An American in Kodagahalli
How does it feel to be an American living in a small Indian village? A great question, and one posed to me many times by friends and family in the past few weeks. The experience of being a foreigner in Ubuntu's workspaces is full of surprises, endlessly fun, at times difficult, and always rewarding. One just needs a sense of adventure, as well as a sense of humor. My average day in Kodagahalli begins at 6:30 am, when I'm awakened by the clattering of bullock carts heading out for the day's work. I'm summoned for tiffin at 8:30 with Krishna, the cook for a nearby supportive landlord. I've learned to eat the delicious, heaping plates of rice and sambar with my hands, to the point where a fork seems a ridiculous hindrance. At first it was difficult to accept that I eat like a queen there, at a table by myself, while Krishna eats his small plate after me and sitting on the ground, out of respect. In a way, it is still hard to accept. But I am in Kodagahalli to learn as much as I'm there to teach, and I've learned it's best to accept the kindness and hospitality of Krishna. Being new, I'm a subject of both interest and slight apprehension from the women who come to the workspace. For the first few days I got shy stares and smiles, which graduated to conversations in Kannada-English and even dinner invitations by the time I left. Some women are eager to try their hand at the computer, while others have to be persuaded. The key is to teach the women in their own comfort zone, and then gradually push those boundaries. I find that the women learn the most when they're not even aware that they're learning. If I'm willing to learn a little Kannada from them, I can convince them to learn an English phrase or two. I allow them to tour me around the village, passing temples and small storefronts, exchanging Kannada and English words for the animals and plants we see. We laugh over the fact that I'm not yet married and that in America we don't eat sambar. In the afternoon, the children leave school and steadily stream into the workspace, until I have about 30 kids competing for my attention. Unlike the older women, many of the children attend English-medium schools and enjoy showing off their English to me. The only way to keep the attention of 30 children is through games. I yell English verbs that they must act out, have them describe the colors in the room, and give them all a turn at making computerized cakes on the laptop. As crazy as this gets, I love it. The kids memorize the names of my family members, and proudly recite them to me each day. Around 5, Krishna's son brings me tea, and the activity in the room pauses while I slowly sip to extend the momentary peace. When it gets dark outside, I shoo the children away, shaking each of their hands as they leave. For the next few hours, stragglers return with their younger siblings, asking if they can draw me rangoli or dance for me in the candlelight. Every night just before bed, I'm invited over to the house next door, where a family with a week-old baby is staying. They offer me boiled peanuts, the mother insistent on shelling them for me. We sit sometimes in silence, sometimes in laughter over my attempts at Kannada. A part of me wishes I could hold a normal conversation with them, ask them everything I want to. But my status as an outsider, while of course creating certain boundaries, also brings down others. In Kodagahalli, I'm invited into everyone's homes, where I learn more about them than words can communicate. I make myself available to them in the hope that, as they spend more time around me, the reverse is also true.
