I am from the UK

This blog entry is dedicated to friends - I count myself very lucky to have you in my life.  No matter where we are, we have, and will always have, each other.  Your support is invaluable.

'No distance of place or lapse of time can lessen the friendship of those who are thoroughly persuaded of each other's worth.' - Robert Southey
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"When you're out of your own cultural context you have conversations with yourself that you just don't have at any other point in your life. When you're...alone...on the border between India and Nepal you can really discover things about yourself." - David Mitchell

On the final day of the short week, the lower school had a day off whilst all the teachers took the Upper School (Class 5 – 10) on their educational visit to Darjeeling.  Combining Geography, History, Botany and Biology the trip included a visit to the zoo, the mountaineering museum, a park and the main square in Darjeeling (Chowrasta).  Chowrasta means ‘four roads’ and the square is so named because four roads converge there.  The trip started at 06.30 – 7 jeeps stood ready to transport us onward to Darjeeling.  The visit was like nothing I have experienced before.  Risk assessment? Erm, I have to confess, despite my best efforts to remain as nonchalant as possible and, go with the flow, I returned to Kashyem that night exhausted and with a stomping headache.  Whilst I do find the UK system for organising visits over the top, having been trained this way, it was impossible to convert to, what seemed like the absolute polar opposite.  As much as I kept thinking, ‘all will be well, all will be well’, which it was, I couldn’t stop myself herding children as they walked on and in the road, checking numbers as we congregated in different areas and other simple things to check the group was intact.  I am getting so used to the much less fanatical approach to life here, which is a great thing, but the school visit was a hard one.  It felt as there was no control, not just a lack of control.  The final groups arrived back to the village at about 20.30 so it was an incredibly long, but, all said and done, very successful, visit.  Some of the children had never been to Darjeeling, fewer to the zoo and many had never been to the gardens.  It was a great way to finish our…(part) week of school…and to start our next week-long break from school to celebrate Diwali.

                      

                             (Teachers)                                         (Year 8)

(Audience)

        
          (Breakfast in the Tea Garden)                                           (Satish Sir and his son)

(Down into the valley, before going up the other side to Darjeeling)

                        
                                                                                       (Family breakfast selfie)

(The Tea Garden)

 
 




    (Hanuman)

(Lord Shiva)

During the first weekend of Diwali I had to say goodbye to two more volunteers, which basically left me - from 6, I became 1.  As I am not sure when the next volunteer may descend upon the area, it was a strange feeling as, despite not getting together very often, the six of us had some great conversations and kept up a strong thread of ideas, thoughts and discussions on our WhatsApp group.  The first few days seemed a little strange as, predictably, messages became fewer.  But, the village kept me busy celebrating Diwali and, when I wasn’t celebrating, I was busy preparing and cutting out phonic resources ready for school the following week.  I had managed to get my hands on a laminator and laminating sheets.  There has probably never been a more important place to be able to laminate as paper gets so damp in the atmosphere.  I have also bought plastic envelopes for the few story books I bought with me to help protect them too.  Spending from the extra money raised before I left the UK, I also bought a number of activities for children in Nursery.  Pegs and peg boards, counting beads, skittles etc.  It is often the case here that children in Nursery and Kindergarten sit and wait whilst a teacher works with two or three of them at a time.  It is not a very interesting wait.  I have therefore, spent some time with these classes playing with number cards and counting tangible objects like pencils or cups, but I also wanted there to be a few more engaging games for them to get involved with at other times.  As an organisation, Mondo are also looking at the long-term viability of phonics in an area such as Kalimpong.  I submitted my thoughts on this in a report written in the middle of October.  Depending on the outcome of the decision there may be more training to be done, but for now, SM and I are almost certain that we want to introduce phonics properly at New Rise.  It is a delicate balance of all the things I mentioned in a previous blog – parents, children, staff: a new way of working – but, at the same time, the phonics will have to be flexible enough to allow for the current way of working here.  Devising training appropriate for making those allowances and ensuring staff understand the limits is a challenge.

Anyway, enough about work - it's Diwali.

On the Monday evening of Diwali, I went to make Momos with Neha and Bobby.  As you are aware it wasn’t my first time, but I was completely shown up by Neha who made about five Momos to my one.  We made about 160 so it is quite a time-consuming task.  The basis of Momos is very simple.  The dumpling part is just flour and water mixed and rolled out into small, quite thin circles.  This time we were making chicken Momos.  The minced chicken (done by knife) is mixed with almost equal quantity of red onion (very finely diced).  We added salt and then something that looked a little like salt, but the crystals were longer.  Nat and I thought it could be celery salt, but I will need to find out what it is before I get home, so I can make them properly.  Finally, the main flavour of the Momo is ginger so we add plenty of finely chopped (sometimes grated) fresh ginger.  The time-consuming part is fashioning the little parcels once you have put the mixture into the middle of the circle.  One half is pleated and then stuck to the other half, sealing the mixture inside.  I may, with practise, get better, but at the moment, if you are ever invited for ‘Momos at Mark’s’ then it may just be the two of us as it’ll take that long to prepare the number necessary.  As with any event at Santos and Bobby’s house it was great fun.  I don’t understand everything that is going on, obviously, but it really doesn’t matter.  The atmosphere is so comfortable, and I can ask my questions to Neha or Babul who will translate them.  Santos is, of course, always keen to teach me a little more Nepali and I can now ask for something to eat in a restaurant!  Oh, and the Momos were very tasty – I know how to say that too, but it wasn’t my verdict.  That was the family’s verdict.

  
    (Chicken mixture)                       (Team work - Bobby, Amit and I)


     (Neha filling the Momos much quicker than)                  (Amit rolling pastry into balls)


     (Santos rolling out the pastry into circles)    (Frying the left over pastry to make Purri)

Diwali is a festival I thought I knew pretty well and, the basis of it, I most certainly do.  Even some of the individual ways to celebrate – lighting diya and setting off fireworks for example.  However, I was not aware that for each day during Diwali a different animal is worshipped.  This year on the 5^th Nov it was the crow (honoured for taking away bad luck), 6^th Nov it was the dog (honoured for guarding the home), the 7^th it was the cow and the 8^th the bull (honoured for their life-giving qualities).  In each case (where possible) the animal is given a garland of marigolds to wear and tikka is put on the forehead of the animal to show it has been blessed.  In the case of the dog, it was the same tikka as we used during our Dusshera celebrations.  The ceremony is conducted with great organisation and there are lots of elements involved.  An oil diya is lit and placed on a tray of rice, with a coin on – you may remember this combination from the ancestor ceremony and the mixture renewed at Dusshera above the front door.  In the case of the cow, on a larger tray is a mixture of pancake and oats cooked for the cow to eat, a big jug of marigolds and a necklace of marigolds for the cow to wear and, of course, the smoking incense.  Finally, a small amount of yoghurt and a marigold with which to paste the yoghurt onto the cow (instead of tikka).  The cow is blessed, and Santos made prayers on each of the cow’s legs and her head.  He wafted the incense around her and the herbs too.  Our cow had a calf earlier this year.  The calf is a bull and so the same ceremony was conducted on him the following day. 


     (Doggy having been blessed)  (Getting the fermented millet ready)  (The cow)
 
      (The calf)                            (Preparation of the blessing)                       (The plate)
Just by looking at the careful arrangement of the objects it is clear how much time is spent on the ceremony and how important it is to respect the animals that provide for the family.

(Santos begins blessing the cow)

(All the preparations ready outside the barn)

(Eating her pancake)

(The tray and marigolds are left in the roof of the barn above the heads of the cow and her calf)

I found myself drawn to the ceremony’s as the respect and understanding of the family animals is clear.  Mainly vegetarian, the family do eat meat and there is huge care given to the animals while alive and, when/if the time comes, also at the time of slaughter.  The men of the household are responsible for the killing and it is always done with great consideration as to necessity and ensuring nothing will go to waste.  I often wonder how the honouring of animals and reliance upon nature in so many ways can be in such direct contrast to the enormous amount of rubbish left around and how it is dealt with (or not).

The Wednesday of Diwali we began decorating the house.  We had strings of marigolds hanging from doorways and on the front of the house.  We had fairy lights across the front of both the main house and the kitchen.  We placed candles in diyas and put them along the bannister of the balcony.  The lights are set to welcome home Rama and Sita following victory over Ravana.  On that same day, Lakshmi, the goddess of wealth, was worshipped at the small shrine in SM and Sunita’s room.  Amit, Neha and Babel came, and we were adorned with tikka on our foreheads.  I was also asked to conduct a short prayer to ask for good blessings with wealth.  Throwing marigold petals over the shrine and wafting the incense (as had been done at celebrations before), that is exactly what I did.  I am becoming much more used to what happens and whilst I bow, and am blessed, by Ama (my elder) following tikka, Babel, Neha and Amit bowed to me.  It’s quite something to be so different to everyone in many ways and, yet, be so readily accepted.

     (Sunita threading marigold heads)              (Putting up the lights and marigolds)

(The front of the house)

(The front of Santos' house)

                                                      (Prayer at the small shrine)

(Babul Amit, Neha and I)

(Diya)

(The house at night)

(Diya)

(Santos' house at night)

After we had completed the prayers, we set off for the one-minute walk to Ama’s house where she also added tikka.  I tasted boeuf soup (buffalo) which was rich and full of flavour.  Then, we all set off to the neighbour’s house – you remember the neighbour who moved recently?  Here we received the same tikka as before and ate snacks rather like honeycomb, that had been homemade.  It was a little more crumbly than honeycomb and had nuts in.  All the time we moved about the village firecrackers and fireworks were being set off and, we ourselves, lit bangers and crackers.  I have to say that, for all my expectations of what Diwali might bring in this small village on a mountainside, I was not disappointed.  Having taught the festival for nine years through various media, I wondered if it might not live up to what I thought it might be.  I have no idea what the towns and cities were like over Diwali, but my small corner of the planet was exciting, colourful, loud and full of party atmosphere.  And, it was only day one!  Mind you, I was a bit shocked to hear that SM and Sunita were visited by carol singers at 02.00am.  I slept right through them, but SM and Sunita had to wake and host the singers with a drink and gift money.  The first day it is the turn of the women to go carolling.  The men sing on the following day.

(Carol singers)

                 (The neighbours house)                                                                  (Amit with a sparkler)

WARNING - Vegetarians and those that don’t like to think about where our food comes be warned – the next bit IS NOT for you.  I wasn’t going to talk about the slaughter of our pigs, but it was quite an incredible experience and so I will.  Those that don’t want to read, look for BEGIN READING NOW below the next bit.

On the Thursday of Diwali, men began to congregate at the house from very early.  Chopping bamboo and harvesting banana leaves and herbs, the men constructed a small shrine from the bamboo and used banana leaves as ‘shelves’.  They surrounded the shrine with the herbs.  Onto the shrine they put similar items to the ancestor ceremony – rice, coins, an egg, nuts, sugar – all representing life and goodness.  Santos lit a candle and conducted a prayerful ceremony.  He wafted incense and coal around the shrine, threw rice and the water from the pot with herbs.  All of this was in honour of the pigs whose lives were being blessed, and their impending sacrifice honoured.  As Santos was praying, SM told me that “we do this with our pets, our tame animals that we will eat.  We do it so no-one becomes sick.”  As he spoke there was a genuine affection for the two pigs who he had fed, cared for and raised since they were piglets.  Ultimately though, the animals would also support the family and community in death.  Firstly, with food and because of that, with money.  As the morning wore on people came from across the village to buy the meat that was being harvested.  But, I am ahead of myself.

After praying at the altar for ten minutes, Santos moved to the pigs.  He threw rice on them and the water.  If the animal (be it pig or chicken) shakes its head it is a good sign.  He wafted the incense over the heads of the animal and touched different parts of the body with the water (in a similar way to how he had with the cow).  As he moved away, a man approached with a large blade.  With a swift stab to one part of the pig’s fore quarter, the pig fell to the floor.  I couldn’t tear myself away.   The entire event was done in such a respectful way.  Watching an animal die is not a pleasant experience and it was not painless.  But, the community here serve the Earth and reap from it too.  There are things that are easy to ignore – the small pens the pigs are kept in are not conducive to a ‘free-range’ lifestyle for example – but there is no doubt in my mind of the genuine affection and sympathy with which the animals met their end.

As the morning wore on, the pigs were first burned of all their hair.  The hair was then scraped off so that the carcass could be cut open.  I didn’t witness the whole thing.  I needed to do a few chores and had work to do for school, but as I kept popping out to the back of the house (same spot I wash myself and my clothes) more of the pigs had been harvested.  At the most crowded time there were 15 men talking and watching and butchering.  As I prepared to leave with one of the teachers for Diwali in Upper Kashyem, the distribution of meat continued.  As Suman Sir and I left the entire back part of the house was devoid of pig.  There was nothing left, no blood, no pig parts and, most notably of all, no soft grunting from the pig pens below.  I departed, leaving many people feasting on the curried pork Sunita had been cooking for the workers and visitors.  Quite the most unexpected and humbling experience of Diwali.

Those that looked away - BEGIN READING NOW

In all honesty, I did not know what to expect from carol singing in Nepali.  In short, I now understand the song (for it is one song) is all about Rama, who rescued his beloved Sita from Ravana.  One man sings the song and after each line all the other men sing a one-line chorus.  The carol singing goes on all day and into the night.  Suman Sir and I joined the singers at about 3.00pm and, visiting over 20 houses, we finished at about 10.00pm.  Of course, at every house there is the offer of a drink and money is gifted.  I found out later that the money would be split between all of us and used to buy tikka for the women to put on the men’s foreheads on the last day of Diwali - for it is the men that are honoured in this way on the final day of Diwali.  I am not normally a whiskey drinker, but that night (day?!) I was.  Being careful to refuse the right number of drinks (as a teacher here, as much as anywhere, it would not be good to be seen drunk by children or parents), as I relaxed, so my singing became a little more confident and the group began to chat to me a little more.
 

The day had started a little unfortunately.  I know I am different and that brings me a lot of attention here.  The vast majority of it is positive and engaging and I am not afraid to make a fool of myself with the language or ask about the customs.  However, on occasions there are those who, for whatever reason, I guess, see my presence here as something negative.  We had not been singing long and one of our ‘audience’ threw a firecracker my way.  About the size of a walnut, these incredibly basic fireworks are nothing but a ball of explosive material that make a deafening din when they explode.  I saw something come my way, it landed just behind me.  But, I wasn’t really sure what it was.  As I turned, I caught sight of the cracker and, realising I couldn’t move anywhere in time, I braced myself for the bang.  I was slightly elevated on a little wall, so I was pretty sure no debris would catch me.  I was right, most of the debris landed short and it was just my left ear that was left with a ringing in it for a while afterwards.  I was not so angry by the man’s actions – quite frankly he seemed like a bit of an idiot and probably a bit drunk.  But, there were children (not from New Rise thank goodness) that were watching, and he was so proud of himself.  It was not a great lesson about the danger of fireworks, in a country where so many children are blinded and maimed by fireworks every year.   I wasn’t entirely sure of the purposefulness of his act until a couple of our group apologised for his behaviour.  I was glad the event didn’t mar the rest of the proceedings for too long – I know one or two of my group were pretty angry over the whole thing.

A couple of houses on and, with another drink inside us, our singing was pretty good, and a couple of people had started dancing.  Earlier events forgotten, Suman’s relatives, all included me, either with their English or with their actions – pulling me into photos or in to the middle to dance.  His brother, a policeman with West Bengal police, was welcoming and a great dance teacher and one of his cousins began to sing with such enthusiasm and expression, it made all of us sing louder.  I had wondered at the beginning how time would pass, but as with all celebrations it came and went all too quickly.  We sang the song once or twice at each house.  The occupants sometimes came out to listen, otherwise, they sat indoors.  Sometimes we were invited in for drinks and sometimes we sat outside.  I find there is little difference between indoors and out – each are as good as the other, especially in the daytime – the nights are, perhaps, getting a little colder.  Money is placed on a little tray, with a lit candle, on a bed of rice and surrounded by marigolds.  Again, the plate is reminiscent of the plates at various other celebrations.  Our final house had been well planned.  It was close to the end of our route – the male relatives all live very close to one another, and it was clearly a place to let the music take over.  The family had traditional Indian music and Western pop music, which we all danced to and sang along to.  Our carols finished, it was time to let our hair down a little and enjoy the last hour or so of the evening.  If I needed any more affirmation of being welcomed into this village, it came from Suman’s brother.  “You are from UK yes?  UK is Upper Kashyem, you are from Upper Kashyem like us, my brother.” 

(Audience)

                                                                  (A little bit more lively as the night wears on)

(Brother of Suman Sir)

Another fantastic experience of local life.  A dance floor?  A drink?  What more could I need?  It was definitely one of those occasions that totally surpassed expectations - I really had not known what to think before we set out.

Very sadly, the following day, I returned to SM’s house to be given the news that his Uncle, the sick man I visited four weeks ago, had died.  I am not sure why.  I don’t think there is a conclusive reason.  He died in the bed he had rarely left since I saw him.  SM had been to see him a few times since our joint visit and had reported, sometimes good, but often bad news about his health.  I am not sure how I felt at the time.  There was a sense of me being a visitor, someone who is only here for a relatively short time, but there was also a sense of loss.  For SM and Sunita the final day of Diwali effectively stopped.  The tikka given by women to men was still honoured, but other traditions of the day did not happen (for example the journey into town by the menfolk to buy tikka for the women to put on their heads).  Reshma (SM’s daughter) conducted the ceremony on Babel, Amit, SM and myself.  Very similar to Dusshera, the youngest woman of the house, not the elders of the house, puts the tikka on and conducts the ceremony.  Just like the crow, the dog, the cow and the bull, we were given a marigold garland to wear.  The rest of the day passed in a little bit of a daze.  People came to the house, but I wasn’t sure if they were there for tikka (certainly some of the younger men, cousins, were given some by Reshma) or to pay respects to SM, Santos and, of course Ama, whose cousin it was that had passed away.  To be honest, I went to see the cow and calf, to give the family some peace and to have a bit of time to process everything.  As I was sitting there, the cow began to munch on the marigolds around my neck.  Life goes on, and the marigolds were clearly a rare favourite!  Bobby called me over to Santos’ house, much quieter than SMs and I sat, eating (yes eating) shell roti and looking out over the valley contemplating the following day, which was to be the funeral of the man.  Normally, a Hindu funeral (burial) would be held the day after death, but as it was the last day of Diwali and many people may have had other commitments, the family decided to hold the funeral two days after.  As with many things here, my questions, result in only part answers and so it was, that I went to bed not really knowing what would happen the following day.

I was a little apprehensive on the way to the funeral.  I knew from discussions, about what happens after death, that the man’s son (in this case) would wear white.  He would be housed in one room in the house and he would need to take care of himself for the ten days following the death.  I think the ten days is a sort of mourning period.  There would be another gathering on the tenth day to mark the end of the time.  I also knew that parts of the house would be stripped of furniture and things.  Anyway, we arrived at the house, at an area filling with people, mainly men and some women and children.  We sat for a while and then we made our way into the room I knew had been the man’s bedroom.  He was lying on a mattress on the floor in the corner of the room, the room devoid of furniture.  He was covered in various cloths and blankets with just his chin and mouth showing.  Some men were sitting round the room, chatting.  One was a shamen type man (SM and I have struggled to find the right word here – witch doctor doesn’t sound quite right), who was there to conduct various prayers and customs.  On the floor next to the man were things I recognised from the various ceremonies I have talked about – a plate with rice on, the incense burning, money and coins on the plate of seeds and nuts.  After a few minutes, SM gave me a scarf, similar to those used in all ceremonies.  After watching him, I made my way to the man and followed what SM had done by laying my scarf across the man’s chest.  Having watched SM then pray, I myself said the Lord’s Prayer and quietly moved back.  We were invited to sit and talk to the shamen for a few minutes as he retold the story of a man from England who he had been able to cure after all the doctors had failed to find out what was wrong with him.  I marvelled at the way in which death was just, quite literally, a part of life.  The men in the room were keeping the body company, people paying their respects before burial, but outside life carrying on.  Which, I guess is what Hindu’s believe more than anything – that the man has moved on to his next life, his reincarnation into something new and the endless possibilities of the life he will lead there.  SM and I visited the place where the body would be buried.  I couldn’t think of a more inaccessible place, but there the men were digging a fresh grave.  I didn’t stay for the burial.  Any gathering is difficult as I tend to sit in silence for the majority of it as people don’t like to engage with their English (which I completely understand).  At other gatherings such as the wedding or Dusshera ceremonies, I have managed with smiles and an attempt at language, but on that day, it just didn’t seem appropriate.  Having paid my respects to the man I had met a few weeks before, I felt it was the right time to leave and SM was in agreement.

To be honest, the experience left me feeling a little discombobulated for the rest of the day.   I focused on printing and cutting out school resources to try to take my mind off things.  But, the fact of the matter is that, I find life here so overwhelming at times that it is hard to stand on my own two feet for fear of being knocked off them again.  In the UK, apart from a visit from close family, after death, a person’s body disappears.  It is often not seen again, other than hidden within a coffin.  Our formalities with arrangements and timings are also so utterly foreign here, where the simplistic, yet truly respectful, way of honouring death is witnessed in awe by someone like me. 

I find myself wanting to finish this blog, with the scene from that day.  The scene of a man, surrounded by his family and community, who would soon be laid to rest in the simplest of graves.  His body wrapped in just a few blankets and the ceremonial scarves laid on him by others.  He lay close to the spot where, four weeks ago, I described the mice coming out to play as the sun descended, the exposed wooden floor boards worn smooth by years of bare feet foot prints.  I hope that his journey to wherever he is going may be smooth and that he arrives safe to his destination.  I hope his family find some peace in the knowledge that he no longer suffers.

"Science says: "We must live," and seeks the means of prolonging, increasing, facilitating and amplifying life, of making it tolerable and acceptable; wisdom says:  "We must die," and seeks how to make us die well."        -Miguel de Unamuno