It has been a fantastic month. Here in this hot and humid Kolkata climate, afternoon naps are common, and really necessary. But I’ve not had much time for them. Here is a very long-winded story that you may or may not have the time to read.

Over the last month or so, I have spent much more time with new Indian friends and I feel positively enriched by the experience. They have all been so warm and welcoming it is hard to explain how moved I feel by it. This is a transformation from the seemingly rude behaviour of the locals (especially men) on the streets, where there is a first-in-first-served attitude for everything.

The Nursery teacher Mousumi and I have become very good friends and we now spend a lot of time together. (Nursery is equivalent to around Kinder/Prep level where they learn nursery rhymes, the abc and 123.) Mousumi invited me to her place for lunch. She says that guests are treated like gods and I certainly was. I was first served with juice, grapes and sweets (Bengalis LOVE their sweets). I then had a fantastic meal of Bengali fried rice, potato curry, paneer (a mild cheese used in curries), fried eggplant (that they call brinjal), fried boiled eggs yum! and chutney like a tomato relish. This was followed by mores sweets and a yoghurt sweetened with jaggery sugar called Mishti Doi. I was so full. I’d forgotten that it is tradition here for the guest to eat first, on their own, with the women sitting at the side. Sometimes the male eats too and eventually Mousumi’s husband joined me. Mousumi and her mother-in-law ate later while I had the traditional afternoon rest.

Mousumi also took me shopping to buy some gold earrings – because I am unable to wear normal Indian metals – and more salwar-kameez – I’ve worn the others out already. She and her lovely mum took me into some amazing sari bazaars where only the local women go. We drank chai, a sweet spiced tea, and ate a spectacular ice cream made with a variety of nuts including cashews and pistachios. (I find now I am totally addicted to Bengali food and get snooty when others want to eat Chinese food. Why would you want to eat that?)

I’ve also made friends with a lovely woman named Bonani, who saw me feeding the dogs at the front gate. She also feeds them. Recognizing a like-minded person, she invited me to her place. Since then, I have been over several times and discussed much about philosophy and Indian culture with her and her 25-year-old daughter, Tania. Tania, who is beautiful not only in looks, but in poise and personality like her mother, and I visited the decrepit Marble Palace, a palatial mansion built by Raja Rajendra Mullick Bahadur in 1835 (one of the few touristy things I’ve done here). We also went to the Academy of Fine Arts and a Bengal music festival where I felt right at home. Kolkata claims to be the cultural centre of India, but they’ve got some work to do.

Speaking of dogs, I seem to have become the dog carer at the guest house and people come to me with problems that arise. I even have a network of concerned persons, ha! including my friend Bonani and a parishioner called Mrs Myer. Most recently I took a pup to the hospital after she was attacked by a nasty dog one day and run over by a taxi the next. The pup was there for about two weeks and I brought her back about a week ago to everyone’s delight. Now, when I come out, she runs to me in a sort of half-bent sideways gallop to accommodate her broken leg. Yesterday, the family who look after our guest house came to me after a dog-biting incident. Apparently, a group of about 15 people came with knives etc to attack and kill the dog (mob attacking is stupidly common here in India and people are regularly killed by angry and brutal mobs). The family knows that I care for the animals and will spend the money if required, so they held them off until I got home. I was taken to the shabby home/room of the woman who was attacked and I saw the huge swelling and tooth mark on her buttock. I arranged for the dog to be taken this morning (very sad) to be tested for rabies, which we think he must have because he is normally a playful dog. If it’s negative I don’t know what will happen to him because dogs are put down reluctantly here. At a cost of 375 rupees each, the woman will be unable to afford the five injections for rabies. I’ve taken her prescriptions and have already arranged for payment for the second injection but I’m hoping the other volunteers will help out with the last three.

Beyond dogs, animal-friendly persons and teachers, I’ve made other Indian friends too. But the most adventurous thing over the last month is discovering an ashram about 2 hours away. The ashram on 20 beautiful rural acres is otherwise quite small with only the swami, a monk (sadhu), the accountant, the cook and her husband. Donna, an Italian, also stays there a few days a week with her 9-year-old son adopted from Madagascar, helping the swami get social justice projects off the ground. It’s through another Italian at my guest house that I found her and the ashram. They’ve all been so welcoming, I feel almost overwhelmed by it. I feel drawn to the place and always look forward to the next visit.

With all of my new found friends, I am learning more and more about Indian culture. That is one reason why I originally wanted to stay here for more than just one month as most people do. After 3 months, I’m feeling almost at home here. But, I find myself caught between my moral upbringing and sense of justice, equity and independence for women and trying to understand Indian culture: women eat last after the men; women always cook, clean and serve; men don’t do much at all – can you feel my blood pressure rising? Bengalis continue to use respectful terms (like Aunty for Western women or Mrs rather than first name), because class distinction is still very clear here. The gatesman, for example, who I have befriended despite the fact that we don’t speak each others’ language, was laughed at by the other workmen in the compound because I started teaching him English. An upper caste Westerner showing care for a lowly laborer? Unthinkable! We had to stop the classes.

It’s horribly hot and sticky here – 37C (104F) & 93% humidity. We’re into 3 times a day showers now, although luckily it rained a couple of nights ago and it’s been a little more tolerable since then.

Whilst I often find myself wishing I could stay longer (I’m not sure I’ll be ready to leave Kolkata in just four weeks time), the unfortunate thing is that I am starting to feel seriously bored. I am particularly fond of the school – the teachers and Mosoumi and all that they are doing and achieving – and of course I adore the children. But it is particularly slow right now, because the school has been winding down following exams a couple of weeks ago and we’ve had many more free hours and days. All the students have now been graded and either promoted to the next class level or, for just a few strugglers, held back. Yesterday, we had the inauguration of the school’s playground, an amazing oasis in the midst of the poorest of the slums, provided by a donation of the founder’s family (the founder died), and a grand presentation of prizes to all the kids. Now we have the last three days of the week off and I have nothing to do. It’s so hot, I am reluctant to go out. Walking around town is not an option now – just walking 20 minutes to New Markets puts me in a bath of sweat that drips off my head and tickles down my back. The good thing is that I feel pretty relaxed and comfortable getting around, which should be very helpful to the three new GVN volunteers starting here next week.

Next week, the school revs up again with 20 new students starting in Nursery. My group of gorgeous Nursery children move into KG (Kindergarten – I think it’s like the Australian Grade 1-2), while I remain with my good friend and teacher Mosoumi in Nursery. I will miss them terribly (and I have to confess, I hope they miss me too).

Stefan, a GVN volunteer from Austria, left last Wednesday. On the Sunday before, he and I had the most expensive dinner I think I’ll ever have in India, at Fire and Ice (an upmarket Italian restaurant attended by the Indian middle class and foreign tourists). It cost us over Rs 1600 for two pizzas, an antipasto and two glasses of rather pleasant Indian red wine (Shiraz Cab if you want to know). I have to say, though, I thoroughly enjoyed the meal. It was one of those “I feel happy” meals, where every mouthful makes you feel good.

At our regular Tuesday group meeting, I bought a small chocolate cake from Haldirams, one of the better cake shops here, and we had around 20ml each of a surprisingly nice wine, home-made by the school’s director, Anu, that really tasted like sherry. (Mosoumi told me she had never tasted red wine! How is that possible??)

On Wednesday, Kushi, the daughter of Bobby who looks after our guest house, turned One and they had a big party with their family and us lodgers. I think they had to invite us because they wanted to use the facility, but I was chuffed anyway. They had a big green cake with jungle animals all over it, and a merry cake knife that rang “Happy birthday to you”. We ate a delicious potato biryani and, for those who dared, a rich-looking mutton stew. The food was served in progression – the lodgers at first, then the children and then the rest of the family.

Holi Day, also called the Festival of Colors, was last Friday. People spend the day throwing colored powder and water at each other and bonfires are supposedly lit at night to signify burning of the demoness Holika. The spring season when the weather changes (you’d think it was summer) is believed to cause fevers and colds and so originally the playful throwing of colored powders had a medicinal significance – they were made of natural ingredients from pollens. Not now though. We were warned not to go out because we would definitely get hit by the coloured powders, which are toxic on your skin and stain your clothes!

So, after hiding in Monica House for some time, Debbie (from the UK) and I went out in the protection of a taxi to look around. There was nothing to see. The roads were deserted because it was a public holiday. And there were just a few people with their heads covered in red and fuchsia colours. I was also expecting the air to be choking with smoke, but, no, nothing. It was a real disappointment.

I guess I have settled into a “normality” after six weeks in Kolkata, even though I still walk down the street looking at everything with astonishment. The two things that I continue to find most difficult are the hygiene and the staring. The language barrier can be a bit tiring too, and I wish that I had pursued my intention of learning either Hindi or Bengali from the very beginning. However, I have adapted to using non-verbal communication quite well (I think I’ve got the silent gestures and Indian head nods down pat, now).

When I arrived here at the beginning of February, there were 11 volunteers from GVN. I see in retrospect that this really was a blessing. Even though I had prepared myself well, and I had already spent some days in Mumbai, my arrival here still came with a shock. The extreme poverty, disorder and filth of Kolkata had been unimaginable. Even the accommodation, Monica House, whilst in some ways was better than I expected (well, it does have showers and Western toilets after all), its starkness, dirtiness and hard bed just added to my initial distress. So, the other volunteers who had been in Kolkata for a few weeks, or even just a few days, were a great relief.

The volunteer group was like a family, even though we were from a diverse range of countries, Austria, Australia, US, UK and Ireland. We’d jam onto one table to breakfast in the mornings, and then most of us would have dinner together in the evenings when Pritish, our Indian caterer, delivered his array of Bengali curries – vegetable dishes, of potatoes, cauliflower and jackfruit; chick pea Chana Masala; spicy đal; fried fish or Khashi mutton (goat) for those desperate for meat; along with chaţni (chutney) and chapattis. Or, crammed into maniacal auto rickshaws, we’d shoot up to one of the grand but old cinemas to see terrible English-language films before having dinner at one of the more expensive restaurants in Park St. Gradually, most volunteers have moved on and there are now just four of us. We comfortably make our own way around which makes for fun in exploring different things and a lot of peaceful time, especially as Monica House is getting very quiet with currently only round ten residents in total.

Whilst it requires some energy to take myself out to eat in the evening (there are no cooking or heating facilities at Monica House, and safe eating places are usually an auto rickshaw ride away), it is good to explore different eating places and foods. One of my favorite eating places, discovered by other volunteers, is Khwaja in Sudder St where they serve great curries and paratha, a layered whole-wheat flatbread cooked with ghee, at good prices. Sudder St is where most of the tourists can be found. It is also located rather close to New Market, where men carrying empty broad baskets accost you even before you get close to the door, hoping they can whisk you off to their preferred stall (usually a fabric stall) where they will get a bonus from them and a tip from you. Generally, my only reason for braving the hustlers at New Market now is to buy fantastic brown bread and sometimes cakes at a great Jewish bakery. Brown bread is hard to find here, and good brown bread even harder.

We’ve gradually learnt what we can buy and eat. Lori and I are now in the habit of eating cucumber, tomatoes and carrots. These have to be peeled before eating, so that we don’t get sick. That means we avoid other vegetables like lettuce. I eat a lot of bananas (around 5 for R10) which are always nice, but sometimes I’ve ventured out to eating a very ordinary, and expensive (R10 each), apple, peeled of course. The market down the road from our accommodation has become my favorite destination. Here I buy my fruit and vegetables, curd (yoghurt) and packet instant cappuccino (cinnamon flavoured of course) for those desperate coffee times. I have become more daring by eating food from street stalls, which we are advised not to do. I don’t eat any curry type foods that are usually cooked early and left to sit for some time. I prefer to see the food being cooked and I eat it fresh, but I limit myself to breads and cakes. I have befriended the local sweets maker and discovered a little “no beef” eatery for the locals down the street that makes great tandoori roti. Many of the eateries are sign-posted “no beef” as Muslims eat beef (Hindus don’t). And just near to these shops is located a stall that serves delicious chai (pronounced “char” in Bengal) tea in tiny clay cups that are thrown on the ground when finished and left for the street sweeper to clean up the next morning.

The weather has suddenly turned hot and damp here in Kolkata – 34-38° C (77° F). And it’s only March! I have bought myself a dual layered umbrella to protect me from the sun. I’ve found it is also effective at protecting me from the staring eyes of the locals, which is a constant here, and meteoric bird poop, another regular feature of the Kolkata streets. The umbrella might even be useful fending off hawkers at New Market. Therefore, I’ve decided to carry it with me all the time.

International Women’s Day was on 8 March this year. It is a global event, but as a Westerner coming to India, it has been interesting to see what is happening here in relation to women’s (and other) issues.

Many women are already taking their equal place in India, but the bindings on women in this largely conservative society have been severe (like confining women to the house) and are deeply entrenched. Talking to the Hindu teachers and others, I’ve learned quite a bit about the expectations on Indian women that are still commonly accepted. For instance, women generally still need permission from the their fathers before, and often after, marriage. Marriages are still routinely arranged. One young woman I spoke to was forced to marry and give up her professional dancing. It is also normal for Hindu women to move in with their in-laws when they marry.

Reading the newspapers has in a way, been a ‘life’ saver for me, in the sense that they give me hope. As I see poverty, mess and filth, and sadness all around me on the streets, it’s easy to get a sense of gloom and despair. But in the newspapers I see what is being done at state and national levels to change things.

I don’t know whether the steps taken will ultimately be successful, but the impression is that the politicians and policy makers really want to make India work. And want it to be a thriving country. Whilst I read about some shocking stories, like villagers beating to death a man for accidentally running over a child (this type of mob story is a regular) and women committing suicide because they cant produce a son, I am pleasantly surprised by the steps being taken to support and promote womens’ and girls’ place in this society. Some of the actions taken here in India would never been seen in our so-called egalitarian Western countries.

Orissa, for example, has made it mandatory for technical institutes to provide 30% reservation to women. To stop the drain of women scientists from research streams, a package of incentives is being put together, including flexible working hours, ability to work from home and providing a loan for women to buy a computer. Incentives are also being introduced to keep girls at school, like providing secure hostels for girls who live far from the school and funding for parents to keep their girls at school until they are 18. In the recent railways budget, fares have been cut for women over the age of 60 to a 50% concession, whilst men’s remain at 30%.

Because democracy is highly valued here, and elections are fiercely fought as in any democratic country, there is a real sense of momentum and development of India as a country. I find these things very encouraging and really feel that India is on its way to becoming one of the most successful countries. How long it takes, is yet to be seen.

I have really wanted to experience the most of India, in every way. I have become more daring by eating street food, provided I see it being cooked and I eat it fresh. So far so good. I talk to the teachers at the school about their families and the restrictions placed on them in the Hindu tradition. For instance, these women must live with their parents-in-law after they are married. I also visited an exhibition yesterday of posters from women’s rights campaigns over the last few decades, at the Seaford Gallery in SP Mukherjee Rd, which was extremely beautiful and immensely powerful.

To add to my determination to experience India, today I wore a saree to work. I could not help but feel beautiful in it, because of the flow of the fabric and the colours.

I am really enjoying the school, the kids and the teachers. We spend most of the time in Nursery now, which is the equivalent of Prep, where they start the ‘abc’, ‘123′, learning fruit and vegetables and conversation in English. Moushumi, the teacher, asks me to work on pronunciation with the class. Of course, it only works when she’s in the classroom, because when she leaves, the order falls apart as the kids start yakking, pushing each other around and yelling “Mam, Mam, colouring” as they motion the action. That’s because they know that I always come with a sack-full of drawings and paper activities, to use in the gaps and when I’m asked to take a class.

The stick is wielded quite frequently here, although never hard or furious, but we Westerners are quite incapable of using it. I’ve noticed that swiping kids across the head is quite common in Kolkata too. And of course the kids do it to each other. A lot of whacking, swiping and jabbing goes on in the classroom.

Moushumi asked me to take Nursery for rhymes today, but I told her I didn’t think I could do it. It really would not have worked. They are only good when they are singing songs they already know. So instead she asked me to take the boys out to the balcony to play (groan). I have had the girls before. They are great because they get on so well and I’ve worked out that they can usually invent a game out of a starting point (e.g. fruit and vegetables). Boys, who like to frequently propel themselves into piles of four or five on the dusty concrete floor, are another thing. The major difficulty in taking on these activities is that I can’t communicate with them. I cannot explain to them, for example, how to play Tag.

But I took them with some confidence that I could manage them in play (which I really enjoy), and I am proud to say that, as with the girls, all was fine. I managed to procure a semi-flat (so, it was soft) plastic ball. As expected it generated many ‘piles’ of boys and a few tussles, but everyone enjoyed it. Unfortunately, the ball flew out of the balcony a couple of times and, at the end, a man picked it up and took it into the HIV unit below. We managed to get it back, but it put a dampener on the fun because the teachers didn’t want to lose the ball. It was put away and the kids had to sit on the floor for 5 or 10 minutes until lunch.

Till the next one.

Kolkata is a challenge, and sometimes I feel I have a love-hate relationship with it.

Each time I step out of my accommodation, I am confronted with the noise, filth and poverty. On the ground throughout the streets, people live, including families with cute but dirty children with oily knotted hair. At night, people sleep on the footpath covered head to toe with a blanket that looks like an old sack. A few luckier ones have erected a little lean-to made of anything they can find, covered in black plastic to keep the rain out.

The school where three of us are working is in a slum area. It wouldn’t exist if it wasn’t for the initiative of a single woman and then the financial support of a finance company. That means that none of these kids would get an education – these are the lucky ones. Many of the children in the slums just have to work with their families and have little opportunity to just be a kid.

Each day, we catch a bicycle rickshaw to and from the school through the windy back streets lined with vegetable and fish stalls laid out on the ground and other tiny shops that sell toiletries, pharmaceuticals, bhujia mix and little packets of red tobacco-like stuff the men chew and spit on the ground. The bicycle rickshaws have no gears so the small guys have to work really hard. We are now well known from our daily trips and we no longer have to haggle for a R10 trip.

I have no experience teaching young children, but I was keen to work with kids. I was assigned to this school so I took it as a challenge – 3-4weeks ago. At first we were trying to run the classes as teacher and student. But these small children from the slums – some who are left alone all day while the parents work, to run and play on the railway track (where many children are killed), and others who live in a tiny shack with as many as 17 family members, more of course from violent homes – have no discipline at all. And the language barrier makes them difficult to control. So, we now mostly help out in the Nursery classes (the equivalent of Prep, where they start the ‘abc’ and ‘123′) and work closely with the weaker students for English and Maths. The children’s abilities vary, but they all are keen to learn. I have also taken other classes and groups on my own when teachers are short, but I’ve changed strategies to using easier activities that the kids like, such as a theme picture to colour, and those sessions can be fun. I now really feel I am helping the kids and making a difference for the school, and it’s not just about learning, it’s also about giving them love and attention. The teachers have shown their gratitude by telling us they feel miserable at the thought of us leaving.

Despite their chaotic natures, the kids are absolutely gorgeous and they seem to love having us there – I’m told they think we are “cute”, ha. When we arrive, they all say “good morning mam” and if one of us is missing, they ask where she is. After school, out of their uniform and in their worn, filthy clothes with no shoes, they laugh and wave and slap our hands as we walk out and say goodbye. It’s just lovely.

The teachers are also great – they are really nice and a lot of fun. They are very committed to the school and helping the naughty children. Besides asking if we’re married, the teachers have questioned us as to why we don’t wear jewellery. So, with my salwar-kameez that I wear everyday, I’ve started wearing bangles and earrings and I’ve coloured my hair.

Ah, the ups and the downs. It is a great experience.