9 Crazy Nights

My most favourite festival in India, thus far has just ended. Navratri, the festival of nine nights was colourful, entertaining and so much fun. As many of you know, I am not the most coordinated dancer, except for my fabulous rendition of Jai Ho from Slumdog Millionaire. I am especially challenged when it comes to clapping and dancing, which is what Navratri is all about. My first night was rough. Feel free to watch the video below this post (titled Navratri: Night 1). But with a lot of hard work, sweat and serious determination, I got it down after several nights. Each song lasts 30-45 minutes.  It took me quite a few days to make it through an entire song.  Each night, there are between 5 and 10 songs, depending on the group.  Some of my friends would dance until 4 am each morning! In this post is the video from my last night of Navratri. You may think I look gigantic compared to the other dancers. This is not an illusion. I am a giant. At 5 feet, 9 inches, I tower over the majority of women and men in my village and in most of India, actually. My goal of blending in with the crowd was crushed on my first day here.

Navratri celebrates the Goddess Durga. Each October, for 10 days and 9 nights, everyone celebrates this festival, in various ways throughout India. In Gujarat, where I live, we begin each night with a prayer. Most Gujaratis fast all day and only eat after sunset during the nine days. After prayer, we eat prasad, a sugary sweet including too much sugar, coconut and popcorn. This served as my version of RedBull before the dancing began. Then, it's time to dance. The women start by gathering in a big circle around the alter for the goddess. Garba, the style of dancing in which Indians dance in a circle, clapping at intervals, starts slow (Thank God!) and slowly gets faster and faster. The men join in a little later and really speed things up. In bigger cities, professionals dance so fast you can barely focus your eyes!

Navratri: Night 9.  To see the video, click twice. It will take you to a new page. 

As you can see, I am not garba-perfect yet. But I am learning. I attended every night and had so much fun. My friends were forgiving of my mistakes and stepping on their toes and they really appreciated my efforts to participate in their cultural celebrations. Since Navratri ended, I have been secretly having dance parties in my house to keep up with my new moves. I'm willing to teach you if you're interested!

Navratri: Night 1

Night 1: Navratri.  I am learning. Slowly

Ayi Ayi Eye

Early last week, I woke up for school.  I fumbled for my phone to silence my alarm.  I stretched my arms and legs and lied in my bed for a few minutes, thinking about the upcoming day.  When I finally decided to open my eyes and begin a fresh day, I realized something was seriously wrong.  My eyes were swollen shut.  When I finally got them open, I could barely see.  Everything was blurry. My eyes burned and ached.  I was worried.

I put Visine drops in but it did little to clear up my eyes.  Priya decided to call our village doctor, and she quickly ran to our neighbour’s house to get a phone number.  In a few minutes, our neighbours, who also happen to be our village parents, came over to inspect my problem.  They reassured me, in broken English that it was a simple eye infection and it was currently spreading throughout the village.  They suggested I walk across the street and pick up some eye drops at the pharmacy, which I immediately obliged to do. 

Within a few days, the blurriness was relieved by the eye drops, but each morning I woke to find my eyes swollen and achy.  I continued my regimen of a warm cloth, a cool cloth and finally a few drops in each eye, several times a day.  Teachers and students told me it was a little infection and would disappear in a day or two.  They were wrong. It lasted much longer.

For whatever reason, being sick while you are abroad seems much worse.  I like to think that I am not a hypochondriac, but it’s so much scarier being far away from home and the doctors you know.  In Malawi, I had three cases of malaria and each time I was extremely afraid.  And living in India is no different.  I am in a poor village with dilapidated hospitals, not to mention the language barrier hindering me.  It’s frightening to have a sickness or injury in a place where you have no idea what medical treatment entails.  What’s more, when I walk around, I see countless Indians with deformities, including numerous glass eyes, so you can imagine my fear when my eye infection lasted for two weeks.

Finally, my friends and neighbours took my infection seriously because it was not clearing up.  A couple people told me to take a bus to Bardoli, a town thirty minutes away.  Others sternly told me that I should never go to Bardoli because the doctors there would tell me they needed to remove my eye or perform a serious surgery, in order to make money off me.  You can probably guess that I had a nightmare I had that night. 

At last, our good friend Vilmalbhai called his friend, Dr. Moneer and discovered that he would be coming to our village hospital for a half an hour the following day.  Not only was he a certified eye specialist (although I am still unsure what that actually means) but also he spoke English.  I immediately booked an appointment.

The next morning, I walked a half mile to the village hospital, with my swollen eyes and pharmacy drops.  When I arrived, I sat on a long dusty bench with twenty other Indians of various ages and illnesses.  We waited patiently for the doctors to arrive, smiling nervously at each other.  Of course I was stared at the entire time, but I didn’t care.  I was there to avoid losing my eye, at all costs.

The village hospital...
sorry, no pictures of my eye infection.
It was pretty grotesque.

Finally, forty-five minutes late, Dr. Moneer arrived.  At first I thought he was another patient as he strutted in wearing blue jeans, flame-coloured tennis shoes and baseball hat.  However, after a few seconds, I was escorted to his examination room. 

When I walked in, much to my surprise, there was a very fancy, hi-tech eye machine taking up most of the room.  I sat down, placed my chin on the small bar, and he adjusted the various knobs to focus on my eyes.  My fear of a glass eye fitting was slowly fading.  He asked me to read several letters in Hindi, which I was unable to do, not because of my eyes, but because of my inadequate Hindi skills.  I then put me through a series of eye tests.  When it was complete, I removed my head from the machine and he turned on the light.  There, in my small examination room, were twenty-five Indians staring at me.  They had been standing behind the doctor examining my eyes, as well.  They were intrigued by the white girl’s eye problem.  All I could do was laugh.  If I had had an infection in any other organ in my body, there would have been a different outcome.   

After a few minutes of jotting notes and looking at charts, my doctor asked the spectators to leave.  He looked at me and slowly explained that I had a serious case of conjunctivitis.  He looked at the drops I brought, threw them in the garbage bin and prescribed me a stronger dosage of medication.  He told me that if I followed his instructions I would be just fine.  I walked out happily, paid my bill totalling $0.50 and went home to put in my new eye drops.  No glass eye for me, just yet.