Disco Infiltrator

To walk down a street and not know whether you are being led to meet friends or to be robbed is an interesting feeling to say the least, and it is something I have felt twice in the last 24 hours.
The weekend passed relatively uneventfully until Sunday night. On Sunday, we were all going to take a public transport bus (a bad idea) and see the opening of another caravan center. These centers give free english and computer classes to the underpriviledged and and to date have educated over 6000 men, women and children. I hear it was a success and definitely an event to witness (despite bing in mostly Gujurati and Urdu), but I spent the day at home sick. It seems that I only get sick when I eat, so it is on and off. Keeping weight on in this country is proving more difficult than I imagined, so I am subsidizing my diet with as much soda and sweets (indians love em) as my stomach can handle.

Anyway, Saturday night Kamalbai (brother Kamal) invited us to a classical music recital in memoriam of a famous tabla (hand drum) player. Upon arriving, we slipped off our shoes and entered a freezing, packed room and sat on squishy mattress pads. The music was gorgeous. The first group consisted of a tabla player and two sarangi players (which is a fusion of cello and sitar). It seemed as though the two men were dueling with the beautiful folk melodies on their instruments; it was incredible how quickly they could escalate from a mellow vibe to an intense fervor of playing that could easily be guitar solos in a sold out ampitheater show.
I do not lie when I say I was disappointed when these performers finished after an hour of hard work; the vocalist that followed was talented, but did not hold my interest in the same way it did for most in the audience.

Ok, back to me being unsure about where I am walking. So Sunday night we are always full of energy, resistant to work in the morning. Instead of sitting in the house, I decided to take an evening stroll and do some street photography; Jamalpur truly comes alive after dark, when the boys and men sit outside on stoops, joking laughing and smoking. Whenever I walk around I get looks; some would say I don't exactly blend in. Pointing a camera at seemingly mundane things does not help. While I was stooped shooting a conglomerate of abandoned street bicycles, some teenagers called me over to them.

I said what the hell, I want to make some friends, plus I was sick of relying on Nina or Nadeem for communication. The kids were pretty cool, just some high schoolers and college kids wasting time on a summer night. It was full of jokes and taking shots at each other's masculinity. They eventually invited me to hop on the back of a bike and go to Ellis bridge to meet up with some of their friends. They said there would be girls there, and I could tell this was a big deal; girls are very shy and often not present.
I passed on the venture; sure the kids were nice, but I wasn't going to end up on a different end of town stranded without pants, so to speak. Still, that night I couldn't sleep.

So I stayed up reading and reflecting. In the morning I watched the sunrise and listened to the sounds of the city stirring from a light but deadening slumber. It must not get quiet until 5 or 6 in the morning, even then it is quiet for only an hour or so. Still, the starting sounds of milkmen clanging, women starting to beat laundry, and rickshaws honking at dogs and goats to clear the road is gradual, surprising, and then normal.

I decided to go out and see everything come alive myself. The streets are full of people sleeping on cots in full daylight; the only awake soulds are the school children, all in matching kurtas or belly-button high blue shorts, waiting for the schoolbus (a rickshaw piled high with other schoolkids). I always get catcalls like "Hello, what country?" or "Hey America". This morning a few old men gathered at some benches taking in their morning smoke called to me, and I decided to join them for a minute.

In the poorer areas there is much less english spoken, so communication is its own game. They had something they wanted to show me, though. I was led through an alley of shanties to an artists alcove. There was a man working on a gorgeous carving of the god Shiva on a totem-pole-esque log of artistry. I felt sort of helpless; why were they so eager to show me this art in such a poor area? Surely I could not afford any of the art, nor fit a totem pole in my suitcase. They said I was the first foreigner to see the artists' work, and it seemed like an accomplishment to them. This just made me feel more helpless. Sure, I took sculpture in high school and at Wesleyan and enjoy art, but I was nobody and I thought that was clear.

So I was full of grace (or tried to be) and after looking and thanking and promising to return in a few weeks when the present work was done, and finally bowed out. That didn't stop the crowd of semi-clothed children from following me most of the way out. The little ones giggle when you say goodbye in hindi.

No sooner am I walking back home do I see Yaqub and his wife on a scooter, out to do some morning errands. He is wondering what the hell I am doing coming out of a brokedown alley at 7 in the morning when I should be in bed. After an explanation and the following shake of the head, we continued on our ways. So that was the start to my day. Some breakfast, a nap, and work all followed. It may not have been the most exhilarating story, but it's moments like this I remember where I am and am glad I'm open enought to try and embrace it.