Tsunami Girls

Thank You

For nearly three weeks after I returned home from India, I awoke nightly thinking about everything I'd left behind. Even now, nearly two months out, India crosses my mind daily—luckily, not at 4 AM. Mostly, I think of the people I met, a girl named Susila, newly-orphaned Rahel, the wrinkled old fisherman; I recall their spirit and resiliency. That they now have a place in my memory is a gift, made possible by the generous support of family, friends and a few goodhearted strangers.

The money and support you provided helped the neediest and most deserving: survivors of the 2004 tsunami and Orissan orphans. The funds bought several hundred kilos of rice for an island community that had run out of food; supplied saris and lungis to several hundred women and men who had lost everything; gave 110 orphans coloring books, crayons, flashcards; and allowed me, as your representative, to act as a goodwill ambassador.
Thank you for your contribution—whether you attended the fundraiser, gave money, offered encouragement or lent emotional support. Your compassion enabled me to touch thousands, and for that I am forever grateful.

Annie, Ananda and the rest of the crew at Ara
Nabil Aidoud
Virginia Alexander
Pam Arthur
Kirk Bedell
Bryce Baradel
Jess Bolkcom
Caroline Boudreaux
Jen Branam
Mendy Brannon
Laura Brueck
Jen Bruno
Stacey Callahan
Matt Chapman
Mike Christopher
Hazel Clinton
Scot Clinton
Katy Daly
Jamie and Kevin Donner
Lauren Franzel
Vanessa Fontanez
Ali Froman
Kristen Gelder
Kate Golden
Hattie Grouber
Frank Griffiths
Gardner Harris
Audrey Hayden
Kara Hill
Alex Jaini
Lisa Jeffries
Jennifer Jones
Will Kain
Pam Kaupinen
Wes Kaupinen
Kendrick and Tracy
Kim, my dental hygienist
Megan Mann
Anna McDonald
Mimi Mayo
Jessica Meli
Lindsay Mendoza
Brooke Michael
Vanessa and Scott Myers
Narayanan P.R.
Carter Paine
Jay Patel
Jay Patel (there are two)
Kirin Patel
Caroline Puri
Dr. Kunal Puri
Dr. Richa Puri
Holly Reed
Les Rogers
Natalie Ryan
Alice Sarfati
Maziar Sassanpour
Shaolee Sen
Dr. Subroto Sircar
Alexis Tessier
Mary Ann Torrence
John Twomey
Jenny and Robbert Vorhoff
Whitney Watson
Pat Werblin

Calcutta

“If you were a better liberal, you’d save that goat,” Pitt told me as we watched a diminutive, furry black goat receive a blessing of orange powder on his forehead in preparation for his impending sacrifice. I fiercely inhaled heavy air and wondered if I should leave. But, I couldn’t. There were two brown urchins holding onto my legs. I focused on their steaming little bodies holding tight to my legs, little tree huggers, and looked down into their laughing eyes. I tried to ignore the squalls of the goat. But, in retrospect, even if the babes hadn’t latched onto me, I wouldn’t have moved to save him. Instead, I came when Pitt motioned for me to watch from a better vantage point near him. And, steps from the chopping block, the energy building in crescendo, I winced as the goat came undone.

I felt strange about it afterwards—watching him die—so we left immediately, stepping over skinny women in wrinkled, cotton saris on the way out the temple gates. By this time, I had figured out that tickling the little leaches on my legs would make them release their grip, and forget about asking for rupees.

The heat combined with the smell of goat blood, which was all over the ground, along with the thwack of the scythe as it beheaded the goats was sensory overload. We left and went to the waterside for some air at Kalighat, a shrine-filled area with steps that lead down to the water. We were lucky there was no breeze that morning, because the river water was malodorous and filled with brown sludge and plastic trash. But, it was away from the Kali temple, where more than twenty goats had already been killed that morning, and more than twenty more would be killed before the sun reached its zenith.

From Kalighat, a word that a seafaring Brit is said to have mangled, Calcutta got her name. So, a visit to Calcutta is incomplete without paying homage to goddess Kali the Destroyer at her temple and seeing the waterside ghat named after her. In fact, I went twice to the temple during my five days in the city—once, because a nice Indian man I met on the street dragged me there, thinking that I might like to see it; another time, because two newfound friends with Enfield Bullets, casually invited me to join them at the ghat. Never one to miss a motorcycle ride through the chaotic streets of India, I accepted the invitation. They neglected to mention the goat situation.

The day of the sacrifice was my last day in Calcutta and my second to last day in India. The scene at the temple epitomized everything I had imagined I might encounter in India: inhumanly-thin beggars, wiggly children, fanatical Hindu worship, sweat-inducing heat, harsh light, intense colors, nose-wrinkling smells—it was all there. And, yet, after two and half months in India, this was the first time I had experienced all those things at once, in full force. And so, I didn’t stop the goat from being killed, but took it all in as a mark of India, as India-ness. I didn’t judge and I tried not to open my eyes too wide at the spectacle. A temple worker thumbed slick goat blood onto a girl’s forehead; worshippers slid their own heads into the guillotine and said a silent prayer, a tail-wagging puppy licked up the goat entrails. I accepted it all, and left silently, wondering if it had been wrong for me to be there, a curious george, a gawker, a tourist.

Calcutta, continued

If I made a diorama of Calcutta, and your eye peeked in and wandered over the temple scene, aghast, it would be all the more surprised by the scene outside of the temple, a couple of streets away, closer to the city center. Beautiful, old, decaying buildings rise up in faded brick red and mossy green, accented with thick wooden shutters, and latticed balconies. Echoing the chaos of New York, bright yellow cabs weave everywhere, honking past rickety buses and pedestrians. If your eye wandered below ground, it would discover a fast moving, efficient metro scheduled to the minute (but, as a sign orders, Please Do Not Bring Dead Bodies into the subway). And, you’d look twice at the Maidan, a many-acred park where sheep and ponies graze, and young lovers bashfully hold hands and talk together.

I wasn’t expecting the goat sacrifice, but then again, I wasn’t expecting a cosmopolitan place either. My mother loves to tell the story of her friend, a mature, single, well-traveled woman, who flew into Calcutta several years ago, looking to explore India in all her glory. I imagine this woman was well-coifed, carrying ample luggage, and followed by her diaphanous silk scarf—but, I really don’t know. What I do remember from the story is this: she made it off the plane, through customs, into a yellow taxi, and as far as the front desk of her hotel, where she primly requested, beads of sweat forming on the back of her neck, to be booked on the next flight out of Calcutta “to anywhere.” Evidently, the view from her cab window had given her more than a taste of “incredible India!”

As culturally ignorant as it may sound, the only thing I have ever heard about Calcutta concerns its horror stories and unimaginable poverty. But, evidently, Calcutta has been whispering sweet nothings into progressive ears and appealing to the culturally minded. Those who haven’t been to Calcutta still think of it as India’s nightmare, a place better left alone. But others, part of some quiet word-of-mouth marketing campaign, have heard Calcutta’s call, and she is now a cultural Mecca—a city of poets, film makers, novelists, painters, etc.

At the start of the trip, I had decided that I would not be making the trek to Calcutta. It was out of the way, and I didn’t want to be a “disaster tourist,” just visiting to see the carnage of poverty. But, India is a plan wreaker—she prefers you not make them, and if you do, that you break them, so as to experience her spontaneously, and with abandon. So, on a whim, with only 7 days left in the country, and on the opposite side of the country from Calcutta, I decided to go. I was curious about the writers and the buzz.

The trip from Delhi to Calcutta usually takes over 30 hours by train, but if you’re lucky and book your ticket well-enough in advance, you can take the Rajdhani Express, an upscale train that makes the journey across India in a snappy 16 hours. Visiting Calcutta was a last minute decision, so I was relegated to the waiting list—number 33—and didn’t know until an hour before the train’s departure whether I’d be going. Luckily, I got a seat—third class A/C, the lowest and least expensive class on this particular train.

Third class A/C was a complete revelation. We were given sheets, blankets, towels, a snack of cheese sandwich and mango juice, a nice vegetarian dinner, chai in our own thermos, and free bottled water. Every time the waiter appeared, he brought another surprise—biscuits? Ice cream? Fresh coffee? I had balked at the $38 train ticket—expensive for an India train—but now I understood why. The train was only an hour late (amazing compared to six hours delays on other trains), and the amenities were quite nice. Having the waiter call me Madamji—well, that was priceless (the suffix “ji” connotes respect).

When the train pulled into the station, I galumphed off, an awkward llama with a heavy load, and was wholeheartedly greeted by Calcutta in a full embrace, my face dipping into her moist, hairy armpits. Like an aging aunt, she was delighted to see me and I found it difficult to wrest myself from her grasp. I stayed longer than I anticipated, and in the end, let her have her way with me.

With the exception of the day of the goat sacrifice, I spent most of my time walking around and visiting some of Calcutta’s bookstores, seeing Bengali dance performances, and talking to locals. Unlike some of the other places I visited, I made friends with the locals, one of whom I ate dinner with in her home. The other stranger-cum-friend took me to a Hindi movie and translated for me, after treating me to a meal cooked by his mother. Perhaps it was the people, or maybe it was something in the air, but I rather enjoyed the place.

During my stay, I thought about Zana Briski’s Born Into Brothels, a documentary about the children of prostitutes in Calcutta, and wondered where the red light district was. But, I didn’t make an attempt to find it. Nor did I go to Mother Teresa’s home for the dying. There was more than enough chaos on the streets in general that I didn’t feel the desire to seek the horrors that Calcutta is famed for. The goat sacrifice was more than enough, and just in the nick of time. I went back to my hotel room after that and packed my bags. I made it to the train with time to spare, and boarded feeling a little dirtier, and a bit sweatier than when I arrived…but then again, that’s probably Calcutta’s goodbye kiss, a moist, lipstick pucker that will last long after I’ve gone.

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Now, four weeks after leaving Calcutta, I miss the tropical breeze, a belly dancer in the leaves, the shuttered windows, the skinny, trotting dogs. At my desk, sitting in front of a computer in a cube, I wonder at the lack of flavor, color, noise around me. My mind keeps returning to those streets with lust, and longing. I won’t soon forget the goats, the brown babies, or India in all her glory.

Holi Boys