the doctor ordered a week in the countryside.

We got back in to Bangalore early this morning on the overnight train from Koppel, a region in the northern part of the state of Karnataka. It's among the poorest areas around, and quite rural. The elevation is considerably lower and the temperature considerably higher, although it rained (out of season) almost every day. During the monsoon, there was a drought. We stayed at a grungy hotel, ate dry oatmeal and honey for breakfast, worked on building a meditation center and school, saw the second biggest set of ruins in the world (after Rome)(!!), and talked to a lot of people. Real Indian people. Little girls, temple prostitutes, impoverished Dalit (P.C. for untouchables) villagers, child laborers, farmers, women working in a factory, men on the train, the superintendent of police and everyone asking "what country?" and "what is your name?" and we are always saying "Nana Hessaru Bay-tanny" "America" "Nina hessaru yenu?" and repeating these names that don't roll off of any of our tongues-- Gangama, Vishwasager, Shilaja, Nazzer, Shilpa, Mumata, names I can never remember but repeat to myself over and over again anyways because at least I want to try.

Some entries from my journal:

I am so inspired by these women, who in the face of extreme poverty, in the face of hard labour and harassment and 1000 years of tradition say "With our generation it will stop." Devidasi women, dedicated to the god at 10 years old, are condemned to a life of single-motherhood, serving the whims of men who will not acknowledge their own children in the street, who might bring some vegetables when they visit. They are the untouchables among the untouchables. They said to us "I know you can't save us, but won't you please do something for our children?" These women were so beautiful, with their laughter, their determination and their premature wrinkles. I pray to have their strength.

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We talked to some child laborers and their landlord in a cotton field. The children had all dropped out of school-- some as early as second standard, to work from 9-6 in the field. They get 1 hour's break for lunch, and are paid 60 rupees (about a dollar) a day. The work they are doing is cross-pollination, producing seeds. A big company gives the farmer seed, fertelizer, and money for labor on loan, and the farmer gives up his traditional and eco-friendly multicrop farming, stops the production of food, to grow a cash-crop.

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Yesterday was hard. We went to a rural village with a large (150) Dalit population. They were very hospitable, singing and playing us wonderful music. They asked us questions, and they cheered when they heard how women's rights had progressed in the U.S. Then they told us about their lives, first by answering questions, then by inviting us into their homes. Most of the community works as laborers, althoguh some own land. Even those with land are very poor because of the drought. As Dalits, they are not allowed into key places in town-- temples, tea shops, the well-- but are asked to do the village's dirty work. Because of drought and poverty, the government has allotted some relief money to the area-- but these Dalits never saw any of it. The upper-caste local government leaves them out of the equation. One family we visited struck me especially hard. Their house was one small, dark room, where more than 5 lived. The husband had lost the use of his hands to leprosy and couldn't work. The wife made 30 rupees a day laboring in the fields-- when she could find work. I asked "what is one thing you'd like to see change?" and the father told me "Who am I to talk about change? My struggles is to fill my stomach."