Sweaty Revelations

Our car wound its way through the bustling streets of Ahmedabad; jerking to and fro, dodging rickshaws, people and cattle. Our crew of four was on the way to a slum community called Ram Rahim to see some of the HIV curriculum in action as part of Orientation. As we neared the slum, the atmosphere of the streets shifted. We drove further and further; the width of the dirt road shrank between crooked brick houses and piles of trash. We finally parked and gathered our supplies. Curious eyes followed our every move. My senses were overwhelmed with sights, sounds and smells. Half naked children gallivanting about yelling, “hello lady!” Spices, incense, feces, decay wafted in my face. The air made you feel dirty.

We made our way through the shanty-town maze to the “school”, which was more like the roof of a family home, sheltered by a tin roof. A class of twenty boys of all ages sat buzzing at our presence. Songs and games proved difficult in the congested area but the boys seemed to enjoy the silliness. As Katy, Rina, and Prerna began the class, Sadie and I observed from the back; huddling by a creaking fan.

Buckets of sweat were running down our faces, backs and legs. All of our kurtis were completely drenched. The sweat is something we’ve all become accustomed to. I say “accustomed” with fluidity because although we are no longer embarrassed by sweat outlining the contours of our bras, the daily expulsion of salt and dirt from our bodies is accompanied by a rank smell which no amount of Tide can wash out. (Please note the sweat lines and subsequent undergarments visible on WC volunteers Jesse Pipes and Baker Henson below. We recommended enlarging this photo for full effect. Did we mention it's hot in India?)

The ruckus from songs and games drew little girls, mothers and their babies to the rooftop. The children's skin was covered in heat rash and gnat bites. A girl of fourteen or so named Jemna was living on the rooftop and looking after her two little brothers. She would lock eyes with me and giggle. We greeted as best we could, “Kemcho! Majama!” and the rest was body language. This is one time in life where I wish I could speak every language.

After an hour of curriculum I will admit, I was ready to leave. Teaching proved difficult with this population because they are not used to sitting and paying attention for so long in one attitude. Interesting to think of how the most difficult children to teach are the ones who need this information the most. 

The team packed up and hobbled into the streets again, children swarmed us. Jemna walked next to me and offered to carry my teaching bag. I of course declined so she took my hand and accompanied me to the car. Her face will forever be engraved in my memory. 

Driving back to the city, I started to grasp the harsh juxtapositions between wealth and poverty in 

India. The city felt clean, our apartment felt like a five star hotel. My heart ached for all those children. It torments me to think that we all got to leave, wash the slums off our bodies and souls, put clean clothes on, and all of those children are still in Ram Rahim. I wasn't strong enough to last three hours without feeling disgusting. Many questions arose in my heart; why am I so lucky? to be born in a culture where women have rights; where I've never had to worry about going hungry. It is difficult to comprehend how we come from such a land of abundance when we know that children are abandoned to rot in the slums, in 120 degree heat. 

I guess that is the answer to why we all came to India. To reach out to those children who deserve every opportunity to be educated. inspired. changed.

Written by: Kendall Strautman, India Volunteer 2010