxjxOgKmvNZtkIAe53LqwRPEmci0EFMSNqkBM979f09Ns7H616ZKEPgG50d4cq5EBEy3RDnmKfoJjM3J8uWtXyEoWa0KRfamtJ2qxfecZWbiJkL7qI/s320/Dancer+2.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcnoMv-vAfY_ahzr0lr1ETX8HBpLqjDMxBMOoak6jDAD3KIXuAmWtJLHMDA0mDSllMYsNy7cA029uiVqDEde1ZjPIvXH2pfJ0I-IjhocBiZMvji0moMz57Krz0fy6w4zHWGkbxjtGTQOc/s1600-h/Dancer+3.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5042223327180112354" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcnoMv-vAfY_ahzr0lr1ETX8HBpLqjDMxBMOoak6jDAD3KIXuAmWtJLHMDA0mDSllMYsNy7cA029uiVqDEde1ZjPIvXH2pfJ0I-IjhocBiZMvji0moMz57Krz0fy6w4zHWGkbxjtGTQOc/s320/Dancer+3.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZQBQikKTY0fo6CXVo7_Q3ABBwAlDbdrvt_OHTAPg52rUo_BjM1_v2MVbkcH__gkWqtJest38f5ERlzsq3jcJwDGLyeFUmU6he9afbqz9cuR_BSF6AiDvQ8CnYXNRPH2Mq7KKmDGZ0k08/s1600-h/Dancer+4.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5042223340065014258" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZQBQikKTY0fo6CXVo7_Q3ABBwAlDbdrvt_OHTAPg52rUo_BjM1_v2MVbkcH__gkWqtJest38f5ERlzsq3jcJwDGLyeFUmU6he9afbqz9cuR_BSF6AiDvQ8CnYXNRPH2Mq7KKmDGZ0k08/s320/Dancer+4.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI8Tu_SaZRIM-4XHdGSCLazy-ruSrITMwWu82QPn7pBrdKA5nvgKx8ZVuwhzjuwrjfw0hfg1wr6SjFcDYt01VPBbwDSQcaJyqAmSwACHMrNeW7zSUDcPxA1RzRNTQGjLb5945Ff0fLnVI/s1600-h/Dancer+5.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5042223348654948866" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI8Tu_SaZRIM-4XHdGSCLazy-ruSrITMwWu82QPn7pBrdKA5nvgKx8ZVuwhzjuwrjfw0hfg1wr6SjFcDYt01VPBbwDSQcaJyqAmSwACHMrNeW7zSUDcPxA1RzRNTQGjLb5945Ff0fLnVI/s320/Dancer+5.JPG" border="0" /></a>Today I accompanied a group of 14 Fulbrighters on a visit to this fort, about 20 kilometers from Aurangabad and on the way to the world famous Ellora caves. It was a moving, at times breathtaking, experience. The fort was built in the 12th century AD, a good 100 years before the Chandragiri fort near Tirupati that I visited in January and told you about in my blog of January 20.<br /><br />At the fort, there were plenty of black-faced monkeys to keep us amused. There also is a 14th century minaret--the second highest minaret in India.<br /><br />The Ellora caves are spectacular. Like the Ajanta caves that we visited yesterday, the Ellora caves were carved out of the mountainside during the 7th to 9th centuries, by the monks, using nothing but chisels and hammers. There are some 34 caves in all. Some were worked by communities of worshipping Buddhists, others by Hindu monks, and the most impressive by Jains.<br /><br />The resulting sculptures and structures leave one awestruck by the technical, architectural, and artistic skills that the generations of monks must have had. The most impressive temple is a Jain temple, carved from the top of the mountain down and from the front of the mountainside in. Most of the Ellora Cave pictures above were taken at this site.<br /><br />One of the Fulbrighters with us, Aparna Keshaviah, is an Indian Dance specialist (she also has a Masters in Biostatistics from Harvard). She wanted pictures taken of herself posing against the background of the ancient monuments. I think you'll agree that the form of her body appears perfectly in place amongst the timeless beauty of the architecture.<br /><br />Another Fulbrighter, Roopa Mahadevan, is studying, and specializing in, improvisational aspects of Carnatic music. In one of the caves, where the resonance of the chamber was particularly full and reverberating, she sat in the center and we gathered around while she sang a soulful rendition of an ethereal song.<br /><br />That's Roopa in the red-orange top and blue jeans in the pictures above, standing next to the moat that runs along the cliff face at the fort.<br /><br /><div>I'll let the rest of the pictures speak for themselves.</div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div>Fulbright to Indiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03562429223157950825noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6248886363140834124.post-85106591607028389702007-03-12T13:06:00.000-05:002007-03-15T12:12:44.182-05:00A miracle in Mumbai<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqUiJHWz5nBwHo9c_qy27mqD_D1DvQRqlt4piR6Y5puIdHiRK8cf7ItK7j2ZSXCM2qKvRSPcL6ad_r1KAOTYIwj2HPz_lfQjAzx-MZbyaeEhbkbKNGgYN_7mp34YOaYUvKN5DPEqnSwpY/s1600-h/DSCN0007.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5041114559897813282" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqUiJHWz5nBwHo9c_qy27mqD_D1DvQRqlt4piR6Y5puIdHiRK8cf7ItK7j2ZSXCM2qKvRSPcL6ad_r1KAOTYIwj2HPz_lfQjAzx-MZbyaeEhbkbKNGgYN_7mp34YOaYUvKN5DPEqnSwpY/s320/DSCN0007.JPG" border="0" /></a>Today I arrived in Aurangabad for a Fulbright conference. To get here from Tirupati I had to fly from Tirupati to Hyderabad, then fly to Mumbai, and from there take another plane to Aurangabad. Aurangabad is about an hour's flight from Mumbai.<br /><br />The trip was uneventful until I got to Mumbai. All the computer systems were down at the airport, which naturally caused a certain amount of confusion in this day and age. I got an airline bus from the Indian Airways terminal to the Jetways terminal, a two minute ride. Then the fun started.<br /><br />I quickly spotted a small clutch of travellers who I took to be Fulbrighters. It turned out they weren't, and that was good because of what happened a while later. These friendly folks were travelling together on a tour of India, led by a remarkable young man named Ati K. Jain, an American of Indian descent, who is president and co-owner of the Cross-Culture tour company. Once a year, he steps out of the office and becomes a tour guide himself.<br /><br />My lucky day. He took me under his wing when he saw that I was on the same plane as his President's Tour group. He asked me for my ticket and disappeared into a mass of people waiting to get boarding passes. The passes for every flight were being processed manually and the airline was calling out flight numbers one by one in the order of departure to clear the backlog of delayed flights.<br /><br />It looked like we would be leaving at least an hour late. Meanwhile I chatted with the people in the tour group, two of whom, Dr. and Mrs Zieve, were particularly friendly. We had a great chat. After a while, it occurred to me that Mrs. Zieve--Elaine--looked a lot like my sister, Barbara. I told her so and asked her if I could take a picture of her with her husband. So there they are above.<br /><br />If you read this blog, Barbara--or anyone else in the family--what do you think?<br /><br />Finally, Mr. Jain returned with my ticket and boarding pass. Talk about a guardian angel! He pointed me in the direction of security and off I went. Security was a relative formality since I'd already been through security twice en route. In no time at all I was on the plane and settling in for the flight.<br /><br />Next thing I know, there's a tap on my shoulder, and it's Mr. Jain handing me the black pouch in which I keep my passports and other precious travel documents. I'd left it behind in a tray after taking it from around my neck to go through security!!<br /><br />I practically had a heart attack when I realized what I'd done. I probably wouldn't have noticed until well into the flight, if then, and I probably would have <em>really</em> had a heart attack when I discovered that I'd left it behind in Mombai.<br /><br />It was Elaine who saved the day. While we'd been chatting, she'd noticed the label on the black pouch I was wearing around my neck, and when she came through security some time after me, she spotted it, figured it was mine, and Mr. Jain grabbed it and brought it along.<br /><br />Wow!! Thank you, Elaine and Mr. jain. Thank you again and again. Now I really do believe in miracles.Fulbright to Indiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03562429223157950825noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6248886363140834124.post-40015172043685578492007-03-10T08:18:00.000-05:002007-03-10T08:30:15.660-05:00To all my faithful readers...<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq2ZFw13nD9kFq_vnYl8JrYKA2QPUnJVfRhTpGUjkSbg8EQYw0EtQKr8_XWpqngURYYDsYlY3i85QjKd5HEZluCJb0aXV29iwjKI5vxpEMde-rKoKumZ8hTcVgwNHcBrgGDwZZzoWTo90/s1600-h/DSCN0735.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5040286902520004866" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq2ZFw13nD9kFq_vnYl8JrYKA2QPUnJVfRhTpGUjkSbg8EQYw0EtQKr8_XWpqngURYYDsYlY3i85QjKd5HEZluCJb0aXV29iwjKI5vxpEMde-rKoKumZ8hTcVgwNHcBrgGDwZZzoWTo90/s320/DSCN0735.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_YK1Rn9OEyAnH2gNuLaZEoo1nCvi4DRwS8SyJI8XaYNRFc5TA4HTuP8cAnYYWtODKfTrUS2tZDsC_qTOFUNYx-5GJrO7yOjJoMewcKV6vsmjUu5P6t2LPgwpKX-cyLPcRCQjB3AeDZ6E/s1600-h/DSCN0770.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5040286911109939474" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_YK1Rn9OEyAnH2gNuLaZEoo1nCvi4DRwS8SyJI8XaYNRFc5TA4HTuP8cAnYYWtODKfTrUS2tZDsC_qTOFUNYx-5GJrO7yOjJoMewcKV6vsmjUu5P6t2LPgwpKX-cyLPcRCQjB3AeDZ6E/s320/DSCN0770.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><div>Thanks for reading my blog. A special thanks to those of you who post comments. It's great to get your feedback. Please keep it coming :)</div><br /><div></div><div>The first picture is of the students in my Masters of Education class. The second is of the students in my Bachelors of Education class (if you look carefully, you'll see me nestled in amongst the girls in this picture).</div><div></div><br /><div>Bernie :)</div>Fulbright to Indiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03562429223157950825noreply@blogger.com0