How's India?

my new life as a teacher in Visakhapatnam.

7:00 pm EST: How’s India? Two words. Nearly impossible to answer. I've received this message many times from different friends. No response I have given has done justice to the question. How do I encapsulate half a year of experiences—months of adopting a radically new lifestyle, a completely different profession, and an unfamiliar society— in a single chat bubble? How do I package my emotions and discoveries so they are light enough to relate to, and respond to?

5:30 am IST: It’s testing me a lot but that’s what I wanted. Lot’s of ‘discovering myself,’ lol....How’s your life been? [Read, 5:32 am] I know...that response sucks. There’s so much to say that I don’t say much at all. Most of my friends are medical students facing their own challenges. The details of my day-to-day routine are vastly different from what they can relate to. I think the first step to unpacking my experience is to detail those differences. I’ll try to do so in this blog post.

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Timestamps:

MORNING

7:30 am IST

7:33 am IST

7:45 am IST

8:10 am IST

8:15 am IST

8:45 am IST

8:49 am IST

8:55 am IST

9:00 am IST

SCHOOL

9:07 am IST

9:11 am IST

9:45 am IST

10:10 am IST

10:25 am IST

11:20 am IST

12:40 pm IST

1:08 pm IST

AFTER SCHOOL

4:20 pm IST

5:30 pm IST

7:00 pm IST

9:00 pm IST

10:00 pm IST

2:30 am IST

Disclaimer: I'm not good with HTML, so I was unable to anchor link the timestamps above to various parts of my blog below. If you don't want to read about my entire day—first off...why the hell not? Second—I suggest you copy the time stamp you're interested in, and then paste it into the find function (Ctrl+F or Cmd+F) so your browser automatically jumps to that part of the post.

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Morning

7:30 am IST: “Good morning bhaiya.” The maid turns off the fan.

In a minute, the air becomes still, hot, and sticky. My eyes flutter before I shut them and try to return to sleep. But it’s too late. I feel the light beating down on my eyelids.

7:33 am IST: I jolt and try to cover myself, remembering the heat made me take my shirt off last night.

The maid doesn’t really ever knock on the door. I need to lock the door and pretend I’m not in the apartment for actual privacy. I lie there on my bed for a bit. The sounds of horns and motorcycle engines creep into my ears as the rest of Vizag wakes up.

7:45 am IST: “Kapda rapeuh wash chestunara?”— In my own mix of sort of Telugu, not quite Hindi, and part English, I ask her if she can wash my clothes tomorrow. I’m late and I need to use the bathroom.

Walking into the bathroom, I start up the geyser. I brush my teeth in the corner as the shower water sprinkles my calves. The shower head, faucet for hand-washing clothes, toilet, and sink are all in the same room, with no divisions. Within two minutes, all surfaces are soaked.

8:10 am IST: I’m in my towel, staring at the Bay of Bengal.

Violent waves collapse onto the shore only a few meters away. Smells of masala waft up from the flat below me. As I do every so often, and despite knowing the answer, I wonder how the hell I ended up here, miles away from my family, my country, and my original career path.

8:15 am IST: My parents call me from America. My mom's voice sounds sweeter than ever. Fighting nostalgia after the call, I try to distract myself with my current read, Cutting for Stone by Abraham Verghese. 8:45 am IST: Please come to the exact location in the GPS [Read, 8:45 am]. I’ve ordered an Uber Moto, the cheapest transport around here, clocking in at about 15 rupees (0.20 USD) every 3 km.

8:49 am IST: The closer I zoom in with my phone, the faster the little black moto inches forward. And then the little icon swivels. Dammit.

I watch in resignation as my driver goes in the opposite direction. I brace myself and call him.

8:55 am IST:

“Yekkada unnara?” “Exact location hein GPS mein, please come.” Hindi “...Yekkada?” He's confused.

“Exact location in the GPS." English “...Bhaiya?” He's still confused. “Exact location...beach rode lo…kali temple…ki daggera! Voustunara?” Telugu “Ok, ok, ok, coming” English!

As I wait on the corner of the road, a briny breeze from the ocean cools my mind. 9:00 am IST: A green motorcycle turns the corner. I squint to make out the license plate. It’s my ride. Nodding to the driver, I saddle up and we speed to school.

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School

9:07 am IST: “Good morning, Dhruv sir!” The moment my Moto drives through the school gates, I switch to Dhruv sir. A sea of tiny humans, each wearing the same checkered white and blue uniforms, stand between me and the assembly hall. With every step along the sandy route, my morning grump is lifted. As I get closer to school, more and more students chirp up, each eager to practice speaking English with me. I see a brother and sister giggle as they lock pinkies and chat rapidly in Telugu. They remind me why I love my job.

9:11 am IST: Jana gana mana adhinayaka jaya…. the national anthem blasts in the assembly hall as I fiddle with the jammed lock to my office, which is right next door. I catch the principals eye from my vantage point and smile sheepishly.

Then I hurry into the hall. Five hundred little faces with their eyes shut and hands together chant a Sanskrit mantra across from me. I take my unofficial position between Mounika ma’am, the formal English teacher, and Sridevi ma’am, who teaches science. After the mantra, there is a daily 1-minute speech, a word of the day, and a quote of the day.

9:20 am IST: “Hello friends. I am Rajeshwar Rao from class 9th Kakatiya. Today is my birthday, so I seek blessings from Maha Swamiji, our Beloved Swamiji, and all my madams; and I need best wishes from all my brothers and sisters. 14 years.”

A second of silence passes before the hall erupts in “Janma Dina Midam,” a Sanskrit birthday song. Afterwards, we clap fifteen times for Rajeshwar (one extra clap for good luck).

9:45 am IST: One by one, I flip the switches next to the door—mosquito repellent, tube light, ceiling fan — and my office comes to life. I place two bottles filled with reverse-osmosis (RO) filtered water on my table. I sink into my chair and open my lesson plan spreadsheet on Excel.

10:10 am IST: “Can I come in, sir?” a tiny voice calls from outside.

Natural light shines through as Shriya, a small 7th grade girl nudges open the office door without waiting for my response.

“Come in, come sit,” I smile and motion to the bench.

Before we can start talking, three 6th grade boys’ heads pop into my door.

“Come, come!” As they push each other in, six more 8th graders come behind them.

Welcome to one of the many “hang out” sessions I hold throughout the day. Any student can come in and talk to me about whatever they’d like, as long as it’s in English. The boys huddle to my right, and the girls to my left.

“Sir! You downloaded PUBG yet?”

“Big Boss new episode—you watch sir?” “It best shooter game on mobile.”

“Big Boss is Telugu show.” “Yes sir, that girl is right. I love Big Boss.” “I play PUBG on my mom’s mobile. ”

“Sir, you know Telugu sir?”

Confusing? Yeah, I know. For the next fifteen minutes, I try to unite the girls’ interest in reality TV with the boys’ interest in FPS phone games. At first, it was overwhelming. But with the help of many open ended questions, it’s worked for the past three months. I regularly have a swarm of students who come to my hang out hours, excited to talk about their favorite things in English.

10:25 am IST: I have my first class of the day. This deserves its own blog post.

11:20 am IST: The hardest 6th grade section I teach is over. I feel sticky and parched. Hungrily gulping down water, I open up my laptop and make a list of pointers to remind myself where we left off for next class.

Suddenly, there is a firm knock at the door. “Can I come in, sir?”

I immediately recognize the voice as Rajeshwar, from my 9th grade class. He actually waits for my response.

“Yes, please come in.”

Raj walks in with his buddy, Subash. He is holding a small bag of candy in his right hand.

Unlike Subash, who’s wearing the school uniform, Raj wears a bright red shirt and black track pants with the “TikTok” logo on them. Birthday perks.

“Here you go sir; thank you sir.” Raj bends to touch my feet in reverence before I quickly stop him.

“Please, I’m not that old,” I chuckle, “Happy Birthday. How old are you?” “14 years—“ “Full sentence please,” I interject. “Yes sir—I am 14 years old.”

Raj grins and puts a Cadbury into my right hand.

“Thank you sir,” he says again before shuffling out with Subash.

On their birthday, kids are taught to seek blessings and appreciate those who have helped them get where they are. Instead of receiving gifts in school, they give gifts. This is one of the things I love about Indian culture—it is deeply appreciative and collective. And it’s damn cute when the 2nd graders come to my office to seek my blessings.

12:40 pm IST: “Those who won Simon Says get to be first in line for lunch,” I bellow. As I turn the projector off, my 6th graders rush to form a line at the door.

.

When I return to my office, I grab the steel lunch tiffin box waiting on my desk. It was dropped off by an aya, a lady who helps the teachers with whatever they need during the day. Sifting through a crowd of kindergartners coming down the stairs, I find my way to the staff room upstairs. Waiting for me are the only three male staff in the school—Ravi sir, the school secretary, “PT sir,” the school gym teacher, and Sunil sir, the 6th grade math teacher.

(PT sir, Ravi sir, Sunil sir, and I, respectively)

PT sir, at the ripe age of 68, is probably the most active out of all of us. Without my asking, he’s already taken my steel plate and spoon from our wooden cabinet, rinsed them, and placed them on my customary wooden seat.

It’s better for us to be separate, the men say, so we (both genders) can both talk freely. At first, I was confused and spoke against their mentality, but I have learned that such is an engrained custom that I am not in the position to challenge.

The other three have standard Telugu meals: copious rice, pappu (lentils and spices mushed into a gravy), some sort of wet curry, and of course, curd.

Even though I have grown to like it, South Indian food is difficult for me to eat every day. While South Indians eat rice with their curry, as a North Indian have grown up eating roti, which is a sort of flat bread. My standard lunch, prepared by a Rajastani auntie, typically consists of two to three different curries, four rotis, and pickled mango.

Though every lunch I primarily eat North Indian food, it is expected and assumed that each of us will share some of our food with the group. Today, I get a boiled egg from Ravi sir’s egg curry, some potato fry from Sunil Sir, and some annam (rice) from PT sir. I give each of them a helping of my channa masala gravy.

“Dhruv sir, have you heard about Vedic medicine?” Sunil sir starts. A devout Hindu, Sunil wants to retire early and devote himself to a life of piety. He fils the rest of our lunch break with talks of different temples, Whatsapp videos, and great saints, as he does every day. Occasionally, the three men slip into Telugu and a communication chasm instantly forms between us.

At 1:08 pm, I excuse myself and hurry to the sink to wash my plate and spoon. Just as I finish scrubbing, an aya rings the bell from downstairs.

“I’m going to class now!” I rush out to my 8th grade class.

“Thank you sir!“ Sunil sir shouts his classic goodbye behind me.

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After School

4:20 pm IST: One hundred twenty kids jump around the same assembly hall from this morning. It’s near impossible to control their energy. Three times a week, I hold a Punjabi-Bhangra dance class. Today is one of those days.

“We’re not in school anymore. If you want to talk, you can leave this workshop.”

My stern warning bounces off them, as they are hardened from years of enduring much stricter forms of punishments. And seeing their joy makes it hard to yell at them any more than that. I know they’re just excited to be active after sitting in the same seat all day (in Indian classrooms, teachers move classes while the kids stay seated).

I decide to jump straight into the choreography, drowning out their noise with my microphone.

“Let’s start from the top. 5, 6, 7, 8.”

The intro melody begins: dwook dook, dwook dook, dwook dook…we stand, legs shoulder-width apart, hands on our hips, bobbing up and down.

The beat hits. I bounce my legs to the tempo on the stage...

…and in front of me is chaos. Hands are flailing, children are yelling with glee, and half of them start doing a completely different dance all together.

I decide to stop dancing, let the track play, and watch them dance happily.

5:30 pm IST: “Ikkada stop,” I tell my Uber Moto. Drenched with sweat, I plod into my room and collapse on the bed. It’s time to drain all my mobile data. I take off my wet shirt and open Netflix.

7:00 pm IST: “Take more son,” my Telugu professor insists I have another Rava Laddu (an Andhra sweet).

I’m sitting on her sofa. The day-time sun has set and a slight breeze trickles into her home. I feel refreshed after binging some Brooklyn 99 and taking a small nap. For the next two hours Professor J teaches me and Peper—the other Fulbright English Teacher—Telugu at a snail’s pace.

“So, what did you do today? Emi chestunara?”

My professor calls her style “situation-dependent teaching,” and throws an arbitrary mix of vocabulary and grammar as they come up in natural conversation. Though it seems effective, this also means my notes are a disorganized mess of random Telugu translations and grammatical pointers.

Peper has trouble with the Indian accent and Telugu pronunciations, which gifts me small pockets of time to organize my notes during class. Since I am a native Gujarati speaker and most of my family friends are immigrants with a variety of Indian accents, I don’t have trouble with this part. Peper is visibly, and understandably, more frustrated with learning the language than I am.

The main benefit of this class to me is that it gives me a key to decipher what my Telugu coworkers and students talk to each other about. (It also helps me communicate with GPS-illiterate Uber Moto drivers who need verbal directions to pick me up so they don’t cancel on me...I mean...it helps me engage in cross-cultural communication!)

9:00 pm IST: My WhatsApp ringer goes off—it’s my mom again. She's calling from home, where it is now early in the morning. My brother needs help editing his college essays.

I’m back in bed, eating some Gobi Manchurian (fried cauliflower balls with ginger, onion, and Chinese spices) as I open up Google Docs. I see I’ve used up 1.9 GB of my daily 2 GB of mobile data. I buy some more before I hotspot my computer.

10:00 pm IST: My eyelids droop despite of the bright computer on my lap. It’s time to relax. I open my English translation of the Gitanjali by Rabindranath Tagore, gifted to me by a local friend. Before I can finish the first poem, I’m out cold.

2:30 am IST: I forgot to turn off the lights. I groggily turn off the AC, use the bathroom, shove my books and laptop to the side, and hit my bed once more.