Pass the Chutney Please

Harrison Grubman

Copyright © 2011 by Harrison I. Grubman. All rights reserved. This book or anyportion thereofmay not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoeverwithoutthe express written permission of the authorexcept for the use of brief quotations ina book review.

Printed in the United States of America

First Printing, Singapore, 2011

Grubman, Harrison

Pass the Chutney Please

ISBN 978-1469918839

First Edition

I dedicate this book to myTeacher Ms. Vaught, for inspiring me to keep going

I thank my grandmother, Helen Neisloss,For giving me the original idea of a book,

My mom Liz for helping me all along the way,And Logan Green

For teaching me that you canHave fun no matter where you are…

Then Knowing the future would’ve helped me a lot. It was a normal evening in the Grubman

apartment; my 11-year-old brother and I had just finished our dinner. Our address 240 West 23rdstreet, New York, NY, USA. We lived on one of the typical bustling two-way streets. I was used tohearing the noises from the traffic on the street below. My Dad called me as I was watching myfavorite television show about a boy’s funny life in school. “It’s time for a family meeting,” he said in a solemn voice. This was unusual. We never hadfamily meetings! My brother Noah and I sat down. Dad walked over to the couch, where Mom wasalready sitting. “Are you pregnant?” I asked my Mom hopefully. I wanted a sister. She laughed. “No Harry, I am not pregnant.” she responded. My Dad jumped in. “Harry, Noah, we are moving… to India!” I was confused. ‘Seriously!’ I thought. ‘Is this ajoke? Why now?’ “No!” screamed Noah. He ran to the bedroom. I like to copy my brother, so I screamed,“No…” and raced behind Noah. Halfway to where I could see him sulking in his upper bunk bed,Mom grabbed me by the arm. I knew why. Noah needed some time alone. My brain tingled. I didn’tknow whether or not it was a good sensation. I thought ‘Wow, either this is all a prank, or its real andmy brother is taking it harder than me!’

I woke up the next morning, hardly remembering what had happened the night before. The sunwas fully up at 8:00 am. It was time to go to school. We normally either took the subway, or wewalked the 10 blocks. It was a fifteen-minute walk, and the train usually took ten if it came on time.This morning we chose to walk. I wasn’t thinking about the big news until my Dad had asked me‘how I was taking it’. I said that I was ready for India, but I thought to myself, ‘Was I? Would I everget to see my friends again? What about my teachers? Would I ever talk to them again?’ I had a lot tothink about! We walked. It was a nice cool morning in New York City. Five blocks down, five to go.

When we reached City and Country School on West 13th Street, my Dad said goodbye at thedoor and turned to head to his office to do his work. I turned towards my classroom to do mine.

When I arrived at my 1st Grade classroom, parents were still saying goodbye to their littlechildren for the day with hugs and kisses.

Class started, and my teacher motioned for us to get in a “sharing circle.” This was how westarted every day taking turns telling a recent story. Finally, the teacher called on me as soon as the

kids who didn’t usually share had shared. “I’m moving to India!” I blurted out. Silence took over. Nobody moved, not a child wasstirring, not even a…“Congrats!” came a shout from one side of the room.“Elephants!” screamed another of my friends.“India?” questioned my teacher. “Of all the places to move, India? Lucky…” ‘How could I be lucky?’ I thought. “So sudden, isn’t it?” my other teacher said out of nowhere. I was thinking the same thing.

The looks coming from most of my classmates were unbearable. I don’t know if they were sadthat I was leaving or not, and just too nice to show it. Still stunned and dazed, the teacher shook abell, and we all went to our desks. Just like that, it had been announced. I was ready to share thenews. “My dad got a big new job. But this job is in Chennai, India and we have to move there atleast one year. I am going there soon to look for a house.” Even though I talked about it a lot, I had noidea where Chennai was. After math class, we all headed outside to the playground. This wasn’t a grassy playgroundbecause it was in the middle of New York City. We played in a big fortress made out of green crates.Inside, you could pretend you were in another land. I would pretend I was in India, even though I hadno idea what it was like. There were also stilts and barrels to play on. They were the most popularplay toys. I was on top of one of the big green crates, when my friend Emma came up to me. “I think you’re going to ride elephants, have Indian food, and get stomach aches!”she exclaimed happily. ‘Oh great!’ I thought, ‘Is it really that bad?’ “Thanks!” I replied. That night my brother and I had my favorite dinner. It consisted of pasta,tomato sauce and broccoli. For dessert, I had vanilla ice cream. We had another chat with myparents. They tried to make the talk about India casual. I got to see the new school’s website and seesome photos. It was a big school compared to the one I went to in New York.

My parents told me about how you couldn’t drink the tap water, how you have to be extracareful when buying milk. At the end of every statement, my brother Noah’s face darkened at thenews. He wasn’t feeling very well about the move, and neither was I. The school photos had helpeda little, but not enough to make a difference.

We went to bed, but nobody slept. For if we slept a blink we might forget the big news.

Bye Bye NY We managed the days following the ‘big news’ announcement pretty well. Our home furniture,

books and clothing were separated into Air Shipping, Boat Shipping, and items for a storage facility. One stuffed animal that I knew I had to take was my dog. I call him Puppy. Puppy isa small gold colored stuffed animal with dark brown eyes. He was given to me at a very young age.He was a stuffed animal that I had to take everywhere with me. I slept with him every night. If I hadforgotten him, it would not have been okay. I would not let the movers take Puppy so I tucked him inmy backpack for safekeeping. After all the packing trucks were gone, I found a huge pad of blank paper. I used itfor drawing and writing and liked it so much; I didn’t want to throw it away. So I gave it to myDad’s cousin, Barbara who is really funny. She said that the next time she saw me, she would give itto me. There were a lot of things that I would miss such as food in New York. The MalibuDiner was my favorite place to eat near my apartment. The staff there was very friendly. Since I wentthere so often, they knew me like the recipe to their signature giant cookies. Whenever my Dad askedme where I would want to go for lunch or dinner I would say, “Hello Malibu!” which meant I wouldwant to go to Malibu Diner. That’s how they answered their phone.

There were a lot of events just to say goodbye to everyone. Dinners, lunches, stopping in forvisits. All of the people we knew closely wanted to say a proper goodbye. My Grandma Laura andGrandpa Len made a barbecue in their backyard for all my cousins and my family. Relatives said“Good luck in India” and “I’ll miss you.” We drove to Connecticut to say goodbye to my grandparents I call Nana and PopPop. They took me to my favorite restaurant, a Chinese restaurant called Jasmine. I call it the placewith the fish tanks because it has so many of them. I loved their steamed dumplings.

Saying goodbye to family was hard, but it seemed to me like there was always the possibilityof turning back and staying in the US. After the goodbyes, weakness struck me like lightning to atree. And then, we were off in a taxi to the airport. We boarded our airplane to Chennai, India inNew York, NY at John F. Kennedy International Airport. We were going to fly through Frankfurt,Germany. I had no idea where that was.

We went through the big doors that lead to the airport. A security man stood outside theentrance checking our e-tickets. He then waved us through the glass doors. Beyond him was the maincheck-in hall. At the check-in counter, we had trouble getting our eight enormous bags uponto the luggage merry-go-round. Inside the bags were the clothes, shoes, some games and everythingwe thought we would need first. In the security hall, we took off our shoes and walked with thinsocks through the metal detector onto the cold floor where we assumed a jumping-jack position. Asecurity man with a badge and a dark suit scanned us with the metal detector. Once we got throughsecurity, we proceeded to an airport restaurant for lunch. Some kind of baseball themed restaurant. Ithought it looked cool.

“Now boarding, Flight LQ 652 to Frankfurt International Airport” a voice on a PA systemannounced. Boarding the plane was the hardest. When my foot landed on the purple carpeting of theplane, I knew there was no turning back. I was leaving my first and true home.

I looked at my seat and was suddenly distracted from being upset. The seats would tip backwith the click of a button. It was awesome, because I had never been on this kind of plane before. Theflight was long and tiring. Longer than any of the other flights I had been on before.

We only spent 4 hours in Frankfurt, so we stayed in the airport lounge. It had all kinds ofbreakfast food, and a lot of little free snack foods, hot steam from the showers, free internet and a lotof soda. I drank about six mini cans of soda, before rushing to the bathroom. Two hours down. Indiawas nowhere near my thoughts. Two to go.

I went to the internet corner and felt like a foreigner there because of all the men in thebusiness suits. I played video games. Tired, I fell asleep.

“Wake up Harry!” screamed my brother into my ear. “Time to go to India!” “Thanks, Noah,” Isleepily responded. With the little energy in my body, I jumped up, and grabbed my last can of soda.

“I will miss you...” I said gesturing towards the soda. What if they don’t have soda in India?We proceeded towards our gate to board the aircraft to India. Another flight. As the others

walked, I hopped with joy of riding in another aircraft. A woman in a blue suit told us to have a goodflight. How could we not? I said, not thinking about India.

“Good morning, this is your captain, Bill, along with your copilot, Billy. This is a non-smoking flight.”

“Aw man!” I shouted sarcastically.“There are smoke detectors installed in all of the bathrooms. Smoking is a federal offense.

Prior to arrival in Chennai, India you will be given landing cards. Please fill them out and return themat the immigration in Chennai. Enjoy the flight.” I didn’t know what a landing card was.

A man with curly hair behind me burped twice. Somewhere in the cabin, there was a babycrying. I could picture the tears streaming out. Will the Indians be kind?

I watched a few movies and played with the chair remote.After I had woken up from another sleep, I sat up and prepared myself for another movie.“Ladies and gentleman, we are now preparing for our descent.” The pause used to add affect.

“In Chennai. Please stow your tray tables, and make sure that your windows are fully open. Pleaseplace your seat back upright and seat belt tightened. Thank you, and enjoy the rest of the flight.” Iheard the closing bing bing bing, and I knew it was really time.

Now, the real pain hit. The thoughts came in like someone was shooting them at me. This wasa move! This was not a vacation. When is the next time I will see snow, or the US? Will we takevacations there often? I will be so homesick! But I was partially wrong.

Life Changes

Landing in Chennai, my nose filled with the smell of burning rubber. Outside the plane weremildly rusted airport vehicles. Moonlight glinted off several pieces of broken glass carried by apassing construction truck, lights flashing. Other passengers rushed by carrying bundles and smallbags towards a merry-go-round of luggage fresh from the plane.

I followed my parents through the roughly painted arrival hall, being careful to mind olderfolks struggling with their baggage. The air was humid. Lights flashed, and a siren went off as thecarousel started to turn. Slowly, it delivered our eight bags one at a time. After throwing each pieceonto a cart, we walked out through the “green channel” in customs, which meant we had no goods todeclare. Seemed pretty modern, so far. I was nervous.

Outside the airport it was hot and dark. A policeman was yelling something like “Moupana,moupana” to get the traffic going. In the packed line of drivers and families waiting, was a tall Indianman holding a black paper sign with my Dad’s full name. Above his name was a hotel name. The manmotioned for us to wait for him. We waited and waited and waited. Finally, he came with his car. As

we were loading the trunk, we noticed that it wasn’t big enough for all of the bags, so we put some ofthe bags on the roof. We hopped in the car and drove off. I wanted desperately to look outside, but Ihad already fallen asleep.

The next morning we moved into our house. Compared to the average Indian’s home, theforeigners’, or expatriate houses in India were much larger and usually very modern. There werehouses made with floors and walls of marble, glass, and rock, stone, and bricks. Many had Americanstyle bathrooms, and swimming pools. We had picked what we thought was the right house for us tolive in for a few years. I learned later Indians live in lots of different ways. Some in apartments,some in huts made of palm leaves. A few in mansions, but many more in slums or houses made ofscrap metal and plastic. I was lucky.

To choose our house, we got in a car with a driver and a real estate agent, to look at manypossible homes. Sometimes, we would get a little briefing in the car. One house we went to hadbalconies and a driveway and a small fishpond in front. It was made of stone, brick and lots ofpanels of glass. The yard was large and covered with sand and trees. We walked around towards theback of the house, but were stopped by the guard mumbling something in what I assumed was thelocal language Tamil. I didn’t think that I would be able to call this home, but that was what I wasabout to call home.

I wasn’t really part of the final decision on housing, but I got my say. I wanted a glass housewith a swimming pool by the beach. My parents chose the house with the sandy yard. No swimmingpool, no beach view, no bathtub. It was a 30 second walk to the beach, but still! Why not be on thebeach?

Our house had a small Hindu prayer room that the owner allowed us to use as storage. Thekitchen was open to the outside with mosquito screens where there would be windows. Outside,there was a garden with small plants, banana trees and papaya trees and a water tower for storing ourwater. There was a tree house, a spare house for the house help (less than a quarter the size of mine),and a huge yard with a generator for the power outages. I had to admit, I was going to be prettyspoiled!

Exploration of our new house began the next day. The first thing the owner said to me was“Watch out for the snakes.” Sarcastically, I thought ‘Oh, no bathtub, but yes snakes!Wow. So safe, and child friendly!’

Snakes are holy to the Hindus, so they are not supposed to kill them. But I saw that becausepeople are afraid of a snake they would beat it till it’s dead, then burn it so other snakes or animalswouldn’t smell the dead snake and come. If the security guard had to kill a snake and was Hindu, thenhe would have to go to the temple and pray. I learned that in our part of India there were many

snakes: Cobra, King Cobra, Krait, Viper, Tree, and many other kinds of snakes. Later, we found athin yellow and black snake in our washing machine. Others were in our front and backyards.

JP

Driving in India was crazy so most foreigners had drivers. There were cows and goatscrossing the road and the roads were curvy. Some roads were small so two way roads weresometimes the size of one way. Most Indian families couldn’t afford cars so sometimes four or fivepeople would pile onto motorcycles. It would be like my dad driving with my mom behind with meon my Mom’s lap and my brother behind. I feel lucky to have had a car big enough for everyone tohave their own space. John Peter was our driver. He wasn’t any driver. He was more than just adriver. He was a caring person and my best Indian friend.

JP was a super great driver with amazing fast reflexes. He was married and had two smallchildren. He was my “anna” – brother in Tamil – and I was his “thambi” – younger brother.

When my mother took me to go run errands, I always wanted to stay in the car with JP. Ialways had fun if JP was there. We pretended that we were Tamil movie stars and would act outjoking fight scenes. We played a game where one person called out numbers and the other personwould have to guess why you chose that number. We talked about what he ate for dinner and I learnedabout Indians foods. He always tried to look his best and to look neat even though he didn’t havemoney to spend on clothing.

Near my house in Chennai there was a place called “Kart Attack,” which was for go carting. You rented go-carts and drove around the track. JP liked it just like I did.

JP’s parents lived in a coconut leaf house on some land along the main road not far from ourhouse. When we went to visit them, his mother gave us coconut water. She had a pile of youngcoconuts that had been gathered by one of her sons and she sliced off the top of a coconut with amachete and stuck a straw in the top and hand it to me. It was slightly sweet and sour at the sametime and cool. John Peter was our driver. But to me he was more than just a driver. He was a caringperson and my best Indian friend.

My Indian Dog

My new school was called the American International school of Chennai, or AISC for short. It had kids from the U.S, Korea, India, China, Australia, Japan, the UK, France and many morecountries.

At school there were several posters put up about a family of Indian street dogs that werebeing given away. The puppies had been given their proper shots but the puppies lived with theirmother in an empty lot. I had been begging my parents for a dog. When we decided to take a dogthere was only one left. All her brothers and sisters were sandy colored and white but she was blackand white. She was about three months old.

The next weekend we called the number on the poster and were at the address. My brotherand I hopped out of the car and ran to the gate. A security guard came out. We asked him about thedog, and he walked across the street to an empty plot of land filled with garbage, broken glass, andbarbed wire. He reached into a corner pile, and pulled out a tiny black and white Indian street dogwith short hair and dark eyes. She had a long tail that was black on the bottom and white atthe tip.

We took her home in a little brown square cardboard box. On the way home in the car, shepeed in the box and we took turns holding the box. We argued about what to call her. My Momthought of the perfect name for her. We brought our puppy home on an Indian holiday called AyudhaPuja. A Puja is an offering in the Hindu religion and Ayudha Puja was a time to honor tools, andmachinery and nowadays even computers. And Puja is also an Indian girl’s name. Thus, she got thename Puja. When we got her home, a puja was done for her and she was given a red powder bindimark by Chitra, who helped clean our house. Chitra always wore bangles, which made a jingleevery time she crossed the doorway. She didn’t speak any English but somehow she understood me. Chitra was kind but like many Indians, was surprised we let allowed Puja in the house.

Puja was perfect. Everyone at our new house adored her and wanted to spend time with her.She was the newest addition to the Grubman family. Puja was so tiny that when we carried her

around, we didn’t even feel her weight. Her little pink tongue tickled my skin as she licked it. Shewas already getting used to her new surroundings. She was making my experience in India a whole lotbetter.

Roots & Shoots

In a short time, we had made a lot of friends in India. There was a woman who my family andI were very close with. Her name was Supraja Dharini and she was an environmental activist. Shestarted an organization called the Tree Foundation, which mostly helped sea turtles, and she was alsothe leader for Roots & Shoots in India. Roots & Shoots encourages children around the world to starttheir own groups to help people the environment and animals. Little did I know, this was the start of anew period of my life. It all started when Dr. Jane Goodall came to my house.

The life of Jane Goodall – a primatologist and environmentalist - inspired Supraja to bedevoted to helping others. I saw there are many people in India who are willing to help others butthere are more problems than people helping. Jane Goodall taught me to help.

One night Supraja took Noah, my mother and I on a walk to see a nesting Olive Ridley seaturtle. At the end of our own road, Seshsadri Avenue, the pavement submerged to the sand. Therewere usually street dogs at that end of the road. Piles of garbage lay littered over the ground.Styrofoam cups in full form were thrown here and there. Small plastic cups used for Indian tea,cigarettes, toothbrush parts and rubber sandals we tossed all over. A section of a tough leafy plantsmothered most of the surface of the sand. I was upset with the condition of the beach.

When we got to the nesting point, we saw the mother turtle had dug a hole in an open area ofsand. Once she approved of the hole she had dug, she started laying her eggs. When she finished, sheput the sand back in the hole using her flippers, and made it look like nothing had ever happenedthere. These turtles need to be saved because they help feed fish and keep the food chain going. Ilearned that people kill them or take their eggs or destroy their beaches. This makes me sad, thatthese creatures don’t even have a chance to live. We don’t want these magnificent sea creatures to go

extinct.One day Supraja said that Dr. Jane was coming to Chennai! Supraja needed a place to host an

event in India to raise money for Tree Foundation with the famous guest of honor, Jane Goodall, somy family offered.

Over the next few months, we sold tickets to over 100 different families, and raised a lot ofmoney for the Roots & Shoots organization. A ticket was a lot of money, and all the money went toRoots & Shoots. We got the chef of a major hotel to come to cater the event for free because it wasfor charity. This was my big chance to start helping others.

After counting down on the calendar for months, it was finally the big day. We got calls fromthe caterers, the tables and chairs rental people, the guy who loaned us the sound system for themicrophone, and even the light rental people all day! I was busy on a computer making signs to showthe bathroom locations in our house. I never knew so much work went into an event like that. I neededa break, so I scrambled outside and played basketball with the three guards that we had hired toorganize traffic. We didn’t have a net so we just passed the ball.

The night was awesome! Hundreds of people gathered outside my house. I was a little crazywith energy and ran around the yard. But when Jane Goodall stood up to speak, it was like she tookthe breath out of the guests’ mouths. Sitting in a tree, I gazed down at Dr. Jane delivering hercompelling speech. She spoke of her work in Tanzania, Africa with chimpanzees. She talked alsoabout why she left Africa and the work she loved. One day she said she realized that she needed tospread the word outside her corner of the earth that animals were disappearing and she said,“everyone can make a difference.”

A few days later, Supraja asked me if I wanted to start a Roots & Shoots group in my school.Dr. Jane’s speech really had motivated me. Well, I said yes, without considering the work that itwould require. And so that was the beginning of the Roots & Shoots in the American InternationalSchool of Chennai.

It wasn’t as easy as assumed. In order to set up the organization, I would have to have thesupport of the principal. First, I tried starting by writing a letter. Then, a meeting with the schoolboard. Well, this was getting exciting. Next, we had to find a teacher willing to host the program andbe responsible for it. In a school all the teachers do their best for their regular students and don’t havetime to pay attention to extra activities. A volunteer teacher that really stood out was Ms. BarbaraWilson. After a lot of planning and telling her what the needed materials were, we would be set up asa free After-School Activity. I was the first to sign up for my own activity.

The age group for our Roots and Shoots was third to fifth grade. I was right in the middle.Most of the people who joined at the beginning were people who I had told about it.

“Turned out, it was more fun than any other activity!” said Aleena, a member of the Roots &Shoots program. I didn’t make her say this. The students were more interested in the eco-friendlyconcepts than some of the teachers.

Our first project was making recycled art, and showing what people can do with usedmaterials. To look at the stuff you throw away in a different way. That helped get the art teachers getinvolved. It also showed how much creativity each project could have.

Our second project was an educational project. We showed the school how much garbage theschool made in a day. When people see their actual amounts, they realize the problem. To find asolution, you must be aware of the problem first.

We gathered up all the garbage from the trashcans, and put all the garbage in a collective areanear the admissions office. The cleaning staff was instructed to not pick up any garbage, so we got thefull amount. The collection was 25 cubic meters. 5,600 paper cups were being used in a day. That’s alot.

After the showcase of all of the garbage that we produced, the amount of cups was reduced.People began bringing in more and more water bottles. That was an everlasting project. Theeducation of people about what they throw away, how it can be harmful to the environment, and howthey can fix it.

Some high school students wanted to get involved now, and I saw this as a great opportunity.Every morning, and during recess, there would be a high school kid at a stand explaining the currentproject. There would also be a donation box. For one project, we raised 15,000 dollars in a week. That’s a lot of money to get in a week!

Soon, I felt like the Roots & Shoots program was off the ground. Finally, if I left it wouldn’tcrash. This made me feel proud. Knowing that I had made a difference. Knowing that being in Indiadidn’t just give the school an extra student. More and more, creative projects were actually possible. More and more, we got parentvolunteers. More and more, the Roots & Shoots group grew. To think that I had started this was justmind blowing. Four big projects that year done by us. Wow.

Some days, I log on to the Roots & Shoots website, and wonder who’s the teacher at the Roots& Shoots in Chennai, India now? What has happened with the group? Do they still remember thebeginning?

I think all schools should have a Roots & Shoots group for all ages. Telling the younger kidsthat they can make a difference. A group that people can rely on to do what they say they will withdonations. Many people say stuff like “You’re just a little boy/girl! What would you be able to do?”I’ve met people who started making a difference as children. My tip for the world is that one person

can make a difference.If every person who threw garbage said “I’m just one person. It wouldn’t hurt if I litter.” then therewould be tons of garbage. So it matters. As Dr. Goodall says, everyone can make a difference. Istrongly agree.

The Toilet Issue While looking out the car window, my fingers pressed at the bottom of the windowpane, I

often saw boys and men urinating on plants, bushes, and on walls. I noticed that many Indians didn’thave bathrooms. That has been a major problem, literally leaving locals to go in the dust. In thepublic schools, sometimes they don’t have enough toilets or have none at all.

Imagine you’re a kid. Its recess time and you have to go to the bathroom. The closest one isyour house, and you have no time to go home. To save time, you have to find the nearest bushes. Sothere you are, no privacy, just going in the bush. When you’re done, forget about toilet paper. If you’relucky, you can use a big leaf. Just be careful it’s not poisonous!

I wanted to help these children, and I partially did with our Roots and Shoots group. One ofour major projects was to raise money for a school that needed a toilet. The school also wanted tomake a sewage system to fertilize crops. I think India is a place that can catch on quickly to newmaterial if they are willing to learn, and are interested.

One problem is that the toilets that are affordable to the public schools break really easily. Insome schools, the teachers put locks on the bathrooms so only adults can use the bathroom. I think thisis cruel and harsh. All humans have the right to use a proper toilet. While living in India, it hit me thatsome people don’t have basic needs, in this case, a toilet.

Diarrhea is a major problem in India. Many people don’t have the water or medicine theyneed. That is the reason for most of the deaths at young ages. I think all people deserve access to aproper toilet. It should be a right.

Clean water is a big resource that India doesn’t have. One day my Mom took my brother and Ito a local magic show, PC Sorcar the magician. We had seen his name and his picture on posterseverywhere in Chennai and wanted to go. His most well known trick was called, “The Waters ofIndia.” He poured water endlessly from a jug into a large metal bowl and the jug was never empty.

If only India really had a “Waters of India” trick up its sleeve. It doesn’t have clean water. We had rules about our water – no drinking the tap water, no mouths open in the shower, no brushingteeth with the tap water. We had to use filtered water we bought. After a while it became normal tous, but I realized water should be valued.

Widow His body was on a wooden table out in the open for all to see. I watched, as she stroked his

lifeless hair; hoping, just pleading, for one more word. Silence had taken its hold and would not letgo. Not a sound, except the raging beat of the widow’s heart. A slow drumbeat starts, the start of anIndian funeral.

A silk blanket, firmly, but gently hoisted above his head. The last look at his body had beentaken. He was my neighbor. He was a very spiritual man, would wake up, and worship the rising sun.I used to see him every morning, kneeling almost in the middle of the road.There would be no more of him, to greet us at the end of our driveway, his arms outstretched into thesun, and then bowing into the dirt. Silence. He didn’t talk. Perhaps he knew the end was near. A pieceof all of us had been taken. It was goodbye, forever.

It was too confusing for me, for I had never been to a funeral before. Nobody spoke out loud,though the man’s family was crying. No one’s thoughts wandered from the fact, the man was gone.In front of me, were the grandchildren, the wife, the daughters, and the brother. The women werewearing their finest cotton saris and a deep, sorrowful, sound of regret. The intense, smell of goatsthat they raised on their plot of land, made wrinkles in a not to be forgotten moment.

The land that they lived on was not theirs. A man owned it, but he never came back to it. Theylive on it, and though it was illegal, they deserved it like a child deserves education. I remember that

one day, they got a threat from some stranger and the stranger threatened them if they didn't move offthe land. They ignored it. The next day, their goats were stolen, and the man's wife was crying.

I learned a valuable lesson that most people ignore until they can’t ignore anymore. You don’tknow how valuable the people in your life are until they are gone. I seldom take people for granted. Ilearned this seeing a dead body.

Power Status – Out

Imagine, you are eight years old, your parents are out at dinner, and your brother was far awayenough to not be able to hear you. The power goes out and it’s pitch black. The worse part is that youare on the stairs. You sit down and wait…and wait…and wait…until the power comes back on,which is 15 minutes after it goes out. You finally go to bed. Next morning you wake up, and ask theguard why wasn’t the generator working last night? His reply was simple. No fuel!

Sometimes when I would be eating dinner, the lights would go out. Sometimes when I wastaking a shower the lights would go out. Sometimes doing my homework, the lights would go out.

Power: something that India does not have a lot of. Constantly, lights, A/Cs,Computers, TVs, and anything else that we would use on a daily basis that needed power would firststart flickering, and then, OUT it would go.

Our house had a generator. It was good in one way, bad in two ways. The good part was that itgave us power when there was none. The bad part was that it pollutes the environment by using a lotof fossil fuel, making exhaust and it makes so much noise.

That was India’s problem with the power. Put yourself in an Indian resident’s shoes, and

you’ll know how difficult it was to live in India. Many don’t have electricity and MOST don’t havegenerators.

Once, I went to the movies at a nearby movie theatre called Mayajaal. Mayajaal was apopular place in Chennai because it had a food court, a bowling alley, a paintball range, and a gamecenter. We proceeded to the showing area, where Narnia 2 was playing. We got some salty butteredpopcorn and headed to our seats, ready, for what India was about to give us. The tickets wereassigned seats but we sat down in other seats, because people had taken our seats. It was very coldin the theatre. When the movie started, the lights didn’t dim, but flashed off in an instant. Then, themovie started playing.

About 50 minutes into the movie, ‘boom’, the lights were out. No, this was not the beginningof the movie, but 50 MINUTES INTO THE MOVIE! The movie just stopped. It was a power outage.People yawned and acted normal. That would never happen in the US, I thought. After about fiveminutes, the power came back on, and we watched the rest of the movie.

In the US, if the lights went out, people would scream and wonder why. I figured out why herein India the people just continue with what they were doing. We get surprised when somethinghappens that we are not used to. I learned that it’s all about adaptations. After experiencing it a fewtimes, I was used to it, and even liked when the lights went out. In a way it was fun, but this was alsoa time for me to realize that many people don’t even have lights.

Many nights, my family and I would walk home. On some nights on our street, there was a boydoing his homework under a streetlamp. This is what Gandhi did, so some Indians want to do it too.That boy silently taught me that there is huge difference between the power going out and not havingpower at all. Line tapping is one of the major causes of power loss. Villagers attach power lines to theones with energy, and use someone else’s energy to power their rice cooker or a small television.When a line is tapped, the power is taken away from the rightful owner.

Riot A few hours out of the town of Chennai, there is a place called Pondicherry. In Pondicherry,

there are many French people. Pondicherry was the place in India where the French invaded to add itto their territory. Still now, many French people live there, and some of the Indians there speakFrench.

In Pondicherry, we stayed at a lodge, which is actually an old house that someone said, “Hey,I guess we could turn this place into a Hotel.” And so they did. Each room seemed high enough forsomeone to put half the Statue of Liberty in.

Our driver JP stayed the night in the car. My dad gave him money to get a place to sleep, buthe wanted to save the money. He sometimes would call a friend living in Pondicherry, and stay thenight with him. Later that night, my family and I would go to the local seafood place, and have dinner.Usually, we wake up, have breakfast, and take the Old Mahabali Puram road home, but this time wasdifferent.

We woke up, and got dressed. I had a hot chocolate and a frozen banana. I loved how the hotchocolate steamed into the cold morning A/C air. The way the warmth heated up my teeth, and thenthe banana suddenly froze them. The contrast in that feeling was ineffable. I finished off that breakfastwith a glass of skim milk. I went to brush my teeth, and took a hot shower (all of the hot water wouldbe gone by the later afternoon).

When I went outside, the car was already started. JP was behind the wheel, as usual. I couldtell by the mysterious smile on his face that it was time to go. I slid open the door to our Toyota, and Ijumped up onto the seat. I kneeled on it, in order to reach my head into the front seat and say hi to JP.When I sat back down, I saw wrinkles in the seat had stayed. They stayed no-matter what I did. Itmeant bad news, and indeed it was.

Half way back to Chennai, we found the bad news. A riot. A few phone calls made by mydriver, and he figured out what it was. A few drunken guys had started the political riot. People withsticks walked along the side of the road. There are a lot of riots in Chennai, but most of them were notas violent as this one was. The sticks seemed to glare. Angry faces jumped from all around us. Manypeople were bleeding. Truck stood along the road. The windows shattered, and the sides dented. Nogood was to come.

A man with the biggest stick shouted at us, and told us to go on a detour. Out of purely beingscared, we listened and drove on the detour. My face pressed against the glass. The skin on my facestretched to form the flat figure of the glass. I decided it would be best to go to sleep.

There are not a lot of riots in Chennai. Political groups are the biggest things there. There arenicknames for the political groups. I always forget them. The two main groups are followers ofKarunanidhi, and Jayalalitha. I myself like to keep neutral.

Eating Local

In a country far, far away, a boy had Masala Dosa for breakfast. That boy was me. If you arewondering what a Masala Dosa is, it is big and round like a giant pancake but very, very thin like a

crepe, and usually made from ground rice and lentil flour batter. It is rolled up with masala potatoesinside (spiced potato chunks). It usually is eaten with three types of chutney; coconut chutney, tomatochutney, and a green coriander chutney. Chutney is a sauce served to the side of the food that you candip breads in and pour on rice. The dosa is also served with Sambar, the soupy spicy tomato tastingsauce with different vegetables and lentils. This was my favorite Indian meal.

An Indian breakfast is nothing like an American meal, or even what you think of as Asianfood. Indian food can be unique. I’m not talking about the Indian food you get in fancy restaurants; I’mtalking about the street-side action. Food sold off a cart on the side of the road but made at homes. Ihad an older friend who made money selling breakfast from a roadside cart. He and his wife wouldwake up the middle of the night and prepare the batter and vegetables for their food the next day.

Like most Indian meals, food is eaten with their right hands. Right hand because some Indianssay the left hand is used to help clean after going to the bathroom. With me being a lefty, it’s was alittle difficult. Every time I used my left hand, people stared at me. Well, now I’m ambidextrous ateating Indian food.

I have to admit that some of the best Indian food I had was at breakfast. Breakfast is what isthe most important meal of the day. Lunch is just a refill. Dinner is to tide you over for the night.

The thing South Indians eat the most of is rice, which is also the main food in other Asiancountries such as China, Thailand, and Japan. A phrase that I made up was ‘rice is nice with curryand spice.’ That’s in the South. In North India, they eat mostly Indian bread. The breads are nothinglike the sliced bread served in the US, but are usually flat and made on a stove.

In South India, all the bread they eat is made out of rice flour. The bread is either moist, orreally dry. All of the breads that are good are hand made. Some Indians say that bread made by amachine is worthless.

Another Indian dish that I love is one of the more popular ones, a biryani. A biryani is made ofrice, meat, and spices. For the foreigners who don’t like spice, they have a yogurt and onion mixturethat softens the spice. I also once in a while enjoyed a chicken curry.

The best biryani I have ever eaten was surprisingly at the “Runs Hotel”. The name cracked meup. For those of you who don’t know what ‘the runs’ is, it’s diarrhea. One night, I was going to go topick up my dad from the airport. That was a night flight, so it was late. I remember around ten. Ineeded to get dinner on the way, so I stopped off at the Indian version of fast food. I got a biryani. Iget it with the yogurt and onion mixture, as not to light my mouth on fire. It came in five minutes.That’s pretty good for the quality of the food that you get.

Holi

Have you ever seen a crowd of people in clothing stained with color, with purple smudgednoses, and green mouths, or a yellow nose with blue eyelids? Well, I have. In the Hindu festival ofHoli, color is the theme. There are so many religious holidays in India, and I did not understand a lotof them, but this one was fun for everyone no matter what you believed in.

Holi is the festival of color. People throw or smear colored powder or colored water oneach other. Hindus and Sikhs observe this holiday, and some say it celebrates spring. Others say itmarks the killing of a demon so good wins over evil. But it doesn’t look like a religious ceremony tome, just like crazy fun. Most Holi festivals are in the middle of the street. It is sort of a free for allthrowing contest.

At my school in Chennai, the older kids were allowed to chase each other throwing coloredpowder. Clouds of purple and red flew. Their hair stained bright pink and their faces blue. Therewere teenagers, running in between the legs of people

A lot of Indians want their skin to be white, like the foreigners. They use creams to make theirskin lighter. One of my Indian friends did this. When I went into the local store to buy gum, therewould be rows and rows of these kinds of creams. On this holiday, they celebrate the idea of all races

of people being happy together, and that your real colors don’t matter. If people in green, purple, andred surround you, there is no possible discrimination by real skin color. Holi celebrates the mixing ofcolors.

Holi powder is rice powder with artificial coloring. In some places, they try to be naturefriendly, and use natural powders and coloring. I wish I could have participated in Holi but I want towhen I’m older. I wasn’t allowed because the Holi powders can be harmful to the skin.

I think when there is a traditional Holi celebration, there is more red than any other color. Redis considered a lucky color. Everyone has fun, everyone laughs. There is water sprayed everywhere.Nothing looks like it could go wrong.

Korean Friends My life in India was very international. I learned that around the world, people act very

differently from Americans. I learned that I liked some of the ways that they lived their lives.You like Korean food? The American International School of Chennai was 60% Korean. This

was because Chennai was scattered with Hyundai factories. It is a Korean car company. The Koreansin my school were very much in need to eat what they are used to. They ate Kim chi, kim bap, bulogibap, and lots of other traditional Korean dishes.

The school saw this as a big opportunity. Right in front of them were the Koreans, and manyother people that also liked Korean food. So, the school started having a Korean option for lunch.There were spicy dishes, fried Korean chicken, and even fresh Kim bap. Still, a Korean lunch at

school wasn’t enough.Every three months, the Koreans would get a shipment of all the stuff they need to make a

traditional Korean meal. They would get spices, alcohol, vegetables, barley, meat, snacks, and evenjuices. Once, I went to a friend’s house, and they told me that they only had Korean water. Their waterwas fried with barley, and then cooled. I liked it.

In the morning, I was thirsty. My friend was asleep, and the night before, he told me that if Iwas thirsty, I was allowed to get water from the fridge. I went to get a glass of Korean water. When Itasted it, I spit it out. My friend had woken up. He was laughing like crazy. I asked him what was sofunny, and he said,

“That is not Korean water. That is 50% alcohol.” Thank you Chan Ha. Now, I can't say that Ihave never drank.

The Beginning of the End

“They’re here!” my mom shouted, as the last motorcycle put put putted to a stop. The driverremoved his helmet, and removed the key from its slot. His mustached face hovered above hischildren’s. Each hair of his mustache was perfectly oiled, to the point where each hair shined.

That day was picture day. It also, was the last day that we were living in India. All of thepeople, whom we had employed for the last three years, were lined up to get their photos taken. Theman on the motorcycle is my friend and our driver John Peter (JP for short.) We had a helper, Chitra. Her husband was the gardener, Yellumalai. Lastly, we had a cook, Anthony Alexander. We also hadguards, but they switched off between Kannan and Prakash.

John Peter (JP) was the one that I was around the most. He was always really super nice, andalways gives up his time to help others. Some days, I would go outside in the yard with him, and tossa ball around. He is not only my driver, but he is also my friend. Each and every one of the workers had brought their children. JP’s daughter was dressed in asparkly orange party dress. JP’s son was in his finest kurta pajama, with a matching shawl scarf. Allof the men were in their best outfits, shirts, lunghis and were wearing the cleanest black pants ever. Iwas in a T-Shirt and shorts.

We all got in a line next to the small fishpond at the front of our house. I ran up to the camera,set it on a timer, pointed it at us, and I pressed the button. As my finger came up, I could see that mysweat had smothered the surface of the button. I ran back to join the group and threw on a fakechildish smile. But how could I be happy? I had been with these people for three years, and I wasabout to leave.

That day, nobody had been happy. It was like the wind had stopped blowing, and would neverresume. The trees were silent, and the fish were still. Nobody moved. Sparrows chirped to therhythms of footsteps.

Everyone had surrounded the car, for the last photo. I stood on the roof, and others posedaround the car in other ways. No talking, only listening. Listening for the cheer of the birds, listeningfor the wail of the yard, which once was vibrant with excitement.

The car started up. The trunk seemed to be wailing with pain, because it carried the eleventrunks that we had used to pack the last of our belongings. It had been time, to go.11:23 a.m. The car was started, and we were ready to go. The engine stuttered, and started. Tearsgathered in Chitra’s eyes. In mine too. She opened her mouth to speak, but all that came out was somemuffled sniffling. JP put the car in reverse, and we were ready to go. The gas pedal was presseddown. The car jerked to a start. It was bye bye, that time for real.The ride was smooth. Like a usual ride, except the world was spinning.

People were walking. Yet, everything seemed to be running. No way. I didn’t want to leave.Many thoughts were crawling through my head. We were almost at the airport, when the cryingstarted. JP was crying. Arriving at the airport, the feelings got worse. Big hugs for JP were given aswe loaded up the luggage carts. We headed off towards our gate.

Getting on the airplane, it hit me that we were never coming back to live in Chennai. When wewere in our seats, I told my mom, “I love the place and the people.” I started to cry. “Now I can nolonger say ‘Oh, I live in India!’ “ Leaving India for me was harder than leaving New York. It will beharder for us to visit our old home. If you are too young, you may not understand. If you are too old,you’ll say ‘I can move on and make new friends.’ I said, “I will always have a space in my heart forIndia.” On the plane, they offered Indian food for lunch, spicy chicken, my favorite Indian breadNaan, and mint chutney. When I had finished my chutney, I asked my mom, “Mom, pass the chutneyplease.”