The Green Tara Project

I mentioned the bad behavior of the gentleman(men) to my Apne Aap contact, Kalam, and he was very disturbed. I then requested that my next class not allow any men. So I was very happy when I arrived yesterday to Babuan, with karate girls crowding around the house’s gate, and there were no men, save the schoolteacher’s father and uncle, and some small boys. I did, however, catch a brief glimpse of the one offending bird brained gentleman later in the day as he peered at our class from a yard away… : )

They yelled, they kicked, they palm striked. They yelled even when they didn’t have to. They correctly identified a good fighting stance. They hopped (or tried to). And I just about fell over when all three lines (there were 26 girls squeezed into that little dirt alley) punched and kiai-ed in unison as I counted in Japanese. They even counted along in Japanese.

And then there was the giving of the certificates. I would sign at the top and date it, and then I would write the girl’s name down at the bottom and draw a line for them to sign on. Each girl signed her own name, and then I would hand the certificate to her and say, “Thank you for being in my karate class.” At first, I don’t think they really got it, and just looked at the piece of paper kind of quizzically. But as word got around about what the paper was and what I was saying, the smiles were very big at the acceptance of that paper. I think Rinku, aka Silent One, had the biggest.

And so it is my honor to present the Graduation of the Karate Girls of Babuan, Class of 2010:

Nilam, Rani, Poonam, Aarti, Puja, Aarti II, Kanchan, Gunjan, Asha, Kajal, Archana, Seema, Sahdna, Preety, Manisha, Rupa, Chadhani, Neha, Punahm, Baby, Rinku, Asha II, Ranju, Rupa, Hina, Babita, Manju, Micky, and Ritu.

‘Tratthi’ is Hindi for palm. And the girls performed excellent ‘tratthi’ strikes two days ago at Babuan. It was also a way to get them to use their voice. Silent One did a little better; she started silent, but took less encouragement this time to get to yell out. Another girl could not manage more than a squeak, and not for lack of trying. Mouth full open, the muscles in her little neck straining, only a modified screetchy whisper escaped. So I am working with her, too.

I am tired with not just bags but luggage under my eyes as I sit here typing. The fan died in my room two nights ago, so not even that relief from heat, so sleep has been elusive. I am guzzling some of the coffee I brought to wake myself up; I’ll be leaving in 45 minutes. This will be my last class with these beautiful youngsters. My heart is so heavy, and yet I have to be happy for them, for the experiences they have and will give me. I want to make this last class useful. I want them to learn. I want them to be heard from this day forward.

Yesterday was my second visit to Babuan. Armed with two liters of water, a package of cookies, and a Kit Kat, I felt pretty good as Dheeraj and I set out at 7:30 am. The morning was sleepy, life stirring slowly to life as we passed by field and village, the sun climbing higher from the horizon. All was going so well…until we hit the Indian Border Patrol. Last week when we went, we blew right past this remote outpost without a problem. Yesterday, however, we were past their main gate by about 100 feet when we heard shouts. Some little girls in front of us herding goats said in Hindi to Dheeraj, “They are calling to you to stop.” Oy.

So we turned around and drove back and were ‘greeted’ by three guards. They wanted to see my passport (which I luckily had on me this week), and after the guardsmen had had a chance to see it, they motioned for us to wait. Shortly, an older gentleman in civilian clothes marched down the path to the gate. He proceeded to ask Dheeraj all the questions that the guardsmen had asked; Dheeraj answered the same. Not that I understood all that was going on – everything was in Hindi. And then yet another gentleman came, this time in full military uniform, and English words such as “authority” and “qualification” emerged. At length, we were finally allowed to proceed, but the delay was due to the fact that we did not have authority of the provisional government in Babuan on our person to qualify our going back and forth from Forbesgunge to Babuan. Easily solved, apparently. Just 20 minutes down the road, Dheeraj veered off the road suddenly into the front yard of a house. And wasn’t I pleased to see that the provisional head in this area is a woman…

We arrived at the teacher Ritu’s house at about 9:30, and almost immediately, the Karate Girls started to converge. During tea, I asked when we would go to the school to start class. “Not possible,” Dheeraj replied, offering no explanation and no alternative. “Kahan (where) karate class?” I questioned suspiciously. Not meeting my eyes, his response came, “Here.” ‘Here’ was a sideyard sandwiched between the cattle corral and the guest meeting/private karate class room, an unshaded dirt area complete with mud, ruts, cow dung, and whatever else. Oh, joy.

But whatever trepidation I felt initially soon disappeared as I grabbed a stick and scratched the outline of a ladder in the dirt. Ladder drills, one of my favorite things at the dojo in the States, were in order to warm the girls up. Literally get them hopping.

And hopping they did not. These girls are very talented, very physically strong (pound for pound they put me to shame), but light on their feet? Not exactly. But we persisted, and they laughed, and coached each other on. And, yes, there were the men again. This time one of them said in English, “Come on you bird brain. You have such a weak mind.” Well, this put me in a bit of pickle. Did I want to walk over to him and slap him? Did I want to yell out, “Get off your fat butt and you try to do this”? Yes. But was that possible under the circumstances? No. But will that guy be there my next and last class? What do you think? 🙂

Besides being a curiosity in these parts because I have white skin, I am also a curiosity because I am a single woman.  No matter where I go, eventually the talk turns to the topic of my marital status.

Such was the case in Babuan, when Urksilla, mother of 12, asked me about being married.  I replied that I was not.  She asked why I was not.  “I don’t know,” I said in a sincerely bemused way.  She pondered this answer for a second and replied, “Maybe it is because you don’t speak the right language.”

I have tried now for the last three and a half weeks to get the hang of The Art of Eating With One Hand.  But when my host yesterday observed my food wrangling for a few minutes, then disappeared and came back with a spoon which she thrust me, humbled, I knew I had to surrender.  I am a Utensil Eater – there is no fighting or hiding it, apparently.

It took about an hour to have tea at Ritu’s house.  I had brought my karate gi, so I quickly changed, thinking we would go back to the school.  But no.  There were the family I had to meet.  And the awkward periods as everyone around me chatted animatedly and motioned in my direction, and me not knowing what they were saying, but just smiling and looking interested as the center of their attention.  Finally, we returned to the school.  And immediately I knew why the delay.  The school teachers had cleared the schoolyard and even added dry dirt where before there was only mud.  I now thankfully had a teaching area for the girls’ karate class.

Usually there are 40 girls here, but the floodwaters prevented about half of them from making it to school.  And, in a manner that I am now accustomed to, 17 girls showed up initially; another 6 followed about 30 minutes after class had started.  They ranged in age from 10 to 14.  Their manner of dress ran the gamut:  tunic top and pants; dresses that had been hand-me-downs several times over, the zippers broke and now held together by safety pins; some in their Sunday best dresses that looked like this was the first time they were worn, with lace and ruffles and sequins; and others still in a school uniform of short-sleeved buttondown shirt and skirt.

The girls never cease to amaze me.  If this were back in the States, it would not surprise me at all to see these girls register at the karate school I go to.  They have an immense natural talent, a strong competitiveness, and a hunger to not only do, but show what they can do.   Put them on a team and give them some resources, these girls would be a butt-kicking force to be reckoned with.  As it is, because of their location and the inherent lack of access to the area, I am the closest they will ever get to doing karate in their lives.  It is such a waste and it makes me very sad.

But yesterday, I did not think about that.  In front of an audience that included half of the village,  the girls did calisthenics, basic punching, and some blocking.  I also had some unexpected help from the village men who had gathered to watch and offer approving ‘ah-ha’s when a girl would do something right and ‘tsk tsk tsk’s when wrong before shouting out what they should be doing.  Two men would even walk right into the class and physically correct a girl who was struggling with something.  I tried my best to shield the girls.  Very challenging.  There were some girls who were not happy with the extra teachers, and they kept their worried eyes downcast, and did not smile.  Other girls, however, were natural-born warriors, and they knew what they were about and who they are, and did not pay attention to the men.  Very interesting experience, because the men were earnestly trying to help the girls.  At the same time, I don’t think that they got it that some of their ministrations and directions were a bit intimidating and controlling.

Anyway, that was the morning session.  The clouds started to melt away and it was becoming very hot, especially in my karate gi in a lightly shaded schoolyard.  With morning class over, we went back to Ritu’s house where her mother, Urksilla, had made a wonderful lunch.   I ate and drank, my one liter of water that I had bought earlier that day ever dwindling.  “That’s okay,” I thought, “We’ll pass by the stall in that village again, and it is only half an hour away.  I can make it without more water.”

Then Dheeraj came up to me, quiet as ever, asking if I would give a private lesson to Ritu and three of her six sisters (she also has seven brothers) in self defense.  We went to a little, windowless room where it was just supposed to be the four sisters, me and Dheeraj, but quickly ended up with the grandparents, uncles, aunts, brothers, girls from morning karate class, and other children and adults from god-knows-where crowding the doorway and eventually lining the already small room.  We went over wrist grabs, neck grabs, hair grabs.  What was supposed to only be 20 minutes turned out to be an hour.  So goes time keeping in India.

Finally back to the school for the afternoon session where I focused on self defense, going over several of the moves that I had just taught to Ritu et al.  I also got out the big pad on which to do forearm strikes.  What an experience.  I was now getting them to use their voice.  Earlier, Dheeraj (who does the Shotokan-Hapkido-Muay Thai mix of martial arts popular in this area) was helpful in getting the girls to kiai on punching.  At his suggestion, I did my kiai as an example (and those of you who know me know that I am LOUD), and it really set a great tone.  But now with the pad, and the break for lunch, the girls had forgotten how and when to use their voice.  With a little encouragement and additional demonstration from me, the girls were finding their voices again.  Except for one young lady.  I could see had an internal block to saying anything.  She had been quiet in all the exercises earlier in the day, and was very meek.  I took some extra time with her because she absolutely did not want to kiai.  But, finally finally finally, a sound escaped her throat.  And then another one, this time a little more forceful.  And then another, and another.  After about the fifth or sixth kiai (still not loud but not a mouse squeak either), a wave of release from her being accompanied her voice, so strong that it was almost palpable to me as I stood on the other side of the pad from her.  And it seemed a giant weight had been lifted from her tiny shoulders.  When she walked away, I glimpsed a small triumph that she manifested nowhere other than in her eyes.

I just witnessed an assault, the type of assault that the very self defense techniques I taught yesterday in Babuan would have made a difference in.  This all took place on the train platform about 70 yards from where I was standing (across the street and on the rooftop of the house I’m staying at while hanging my laundry to dry).  A man grabbed the wrist of woman who obviously did not want to go with him.  She sat down on the ground as he pulled at her arm.   He was verbally berating her, but she sat her ground and did not get up.  But finally, after about half an hour of this, and despite a small crowd of people, she stood.  She then protested some more, at which point the man grabbed her by the hair and shoved her in the direction he wanted her to go.  She protested and sat down again.  He grabbed her wrist and started pulling, and she reluctantly stood up and he led her alternately by hair, wrist, and shoulders down the train platform and out of sight.

There was one thing that struck me as I witnessed this:  first, if she had had the techniques to fight back, would she have?  It seemed that she finally just gave in.  Maybe she thought, ultimately, she had no choice.  And this is the prison of what a lack of education and exposure to new ideas creates.  It is why my heart jumps every time I see a school here.  It is why I gently admonish the students who rush out of class to see the white foreigner back to their studies.  Because without education, I could be just like that woman.

‘Numb buns.’  I dare you to say it ten times fast.  So, besides being an excellent tongue twister, it is also what happens when you sit on the back of a motorbike for 90 minutes getting transported toward the Nepali border for a visit to the last of the three girls’ schools:  Babuan.  And I do mean border – on one side of the road is India; the other, Nepal.

My trip to Babuan is a day early, and I have advance notice of only half an hour; I get a knock on my door at 7 am, and the intrepid Dheeraj is standing there, sheepishly saying, “We go to Babuan.”  I peer back at him quizzically, and say, “Uh, today is Saturday.  Babuan we go to on Sunday.”  “Yes,” he replies, “But my mother is sick and I have to go to hospital with her tomorrow, so we go Babuan aaj (today).  Abhi (now).”  Well okay then.  I grab my stuff, put it into my backpack, and we’re off.  But I have forgotten something very important…

Other than its location, Babuan resembles the hundreds of small villages I have seen, and the ride there yesterday was remarkable only in the long stretches of open road that connected the otherwise isolated communities.  It does seem that this area is a little more prosperous than others I have seen:  many more livestock (cattle, water buffalo, goats, chickens; ducks); semi-advanced farming techniques (somewhat large scale hoop-and-tarp shelters for seedlings); more brick buildings, though thatch still the predominant building material.  However, this area has been especially hard hit by monsoons, and there is water everywhere.  Several times, we had to motor across streams or one foot deep mud ‘puddles’.

On the way to Babuan, I yell at Dheeraj (so as to be heard from the back of the motorbike), “I need to get water.”  He yells back, “Not possible.”  Not possible?  Are you kidding me?  The plan is to be in Babuan for the entire day and teach two two-hour long classes.  “No,” I say, “I must get water.”  I didn’t have time in the morning to boil my water for the day, of course.  The beautiful green countryside lulls my panic into a dull pit.  But everytime we come to a village, I anxiously scan the little shops to see if they sell water.  We are so far out, and foreigners don’t come out here, there is no need or profit in selling bottled water.  Village after village passes, farther and farther out from the ‘convenience’ of Forbesgunge.  About an hour into the ride, I spy water in a stall.  “Pani! (water!),” I yell.  We stop and I get a liter.  This is my second mistake.

So, we finally arrive at Babuan.  It is 9:30 in the morning, and children are in school.  I learn later that they start school on Saturday mornings at 6:30.  My presence causes the usual disruption until I motion all of them back to their classes with a stern, “School!”  They laugh and smile, and with many backward glances, head back to their classrooms.  I meet the principal of the school (no English) and a teacher (little English).  I check out the schoolyard where class will be held:  a pile of the ubiquitous red bricks used in this area covers a large portion of the yard; mud takes up most of the remainder.  Oy.  I scout around, but this is it.  I will have to make do.

I am then introduced to a teacher, Ritu, and we go for a little walk to her house just down the road.  The odor of cow is strong; there are three of them standing in a small pen just off to the side of the main entrance to the family compound.  Ritu is from a large family, and most of them live in a complex warren of single room dwellings.  I am asked to sit down, and I meet everyone, including her grandmother and grandfather, who are remarkably savvy and humble.  The grandfather can read English (which he did when I handed out a U. S. dollar bill to show).  In their presence, these people were so, I don’t know, it is hard to explain.  They were curious without being judgemental, maybe?  I liked them immensely almost immediately.  That’s all I know.

I got a little reminder of why I am not allowed to roam free here as I was heading home from Uttari Rampur.  We had passed a hospital on the way to the school, and I wanted to get a picture of it.  Imagine a four-story apartment building in Cabrini Green in Chicago, then you’ll get an idea of what this hospital looks like, and why I wanted a picture of it. Well, in fact, here it is:

  I truly couldn’t believe that this was a place people went to when they got sick.  Anyway, Dheeraj stopped the motorbike, and within the time it took me to get off the bike, take ten steps, take the picture, then return to the bike, a crowd of about 30 people had formed.  I kid you not.  So, what is one thing I am missing?  Anonymity, and the ability to go anywhere without drawing a crowd.