Goodbye Bangalore

So, how was India?

We're some 35,000 feet above the Atlantic Ocean and I'm racking my mind trying to figure out how I'm going to answer this looming question.  It's been nearly a year since I left the city where I was born to work with Oasis India and the anticipation of my homecoming stretches the 22 hour flight time to what feels like 22 years. It gives me plenty of time to collect my thoughts on the past year, though it does me little good.

In the following days I reunite with friend after friend, aunt after uncle, all asking that same unanswerable question:

"So, how was India?"

It's so seemingly simple and certainly expected, considering my long absence, and yet every time, I'm caught off guard. I don't know what to say. "Crazy, but amazing" becomes my automated response because it's easier than trying to describe the home-cooked meals eaten at a stranger's table, the street children forced to tug on my sleeves and demand money, the schools of auto-rickshaws swimming through narrow streets, the woman cured of tuberculosis, the man who died of it,  the walls of water that fell all night, the orphanage that had no beds, the joy that bubbled up from even the poorest neighborhoods…

Trying to describe this country that defies definition and rejects summary only gets more difficult with each attempt.

When I try to talk about India, I find myself telling stories about another place. A place less exciting, desaturated and flavorless, like wax fruit compared to the real thing. The people I had grown to love become cardboard cutouts and the late night expeditions through the city become boring and uneventful. I've never had language fail me so completely, so utterly. India, I've come to accept, isn't a place that can be captured in an anecdote or even by the thousand-word pictures filling up my hard drive. It requires something else, something more. Don't ask me what though-I don't know.

I've been home for over a month now and I've had plenty of opportunities to answer the 'How was India' question, though I've come no closer to a satisfactory answer. It's been admittedly frustrating; there's so much I want to share, but don't have the words for. Perhaps my new automated response from here on out will simply be "Buy a plane ticket. Go see for yourself."

The auto driver looks young. I generally avoid the younger drivers as they tend to be more aggressive in their bargaining, but he's offering a half decent rate for a Saturday night so me and Adar get into the auto rickshaw and head towards Indiranagar.

As the driver pulls away he  starts talking and it becomes increasingly clear that he's not quite right. He could be drunk or maybe he huffed glue before picking us up (a popular high with the youth out this way). As we speed down Outer Ring Road, he pulls out a joint and tries to light it using both hands. Freed from its master, our rickshaw instantly pulls right cutting across four lanes of traffic. He get's the joint lit and grabs the handles just as we're about to make contact with a large center divider. The strong smell of burning marijuana fills the backseat.

The brewery were careening towards is called Toit and features a skunk as their mascot, which is odd  as there are no skunks in India. A few weeks ago, we were having a beer with their brewmaster, a quiet guy from Ireland, and we asked him  what Toit meant. He just gave us a cryptic look and said, "You'll have to talk to the owner and see if he's willing to tell you." We laugh and our friend asks, "It's not from Austin Powers, is it?" The Irishman stops laughing and nods his head, "Go on."

"When Goldmember says, 'Toit. Toit like a tiger.'"

(See here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gu31VyXlTzo)

"Well done. You get a free beer."

We laugh, unable to believe that anyone would name their restaurant after such an obscure reference. Or maybe the brewmaster was just messing with us.  I don't know. Anyways...

Me and Adar finally arrive safely at Toit and as I hand the driver a hundred rupees he tells me if we're back by ten he'll take us home. Adar looks him and just says, "Macha (dude)...It's 10:30."

We find our friend Rhett sitting against the far wall of the patio with some friends. We introduce ourselves, order some food and start asking about each other's week.

Rhett is talking about looking for a new job when we hear tires suddenly panicking as they skip and skid over gravel followed by the unmistakable sound of steel stampeding into steel. For a fraction of a second the commotion stops. Eyes lock around the table.

Then it happens.

 The thin bamboo wall behind us bursts forwards, sending our new friends flying into the table and the table into us. Glasses knock over and smash into pieces on the floor below. High beams and dust find their way through the space between the dried bamboo stalks.

Everyone clamors away from the table in shock, but no one seems hurt.

The crowd spills out a side gate to see who has so violently interrupted their Friday night. As I follow I watch them angrily swarm the driver as he attempts to get out of his small SUV. His hands raised in front of him as if to claim ignorance. Everyone is yelling and shouting.

Then I look down and see our inanimate saviors.  A series of cement planters lining the patio's parameter have absorbed a majority of the vehicle's momentum, keeping a harsh bump from being lights out for us all.

Beyond the crowd I can make out the rest of the scene. As the driver lost control and came over the sidewalk he sideswiped a minivan forcing it into an auto rickshaw. The small, three-wheel transport has been forced around a light post as though it were made of aluminum foil and half-melted wax. 

A couple sits on the dirt floor holding their legs in pain. Nearby someone is one their phone calling for help.

 I walk back onto the patio where my friends are returning to the table, slowly rearranging the chairs and sitting back down.

In a bit of a daze, we finish what's left of our food and leave. We head a few blocks down the road to The Humming Tree where we laugh and drink a little more than usual.

A Letter To My Supporters

To My Family and Friends,

I wanted to take some time to thank you for supporting me during my time with Oasis India. I am humbled and encouraged to see your names on my financial update each month.  It means more to me than I could express with ink and paper. You’ve put a roof over my head and food in my stomach. Thank you so much.

I also wanted to tell you what it means to me to be out here, doing this work.

Part of my job is writing the stories of the men, woman, boys and girls who come through our various programs. These stories all begin the same way, steeped in some kind of tragedy.

"A 13 year old girl was sold to a brothel by her uncle."

"A young man joined one of the local gangs."

"An infant was born with its mother's HIV already in its blood."

About halfway through each story though, I get to write the words ‘but then’ and, my friends, they are the sweetest words to write. 

"A 13 year old girl was sold to a brothel by her uncle, but then Oasis was able to rescue her and invite her into our shelter where healing could begin."

"A young man joined one of the local gangs, but then he enrolled in our graphic design class and now he's graduated and has a job that brings independence and dignity."

"An infant was born with its mother's HIV already in its blood, but then it was brought to our shelter and received much needed medication and now it will grow up and have life."

These two words change everything. They are a new beginning, a reversal of fate. Within them is a hope burning like a flame underwater. It should not be able to endure in these stories, each one so overwhelmed with chaos and pain, and yet there it is: an impossible light, refusing to die.

I see God in these two words. I see Love moving and acting and fighting more fiercely than ever before. Just to witness this has been an indescribable experience.

Thank you for supporting me and for joining me in this endeavor.

Though we are 9000 miles apart, we work side by side.

With humility and gratitude,

Daniel Tozier

Monsoon season begins on a Thursday evening as we gather on the rooftop after work. The storm appears as a grey wall east of our building,  but within 15 minutes the clouds have stretched out and over us, a low covering reaching the sun that sets in the west. 

Massive gusts of wind sweep through, kicking up the dust of India and buildings on the skyline, once visible in detail, are now nothing more than blurry silhouettes. Socks and shirts fly off the clothes line and fall slowly into neighboring lot. Black clouds soar overhead like invading zeppelins.

The air around us changes and then it begins to rain. A trickle and first but within two minutes the sky is furiously pouring itself out onto the earth. A wall of water surrounds us. I've never seen anything like this before.

The sun takes cover in a different hemisphere but the rain continues falling with persistent intensity.

Lightning begins flashing every five seconds, illuminating the wall of clouds. When a big bolt hits it refracts throughout the entire cloud cover, lighting the night sky up so brightly it stings your eyes.

By the time this night's storm is over 50 trees will have been uprooted throughout Bangalore.

I wonder how this city has any trees left.

The funny thing about being invited to something in India is that there is an underlying assumption that you're going to say yes.

For instance, when I was invited to my church's annual retreat, the conversation went something like this.

Pastor: Hey so this May is our annual retreat.

Me: Oh cool. Where are you guys going?

Pastor: A camp ground in Ooti.

Me: Sounds fun.

Pastor: Yea, the deposit is 2000 rupees.

Me: Oh. Oh okay, yea, I'll check my work schedu-

Pastor: Yea, just bring the deposit next week and give it to Joseph.

Me: Okay?

And that's how I ended up on a train bound for a campground in Ooti. But I'm glad I did. I had a great time and got to know some really good people

I also saw wild elephants and a monkey, but I was too slow to grab my camera so you'll just have to use your imagination.

But first the train.

Indian trains are a destination in themselves.

Eunuchs cloaked in saris begin making their way from cart to cart begging for spare rupees.  Men who refuse have their face stroked gently or their thigh touched until they are made uncomfortable enough to pay up. I'm told by a friend that it's more than just being uncomfortable. People believe that the hijras, as they're called, have real powers and can curse stingy riders, depriving them of future children. Fortunately for my genetic line,  I've taken a seat by the window, out of their reach. I continue pretending to be asleep as the less fortunate pull out 20 rupee bills and hand it upwards without eye contact.   

In the window, behind steel bars, cities, slums and fields draped in the light of a rising sun pass by on an endless loop like someone flipping through TV channels.

Unidentified crops go on and on before slipping over my perspective's edge. Brightly colored humps speckle the straight, green rows. The women in their saris never fully stand up as they tend to the roots, only their backs visible.

The narrow field between the tracks and the wall of a nearby slum becomes the bathroom for its inhabitants. The train passes by, invisible to them.

A heard of sheep is calmly guided from one patch of grass to another, from one pond to another, from one randomly chosen place to another.

We cross a steel bridge over one of India's numerous brown and grey rivers, a sprawling network responsible for dispersing  80% of the country's untreated sewage. The smell hovers high above and our train cuts straight through it. It is new to me in its intensity. It's dull and sharp at the same time. It's deep black and it's decay and my guts turn. I try to restrict my breathing to my mouth but now I'm drinking it. I feel it land in the bottom of my stomach like a heavy, muddy stone and I fight back a strong gag. Then as quickly as it came, it's gone and I can breathe again.

We exit the train and 30 of us crowd into a miniature bus. Laps are sat on and the men take turns standing in the aisle so others can sit.  As long as the bus is moving, cool air continues flowing in through its open windows, but as soon as it stops the temperature begins rising like the inside of a toaster, each person a glowing nickel coil. We distract ourselves by playing games of telephone, butchering simple phrases as they pass from English to Hindi and back again. Every round ends in laughter.

I sit in the back with the high-schoolers who are singing along to John Denver (I swear to you, this is true) as it plays on a girl's cell phone.

After two hours of driving, we arrive at the campsite.

Click 'Read More' for some pictures from the next few days.  

When you travel to India for a stay exceeding 180 days you will be required to register with the Foreigners Registration Office (FRO)  within two weeks of your arrival. This can be a bit tricky for us outsiders so I've put together a handy step-by-step guide to walk you through it.

The following took place over the course of two months.

How to Register with the FRO in India:

Step 1: Catch an auto rickshaw and ride the 45 minutes to the FRO the day after you arrive.

Step 2: Get stopped at the door and told to go online and download an application form and bring with it all the documents that you've already given them when you applied for your visa.

Step 3: Collect the documents and return. Wait for your number to be called. For 15 minutes no one will be called to the counter, despite all of them being manned by people starring at the wall.

Step 4: Wonder uselessly why this is.

Step 5: They will begin calling numbers and after 30 minutes it will be your turn. The man inspecting documents will find a typo in your rental contract and tell you to get it fixed and re-notarized. You will also be told to bring a copy of the landlords photo ID as well as a letter from your landlord stating that you will be staying there. It will seem to you that the signed rental contract would be sufficient. Ignore that thought.

Step 6: Wait a week and half for your landlord to come back from a business trip in Rome and give you a copy of his ID.

Bonus Traveler's Tip: It won't matter since before he gets back you'll realize you're being overcharged, find a better apartment for 8,000 rupees less and start the process over.

Step 7: Collect the new documents and take them to the FRO. Wait for your  number to be called. After 40 minutes it will be your turn, but the man at the counter will immediately direct you to another line where documents are being inspected by another man.

 Step 8: Wait in the second line for 30 minutes. The man at this counter will tell you that you're too far past the registration deadline so you will now need a police report from the city you currently live in stating that you have not been arrested for anything.

Step 9: He will give you a letter explaining what form is needed to give to the police.

Step 10: Take the request letter to the station. Once there they will tell you that you've only lived in this city for a few days so before they give you their report you'll need to present one from the city you first lived in.

Step 11: Ride to that city's police station. You will be informed that you need a request letter from the FRO listing their city's name. If you hear a soft chipping sound, don't worry. That's just the sound of your mind breaking in little, tiny pieces. Ignore it and ride the 45 minutes back to the FRO for the report request letter.

Bonus Traveler's Tip: When the FRO gives you the form with the wrong city on it, hand it back and tell them to reprint it. He'll try and convince you that this is unnecessary, but you'll know better because you’re a savvy traveler about to go completely insane.

Step 12: Return to the first police station with the proper letter. He'll ask you why it wasn't stamped by the FRO. Be bewildered. He'll shake his head and tell you that he needs copies of your visa and passport. Apparently the stamp was simply a matter of preference. When you give the copies to him, he will tell you the visa copy is on the wrong size paper.

Step 13: Take deep breathes and count to 10.

Step 14: Go across the street to a Xerox shop and get the copy on the correct sized paper.

Step 15: When you return he will then, and only then, inform that he also needs copies of your rental contract, your employment contract and a photograph of you.

Step 16: Look at your photo. Wonder who this person is. He looks strangely familiar, like someone you once new in a past life.

Step 17: Go back across the street to get these all copied.

Step 18: When you return three minutes later the police officer will be gone and you will be told that he has left to have breakfast.

Step 19: Burn the building down

Step 20: Burn the building down.

Step 21: Burn the building down

Step 22: Ignore the voices telling you to burn the building down as this will only further delay your registration.

Step 23: Wait the 20 minutes for him to return. He will take the copies and tell you to come back tomorrow.

Step 24: Go back the next day and wait at the station for half an hour. The police officer will show up and grab a Tupperware of food from his desk drawer. He'll tell you he's going to eat breakfast. Say something stupid like, "Wait! Is my report ready?"

Step 25: Watch him walk away, pretending he hasn't heard you.

Step 26: Wait another 20 minutes while you cling uselessly to your feeble grip on reality like an elderly widower clutching  a photograph of his long dead wife.

Step 27: When he returns he'll turn on his computer and print the report. Could he have done this before breakfast? No, you idiot. Why would you even think that?

 Loose five points.

Step 28: The police officer will then tell you to go across the street to make copies for him. Apparently you now work at the police station too. Congratulations on your new job, Senior Copier Guy Who Copies Stuff For People Who Love To Eat Breakfast!

Step 29: Return with the copies and leave with the original. Remember those voices telling you to burn the building down? Feel free to give now!

Step 30: Act casual as you walk out of the burning building.

Step 31: Get sent to Chennai for four days on business.

Step 32: When you return take the report to the station of city you currently live in. Die a little inside when he tells you that the report was only valid for three days. Did anyone bother to mention this to you? Nope! Is it printed on the form anywhere? Nope! Did Officer Breakfast try to tell you this telepathically? Maybe!

Step 33: Since you're already there, the officer wants to see your apartment to make sure this isn't some elaborate ruse to drive yourself insane. Oh, but he doesn't have a car so you have to find a rickshaw and you have to pay for it.

Step 34: Show him the apartment and drop him back off at his station.

Step 35: Go back to the charred remains of the other station and explain to Officer Breakfast that you need another report.

He'll tell you that he can't give you another report without another request letter from the FRO. You'll ask why a second, nearly identical letter is necessary. He'll just shrug and walk out of his office, leaving you to clutch your knees to you chest and rock back forth mumbling incoherently.

Step 36: Keep in mind that punching an officer of the law right in his breakfast-eating face is frowned upon in India and exit the station peacefully.

Step 37: Ride the 45 minutes back to the FRO and wonder how it's possible to hate a building so much.

Step 38: Ask for another request letter and show the man working the desk the other city's request letter so he knows what you're asking for. He'll ask you why it's not stamped.

Bonus Traveler's Tip: Apparently there is  a magical man who runs around stamping important documents which is obviously why no one bothered to tell you that a stamp for them existed let alone was necessary.

Step 39: Get the request letter and...

Step 40: Get it stamped.

Step 41: Take the stamped request letter to the police station of the first city you lived in. Wait 30 minutes for the officer to come to his office.

Bonus Traveler's Pop Quiz!

What was Officer Breakfast doing for those 30 minutes:

A Eating dinner

B His job

C Eating breakfast heyguysthisistherightanswer.

Step 42: He will take the form and ask for scanned copies of your passport and visa. You'll remind him that you gave those to him last week. He will tell you that those are now in storage. Of course they are.

Step 43: Go across the street and make copies. When you hand them in the officer will tell you to come back later that evening. 

Step 44: Return and collect the report.

Step 45: Muster up the strength to do a victory dance.

Step 46: Take this report and head to the station of the city you currently live in. There's a new officer in charge and he heard you have a pretty sweet pad and now he wants to see it. Find a rickshaw and pay for it to take the two of you to your apartment. Show it to him and drop him back off at the station.

He'll tell you to return for their report later that night.

Step 47: Return to the police station. He'll tell you to return at 11 the following morning. At this point your exhaustion is outpacing your anger. Crawl away.

Step 48: Return to the police station again. Wait with the police officer for the police chief to show up to sign your report. After about 20 minutes the officer will get annoyed of your constant sighing and the two of you will go to find the chief.

The police chief will be the man with two stars on his shoulder watching TV. Some show about Indian people. He'll look away from the screen long enough to sign your form.

Step 49: With both reports and all necessary documents in hand, march proudly into the FRO. Nothing can stop you. You're on top of the world.

Step 50: You suck and you're stupid. One of your letters from your company isn't written right. Has it been look at and approved by several FRO employees? Yep! It even has check mark seal of approval on it. Doesn't matter!

Step 51: Oh and also now you need a scanned ID of your boss.

Bonus Traveler's Tip: On the FRO website is a list of documents necessary for your registration. A copy of your boss's ID isn't on there. No one is going to mention it until now. But still, you should have known…somehow.

Step 52: Take a rickshaw 45 minutes back to the office. Write and print a new letter and copy your boss's ID.

Step 53: Take a rickshaw back to the FRO and hand in the papers. He will stamp your passport letting everyone know from here on out that you registered late. But who cares because...

Step 54 : Congratulations! You are now a registered foreigner as well as a danger to yourself and others. What is the meaning of this vulgar reality? All is an illusion.

Step 55: Check yourself into a nearby mental institution and enjoy the rest of your life in a bathrobe.

Without stopping to look down I jump off the Satabdi Express with a hundred other passengers before and behind me. We are like water from a spout, poured too quickly into the grimy train station. We trip over each other and each other's children before sloshing against the grey walls opposite and pillars in between.

The train, now far behind me, was air conditioned, and now outside I'm having trouble breathing. The April air in Chennai is so thick you could gargle it and spit it out. The humidity immediately wraps itself around me. It's like wearing a wetsuit underneath a sweater in the middle of July.

When I talked to my friends about the trip in the days leading up to it their eyes would go wide as they tried to convince me to reschedule.

"No, no too hot now. Go a different time."

Unfortunately Chris is only in town for a week and we have meetings already lined up.

We hurry through the crowded, dimly lit train station, stepping over sleeping travelers and weaving around toppling piles of luggage. After six hours on the train it feels good to test my legs.

We finally emerge from the sweltering maze into the sweltering city and begin searching for a rickshaw.  There should be 40 of them swarming tourists lost in a new land, but we see only five or six. We would later learn that everyone is at home watching the Cricket World Cup which happens once every four years. The final match is pitting India against their neighbor, Sri Lanka.

Eventually we do find a driver. He charges us 175 rupees for a ten minute ride that should only cost 25, but it's a seller's market so we reluctantly accept. We arrive at the hotel and walk into the lobby just in time to see India loose the World Cup. As I fall asleep the trains gentle rocking continues somewhere deep in my inner ear.

The following day is filled with meetings and planning, but as it winds down Ravi, our sports director, offers to take me to a state football match where one of our former players is competing. Oasis runs multiple football leagues throughout South India for boys and young men growing up in the slums. We use these leagues to give them a reason to not join a gang or follow their fathers into alcoholism. Role models like Ravi are able to show them that there are new and better ways to live, if they only decide to work and work hard for it.

We jump on Ravi's motorcycle and head out to the stadium.

The blazing sun is setting, kept at bay behind tall buildings as a cool wind finds its way to us from the nearby ocean. People escape their various places of work and flood the sidewalks to chat, sip chai and eat deep-fried street food. As our motorcycle cuts left down a narrow street, the sunlight begins breaking free, flashing rhythmically though each gap in the passing buildings. It feels as though it's chasing us, desperately trying to keep up. All of this is seen through half-shut eyes. I made the mistake once of fully opening them while on the back of a motorcycle. The stinging is instantaneous, as small particles of dust hit your eyeballs at 30 miles an hour.

As we find a seat in the stadium, Ravi points our player out to me. From the distance it's hard to make out any distinguishing features except for the big number 10 printed on the back of his jersey.

Ravi offers a few details about Number 10's life before Oasis. He grew up with a dad who was perpetually drunk and a mother who was gone all day cleaning houses just so they could survive. He and his younger brother stayed in school and at night would sleep beneath a roof made of dried palm leaves. For a long time, this was their future. Then several years ago they began playing with Oasis and have since become quite skilled at the sport. They've made good friends and found mentors in their coaches, especially Ravi.

Now Number 10 is paid a decent salary to play football with the state's equivalent to our minor leagues  and, according to Ravi, he has a real chance at playing professionally within the next few years. His younger brother plays for the division below him but is getting better every season.

Even with the 200 or so other spectators (all male), the massive stadium is practically empty. The men behind us yell down to the players with every steal and missed shot. "They're shouting swear words," is the closest to a translation I can get out of Ravi. A old man is sprawled out on the concrete floor below us, sleeping off his afternoon beers. Children jump over him to get back to their seats.

Number 10's team is losing, 2-1, with one minute left in the game. Suddenly his teammate breaks free with the ball and dashes towards the painted goal posts. A stampede of stained yellow jerseys close the gap and quickly surround him, but it's too late, he's already in shooting range.  With a swift kick the ball rockets out from the cluster of players, cuts left and just barely misses the goal. As the ball rolls away from the field the referee blows the whistle. The game is over.

We pack up and Ravi drops me back at my hotel.