The Room in their Hearts

A bone thin, wide-eyed little girl tapped on the window of Rebecca Sullivan’s Honda CRV and signaled for food by touching her fingers to her lips. Rebecca felt a tug in her heart.

But the scene was nothing new for this Australian expatriate. After 10 months living in Mumbai, all her car’s windows bore the dusty fingerprints of child beggars who dart in and out of the chaotic traffic every day. Even her two young daughters had grown accustomed to the cupped hands of Indian children peering inside with equal parts curiosity and despair. Yes, such heartrending episodes were beginning to feel normal for the Sullivan family.

Looking back, she calls it her “car window moment,” the moment in which Rebecca knew she had to do something to help.

“I saw the great need for me to make a contribution to the people of India—the country we had chosen to call home for the coming years—and to show my own small children what it means to make a social contribution and how we as a family can play a part in helping,” she says.

Rebecca needed to find the best way to make a difference. She had the desire to help. She had an educational background in business and years of work experience in Project Management and Finance. How could she make use of her strengths to give back? What would her Mumbai calling be?

In November 2009, Rebecca got her first hint.

Laura Entwistle, a Canadian expat and current President of the American School of Bombay, lent Rebecca a book by John Wood called Leaving Microsoft to Change the World. The memoir describes how a trek through Nepal inspired Wood to quit his high-flying Microsoft career and establish the NGO Room to Read, which promotes education and literacy in nine of the world’s poorest countries. Mrs. Entwistle spearheaded the Mumbai chapter of Room to Read and encouraged Rebecca to consider joining the chapter.

Rebecca’s interest was piqued, but there was more. She soon learned that Room to Read does not run like most non-profit organizations. This NGO operates on a unique business-like model, by concentrating on low overheads and high sustainability and efficiency. John Wood’s story and his work struck a chord with Rebecca. She saw how her business background and her desire to help the children of India could both be engaged with Room to Read.

“Room to Read believes that world change starts with educated children and that all children deserve access to quality education. The vision resonated so strongly with me, and the results-driven, scalable, focused nature of Room to Read, which runs like a finely tuned business, led me to ask how I could be more involved. I was amazed, impressed, and excited. I was hooked!” Rebecca exclaims.

The Room to Read business model is a success. In just ten years, the non-profit has reached the lives of four million children and plans to more than double that amount by 2015. The developing world has gained over 1,000 schools, more than 9,000 libraries, nearly 200 computer labs, three million donated English language books, and over four million local language books thanks to Room to Read.

Rebecca Sullivan now co-leads the Mumbai chapter of Room to Read with Laura Entwistle and Yuti Dalal. With the help of nine dedicated volunteers, the chapter raises awareness and funds in the Mumbai community. Their events and social functions connect Room to Read with individuals, corporations, foundations, and schools interested in providing education for children in the developing world.

For the Mumbai chapter, promoting literacy and gender equality in education throughout India is the main objective. According to the United Nations, India is home to over 269 million illiterate people, a shocking thirty-five percent of the world’s illiterate population. Making matters worse, about 52 percent of Indian students—the majority of which are girls—drop out before completing secondary school.

“Room to Read focuses on establishing libraries and building the capacity of teachers to encourage the habit and joy of reading. We also publish high-quality, illustrated reading materials for young readers to respond to the dearth of appropriate children’s literature, especially in rural India. And our Girls’ Education Program helps disadvantaged girls complete secondary school so they can develop the skills needed to negotiate life decisions. This includes slum dwellers, migrant workers, child laborers, girls without parents or guardians, Dalit and tribal girls, girls who are physically challenged, and girls living in very remote and rural communities,” Rebecca explains.

In India alone, 3,200 libraries have been established. Over 2,000 girls have been awarded education scholarships. And over 600,000 local language books—in Hindi, English, Garhwali, Rajasthani, and Telugu—have been distributed to schools. In just five years, there is no doubt that Room to Read India has substantially impacted its target communities.

Room to Read maintains sustainability by coaching local communities to bring about change. Rebecca clarifies: “Our model is one of empowering the local people to work to create change. Room to Read does not rely on people from outside the community coming in to help with the project work in the needy communities. Instead, we ask the village residents to build the schools; we rely on teachers who grew up in the countries where we work; and we hire local staff to implement our project work in a given country.”

Have you had your “car window moment?” Do you think you’d like to be a part of this amazing organization?

The Mumbai chapter of Room to Read welcomes volunteers with backgrounds in event planning, event management, communications, and PR, though anyone with a go-getting attitude is encouraged to participate.

Visit Room to Read online at http://www.roomtoread.org for more information about volunteering, donations, and employment in India and around the globe.

Written for Shetizen Journalist: http://www.shetizenjournalist.com

Gumshoe Hotel

When I was a little girl I loved Nancy Drew. In fact, I wished I was strawberry blond, just like Nancy, and I wished I had friends named Bess and George, just like Nancy. Most of all, I thought it would be fantastically glamorous to crack cases and save people from crime. This afternoon, I had a taste of Nancy Drew style sleuthing right here in my hotel.

I've been staying in the same hotel suite for the past two weeks. By now, I have a pretty good idea of who works here as I frequently chat with the friendly, helpful staff. So last night when a young Indian fellow offered to help me- I was toting a laptop in one arm and a baby in the other- it wasn't totally strange except that the fellow's face was not familiar. And I wasn't sure if he was a guest or a new staff member- his outfit could pass for a uniform, just not the kind they wear in the hotel. Needing the help, at any rate, I accepted his offer and he made small talk about Isabel as we walked down the long corridor to my room.

He left the laptop on a table in the living room. I said thank you, expecting him to leave, and went about getting Isabel ready to go in the car. He lingered though, looking around in the room. So I said thank you again, louder, and that my husband was coming. He didn't seem to take the hint. Finally he was backing out of the room as Martin was coming in, and the stranger mentioned something about the monsoon to Martin. Being his cheery self, Martin smiled and laughed, the strange guy left, and soon we were out to look at another apartment.

In the car, I thought about how the guy seemed a bit odd to me and explained to Martin how he was hanging around in our room. We decided he was another curious person, perhaps just interested in practicing English with the foreigners.

This afternoon, I was sitting in my room, attending to some emails. The service here is really great, but sometimes they offer too many services, so I had the "Shhhh!" sign up on my door while I typed. Sometime around noon, I heard a quiet rapping on the front door. I got up and peeped through the peep hole to see who it was. No one was there. I opened the door and looked down the corridor to the right, and suddenly stranger's face appeared. He looked a bit surprised as he said, "Did you call me?" "No," I said, very flatly. "Oh, someone called me and....ok." Then he walked away. Now, why would I call someone who I don't know and whose number I don't know, particularly when I am not sure if the person is a guest or staff? One thing was different about him today- he had on a name tag. And he had on the same clothes as yesterday- not the same uniform as everyone else.

I was suspicious. What was this guy doing gently knocking on my door? I locked the door from the inside and went back to the bedroom. Feeling too nervous to leave the room, I called room service and ordered lunch. A green, smooshy, spinach dish and naan was delivered to my door by a staff member who I recognized and like. I felt a bit better as stranger was no where in sight.

After lunch, which wasn't good- I won't get the spinach goo again- I opened the front door to leave my tray outside. I heard familiar tap-tap footsteps in the hallway. It was stranger! I didn't want to face him again so I stood very still just inside the room, pressed against the wall. I heard him coming closer to the door, then walking away. Coming closer...Then he stuck his head into the room from the side and jumped a bit when he saw me. "Need any help?" he said. "No." I waited for him to go away before walking out with my tray.

I had enough. There was no reason for me to find him snooping around my room twice within two hours. I called the manager on duty and asked if they had hired any new staff. She said, "No, well, we always have some new recruits. Why?" Then I explained to her what had happened, that this young man I don't recognize seems to be loitering outside my room, that one day he acts like a helpful guest, and the next day he acts like staff complete with a name tag. "N" something was his name. (It wasn't Nancy.) The manager, sounding concerned, said she would phone security.

A couple of minutes later, I was repeating my story to the manager and the head of security in my room. I stopped when I heard those tap-tap footsteps in the hall and stuck my eye against the peephole. There he was! He had come down the corridor, which is very long and twisty, took a glance at my door, the only one you can see from his standpoint, then turned on his heel and walked back to where he had come from. "There he is!" I shouted, and the manager and the security guy ran down the hall to catch him.

It seemed to me like he was checking out the status on my door, which can be only one of three things: Shhhh!, Tidy Up, or nothing. I had left the Shhhh! sign up all day. Maybe stranger was waiting for it to switch to Tidy Up, so he could enter after the housekeeping guy came in and do whatever it was he wanted to do.

A few moments later, manager, security guy, and stranger were all at my door. I opened up and looked stranger right in the eye, just like Nancy would, and said, "Yes, that's him."

By this point, my stomach was all in knots because I'm not used to sleuthing. I wished Martin was home. I feel much safer when he is with me. So I held onto Isabel for comfort and paced the room while I waited to hear back from management.

It turns out that this guy, "N" something, was not supposed to be wandering around on my floor, let alone hanging out around my door. He was a new recruit, but there was absolutely no reason for him to be near the guest rooms. He was recently hired to start training for the reservations department, not to be interacting with the current guests in the hotel.

Another couple of managers came to my room to apologize. They told me stranger was confronted and then escorted off of the hotel premises.

"So, I will never see that guy again, right?" I asked, feeling equally like the detective and the victim. "No, ma'am, you won't," said the lady manager. A different manager smiled at me and said, "And thank you for reporting him or else we might never have found out."

And there it was. My Nancy Drew moment.

Horn OK Please

An accurate portrayl of the life of a taxi driver in Mumbai:

Bella Isabel

One thing that amazes me about Indian people is how they are totally baby crazy. I read about a cultural love for little ones before I came here, but I wasn't prepared for the level of enthusiasm about my daughter in particular.

Whenever I am with Isabel, which is 99% of the time, she grabs the spotlight. I was shocked and amused when I went with Martin to his office last week. All the employees, all males mind you, whipped out their cell phones to snap photos of her before she was even out of her car seat. Then, while I was chatting with one of the guys about masala tea, the security guard who was holding Isabel waltzed away with her down the hall to show her off in the neighboring office. I went out to find Isabel chewing on some woman's dupatta, surrounded by a gaggle of starry-eyed women snapping and clucking at her.

The snapping, clucking, touching, and photographing have happened in the hospital (Isabel was sick a few days) and in shopping centers, too. The worst case was when we were getting into the car and were approached by an Indian mother with her young daughter. The mother commanded her daughter, who was a little reserved, to touch the baby. She explicitly told her to reach out and "Touch the baby! Touch the baby!" No, thank you! She was already sick and we were on our way to the hospital, for heaven's sake. Extra germs really weren't necessary. It is certainly nice to know that people think she's cute- how else to make a mother happy? but I can do without the paparazzi or at least without the touchy-feely stuff.

I realize Isabel gets special attention because she's a blond, blue eyed girl. Indian people may be somewhat accustomed to caucasian adults, but caucasian babies are a rarity. (After all, you must be out of your mind to move to India with an infant, right?) I wonder how raising Isabel in an environment where eveyone gushes about her cuteness will effect her later on. Her first two years of life will be in India. What will she think when we return to Europe or some other western country where fair features are the norm? Or in tanorexic countries, including Denmark and America, where fairness is considered plain, sad, and sickly? Unless we stay in Asia forever, she'll have to retire her princess tiara and celebrity shades one day.

How to Eat a Mango

The first food I ate in India was a fresh, sliced mango. Sweet and tart, melt-in-your-mouth mango. With the first piece still on my tongue, I said to Martin, "These mangoes must be from heaven." The variety considered to be the best, a type of Alphonso mango, grows in the Maharastra region of India. I guess that makes India heaven.

Unfortunately, mango season is short lived in India. The delicious, expensive fruit is only available in the months of April and May, causing two months of mango mania. And, much to the delight of Indians and tourists alike, there are a million ways to enjoy a mango. The orange oval fruit is slurped up in smoothies and lassis, smashed into chutneys, beaten to a pulp and served with puris (bread), and manufactured into sodas and candies. But the most sensual, indulgent way to eat a mango is with your hands and teeth, raw and naked, straight from the skin.

This afternoon our driver, Mr. Shah, helped haggle the price for two boxes of Alphonso King mangoes on the streets of Andheri. We left with 2 boxes for 700 rupees (about $15.00). Even after expert bargaining the price was steep, but it's worth every rupee.

In my hotel room, twelve fragrant, shy mangoes hid under clumps of hay and newspaper. They were still warm from the sun and their smooth peels felt just like a baby's soft skin. I was surprised to find that I could undress a mango much like a banana- by piercing the top and slowly pulling down the skin off in sections. Then came the sinful part. With my fingers already orange and sticky, I pressed the fruit to my lips. Instant salivation- or should I say gratification? I used my top teeth to pull on the fibrous pulp, and I let the juice drip everywhere. It felt a little bit naughty. And I liked it.

I know of one young lady who feels slightly differently about the decadent mango. For your entertainment, here is a video clip of my daughter Isabel sampling some baby food mango last night:

On the Inside, Looking out

I wish I could tell you what I think of India, specifically Mumbai, but I am not really there. Yes, sure, we landed in Bombay International airport yesterday; geographically India is my location. I have not left the ridiculously comfortable hotel premises yet, so this isn't it, this isn't the real thing. Not yet.

Looking for the real India has been postponed until the weekend. Because we have a young baby, Martin and I want to wait until I have a cell phone and a driver before venturing out. That leaves me with the hotel and its neighboring country club to enjoy for the rest of the week, where I feel absolutely spoiled rotten. I'm not used to it. Martin quickly adjusted; he lived in Singapore for three years and knows what "expat" life is like in Asia. My homely ole self is not accustomed to being waited on hand and foot. But who's complaining?

The level of service here is astounding. For the first time, the phrase "never has to lift a finger" is a reality and I mean it. I don't even have to press the elevator button myself. It is a little bit over the top. The staff offer to do everything and constantly ask if we have any suggestions. I feel a little embarrassed about it... Undeserving, I guess. While I am here for the next five weeks, I figure I might as well relax and enjoy all these services that are not normally part of my daily life.

Today, I did just that. After breakfast with Martin in the cute hotel restaurant, I packed up the diaper bag and took Isabel to the club next door. The club has a daycare room attended by a sweet Indian woman who I trusted right off the bat when I met her yesterday. She greeted Isabel in typical motherese, but with a staccato, sing-song Indian accent: "Hello leetle blue eyes bay-beeee! Do you like me? I like your summer hair, yes, veddy nice. Softy, softy!" Isabel must have trusted her too, since she responded with smiles and flapping arms.

Baby-free, I made a bee line to the spa for a massage. I wanted to try an Indian style massage but only a masseur was available and that particular style is not an option cross gender. I settled for the Swedish massage, and a heavily mustachioed man from Kerala (definitely not Sweden) worked and chopped my muscles for 60 minutes, leaving me feeling like a well greased and finely diced vegetable.

One quick shower and one quick check on a sleeping Isabel later, I went for a dip in the gorgeous pool. Surrounded by jagged green things called plants (almost forgot about those after living in concrete Rotterdam), and bordered with round, white stones, the pool was warm, calming, and glittering with sunshine. I dried off on a lounge chair with a copy of "The Times of India" and scanned the headlines: Guards turn jewel thieves, Suburb roads may cave in this monsoon, Rickshaw runs over boy, Mumbai Congress to fund Slumdog kids' homes. Ah, some of the real India seeping into my protected oasis.

I went back to pick up Isabel and had a small chat with daycare lady Reshema. She is born and raised in Mumbai. I asked her about the upcoming monsoon. The news people say it should start around June 6th, and she said it's awful and rains a lot each day, but that is when the club members go on vacation so at least we would have the place to ourselves. I've been wondering what kind of things people wear on their feet when it is raining and flooding, and she told me I can buy special monsoon shoes in various styles, but they aren't like wellies, they cover only as much as ballerina flats. I suppose tall, rubber boots would be too hot. The monsoon season. That will be some of the real India, flooding in!

I walked back up to my air conditioned fancy hotel room, staring out the windows in the hallways as I went, like I was gazing at a different planet. It may be beautiful and luxurious on the inside, safe in my hotel, but outside, where I keep thinking I can find the real India, is totally different. From my floor, I can see the heart of a shanty town- a dirt square with a couple of run-down, ramshackle convenience stores. Dozens and dozens of poorly constructed homes crowd in on the square, leaning on each other and crossing over each other like a mouthful of bad teeth. When you see them the only thought in your head is poverty. A couple of kids rode by on bikes, a woman got into a rickshaw, and I wondered: what is that life like? Then there was the guilt. I just spent a carefree afternoon in a spa and at a pool while someone else watched my daughter, and meanwhile there are millions of people right outside my glass luxury bubble wondering if they'll get to eat today. Somehow, this didn't seem real either.

Is India the view out my hotel window? Is it the headlines in the newspaper? Or the western influenced services lavished on me today? Maybe it is all of these things together and at once, highly contrasting but equally real. I won't know until I break out of this bubble and see for myself. This weekend maybe I will know a little more, but I am just getting started on the real India quest. Stay tuned.

India: A Preamble

I loved telling people we were moving to India because their reactions were so funny. Many of them were similar. The conversation would usually go something like this:

Me: We are moving to India.

Person: (Short pause) India? India?!

Me: Yea, India. *chuckle*

Person: Okay...Wow. India.

That was the standard incredulous, italicized response we received. Even Martin and I fell into that category when we heard the news. We were both living abroad at the time, so it wasn't like we were new to the idea of living away from home. But ironically India was the one place on Earth we agreed we would never, ever live in. No way, no how. And there we were, repeating back and forth to each other, eyebrows furrowed, "India? I mean, India?"

Here are a few of the more original replies I remember:

My neighbor's response: You can't do that!

The manicurist's response: Bombay? Where is that, China?

My sister's response: Think of all the salmon tikka!

The bartender's response: Bombay? I hear that goes good with tonic.

My mother's response: Since when does India have sea ports?

So it was clear from the beginning- most people we knew thought moving to India sounded insane or remarkable, and most people had limited to no knowledge about the country. I am no different. I took a class in high school on Asian countries; I used to dine at Indian restaurants on Sundays with Heather; and I knew a few trivial bits of information about the subcontinent. However, I didn't (and still don't) know much.

It is now ten days until my flight to Mumbai. I read a few books, perused my trusty Lonely Planet, asked umpteen questions online, and dreamt many dreams about India. At this moment, if I close my eyes and think India this is what I envision:

Air heavy, hot, and moist; incessant honking, rumbling motors; seas of elbows and toes; bobbing heads of shiny black hair; dust, dirt, and prickly sweat. Busy, buzzing outdoor bazaars; beggars imploring bewildered tourists. Skinny kids scurrying past giant posters of Bollywood stars. Billions of sandals and sparkly bindis; people haggling, rupees exchanged. Mountains of powdered pigments in turquoise, chartreuse, indigo, magenta. A random cow.

Fresh, ripe mangoes and heaps of vegetables. Chanting street vendors frying snacks both sweet and savoury. Sticky chutney-covered fingers, spicy fragrances meeting salivating tongues. People shouting, mosquitos hovering. Sad skyscrapers towering over sadder slums. Sun beating on wet, glistening foreheads. Trains heavily fringed with limbs. Chai slurped from clay cups; clay cups smashed on pavement. Wheels on rickshaws motorbikes bicycles buses cars taxis trucks, all moving spinning whirring twirling all at once. Everything, all at once.

How dizzying! Of course what I wrote above is simply a small sliver, a fraction of a snapshot, of grand Mother India. Because it is such a vast and diverse country (a billion people, two dozen languages, countless cultures, religions and ways of life), I must remember and you must remember that what I write here is and will be shaped by who I am. My observations will be filtered through the eyes and ears of a young woman, a "westerner" (for a lack of a better term), a mom, a wife, an introvert, an American, living in Mumbai in this particular year, producing experiences as unique as the handmade Indian carpets I hope to find in one of my imaginary, bustling bazaars.

Image credit: Heather Murphy

Life-in-a-box

Snapping bubble wrap, taping cardboard boxes, balling up newspaper- yes, it's moving time. This weekend, Martin and I started packing up the apartment. It's strange how much space you suddenly have when everything is tightly sealed into squares and rectangles. The apartment feels bigger, colder. And bit by bit, box by box, our current home is becoming as foreign as our future dwelling in India.

Many people, including myself, can see obvious downsides to relocating every one or two years. Never quite feeling settled, bidding farewell to friends, dealing with the exhausting rigamarole of setting up bank accounts and residence permits, etc. However, as I went through my stuff today, sorting what to pack, what to ship, and what to toss, it occured to me there is at least one benefit: simplicity of belongings.

As a kid, I would save all kinds of paraphernalia religiously for the sake of sentiment. I saved notebooks, spelling tests, book reports, and report cards. I kept personalized napkins from weddings, neatly folded. There were my boxes of assorted buttons, unsharpened pencils, and unused erasers. I hoarded BonneBell chapsticks in every possible flavor. I even controlled sugar urges to save candy-- a particular lollipop cherished for years in a ballerina jewelery box comes to mind. Perhaps disturbingly, I kept a crayfish dissection from 7th grade because I was proud, and oddly enough it didn't rot or smell. Not that much.

But constantly packing and unpacking your life makes this kind of neurotic squirreling impossible. Today I threw out jeans I'll probably never fit in again (such is life post-partum), outdated CD-ROMS, companionless socks, old mail, crumpled receipts. Sadly, I found nothing as ridiculous as the treasures of my youth. I'm sure living around the world with hyper-organized Martin will only increase scantness on my part. And until I start collecting every homework assignment, scribble, and 3-D diorama Isabel brings home from school, I'm OK with that.

Kiss These Tulips Goodbye

It's official. We're moving to India. No more if, maybe, probably- just a "Yes!" And I don't mean to make it sound like this has been a long, drawn out process. Not in the least. Hardly a month ago, the idea of transferring Martin to an office in India was put forward. There were some bumps along the way, but now that we have the green light- in the form of a signed contract- we'll be scrambling to pack up, ship out, and fly to our home of the next two years.

The imminent move has stirred me to wax nostalgic about Rotterdam, something a bit unexpected. Given all the complaining Martin and I do about this city, from its eyesore buildings to predominantly concrete structures (and parks), it seems bizarre that I might actually have a soft spot for ole R'dam.

Which things will I miss about Dutch or European life? Cheese is absolutely at the top of the list, closely followed by clean running water. I'll miss fresh, cool mornings and hot mugs of coffee at sidewalk cafes. I'll miss our friends and family. Our apartment. Our car. I'll miss Holland's kaleidoscopic fields of tulips in April and May. I'll miss taking Isabel out for walks in her stroller through the shopping plazas and malls. I'm sure I'll miss sticky stroopwafels or pancakes when I'm up to my ears in spicy curries, too. Then there are the intangibles, like Europe's overall efficiency, orderliness, cleanliness. Breathable air. It probably won't be long before I'll pine for the serenity of an empty city block free of vehicles, people, and sacred cows.

At least the move will be exciting. And while we are leaving our Western comfort zone, it's only a matter of time until we adjust to our new lives in India. Colorful, tropical, chaotic, crazy India.