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[pravasiga]

January 2, 2019

   Lěng de bù hào chī (冷的不好吃): (Chinese): Cold (food) isn’t good for you.  

   This was the first year I did not count down to the start of a new year, huddled around the family TV as my brother and I (the only two who had not already gone to bed) watched Ryan Seacrest and a slate of celebrities dance around in clothes unbefitting of the New York’s bitter winter. The ball drop is not widely celebrated at my house – it’s just another passing mark of time. Traditionally, it means that it’s time to throw out the old calendar and scrounge around for the new one we somehow always manage to get for free from some Flushing marketplace or maybe somehow in the mail, advertising some random product. I am twenty-one years old and I’m still not sure where on earth my mother finds a new calendar each year. On another note, I am twenty-one years old and this is the first New Year’s Day that I did not count down – mostly because when hurtling through the air across time zones, you’re really not sure where to begin counting. I probably slept through it. The San Francisco-based crew wished us a Happy New Year as we exited the plane. My phone exploded with well-wishes when I finally connected with the airport’s (excellent) Wi-Fi.  It was January 1st, 7:40pm in Taipei, Taiwan when I left the aircraft. It was about 6:40AM in New York. Most of my family and loved ones were just beginning to wake up into the New Year. I had just about lost the first whole day of the new year stuck in a strange man-made time limbo of time zones and travel – neither here nor there.  I entered the New Year soaring through the sky, and my first steps on solid ground and into the new year were in a country that I had never been to.

    For a trip that I had such a strong cultural connection to, it is honestly surprising how little I had planned ahead for it. I had reviewed itineraries, I had checked visa requirements, and kept up with what was required of me, and yet I did not spend nearly as much time thinking hard about what I was getting myself into. Frankly, I am challenging myself to write again during this trip because now that I am here, I am stunned by how much I know and don’t know. How else do you describe a strange sense of coming home to a place where you have never been to?

   I have been lucky to have gone abroad two times during my time at Cornell – first to Lima, Peru and then to Mysore, India. For this trip, I am enormously grateful to Dustin Liu for organizing it, and I’ll go more into detail as the trip unfolds. I know how much travel inspires me not only in my academic pursuits, but truly as a strangely calming and yet disruptive force in my life. Clichés and all, I am a different person every time I disappear for a while across the borders. I shed some of the daily troubles for some new ones. Lack of consistent Wi-Fi and a new time-zone tends to silence the day-to-day influence of social life back home and the troubles waiting for me on campus (or in the inbox, it is hiring season after all). It is a luxurious silence to be deliberately untethered and I bask in it.

   So, I am writing because I am 1) all at once excited to share my thoughts and adventures with my loved ones, but more importantly 2) I have a feeling that I will be desperate to not lose these thoughts. In the same style of my previous travel posts, I will be reflecting and writing on whatever I want, whenever I want. If I could write an entire post a year and half ago about getting acclimated to walking barefoot everywhere, I still reserve the right to go off on any tangent I want. I am challenging myself to reconnect with culture and language. I am currently sitting in a Starbucks a few blocks from home, meticulously and frantically searching the internet and conjuring every little bit of my knowledge of Mandarin to pepper my writing with the language of my ancestors and the ancestors before that. (I’m getting some curious looks from people, but that might be because I literally ran into the sliding glass door…twice). Every post will begin with a Chinese phrase or word that jogs my imagination just a little bit. I thank you for your time in reading along and exploring with me, and I hope that it jogs your imagination just a little bit too.

 ************************************************************************************************

  Smell is the sense most directly linked to memory in the brain. Bypassing the hypothalamus unlike the other senses, the signal buries straight in the hippocampus, creating a powerful connection between scent and history. You can walk down the street and be hit with the faintest hint of house cleaner and remember a childhood home, or maybe just a recent hotel room stay. As I waited next to a tiny little street-side food cart late at night, watching them take orders of several other customers, I let the deep aromas of fried meat, fish, starch, and sweet spice take me far and deep back to a childhood that was ruled by incredible food. It is a smell of crisp, bubbling oil and juicy chicken. There is something comforting and familiar about the pungent smell and I can’t stop taking deep breaths of it. In that moment, I was standing in Taiwan, but my mind was wandering through the old food courts of Flushing Mall (RIP), my twelve-year-old self waiting anxiously in line for her salt and pepper chicken meal. It was my favorite order at the time, after all. I was a little too young at the time to feel quite comfortable standing in a thick crowd of other Flushing families and visitors, and just like now, my Mandarin Chinese just polished enough to order exactly what I wanted through rehearsing the phrases I heard my father say. I said hello, salt and pepper chicken please, thank you, goodbye. I hadn’t smelled a scent this strong in what felt like absolute years. On an empty stomach, it was impossible to resist leaning closer. 

  Dustin asked had asked me multiple times what I was craving and I truthfully answered that I was craving well, everything. A hungry stomach doesn’t discriminate much, but it was also the complete truth. Every other time I had travelled abroad, I had played it safe. No ceviche in Peru for fear of incompatibility with my stomach and a strong command to avoid the street food in India, a warning seconded by seasoned friends back home. Not here though. How could you say no to food that smelled and tasted just like home? 

  I clutched my oily paper bag of fish cakes, chicken, and corn cobs, all flash fried and coated liberally (but not too liberally because yours truly can’t handle spicy things), with a sweet, spicy red powder mixture, like it was the last thing I’d ever eat. And later that night, politeness and custom aside, that’s exactly how I ate. The first bite was irresistible. And the next one, and the one after that. Strips of fried chicken I tore off the bone, each coated with a pale golden yellow coat, fried to a soft crisp. It was salty and peppery, with just the right amount of greasy oil. In the creases near the bone were pieces of the fried dough mixture that felt like pure and wonderful gluttony just to eat. I don’t think I’ve ever picked a piece of chicken cleaner in my entire life. The fried fish cakes were light, airy, and chewy – covered in the same spice mixture as the chicken. It felt like a tougher French fry, but I’d choose it over French fry any day. The chopped corn cob pieces disappeared one by one – lightly fried sweet, fresh corn that was burned just the right amount at its edges. Buttery, satisfying, and with a slight hint of caramel. It was by all accounts a sloppy meal and it was glorious.

  Like most fried food, you need to eat quickly. After all, lěng de bù hào chī. I’ve always found that heat in Chinese food comes straight from the fire more than anything else. It’s also a phrase that I have not yet quite found the equivalent for in English. There is a literal translation – when the food is cold, it won’t be good to eat. It has been uttered at so many of my family meals and gatherings. Maybe it’s just a my family thing, or a universal thing – I’m not sure. But in my home, it is the in thick of the frenzy that opens the meal and the reminder that my mother, my father, my grandparents, and uncles and aunts all will tell the younger ones repeatedly. Chopsticks and serving utensils battle in the airspace over the table as bowls and plates piled high with food are moved around the table in haphazard manner. As I sat down to write this, I toiled over what to title my piece – after all, all my old blog pieces all started with an uncommon word, usually of English origin, to you know, set the mood. (I also really, really like words). This was the first phrase that came to mind – lěng de bù hào chī. It felt almost a little silly, so I ignored it at first, but I kept coming back to it. It took me a little time to realize why – because it’s more than just some good advice when it comes to eating. 

  When my family intercepts me as I reach across the dinner table for something and tell me, xiān chī zhè ge (先吃这个) “eat this first”), they push another plate of food closer to me and say, lěng de bù hào chī. The tone is always a cross between nurturing and an urgent statement. There is usually no relenting of this phrase until the food in question is indeed eaten. I tossed the ubiquitous phrase around in my head for a little bit and finally, I realized that it was an act of love. They say it without thinking and yet the meaning and intent is always, always clear. Because we care, we want you to eat well. 

  Food is critically and vitally important to my family and my culture. As an American-Chinese growing up in a neighborhood where I am never quite the majority and the local scene is dotted with more fast-food take-out than authentic cuisine, food is the most solid and important link back to my ancestors. There is something indisputable about this connection and it isn’t something that was easily stolen from my family as we crossed oceans and borders. We joke that Asian cultures sometimes make it difficult to outwardly show affection – we don’t say I love you like I’ve seen in TV shows and movies about other American families. We do not kiss and hug when we leave for school in the morning. Our ways of showing affection are sometimes manifested in ways that are awkward and distant to Western gaze. And as weird as this reference sounds, in the wildly popular Subtle Asian Traits meme group, my favorite post is this – the re-post where the prompt is to say and convey “I love you” in three words, without using I, love, or you. The original poster simply wrote: “come and eat”. I believe truly that the post is wildly popular because it strikes at something many of us in the Asian diaspora understand – we are a people who show love through our food and through feeding our loved ones well. 

  When my parents tell me to eat my fish first instead of going straight for the vegetables, it’s not just a gastronomical piece of advice, it’s a statement I’ve learned is seeped in centuries of love – to enjoy this meal best, please eat this first. We want you to eat well. It runs deeper than the common courtesy of letting other people start eating before you do. It is a distant linguistic cousin to the act of leaving the last piece of dim sum for someone else even though you really, really, really want it too. I figure that it’s because lěng de bù hào chī is not a polite custom like the others – it’s truly in a league of its own. The purpose of the former two customs are more about appearing less like the rude one at the table. Lěng de bù hào chī is selfless. Lěng de bù hào chī is uttered all the time in my household. It is so common that it surprised me when the phrase came up as the one I knew I wanted to write about. I find myself repeating it to my little brother and my younger cousins all the time too now as I become older and the head of the kids’ table at holiday dinners. This is how we show care in the ways that matter. 

  With this phrase, we yield to our loved ones to go ahead first. We usually follow this up by heaping helpings of aforementioned food onto their plates despite protests. Predominantly from the elderly to the youngest at the table, but also just as frequent from child to parent. Do take that first piece of fish, or steak, or slice of the bā bǎo fàn (八寶飯) cake, straight from the steamer. Here, the tāng yuán (汤圆) won’t be fresh if you wait too long. Here, you can have the first piece of pork belly straight from the huǒ guō (火��), it’s still hot. It won’t taste good anymore if you don’t eat it now. Sometimes its lěng de bù hào chī because they know you’ll get a stomach ache trying to eat sticky rice when it’s not hot enough Other times it’s because it literally will not be chewable when it’s not hot and no way on my dime are you wasting this piece of good steak. But absolutely all of the time, in setting the meal in front of me, my parents are giving me the chance to enjoy the experience first at its freshest and warmest. I have never seen my parents or grandparents go straight for the best food on the table without telling my brother, cousins, and I to eat it first. My parents have spent years cooking us dishes that had more expensive ingredients or were things that they loved too, but gave to us children first. I use fish as a prime example because my dad, as long as I remember, has always carved out the two smooth pieces of cheek meat in the fish (yes, we steam the entire fish, head to tail!) and put them on his children’s plates. It is a diplomatic process each time, routine like clockwork. My parents never ask for it, even though they know it’s a particularly good piece of the fish. It is a tiny piece, dipped in some of the soy and scallion sauce, but it is a wonderful bite of the fish – smooth, strong, and apparently like all Chinese lore, good for you. 

  Lěng de bù hào chī is also a pretty good way of describing how to approach my time here in Taiwan, the first Chinese-speaking country that I have been to in over a decade. Quite literally speaking, I would be a fool to wait on the good things here, lest I let them pass me by. I do a bit of a hard 180 here to address one of my biggest goals in Taiwan (and no, it is not just to inhale all the food in sight, though I am very willing to attempt this) – to re-establish my connection to my language and culture. My mandarin is like a strange fifth limb of my mine that is sometimes functional, often times awkward, and yet utterly impossible to detach. My first words were all in Mandarin. I was raised through a strong and consolidated effort of my parents and my grandparents. When I was younger, there was a time of genuine concern that I might not actually learn English since I babbled constantly and consistently in Mandarin. It seems like a strange past, because Mandarin now is both instinctual and foreign to me. My command of the language is through an ingrained mimicry as opposed to genuine understanding. My Chinglish at home is on point – we call out in a rapid mix of Chinese and English and depending on how mad my parents are, we also get disciplined in a mix of Chinese and English (though the angrier they get, the more Chinese gets thrown in until we reach a point where I am no longer able to comprehend what they’re telling me. I nod out of fear of asking for a translation). 

  I still stumble over my own tongue when I need to speak in Chinese to a non-relative or to a native speaker. When asked to speak, I often bravely attempt to mumble something and wait to feel an embarrassment that seems to be deeper than just social.  I am immensely aware of my American-ness, the unshakeable accent that gives me away when my words fail to have the same smooth lilt, and a vocabulary that struggles beyond basic topics of school, home, and family. I stop mid-sentence only to realize I am translating English to Mandarin instead of truly speaking in my mother tongue. I spent a comparable number of years in Chinese school to French classes (about 7 years, each) and even though I was writing complicated arguments in French by the end of high school (thanks to incredible teachers!), I still consider myself more fluent in spoken Chinese. French is a mechanical skill I know in my brain; Chinese is child-like reflex I know in my heart. As broken as my Chinese is, it still rises unbidden through me, a call into a world that has still not quite decided on my American-ness or Asian-ness. I know the only way to get better is to push through and to grab every moment I can to practice, before they fade away. I chat as often as I can – and luckily most locals give me that chance and are patient when I lose my words and need to linguistically flail about. I am, after all, not the only wài guó rén (外国人) they will deal with today. For now, I am incredibly lucky to be in a country that is so English friendly. It affords me a little luxury to navigate a little bit, amongst the few blocks around our apartment. I remarked to Dustin today that it almost seemed to be the ultimate pass – to be in a country so obviously different than my own, and yet given more than enough hints along the way. I have stared at each block of Chinese text that I’ve passed intensely (mostly subway signs), willing myself to remember characters, even if I have to cheat and use the English translation or pīnyīn for context. I truly think that my greatest mistake during this trip was leaving my trusted Chinese-to-English dictionary at home – I really should have thought ahead and remembered it. (Fun fact, I was quite the speed demon during my Chinese school competitions amongst students who could utilize the dictionary the fastest. I absolutely assure my non-Chinese speaking friends that a Chinese dictionary is nowhere near the same as a phonetic one and this is my weird flex but okay, but your girl is good at this shit). When we left the food stall where I got my late night snack, I took a copy of the order sheet – it is all in Chinese except for the row at top that states the stall’s phone number and Line handle (I still have no idea what Line is). I am hunting down a Chinese-to-English dictionary as we speak and though it is rudimentary and slightly amusing to think about, I am looking forward to carefully eking out each pictogram and piecing together a translation of this food menu.   

  Food will be a pretty constant topic for me through this trip, because it is without a doubt the firmest link I have to the country I am in now. Where my tongue fails to speak, it’s pretty great at recognizing taste. I have made it through the entire first post without even telling you all about the rest of Taiwan or why this food to language connection truly matters to me – and don’t worry, I will (or if you are already sick of these long personal essays, I don’t blame you). But I also am grateful for a space to stay true to my train of thought and to allow for you all the experience what I’m experiencing, as I experience it. As I’m settling here, I can’t pretend that food is the first thing on my mind right now – because it truly is the most familiar things that hook you first. I know that I am here because I am on a service trip (and don’t get me started, I am so excited), but I recognize that this is in many ways, also an important trip in processing my own identity and experiences. I am navigating a complicated and new awareness of my Asian-American self. I don’t think I truly had that time to think about it, and I am looking forward to exploring. Taiwan and China are not equivalent, and yet there are deep roots across both that speak to me in a way that I have not felt in a very, very long time. Trips to the home nests of Chinatown and Flushing have given me distant echoes – but in many ways, I know I am starting to look for the source. I truthfully am absolutely lost in the hyphen of my own existence, but I am looking forward to sharing this journey with you. In the meantime, when you sit down to eat today with people you love, don’t be afraid to share a little with those around you. As I navigate a new country and new experiences, I hope that you also take some time to grab life by the horns and to go out on a limb. Life is a strange feast, and because I am sharing this meal and table with you all, it’s my joy to remind you to eat while it’s still hot, because lěng de bù hào chī.

Be well and take care.

Nǐ de péng yǒu (你的朋友) -  Your Friend, He Yun Qi (何蕴琪)

PS: While we out here, might as well go the full hog and sign off with my full Chinese name (or as we move along, probably just my Chinese nickname). Also, I know social media is skeptical about oversharing and whatnot, but I truly find a lot of power and self-assurance in sharing openly about my experiences. I promise the next post will be more than just food (though I will also keep a running log, as per tradition, in my post-scripts).

PPS: (Soup)er honorable mention – I ate Michelin star Xiao Long Bao soup dumplings today at Din Tai Fung! I am still absolutely in love. XLB is also something that my father regularly scoops into our soup spoons before he takes his own because, as you guessed it, lěng de bù hào chī. Especially if they’re the ones with crab meat in it – you really don’t want that cold! Also, my dad always chides us if we eat ours without vinegar – because it really makes a huge difference.

PPPS: I literally also considered writing an entire post about Xiao Long Bao because that alone is a story of multitudes. It starts with Rachel Ray, includes a meme post that makes me boil in anger, and ends with hipsters in New York. I might go for it at some point if y’all really vibe with these hellishly long personal essays about my obsession with food.

PPPPS: My jet lag is doing alright, thanks for asking! I’m only about 4 hours off. The time zone difference between Taiwan and New York is 13 hours! Which also means that between lack of Wi-Fi at the house and the nearest Wi-fi being the aforementioned local Starbucks I will be slow to respond to everything. However, Taipei has free Wi-fi everywhere and I'm still really, really, REALLY jealous. 

PPPPPS: I am genuinely happier here than I could ever truly articulate. Also, there’s a cat that’s always yowling outside my window at night. Please send name recommendations.

[pravasiga]

July 18, 2017 - Dépaysement: (n.) The feeling that comes from not being in one’s home country, being a foreigner. Wandering, abroad, and far away from home. Origin: French

I remind myself to look up as often as I can, so I don’t miss out on the feeling of standing under a sky I’ve always seen, while my feet are rooted in earth that I had never yet walked. I constantly remind myself that in just a few weeks’ time, every moment I have had in India will become past, will become part of my history, will become part of the stories I have cloaked my body in. It feels traitorous to be homesick when I realize how fleeting these 8 weeks are, cocooned away from the rest of the world, fully aware of how difficult it will be to return. And yet, I am. It’s taken me two weeks to come up with another blog post because it’s much harder to write about home when traveling abroad. There’s a certain guilt, a certain discomfort that you aren’t dedicating your entire self to the incredible experience in front of you. But in many ways, I have been making a home or sorts here among the trees and farmland. Sometime in the last few weeks, my body settled in with the food, my rhythms became calibrated to the quiet hum of the Indian countryside, and even my cravings for chicken have subsided. Though not by much because that KFC burger I had last week damn near made me cry real, ugly tears in the middle of a mall food court.

The truth is I could write about all the happy, huge, significant moments, and turn every interaction over until I find a silver lining and big writeable moment with a moral lesson, but there’s something that feels just as right about settling in the same way I would when I come home. Being vulnerable and letting India seep into my bones was a slow process that I wasn’t even aware had begun. The first month in India felt like a constant barrage on the senses – new places to see, new people to meet, new lessons. The second month feels like a quiet retreat back in a familiar shell in a strange, new world, leaving me unsure of where home begins and ends.

************************************************************************** What makes a place a home?

I thought long and hard about this question as I fiddled with the rice and sambar on my metal meal tray. It’s more than just the people, it’s definitely more than just the location, and it’s certainly more than what could be described concisely. Months ago, I had struggled with the mere feeling of rice and sauce and vegetables under my fingers in class. Eating rice with my hands when I had spent so much of my life learning to eat it with chopsticks felt like alien and almost heretical. I had to sit on my left hand to prevent myself from using it to grab food or tear parts of the bread. Now, I absent mindedly rip perfectly sized portions of chapatti with a quick flex and roll of my fingers while I drink water that six weeks ago, would rumble my stomach ominously. I flickered back to my first interview for this program, where I was asked earnestly about my ability to eat spicy food. I had worried about that the most during pre-departure and even during the first dinner I ever had here, where I managed to bite down on something that erupted hot flames down my throat. The pure agony of it, combined with jet lag and fatigue almost managed to turn my stomach inside out. Luckily, I did not.

I roll another ball of rice, beets, onion, and sambar.

My fingers, no matter how much I wash and scrub, always carry a faint smell of food. It reminds me of how I used to unlock the front door and smell the sweet, crisp aroma of my mother’s botanical garden of home-grown, freshly picked vegetables on the table, or the long, dark, strips of pork that my father used to dry out in the laundry room downstairs. The smell of the marinated meat filled every crevice in the house. When the pork went up, it meant that dinner for the next few days were going to be excellent. It also meant that doing the laundry would require some concentration as to not knock all the meat over.

I always thought that I would miss American food here – that’s typical right? I talk about craving cheeseburgers and fries and onion rings and everything that’ll give me a heart attack one day. Even at Cornell, I don’t even know what cuisine of food I typically eat. Most days I’m in ‘eat this fast before you have to run to finish whatever the hell you left until the last minute’ mode. But the cravings that hit the hardest are always the kind of food that no restaurant on this planet could ever serve. Home tastes like fan chei cao dan, with a recipe that only my dad makes correctly, but changes every time the tomatoes are bubbling sweetly in the pot, fluffy scrambled eggs waiting to be added. Home is how he holds out the spoon for me to taste and knows just what to add, digging through the cupboards to put in a pinch, a dash, a splash. I’ve tried recreating this dish on my own, even with my dad on the phone telling me word for word what to do. It never comes out right. Home tastes like my mother’s soup, boiled from the bones of the meal we had last night, where we were all ordered to neatly strip the meat (but not all of it!) from the bones of chickens and ducks. I hear hipsters were calling it bone broth now. It doesn’t matter that what’s a new trend has nourished me through twenty winters and so many nights around the same dining table that has followed us from coast to coast. I can trace the scent, the taste, and the warm path it traces down my esophagus. Home is white rice, where every member of the family prefers the texture slightly differently. When I decide to be a contributing member of the household, I pour a little less water, to avoid making a mushy mess. I swear my brother always adds more than he needs to. My mom just wants rice on the table. My dad wants it to still be hot when he comes home.

White rice here clumps together more than the grains that come out of our rice cooker. I love it in its own way.

But when the kitchen staff comes out with hot, fresh puri from the stove, my tongue etches brand new memories into my mind of what home feels like too. I flash to memories of watching puri inflate on the stove at Saumya’s house and noting how much I loved those doughy little balloons of joy. I flash to memories on the streets of flushing as my grandfather hands me a straight from the fryer you tiao, still crackling with oil. I flash back to the plate in front of me where I reach for another puri. I reach for another experience of familiarity.

The cook recently has been adding dill to several of the dishes – from the potatoes to the lentils to the vegetables. My taste buds remember an echo of the dill plants in my house that stand where other mothers have put flowers. My mom bakes and roasts her potatoes with dill and rosemary. I fight with my brother to pick out the best chunks from the oven tray.

But some memories here stand on their own. Like how I sunk my teeth into a slice of deep, rich golden-orange toned mango and knew that I had ruined the experience of eating mangoes anywhere else in the world. I will remember Kenchanahalli for many things, both big and little, and among them – the fact that I learned to like bananas again in this little parcel of land. The tiny little fruits, about a third of the size of the bananas I was used to eating, were pure and sweet, soft without being mushy. I have to admit that I’ve had better apples though. That still belongs to upstate New York.

Food is a memory that fills you in two ways, both the physical sense and spiritual. It carries stories of home, it carries stories of discovery, it carries echoes of love.

But other things carry hints of home – like staying up late and staring at the ceiling, playing Sound of Pulling Heaven down by Blue October in my iPod as I think about nothing in particular. Lazing around in the golden hour of the day as sunlight filters in through the screened windows. The same motions of getting out of bed at home, getting down a small stepladder at school, and here, ducking out of a mosquito net that has been pretty inefficient at keeping bugs out – they become familiar parts of the fabric of living here. Knowing which part of the bed to not apply extra pressure on because the metal buckles and will snap back with a great hollow thud. Remembering to lift the bathroom door latch up slightly so it won’t scrape against the ground. Getting into the habit of checking whether or not the toilet paper roll is empty or not in new places. Being kept up at night by the screeches of monkeys. Or birds. Or bird monkeys. I’m still not sure and I don’t know if I want to ever find out. Even sprinting up the stairs by the room I’m staying in at night to avoid the possibility to confronting a monkey face to face has become part of life here.

As are the monsoon rains that crash down spontaneously and leave as quickly as they come. Or the feeling of mud and gritty rocks and dust and sand in my sandals at the end of the day. The feeling of the soft green soap that we scrub our meal trays with. The desperate mewing of Kenchanahalli’s resident cat and two kittens (Whiskers and two kittens we can’t differentiate so both are now Furgie). The game of how we can best feed the dogs without attracting attention. The game of how to pet said animals without attracting attention. The same stingy little blue fucker that keeps flying into the office at choice times, disrupting us from our work all the time. Draining cups of hot tea and milk every day, feeling the warm, kashaya slip into our stomachs. Getting into the routine of switching into the charging spots, like a day-long game of musical chairs around the same table. Memorizing where passing oxen and cows have taken a dump on the sidewalk so we can avoid them on our walks in the dark. Gazing up at a pitch black sky, alight with a pinpricks of light, far more clear than any starry night I’ve ever seen. All these details have been worn into my skin, my hands, my memory, and I fear the day that I take these for granted. Life moves fast outside of this bubble, and I am aware of how quickly all of these tiny realities get swept away in the storm. Here, it is quiet and I have time with my thoughts and my hopes and my dreams. I’ve had time to question myself over and over again, wondering about what my future will be. But as it turns out, at the end of the day, I have come to accept Kenchanahalli as home. Just like the day I stopped referring to my Cornell dorm as ‘my Cornell dorm’ and simply just as home, I have simply begun to refer to returning to this little room in this little health center in this little corner of the world as another place where I have not only rested my weary head after a long day, but have allowed it to take residence in some nook and cranny in my heart.

Home turns this big, blue world, into a manageable microcosm of memories. And though I miss home, I know that forever, wherever I roam, a part of me will always yearn to return home here, too.

Matte Siguva, Winnie

PS oh dear god we only have a week left

PPS OH DEAR GOD WE ONLY HAVE A WEEK LEFT

PPPS The first snake has appeared on campus and I still don’t know how to feel about this. But also frogs so many frogs are here and they are cute.

PPPPS Shoutout to the wifi for crapping out on us for this entire weekend because while frustrating, I have never gotten so much nap time in my entire life.

PPPPPS How can we only have a week left???

[pravasiga]

July 3, 2017 - Torschlusspanik: Quarter Life Crisis

Torschlusspanik: (n.) (origin: German). The literal translation is ‘gate-shut-panic’. The fear of diminishing opportunities as one ages. The fear that you are running out of time to pursue the things you love.

I believe in self-reflection; I believe in being a little cheesy about the things you love. I believe in all of those things and I believe in taking the time to write extravagantly long blog-posts about your feelings because life moves fast and my most human moments are the most vulnerable to being swept away in the tide.

Before I came to India, I was facing my 23974875th pre-med existential crisis, and told my mother that I didn’t think I was going to make it to med school after all, after a night too deep on the internet that somehow led me to checking too many med school admission statistics (let me be, it was 5 in the morning). Plagued with self-doubt that had been building dangerously in the last two years, I promised myself that I would take my work seriously this summer but also, that I had to take my worries seriously. I told myself that I had to evaluate what I really wanted out of life and what I was willing to do to get there. Here’s the really cheesy and a hella long synopsis of the messy road that led here and the things I’ve seen while at VMH-Kenchanahalli, that have only thrown more fuel in the fire that is trying to figure out life.

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Ever since I was a child, I've always wanted to chase the world and to experience everything that it offered. I remember excitedly describing my life plans to my parents ever since I was able to talk, bouncing in the backseat of our minivan and expressing all the enthusiasm my little toddler body could handle at the time. I was blessed to have a family who supported and encouraged me to grow in my passions. The story goes that I once saw a grand piano being played in a store and was so captivated by it that I told my parents on the way home that I was going to learn how to play it and play masterpieces one day. I remember faint echoes of my very first piano lessons, where my small fingers still struggled to make it from the C key to the G key on time. I never could hold my hands in the correct positions (‘Imagine you’re holding an egg in your palm!’). When I would spend hours drawing and coloring, my parents made sure to save some of my better work, which includes a storyboard of several pages (40 pages? I have no idea anymore), detailing a dream family vacation, paper clipped together and rolled up.

I always had an eye in the future. From a young age, I knew that to get where I wanted to be with all my passions, I had to plan, I had to work. I was determined to make my way the best I could. But like most children, my plans kept changing. The first thing I ever wanted to be in life, was, shockingly, a chemist. That was back before I was introduced to Organic Chemistry, which has effectively made me hate all chemistry, because I thought a chemist’s job was just to combined lots of colored liquids and make explosions. I liked that it was a colorful job and that I would be creating things. I hit my princess stage around the age of 5 and dove into my dreams of becoming a princess dress designer, filling pages with drawings of beautiful ball gowns and dresses. I dove in and out of a whole slew of other dream professions – between pursuing natural history, to archaeologist, to a brief interest in medicine, to refusing to go into medicine, and then my architect phase. My favorite story from the year or so where I wanted to be an architect is how I stopped wanting to be an architect because I kept spelling it wrong in all of my assignments and couldn’t remember how many H’s there really were in the word so I started lying and saying easier to spell things. That, and my father told me that if I didn’t do the math correctly, I’d probably end up making a shitty building. (I have since been told that this is the structural engineer’s job instead). Even back then, if you told me that it involved math, I would stay the hell away. Some things, no matter how long it’s been, don’t change.

I hit my lawyer phase until I remembered that I absolutely hate confrontation and arguing with people, much less in front of a court. I entered a three-year period where I was determined to go into art school or into creative writing and where I was obsessed with writing and becoming an author (though now I read my old material and cringe so deeply, I get a neck cramp). However, as it has been for the last five years of my life, everything changed in sophomore year of high school.

I always tell people that Science Olympiad changed my life because it took a young girl who adamantly refused to go into medicine, and threw her headfirst into loving it. To recap my four fanatical years as the team’s resident neuroscience and anatomy nerd, I poured my heart into understanding the human body. I remember clearly the moment where I became determined to pursue medicine. Driving across a bridge and staring out over the water, I recognized that I wanted to do something important with my life, my hands, my time, and with my heart. I recognized that if I showed some aptitude in biology and science, maybe I could turn it into a medical career. I am, as much back then as I still am now, absolutely stunned by the sheer intricacy and ability of the human body. I knew I wanted to protect it. I knew I wanted to understand. And I knew that I loved people. I wanted to save lives. I told my mother a week later that I had made up my mind to pursue medicine, even though I had been so against it for years.

My dream profession has been changing less dramatically in the last few years and it is when I turn towards the future that I begin to realize that I no longer had the privilege and flexibility of time that I had when I was a kid running around showing my relatives pictures of my latest fashion designs. I realized that a concept that I had been so fascinated with in my creative writing years was ringing true: I carried millions of different lifetimes, millions of different stories, millions of different journeys in my heart and I was desperate to live all of them. But time whittled these millions down, eroding paths that I once dreamt of pursuing. And as I head into the second half of my undergraduate career, I can’t help but stress about how the next few years will turn out. But more importantly, I am terrified that I have left too much of myself behind in pursuit of a future that currently demands and will continue to demand, all of me.

I grew restless with my pre-med course work, frustrated when I wasn't performing to my standards, frustrated when other people would belittle my concerns or tell me that I was worrying about nothing. I didn’t doubt that I wanted to be in the medical world, but I increasingly began to doubt my abilities and my worthiness of ever reaching it. But I kept chasing the things I loved and found myself in places that I never expected to be.

Which brings me back to Kenchanahalli, Karnataka, India. At present, it is late afternoon on a summer day, a month into my stay. What it took to be here was an incredible amount of sacrifice from my parents but also two years of doubt and concern over the direction of my future. When a certain, special, and extremely lovable suitemate introduced me to her major – Global and Public Health Sciences, I remember being fascinated by how many of the things I loved could be combined in pursuit of helping countless people. I tossed and turned about it, but ultimately decided to pursue a Global Health minor. I set my sights on India, and I told myself that I would use this summer as a litmus test on whether or not I wanted to keep on this path into medicine. I promised that I would be honest with myself and I promised that I would never forget what it took and what it meant to be here.

When I was in high school, I knew that I wanted three things out of my future: I wanted to be happy. I needed to be practical about my decision. And I wanted to keep learning. I thought my criteria was complete, but it took going to college, taking brand new classes, rushing a service fraternity out of nowhere, and traveling halfway around the world to realize that I should have added a fourth: I needed to do good.

Not every battle will be on the highest platforms in front of the people who make the largest decisions. Some battles are small – like the little boy who was rushed to VMH-Kenchanahalli with a forehead laceration that required suturing. For miles around, all there is, is farmland and small village homes. I didn’t see the entire cut but his forehead was bloody and the doctor was able to peel back part of the edges. My first reaction was visceral – a familiar stomach twist when I see gory things. It’s one of the things that kept me from wanting to pursue medicine in the first place, but now has settled into a somewhat but not really vestigial hallmark of the past. As Dr. Mohan began suturing the boy’s cut, I couldn’t help but flashback to two distinct memories: one, about a year ago, where I was carefully threading a suture needle through a fake prosthetic wound as part of an Army Suture clinic on campus, learning to do the same precise motions that the doctor was performing in front of me, and another one, so far back that I only have two flashes of a memory and a scar. My hand flew up to touch the slightly raised line on my forehead, invisible to most people though the scar tissue appears slightly lighter than the rest of my skin. When I was younger, I had crashed headfirst into a carved wooden cabinet, cutting open part of my forehead and had begun bleeding rather quickly. I don’t remember the procedure, I don’t remember most of what happened after, except that my parents were immediately able to rush me to the ER to get stitches. I remember being young, crying as we rushed out of the house.

This is the world at present – where I, more than 15 years ago, had suffered the same injury, but was able to access care straight away. The hospital was not far, we were able to drive ourselves, and even as a kid, I never doubted my parent’s ability to get me healthcare. My injury was patched up right away. I was sedated and stitched up. Even for years after it, I didn’t remember any of it because I had been unconscious during the procedure, at a sterile hospital where my parents had little to worry about. Flashback to now, where the boy in front of me was only given some local anesthetic before the doctor began suturing. The hospital, situated out in the countryside, is also open to bugs and features stray goats and oxen who poops less than ten feet outside of the door. Several times, he cried out for his mother. He was awake the entire time.

Learning, seeing, and experiencing the realities of health inequality that exists keeps me going towards medicine and healthcare. I think back to all of the things I used to want to be and realize that all of those things don’t disappear from my life just because I am choosing one path. I am getting older and time is running out, but some doors only close if you let it. Everything I have lived, wanted, and done, has taken me to here, to the Indian countryside. If I had never expressed vague interest in science, I would have never joined Science Olympiad and learned to love anatomy and learned to get over my squeamishness. If I had never pursued art and not taken my chances at learning design, I would have greatly diminished my ability to be careful and precise with my hands. If I had never considered architecture, I would have never thought practically about what it means to design and learn with other people in mind. If I had never had my lawyer phase, I wouldn’t have ever looked into what it meant to defend those who couldn’t. If I had never had my writing phase, well, this post would have never have been written and I wouldn’t have developed the ridiculous and obnoxious ability to write more pages on a blogpost than I do for most of my essays. (Just kidding, the real thing was insight and how to phrase my thoughts).

Despite all odds, SVYM and VMH-Kenchanahalli have been there for the community for more than thirty years. It is incredibly remote and accounts from the very first doctors to travel out to this area described rough to no infrastructure or roads, the fear of infectious diseases, and the stark isolation of the rural and tribal villages. I think about sacrifice, I think about those who have paved the way on the very principle that humans are meant to be equal, that we are meant to care about the problems that impact others. It’s something that this election cycle has shaken my faith about – because while politics squabbles over who our policies should care about, I remember that humanity surges on ahead anyways. Despite everything that 2016 and subsequently, 2017, so far has shown me, I believe in good people. And I know regardless of whatever my future career takes, I know which side I want to stand on.

Everything you love can and will remain a part of you. Just as matter and energy cannot be created or destroyed, your passions only transform and grow together, weaving something that the world has never seen before. Whoever you are, is a unique and absolutely perfect amalgamation of a lifetime of lessons and thoughts and drives and passions. Everything you are, everything you have overcome, and everything you will grow to be, is important. We get older, but I’d like to think of it as you only get better, you only get wiser, you only get stronger. Time is running out, but if only because one day, we all need to make a decision. If you walk towards what you think will do the most good for this world and makes the best of what makes you your best possible self, everything and anything is possible.

Matte siguva (see you again), Winnie

PS I am slowly making my way through Marvel Cinematic Universe and I'm internally beating myself up for not being on top of this shit earlier :(

PPS I broke my water bottle and now its leakier than ever send help???

PPPS This photo was pre hair dye, taken at the zoo!! Saw some rogue peacocks and some monkeys and stuff like that. Also India has cooler birds than we do in the US, that is a fact.

PPPPS Back to the Marvel PS I really really really want to be Black Widow now.

PPPPPS I'm not getting any better with my fear of bugs :(

[pravasiga]

June 25, 2017 - Merak: Joy to the World

Merak: (n.) a Serbian word that "refers to a feeling of bliss, and sense of oneness with the universe that comes from the simplest of pleasures. It is the pursuit of small, daily pleasures that all add up to a great sense of happiness and fulfillment."

Life at VMH-Kenchanahalli is quiet. It's quiet enough to hear yourself think all day and be comfortable with this small parcel of land where so much goes on. A lot of my updates so far have been about larger experiences and big moments that have given me enough material to write literal essays on. But most of the best things here have been the small, the simple, and the quiet.

These are the moments that have made up the majority of my last three weeks in India and I cherish them just as much as all of the other larger, more spectacular memories. So many of these moments are fleeting, devoid of a moral or a punchline or a story, but they weave together the fabric of warm community and bonding that I've been lucky to be apart of while I'm here. In a collection of same little drabbles that have given me the feeling of merak, as a reminder of all the great and good things that come in little packages.

********************************************************************************** On our very first day at the SVYM VIIS campus, we were greeted by several staff with baskets of jasmine flower garlands and little bowls of red powder that they dotted on our foreheads to welcome us to India. I spent almost the entirety of the first day trying (and failing) to not accidentally sweat or wipe off the tilaka on my forehead. I spent the entire day with my garland on, just to envelope myself in the sweet scent for as long as I could.

I adore the smell of jasmine flowers. The clear, sweet aroma hangs heavy in the air, and remains crisp all day. Vendors - young, old, women, and children - sell garlands on garlands of flowers in a rainbow of colors: ivory white, sunburst orange, bright yellow, vibrant red, and pristine pink. Everywhere I go here, I see women and girls with flowers in their hair, pinned behind the ear or with garlands curled around thick, elegant braids. Every morning, staff at VMH-Kenchanahalli pick fresh wildflowers to place around the statue bust of Swami Viviekananda. I have stood under trees with a dazzling display of paper-thin magenta-purple cocoons around tiny white flowers.

Here, in India, everything is in bloom, from bushes of hibiscus flowers, with their trumpeting petals and rich colors, to frangipani flowers that have swirls of buttercup yellow and white petals. Here in the countryside, everything is green and lush and I can only imagine what this vast and beautiful looked like centuries ago before civilization. When we drive home in the evening, the dipping sun throws a sheen of gold all across the land and I see a glimpse of what heaven must look like.

* If there was one place that could convince me to never jay-walk again, it would be a busy street in India and I've been told that Mysore is not nearly as bad as other major Indian cities. Try dodging rickshaws, tour-buses, cars, motorcycles, AND goats. And all of them are moving at their own pace and pattern, forming a dynamic Gordian Knot of human (and goat) activity.

* I wish there were words to describe how happy I get when I see them serving puris for a meal. Burning hot from the stove, these delicious pockets of deep-fried dough have become a favorite. I can smell the heavenly sent of ghee (clarified butter) and flour and hearing the soft hiss as it deflates on the plate in front of me. I burn my fingers every single time when I get too impatient to wait for it to cool down but it's worth it.

Also noteworthy: the parathas here, which are even better than the frozen scallion ones that I used to rejoice about when my dad made them for breakfast.

* My phone alarm went off once at 3:40AM and once again at 3:45AM on June 21, telling me that it was time to get out of bed in preparation for our International Yoga Day World Record Attempt in Mysore. An enormous bus, already packed with students from the Hosahalli Vivekanand Tribal Center of Learning, about 40 minutes down the road, hurtled down the rural road, its headlights piercing the darkness of the early morning. I fell asleep as soon as I got onto the bus, waking only to catch glimpses of the landscape as we chased the sunrise on the horizon.

It was a massive effort and the entire Mysore Race Track was swarming with color coordinated groups of uniformed school children including a particularly sharply dressed class in maroon and gold. The Hosahalli girls held hands in groups of three, running barefoot along the side of the street, a skill which I still haven't learned to master because I'm still too afraid of tripping over rocks or stepping on animal feces.

The entire center of the Race Track had been partitioned into more than forty sections, each consisting of over one thousand people. In the distance as far as I could see, rows upon rows of yoga mats were being laid out by participants. All of us had been instructed to wear light colored clothing so that we would contrast against our yoga mats in the aerial photo that Guinness World Records would be taking and using as their official counting metric.

Halfway through our yoga practice, official passed out official Guinness World Record ATTEMPT certificates which now just reminds me of what could have been because while Mysore clocked in at a whopping 54,101 people, we later found out that we had been beaten for the world record by a city in Gujarat by what was first reported as 300,000 people but later recorded as about 54,500 people which makes me even sadder because WE WERE SHORT ABOUT 400 PEOPLE.

Will be rooting for Mysore next year to beat Ahmedabad. Viva Mysore, Yoga Capital of the World.

*

I fed a happy cow who then slobbered all over my friend's hand. We kept feeding it anyways.

*

One late night, I asked Raju, our main point of contact for rickshaw drivers, where his favorite place in Mysore was. He turned around (while speeding through traffic, mind you) and said, "Everywhere."

*

I have also asked Raju what his responsibility would be if he accidentally hit a cow with his rickshaw and I don't remember the entire process but it seems pretty serious. Pro tip: don't hit the cows here.

* The same Raju also took a selfie with us from behind the wheel, while weaving through traffic. I need his driving skills.

*

There are several young children who live at VMH-Kenchanahalli campus because their parents work here. Anu is the world's cutest three year old and she's already running around with seven-year old Yogesh. They have always been peeking in through our office door and squealing "Hi!!" at us before running away, but yesterday, we went outside to play with the kids. This eventually devolved into a game of "Illa! Howdu!" (literally, no! yes!) which had no real rules but I snapped a quick picture of it. It was a convoluted version of slapping hands and it eventually turned into us doing the wave in a circle around them. We sat on the stone floor, grabbing at each others hands while Anu laughed with delight. Quite honestly the cutest child I've ever met and when she giggles, she rolls the sound in the back of her throat. And it sounds like pure joy and sunshine.

* At a women's empowerment organization that served as a sheltered for survivors of domestic abuse, assault, or disputes, we met with a dozen of the residents and dozens upon dozens of the children. Many women are pressured into marriage here and unfortunately, many face abuse and violence at the hands of their husbands and silence from their families. With one of the organizations serving as translator, we slowly communicated about women's issues in India and the US. Through difficult stories and rough memories, we were able to spark the tiniest of connections. When someone asked the women what they wanted to see next in the future, one of the women, cradling her sleeping daughter in her arms, asserted that she will never allow her daughter to face the same fate that she had.

*

The children at the women's empowerment organization had prepared us a song. Then they asked us to sing an English one. We chose 'Twinkle Twinkle Little Star' and started as twenty voices. Over 60 other little voices soon joined us in a deafening roar.

*

The stars in the night sky above VMH-Kenchanahalli are so clear, I can see them twinkling here too.

*

And one of my favorites -

At VMH-Saragur, while waiting for the bathroom, I met Pooja, one of the academic coordinators who was helping to supervise all of the visiting international students' projects. I told her that I had friends back in the US named Pooja too. She took my hand, smiled at me, and said, "Well, my name is Pooja, and now I'm your friend too."

Matte Siguva (See you soon), Winnie

PS: I'm definitely forgetting some cute moments but just assume that I'll work them in some sappy way in another post in the future.

PPS: I am currently binge-watching Gravity Falls and Brooklyn 99 and impatiently waiting for Season Three of Rick and Morty to PLEASE come out.

PPPS: The food at Kenchanahalli is bomb af and my stomach is a happy lil thing. So happy. We get fresh mangos and bananas here!

PPPPS: Have a wonderful day!

[pravasiga]

June 19, 2017 - Wabi-Sabi: (Im)perfection.

Wabi-Sabi: (n.) "the quality of being attractive because of being imperfect in some way...wabi-sabi suggests that we see the flaw as being part of what is charming. Can apply to pots, furniture, houses - and whole lives." Origin: Japanese.

Trigger Warning: Body Image and Expectations

I wasn't sure how to start this post to be frank with you. I spent a few hours aimlessly looking around for a word to inspire me to make sense of a whole collection of experiences that I've felt since I've been here. Perhaps the most personal post I've made in a long time, I realized that in the last few years, I've lost my confidence in writing because as I grew up, so did my insecurities, so did my stress levels, and so did my ability to self-doubt. Part of my journey towards writing again is the willingness to be honest, to go deeper, to go pick at the scars that haven't healed properly.

As evidence by the slew of Instagram photos that I've been spamming you all with, being in India meant a change in what I'm used to wearing. For those of you that go to school with me, you know that I stick to a steady stream of sweaters and sweatpants because quite frankly if I have to suffer at college, I might as well be comfortable and warm while I do it. When I go shopping, I go straight to the larger and plus sizes. I thought I had learned to stop being disappointed at finding few items that fit and learned to seek out alternatives. But in India, where I have had to buy new clothes and adjust to a brand new style, I've had my fair share of struggles with body image, grappling with an age-old insecurity that has only worsened with the years and only has been exacerbated by hurtful comments, overactive paranoia, and the desperate need to prove to myself that I can do and be better. One of the biggest things that this trip has forced me to confront was a personal journey that I had long been avoiding - the burden I have borne my entire life regarding Asian-American, feminine, and personal expectations on body image and size.

But I don't owe anyone the debt of feeling sorry for who I am, and wearing my first sari, an ensemble that asks me to bare a part of my body that I have spent most of my life hiding, gave me a burst of confidence that there is so much that I should not and will not be ashamed of. I thank you, ahead of time, for reading this post, and hope that you recognize that this post is an expression of freeing myself from some of the worst thoughts I've had, in pursuit of self-acceptance and integrating the imperfect into the (I'm)perfect.

*If you would like to talk, if this post triggers you, I am here for you. As much as I can be with this spacey wifi. :)

--------------------------------------------------------------------------- When yet another size XXL kurta (long shirt) barely made it down over my chest, I was prepared to shed a few tears. The straight, narrow cut of the cloth was not made to fit me and in the dim-lit dressing room, I could only stare at my reflection and feel the same old thoughts come back. If only you had actually used your gym membership this year instead of being lazy. If only you could have foregone that McDonald's meal at the airport. If only you could have just, for once in your life, been smaller. Coupled with a time constraint and limited inventory, I was absolutely exasperated with myself. I had to somehow, find enough salwar kameez combinations to make it through the rest of the summer and so far, all I could be absolutely sure of was that my dupatta (scarf) was not going to be a problem. Though I later was to learn that most Indian women would tailor their clothes or alter it in ways to fit, the pain of quite literally, not fitting into, the new culture and society that I was going to engage with, was enormously difficult to bear. Even at 20 years old, having been overweight all my life, I was not immune to the dread of yanking off a clothing item that didn't fit, praying that no seams would rip.

A Chinese-American woman, I learned at a young age that I didn't fit the mold. I grew up seeing skinny women on runways, in my magazines, and TV-shows. I was fortunate to grow up in a family where my grandfather used to touch the skin on my arm and smile proudly, telling me that my yellow skin ('jing huang pi fu', he would say), golden and luminous, was beautiful. My grandparents were always the most insistent that their grandchildren never forgot to appreciate and love their roots, to continue a proud story that had crossed the Pacific Ocean, weathered world wars, and landed in a strange new country. Save for a brief infatuation with Cinderella where I stubbornly stated that I wanted blonde hair and blue eyes because "that was what princesses looked like", I grew up in love with my long, straight black hair, especially when I could brush it until it gleamed. I used to stare in the mirror at my dark brown eyes, trying to discern the exact rich chocolate brown-black shade of my irises. I decided early on that no matter what color they were, they held light and enthusiasm for life. Enveloped in love, emboldened in a household of two tongues - English and the warm embrace of my ancestors' Mandarin - I was raised in love with my Chinese heritage. But with this, I inherited expectations that would prove to be most constant source of my self-esteem issues - I have never been petite, slender, or thin.

I take a second to dodge questions about my health to simply state that regardless of that condition, it has never warranted the kind of overwhelming pressure to have collarbones that could hold rolls of quarters (http://www.dailymail.co.uk/…/Country-goes-wild-new-social-m…) or a waist that could hide behind a sheet of paper (http://www.nbc26.com/…/asian-women-are-pressured-to-be-peti…). I have never felt quite at home within the Chinese-American community because I have never been able to shake the shame of not fitting what I saw as the ideal Chinese-American woman. It is assumed that our bodies are meant to be a certain way and that it is woven into my DNA to be a porcelain doll, slim and well-proportioned.

I come from a family where love is shared in food, love is communicated in asking about health, and love is given by pinching cheeks and unfortunately, openly asking about my body weight. When my family comments on my waist before my college experience or when I get asked questions, I get asked about my SAT, my GPA, my weight, the amount of times I've gone to the gym far before I get asked about my mental well-being and happiness. I grew up understanding that this was how love was shown sometimes, even when it would twist in too-round stomach and curb my appetite. I have grown up always feeling like my answer was never good enough. I have grown up understanding that this was something I had to desperately change, not simply out of concern for my health, but because - what would other people think? "We just don't want other people to make fun of you," relatives would assure me, "You're a beautiful girl, but you should lose weight."

And so it goes.

I scrambled to find kurtas that fit and while I was able to find some, I couldn't lift the feeling of defeat that followed me out of the door of Big Bazaar, onto the van, and back into my hostel room. I had been so excited to go shopping for those loose garments, wrongly guessing that such loose fabrics and clothes would be easier to fit into. Even though many of my team members expressed similar frustration of finding clothes that fit, I tuned it all out, I tried to hold myself above wallowing but I couldn't help but sink in. That night, I ate less than half of what I had been given for dinner. I felt like I could have burst out of my skin every single time food passed my lips.

When we got the chance to buy saris, I tried to put a lid on the excitement. A sari is a long piece of fabric (anywhere from 5 to 9 yards), often beautifully decorated, meant to be wrapped around the body to form a skirt and to drape over the shoulder. (Side note: it is so hard to tie this damn thing, I tried and ended up hopping around the room trying to keep everything in place). We had been invited to the wedding of the son of a local technology company, known for its dedication to employing those with mental disabilities and pushing for similar practices in other companies. But I was focused not appearing lumpy, misshapen, and enormous in my sari. I was most afraid of what my rolls of stomach fat would look like, hanging out of the skirt, or worse, not fitting in at all.

The sari store was stuffed to the brim with gorgeous fabrics and I remember my breath being taken away as I ran my fingers along the ornamentally decorated trims of red, blue, purple, golden - every color of the rainbow - saris. I had long decided to go with a red sari, taking a lesson from my prom dress shopping fiasco that red, in fact was my "power color". I tried sari after sari, and as the women who worked at the store hastily tied and rolled me repeatedly into increasingly beautiful fabrics, I couldn't help but focus on everyone around me, finding their perfect sari. Between indecision and an inability to be satisfied by anything I had seen so far, I began to feel that same sense of dread that I had experienced the week before in the dressing room. I began to feel like a little girl trying to play dress-up, attempting to mimic an imaginary standard that was always meant to be above my grasp. Time was running out and I was among the last people to choose - and of the few I had tried on, I just felt completely out of place in all of them. I begged the women to let me try one more on - a red sari with tear-drop gold embroidery, and a golden-green trim. I reviewed the photos a friend helped take of me, and still couldn't bring myself to love it. But in all honesty, I don't know what I had more difficulty loving - the sari, or myself.

I bought the sari anyways. I didn't have time to find another one and this was the best I had found from the bunch. I kept my negative thoughts deep in my belly, swallowed to prevent them from reaching the surface. I told myself that I would just have to learn to wear it, learn to love it for all the other aspects. The fabric was beautiful - there was no doubt in that. I would have to do my best to fit myself in its folds and present as little trouble to the tailor in the next few weeks.

The week flew. We got fit for the tiny blouses (which were MUCH shorter than I expected) and patiently waited for our first chance to wear our beautiful new garments. In my room, I clumsily tried to imitate what I had learned from the women at store and "tied" my first sari. I have a long way to go. Getting those folds perfectly evenly and crisp much be a superhuman talent, honestly. I have incredible respect for anyone who can do it perfectly.

But of course, this is a blog post with a happy ending. The first time I was properly tied into my sari, with the little red blouse, my hair swept back, and my favorite red lipstick on, I was floored. I had tried pulling my petticoat up as high as I could, to hide as much of the skin that peeked out, a fact that the women helping us tie our saris noticed. They originally had pinned part of the draped fabric to my blouse, to form a curtain over the expanse of waist that I had hidden for so much of my life. Staring in the mirror, turning and feeling the fabric swirl around my feet, I unpinned that little curtain and tucked it back into my skirt. And I gave myself time to appreciate the form in front of me, a force in red, gold, yellow, and black. In that moment, I thought little of the expectations that I had carried on my back all my life. I didn't feel hidden under the beautiful fabric nor did I feel that the sari was wearing me. The body that I had spent so many years of my life berating, squeezing, hiding, was perfectly displayed.

It was a breath of fresh air, it was freedom from a restriction I had long placed on myself. And you damn well know I had to take a million photos to celebrate.

But more importantly, it is a reminder. It is a reminder that for all the comments of my family, I come from a long line of strong, sturdy women. Women whose hands and arms bore equal weight as the men in my lineage, women who were mothers and doctors and businesswomen and accountants and caretakers and brilliant and brave. Never had I once questioned whether they were fantastic role models. Never once have I questioned their beauty, their grace, their strength. So size zero be damned, I know that I may never fit into anything at half of the store I stop by, but what there is of me, I will love, I will cherish, and I will protect. And so should you, you fantastic, incredible, wonderful human being.

Dhanyavada galu (thank you) Ninna gelati (your friend), Winnie

PS: The wedding was also amazing and great and wow so many people I can't believe they just literally let 30 random Americans in at the last second. Congratulations to the bride and groom!

PPS: I learned the hard way how hard it is to pee in a sari and let me just tell you it involves a lot of folding, clutching, and praying.

PPPS: Photo credits to my least-favorite person and kind-of favorite photographer, Anant Sriram because bless that camera and his patience for dealing with my idiocy and basicness.

PPPPS: I love all of you, just the way you are.

[pravasiga]

June 15, 2017 - Nelipot: Bare(foot) with Me

Nelipot: (n.) One who walks barefoot. Origin: Greek.

I'm rounding off the end of my two weeks at SVYM, which means that I'm already one-fourth of my way through my time in India. This fact absolutely blows my mind, but I shouldn't be that surprised. It's been an absolute whirlwind of classes, field visits, cultural exhibitions, and sight-seeing excursions - an exhaustingly wonderful immersion to so many important sites and institutions in Mysore. There's so much that I could (and want to) write about, but I've found that so much of my time here in India has been an experience and stimulation of all the senses.

I chose 'nelipot' for this post because as we speak, my feet are still sore and dusty from today's day-long trip out to two temples. Going barefoot outdoors is not something that I'm accustomed to, and certainly not something I ever expected to be writing about (and if we have some space to be honest, toes kind of freak me out like your feet, at some point, just divide into 5 little wiggling stubs of muscle and bone, like what?). But today, as I climbed mountains and steps and quietly wandered around beautiful sanctuaries, I realized that so much of my experience lay rooted in more than just what I could capture for you with pictures. I could never capture for you, the humbling awe I experienced, standing on the smooth and worn steps of the Chennakeshava Temple as the sky faded down from its brilliant blues to a sleepier grey. In story-telling like this, I rarely discuss the sensation of touch. We are told not to touch masterpieces at art museums and we are made to stay distances away from exhibits, and we obey those rules. Our bodies are designed to eventually drown out certain senses, after all, to prevent us from having sensory overload, especially when it comes to our touch receptors. We neglect sensations of our clothing against our skin or hair against our neck or our feet in our shoes. I have told stories through my eyes, my ears, my hands, my lips, and my nose - but never my feet, which have taken me across the globe and will continue to carry me to stories and experiences that I haven't lived yet.

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I love neurobiology and the brain and all of its curious abilities. I delight in learning about sensory systems and pathways that are constantly shifting, shaping, formulating all the bits and pieces of who we are, what we do, and why we do it. I am so incredibly lucky to have been born with all my senses (except if you know me, I seem to be lacking common sense) to embellish my lifetime and memories with an enormous range of details that I can try to communicate but never fully replicate. But since my favorite thing to write are descriptions, you'll get all my rambling thoughts anyways. The human body is an extraordinary thing, formed to express and feel and move. In my own, very human, 20-year old tired but eager college student humanoid form, I have come upon experiences that belong solely to this conglomeration of cells and systems and neurons. I am absolutely in love with the fleeting memories that belong to no one else.

My eyes have seen the sunrise through the curtains of my hostel room and marveled at how the entire world arises each day from rose pink and lush gold. I have stared up at the sight of incredible temples that arch into the infinite sky, down busy alleyways with uneven stone pavings and trinket vendors with cluttered store fronts or stands, and at throngs of people, dressed in vibrant patterns and colors that flash by, going about their lives. Every day, the aromas of food in the SVYM canteen are delicious and sometimes waft up two flights of stairs right to my door step, beckoning to get my lazy butt out of bed. I have tasted sauces and gravies so full of rich spices that I sometimes swear my ribcage will never be empty of its warmth. I have also tasted the utter uselessness of trying to quench the raging burn of biting down on the wrong thing and having your entire throat burst into flames, but that's a whole different kind of tasting. That, my friends, is the taste of defeat. As we drive on the roads, I smell dust, I smell grass, I smell the occasional mound of feces from unidentified origins. I smell and expand my lungs with sweet and crisp petrichor whenever people speak of the incoming monsoon rains that have peppered us with rain. I hear incessant car and rickshaw horns (some of which sound more like glorified Whoopee cushions), and the gritty rumbling of motorcycles weaving in and out of traffic. From the mouths of people I pass, I hear the rich, rolling tones of Kannada which flow from capable tongues like a stream down a babbling brook. As someone who's been struggling to learn Kannada for the last two weeks, I can attest to how difficult it's been to shape my mouth, my tongue, my lips around the rhythmic syllables. Everything here, has a heartbeat.

When we were told two weeks ago that we would at one point, be climbing almost 700 steps upon a mountain to the Gommateshwara Statue, which resides in Shravanabelagola, a Jain temple, completely barefoot, I balked at the idea. I remind you, that I am that Cornell student who plans their entire day around whether or not they have to ascend the slope and I kid you not, I have been convinced plenty of times to stay in bed instead.

Removing shoes before entering is not entirely foreign or a new experience to me - I do, after all, come from a Chinese-American household where my parents have amassed slippers of all kinds from various sources for all of our house guests to wear after they shed their shoes by the door. Today wouldn't have even been our first time going barefoot around a site. After all, I had already felt the smooth, imported tiles at Mysore Palace and had quietly padded around the Namdroling Monastery at Bylakuppe to soften the sound of my footfalls from echoing around the enormous chamber. But outside? On a mountain? Going up?

The stairs had been carved out of the mountain and had been worn through time. The path curved up along the of the domed hill and glistened in the morning sun. The steps were not at all even - some sloped, some were clunky, some were so thin that they barely looked like a step up. But like all things, it was useless to stay in one place and worry about the journey forever. Everything must start, and it always starts with a single step.

I pushed myself through more than five-hundred and fifty steps, my feet slapping against the hill in broken staccato. Step, step, turn around and look back at the view, step, stop to force air back into my lungs and adjust my long pants that had so much extra fabric that I practically could be my own hot air balloon, step, step, step. Because we were ascending early in the day, the stones were still relatively cool. I focused on the feeling of the soles of my feet making contact with the next step and the effort it took from my legs to push my body forward. The balls of my feet protested, still sensitive from all the pressure I was exerting directly on it, on unfamiliar territory. And every time my feet pressed into another step and a faint slapping echo reverberated into my ears, I began to marvel and wonder at how, more than a thousand years ago, people had climbed up this hill, not as a tourist, but as the artisans and workers who put an enormous amount of labor into building one of the sacred Jain pilgrimage sites. I walked through fine, silty dirt and courser, grainier sand. I ran my foot along the smooth stone thresholds of the temple where in a small, dark chamber, I received a blessing from an amused Jain clergyman who explained how to perform the ritual. Circling the flame with my palm, a burst of warmth enveloped my hand as I focused on the sole source of light at the altar. I remember the cool, wet sensation of applying a sandalwood paste tikka to my forehead (and desperately trying to center it correctly).

We climbed all the way up to the very top, all the way to see one of the largest, free-standing monolithic statues in the world, at a site sacred to millions of people. Down at the base, we had passed cloth, curved chairs, meant to be born on the shoulders of four people, and provided for those who were too sick, too old, or were otherwise unable to ascend the hill on their own. At the top, I understood why many people, regardless of faith, would make the climb up. The entire temple is stunning in its own right, as are the many smaller statues, about two dozen in total, that ring the enormous Gommateshwara statue. Here, I received a second blessing and spent the rest of the time marveling at the towering figure above me. The statue, dedicated to the Jain god Bahubali, is 57 feet tall and features a naked man in such prolonged meditation (kayotsarga posture), that vines had started growing around his legs. It was an awe-inspiring monument that absolutely stunned me.

At the very top, the pain in the soles of my feet reminded me how grateful I was for the view. Groves of coconut trees gridded the landscape. Colorful houses - white, tan, bright blues, and red ochres - clustered in communities that were linked by brown and grey roads. In the distance, we saw another hill, with structures that we couldn't discern and between them, an large pool of water that reflected jewel tones of deep green from surrounding trees. Like Miley Cyrus says, it's all about the climb.

But the real inspiration for this post was the experience I had at the Chennakeshava Temple in Belur. An active Hindu temple that turned 900 years old this year (March 10th, to be exact - the tour guide made sure that we understood how good their record keeping was), I had just woken up from a short food coma nap and was still feeling the residual effects of being bloated with too much mouthwatering Indian food (a personal favorite was the Gobi 65 - I'm not sure why it's called that, but hey, we'll roll with it). But this temple quite literally is one of the most beautiful and jaw-dropping sites that I have ever seen. It is not nearly as massive or gilded or colorful as many of the other sites we've seen, but our tour guide peeled back layers and layers of stories from the hundreds of intricate and complex carvings that adorned the temple's outer walls. Graceful, fierce, and fluid dancers graced the eaves of the temples between sharply geometric columns. Three generations of labor had gone into constructing Chennakeshava, as sculptors, artists, and carvers created this exquisite masterpiece. The tour guide gleefully explained that none of the carvings were the same. Even the tiny elephants that flanked the bottom row of the temple all were different. They had different accessories, expressions, movements - and there were even a few pissed of elephants who were angrily looking back at the elephant behind it. I was spellbound by the absolute beauty of the temple and overcome with the sheer volume of detail and painstaking attention that had been invested in it. The tour guide regaled us with tales and stories and unique fun facts about the temple. I eventually lost track of everything - I couldn't resist staying longer to peer closer at all the small carvings. Every detail was deliberate and conveyed a wealth of information about what the carving was meant to represent.

I was soon circling the temple on my own, my feet gliding across the smooth stones, drawing me near the sharp edges of the pavilion the temple was situated upon, and drawing me back to the walls. I will never, ever, have enough photographic evidence of this stunning monument to capture what it felt like to be there. I tried panoramas and videos, but nothing could give you the full story. I eventually put my phone away and just stood there, basking in all the sensory information that I could and for the time I was there, felt full with the splendor of being alive in that very moment, surrounded by history so vibrant and strong, that it has weathered centuries of human civilization.

Something about being free from shoes was providing me with an extra sensory dimension that completed the very fleeting feelings that somehow, I was here. At both temples, there were certain carvings in the ground of feet along with inscriptions. Upon the hill, there were two such locations, which our guide explained were known locations where important beings (I sadly, do not recall any of the names) had stopped to pray. I was drawn to these. The carvings in the ground, like etched fossils, brought back an echo that reached far into the distant past. Standing by the footsteps, I stared out into the distance at where they once stood and marveled in the wondrous experience of being present and anchored down in this moment in space and time. Without shoes, my feet connected directly with the ground, with the stone, with Mother Earth that has nurtured, supported, and raised humanity for thousands of years. There is a certain energy to being connected so intimately to nature that I, a computer-bound millennial that honestly is in bed, at the desk, or in class most of the time, rarely get to experience. All throughout my trip to India, at our most important moments - visits, certain classes, in homes that others have opened to us, my bare feet have witnessed them. And while that does seem strange, even as I write this at you know, 2 in the morning, it is a part of my experience here that has rooted me in the present and in the reality that I am existing now, that I am existing here, and that I have walked this Earth.

Matte siguva! Ninna gelati (Your friend), Winnie

PS: Today at lunch we had 'Mexican pasta' which wasn't really Mexican but it was delicious and I am craving it so much right now. I think I've mentioned food cravings in every single one of my blogposts - somethings don't change.

PPS: I finally watched Wonder Woman last weekend and despite being completely unable to defend myself I am feeling ready enough to conquer the world with love and peace and happiness and I am in love with Gal Gadot and Chris Pine.

PPPS: On a much less beautiful and descriptive note, I also started watching Rick and Morty (Netflix works here!! But sadly Friends is not available in India so I cannot continue my binge-watching of the only Friends I've got. I'm kidding, I do have friends.) And simply put I don't know how to process this show but I just know that I am delighted and confused and highly entertained.

PPPPS: I literally just have these post-scripts to voice my less blog-post worthy thoughts but now I just use them out of habit because it is 2:21AM and I am drifting off into dream world, peace out cub scouts, until next time!

[pravasiga]

June 9, 2017 - Koi No Yokan: Love at First (Project) Site. 恋の予感 Koi no yokan: (phr.) Japanese phrase for "the sense one has upon meeting another person that they will fall in love". Love that inevitably will occur, without fail.  

I should take some time to point out that a long time ago, I strongly believed that I would one day major in English because I had such strong love for words and phrases and beautiful sounds. I will continue to feature so called 'untranslatable' words or phrases in these posts because in the spirit of bringing back my writing, I feel like I have to pay some homage to all the enchanting and perfect words that exist from all over the world.  

The internet tells me that this is different than just love at first sight - it's beyond the instantaneous, fleeting feeling of love. It is certainty, it is destiny, and it is absolute faith in love that will occur. And since it just took me an entire sentence that I had to edit down at least 5 times to capture, Koi No Yokan feels appropriate to describe my very first visit to the rolling farmlands (and other SVYM sites!) surrounding Kenchanahalli, where I will be spending the final six weeks of my time in India.  In addition, if this Facebook format isn't for you, I will be compiling all of my blogposts at pravasiga.tumblr.com!

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Once again, another blog post that starts with a van ride, I had fallen asleep on the way to our project site visits, which all were in rural and tribal areas that were about two hours outside of the frantic bustle of Mysore. I woke up to a blast of Bollywood music as Ramesh, one of our favorite SVYM program staffers, scrambled to find the volume button on the remote. I don't remember all of the songs but this one was the only one I wrote down in my phone so feel free to listen to it because this is what I was listening to as we flew through the Indian countryside, feeling like I was part of a movie. I promise, it's great.

(Suryana Kirana from Kanchanaganga Kannada Movie) Link: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tMOU2JcVaj8 *Google Translate tells me that this likely means 'The Sun's Ray'

Months ago in March, when we had been selecting our project sites, Kenchanahalli had been described to me as a rural location, surrounded by incredible farmland and an amazing view. It was an accurate description, but not nearly enough to capture the full force of the view that lay around me. All around us stretched miles and miles of lush green hills, patterned by rows of sprouting plants and growing towers of young banana trees. Framed by a massive expanse of blue sky and a blanket of growing clouds that signaled rain, our van rattled along the road, lurching occasionally to avoid running into farmers, potholes, and more than once, herds of confused goats. (They baa'ed loudly in protest to our van's persistent horn. I prefer to think that they were attempting to harmonize.) We sped past vendors in colorful stands and rumbled past the curious eyes of villagers.  

Our day-long journey would actually start in Hosahalli, to visit SVYM's Viveka Tribal Center for Learning, a school that served as a home and educational space for dozens of tribal children. While no one from our team was stationed at the school this year, we all cherished the opportunity to witness and tour the center. The school had been established primarily to serve the educational needs of many of the tribal villages in the area, who otherwise were untrusting of government schools that neither incorporated elements of their culture nor were easily accessible. The school featured unique open environment classrooms that allow children to learn alongside their natural surroundings. Domed and circular pavilion-like structures housed classrooms with eager and bright-eyed students, all dressed in mauve and floral printed uniforms. Our arrival had brought many of them out to the side of the road to greet us with curiosity. The school served children from the ages of 3 and even sought to assist their high-school graduate alumni by offering training courses on teaching and vocational skills in tailoring clothing. We toured additional facilities that included a donated computer lab and a library, as well as science classrooms that were being renovated. Also we saw some of the youngest students there on their snack break and they are so small and cute and adorable and it makes me wish I was that tiny again.  

Going to fast forward jump to the Saragur visit, which really was our last stop but there's much to talk about anyways! Vivekananda Memorial Hospital at Saragur serves as a relatively new secondary health center, staffed as a functional hospital with various specialists and surgeons (including two of our professors!). Unique to this hospital was a radio station that was built on the top floor of the hospital, where we were able to listen in on a live broadcast. I later learned that this radio station existed for the tribal and rural communities that lived in the large, remote area. People would call in and seek medical counsel and advice from doctors who would take time from their days to do their part in reaching out to community members that otherwise would be difficult to contact. It amazed me how much deliberate thought and planning had happened, all to further the reach of SVYM's health, education, and development goals. Adjacent to the hospital was the Viveka School of Excellence, where many of the doctors would send their children to school. One of the key difficulties in recruiting and retaining medical professionals in remote, tribal hospital positions was encouraging them to move there in the first place. Most medical graduates prefer to stay in urban areas where they would be more successful with private practices and enjoy better access to  other institutions, including schools for their children. It was noted to me that it was likely that VSE had been constructed with this in mind, in hopes of attracting doctors to the hospital while providing quality education to a new generation. And let me just say, that forget whatever kind of playground you grew up with because there's no way it's as good as VSE's Science Exploratorium Park. The park comprised of almost two dozen different "stations" that demonstrated various principles of physics including demonstrations of conservation of angular momentum, center of gravity, potential and kinetic energy, and to be quite frank, despite taking three years of physics, other concepts that I totally don't recall entirely.

And finally, retracing my steps to Kenchanahalli, a primary health center that was SVYM's first tribal hospital, enveloped in a snug and leafy pocket along the road. The cream colored, low squat building was elegant amongst the flowering trees and lush surroundings. Developed almost thirty years ago, VMH-Kenchanahalli was born after medical staff had made the difficult trek to the area and had begun to befriend the local communities and gain their trust. The center aimed to provide cost-effective and quality healthcare to rural population of almost 16,000. Before VMH-Saragur had been established, VMH-Kenchanahalli provided an enormous amount of the services in the area, including allopathic medicine, traditional Ayurvedic treatment, and yoga. The building included a pharmaceutical dispensary, a general lab for basic tests, and an x-ray room. A new addition, an Ayurvedic treatment block, stood behind the main building and featured two massage rooms that also included a chamber where a patient sits on a stool and is locked in, with their head sticking out, for a few minutes. I'm still not quite sure what this is but I was told that this was to allow for the massage oils to permeate the body but honestly all I could think about was the fact that if I sat in there, I would be too short to even have my head stick out of the chamber which is a scary thought. Also, we quickly learned that the yoga therapists there were skilled in the art of folding towels in animal shapes - notably, swans and elephants that were then adorned with local flowers.  

Also, a small point, but we learned that Kenchanahalli is also home to a pet turtle that I haven't seen yet but obviously, you know where I'll be spending most of my time!! Also, that a long time ago, tiger and elephant sightings were more of an issue but sadly, our "forest-based friends" were no longer seen frequently. That said, apparently we were visited by an elephant years back and it had destroyed some of the jackfruit trees that grew by the Ayurvedic block.  

I was excited to see my project site destination for the very first time and instantly fell in love with the quiet and enclosed location. In one more week, me and many of the other Global Health students will be making the long van ride out to Kenchanahalli to live and work. I had bounced around so many ideas of what I thought Kenchanahalli would look like and seeing it in person truly solidified and strengthened my anticipation for the weeks to come. Guided on a tour by one of my mentors, Dr. Mohan explained that with the opening of VMH-Saragur, many of the services were now conducted there. He spoke of funding concerns and deliberations on how to keep VMH-Kenchanahli a functional and reliable institution for local communities, and how the hospital was also in the business of producing Ayurvedic products, which included powders and oils for acne, pain, and massages.  Hearing Dr. Mohan speak of the challenges faced by this center was sobering. VMH-Kenchanahalli was a pioneering effort to bridge resources to a community that had long been neglected and isolated from medical treatment and health care. The center was built and designed for the needs of the people it served and Dr. Mohan spoke of doing whatever it took to ensure that it would still be standing for the community. Many people had grown to know it as a reliable presence and to disappear overnight would be a difficult blow. I am anxious about VMH-Kenchanahalli's future but hope that in my time there, I learn much more about its operations and what its fate will be. Currently, the hospital still retains ambulance services in addition to all of its other treatments.  

But more over, speaking on 'koi no yokan', I am certain about the love that I have begun to feel for my new home. During my time, and under the guidance of my mentors Dr. Mohan and Dr. Arundhati, I will be working on a self-education handbook on common skin diseases. Health education is a critical part of the work that SVYM and VMH-Kenchanahalli champions as it allows for empowerment and inclusion of the communities that it works alongside. Around the center, we saw projects from Cornell students in the past, who had all designed important documents and materials on a variety of subjects - treatment flowcharts, medicinal plant information cards, and even an Ayurvedic health education poster that had been adapted in a full mural painting down the road. Witnessing how much work of former GSL students had been implemented was eye-opening and truly, it will motivate me to do the best that I can.  

I will readily admit that skin disease was not what I had originally envisioned when I first applied to be apart of the India Global Health trip. I had been floating between maternal health, HIV/AIDS, and so many other things, but not once did skin disease enter my mind. Nonetheless, I am incredibly happy to have been assigned to this project because as my ignorance and oversight had demonstrated, there is a reason why neglected tropical diseases (NTDs) are what they are - neglected. Skin disease rarely gets the same attention as many other medical disorders. Often times, this happens with many conditions that are linked to the poor, the rural, and the socially ostracized. When we think of skin diseases, we tend to think of cosmetic defects and irritating conditions like acne, itching, or infections that we often take for granted. When we get a cut, we clean off the wound and but a bandage on it. Our biggest skin complaints are rashes that we usually have access to medication and creams to treat. And acne. Can't forget about those annoying pimples. But what we don't tend to think about is how common skin infections - fungal, bacterial, viral, or parasitic - are in these environments, where people tend to be out in forest and farmland environments. A small cut could lead to much more severe problems if not treated properly. Eczema, dermatitis, psoriasis, and so many other conditions can negatively impact quality of life far more than you or I can imagine.  

NTDs are deeply tied to our internal and implicit biases and remain a huge problem in many places around the world. Inspired by a medical anthropology course I took last spring (shoutout to BSOC 2468, Medicine, Culture, and Society!), I had learned about the concept of visibility and healthcare. We are HIGHLY selective with our attention and with so many issues that exist in the world, our collective attitudes and thoughts shift the spotlight on what we as a global society consider relevant, worthy, or simply - visible. Visibility implies so much more than just being known. Visibility implies a dedication of resources, effort, and understanding. Visibility is heavily influenced by our prejudices and reliance on stereotypes and overall, our collective ignorance. When we choose to not think as highly of NTDs like skin diseases, we close an eye to the serious problem that truly exists. Research and discussion on skin diseases in poverty-stricken or resource limited areas can be difficult to find. In writing my final paper for the India GSL class, I found myself digging in the bowels of Google Scholar looking for papers on skin disease on India. (*I make the point here that it is very likely these papers might not be published in a language I would understand and therefore would be unable to access). Despite far fewer relevant literature than I had hoped for, there was one glaring consensus: skin diseases were a big freaking deal.

An extensive Global Burden of Skin Disease study done in 2010 with support from the Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation found that the impact of skin diseases was much higher than I ever could have expected - it ranked 4th (FOURTH!) in the global burden of disease index when nonfatal diseases were considered. Skin diseases are an incredibly wide-ranging group of diseases that exhibit various symptoms and degrees of severity, but overall, contribute greatly to loss of quality of life (860,000 disability-adjusted life years in sub-Saharan Africa alone). Skin diseases can cause sores, open wounds, swelling of the limbs, painful itching, and even permanent disability. In addition, these diseases tend to be diseases that flourish in areas that tend to be poor and tend to lack resources. So many socioeconomic and environmental factors exacerbate skin diseases including poor sanitation systems, overcrowded housing areas, and malnutrition. Infections in particular tend to target children and women the most and moreover, because skin diseases are so highly visible and can exhibit in painful and disfiguring ways, it can contribute to further social isolation.  

There isn't nearly enough global attention to combat these conditions and to fully eradicate them would be an enormous undertaking. Health education plays a role in ensuring that locals are aware of the symptoms and risk factors so that they can seek treatment in a timely fashion. Skin diseases are highly treatable when the proper care is administered. Self-education is critical because in some of these tribal communities, research has found that a large portion of the individuals who reside in them will not seek medical attention for the skin diseases because they themselves can underestimate the severity of it.  

All of this is precisely why global and public health had become so attractive to me. Community based health was understanding the social contexts that drive and shape our health outcomes, and how we can use those same forces to balance inequalities that exist. In a country that is experiencing a meteoric economic rise, it is crucial that all of its communities experience this prosperity too. I am thrilled to be given a chance to begin my public health work alongside such an incredible organization and under the tutelage of such experienced mentors. Something about the work and why it matters has clicked firmly in me and has given me hope that I am coming closer and closer to the direction that I will take in my lifetime.  It's been a long day, and this has been an even longer blog post. Please enjoy this photo of me acting like a fool in front of the Ayurvedic block in VMH-Kenchanahalli. I look forward to starting my work here soon!

Matte siguva,

Winnie  

PS: Because it's not a post by me if it doesn't include an incurable desire to talk even more than I already do in person - I don't know when, if, or how I'll ever get used to squatting toilets, to be absolutely frank I'm terrified of falling in.  

PPS: WE GOT INVITED TO AN INDIAN WEDDING! Blog post about the craziness of buying a sari for the first time and other random forays into India culture soon to come.

PPPS: There is literally too much content to ever fit but I think it's an accomplishment that so far, I have only received three (maybe more? Who knows) mosquito bites!!!

PPPPS: I compared the tan I'm getting on my arm to my leg which has been hidden under these gigantic pants and let me just tell you that I'm only lucky that I haven't been sunburned yet but ya girl is approaching 50 shades darker than she was when she left. I describe my arm as 'slightly torched creme brulee' color. I think. It's currently dark in my room and I can't be certain.

[pravasiga]

Pravāsiga: The First of Many Blog Posts

June 7, 2017

ಪ್ರವಾಸಿಗ (Pravāsiga): (n.) the Kannada word for 'traveler', or at least according to Google Translate.

It's been a week since I've left my room an absolute mess in my last-minute haste to pack for a two-month long trip to Mysore, India. (Shout out to my mother, who understandably, is not pleased about aforementioned mess). In that time since, I have found myself in two countries, three cities, and several wonderful experiences with an incredible team and the absolutely amazing staff at the Swami Vivekananda Youth Movement, the NGO that all of us in the Cornell ILR/Global Health Global Service Learning team will be working with. I've been itching to write about my time here ever since I landed, and the most that I can truly capture is that no matter how I write this, I will never be able to entirely describe what it's been like to be here, but it's worth a shot.

Just a warning, I haven't written in a long time. This post is going to be long, meandering, and more importantly, it's about to get sappy and basic and full of love for a beautiful country, full of inspiring people. It's (kind of) worth a read, I promise!

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My first real glance at India happened from the window of a moving van at 5 in the morning, careening through the lines of State Highway 17, connecting Bangalore to Mysore. Still drowsy from almost two days of travel, I caught glimpses of roadside temples, decorated ornately with statues and idols. Through sleepy eyes, I watched as people woke up to start their day. Children playing with their siblings, adults opening small stands to sell food or helmets or shoes. I saw everything in a whirlwind of greens, browns, and blues - a flash of sky, a stretch of field and trees, and patches of ground and homes and road. I drifted in and out of sleep, still caught in disbelief that I was all the way across the world, the furthest I've been from home on my own. In between dreams and short periods of sleep, I processed about three important things:

1) There were few traffic rules here (a thought I later expressed, to which Anant told me that lane lines were more like suggestions rather than boundaries).

2) I had never seen so many free-roaming cows in my entire life

3) My tailbone was falling asleep more than I was and I couldn't do anything about it for at least another three hours.

*

Later, I was to learn and experience that India was a colorful, bustling, and dynamic country, full of movement and noise and liveliness. The next few days were even more of a blur than the very first van ride. Running around Big Bazaar (aptly described as 'Walmart, but with Indian clothing') trying to find kurtas that would fit was by far one of the most stressful shopping trips I had ever endured. I was not prepared for the narrow, straight cuts of the kurtas or that finding good salwar kameez color combinations would be such a herculean task. I am still struggling to find a good way to keep my dupatta on correctly without it flying into my face or becoming lopsided. Forgetting that the exchange rate stands at about 60 rupees to 1USD has left me flabbergasted for a few seconds every time I've gone up to the cashier and seen my total climb into the hundreds and thousands. I'd like to take this time to apologize to my dad for incurring a few foreign credit card transaction fees because I didn't bring enough rupees with me the first time.

Then from Big Bazaar to Chamundi Hills, where our bus took us far above the city and into the lush green forest. The line (though everyone here calls it a queue!) wrapped around the Chamundeshwari Temple, preventing us from going inside, but we were treated to the sight of (and warned about) several monkeys who lived near the temple grounds. I was to learn that they were incredibly clever and were adept at opening zippers and searching pouches in their hunt for food. Here, I also learned that locals will want to take selfies with all of us American tourists who probably look completely out of place.

We witnessed services at St. Philomena's Church, one of the tallest churches in Asia. We ventured into the underground catacombs to visit St. Philomena's relic. We visited Lalitha Mahal Palace Hotel and Mysore Palace. I officially tried mango lassi in India. We had a photoshoot on a balcony. I was caught in the rain when Mysore Palace was completely illuminated, sending a flock of roosting birds rising to the sky. I came back to the hostel tired, ready to sleep before 10pm every night.

I couldn't get enough of India.

*

I have wanted to visit India for years now, and nothing can still quite make me believe that I am actually here. But even more than that, that I am here, pursuing the chance to work in the field that I have grown passionate about and with an organization that has exemplified excellence in so many initiatives to better the health, education, and community development of many of India's poor.

My interest in public health grew from my increasing frustration with the rigidity that most of my STEM course work presented in its curriculum. I had long been in love with the intricate and fascinating nature of biology and human physiology, but when it came to keeping my medical aspirations in perspective, I found that I was not satisfied with how narrow and exclusively STEM-focused my future was looking. Courses on medical anthropology, sociology, inequality, and health care had captured my attention with its holistic approach to understanding the socioeconomic and environment determinants to health. I found that I was beginning to become interested in more than just the biomedical body, but that the same passion that had once driven me to study neurobiology was now enveloping a new desire to understand health and all that impacts it, on a global scale. If you want to hear more about my pre-med existential crisis, feel free to hit me up about it because there's still plenty more episodes to come!

SVYM has been instrumental in working to improve health conditions in communities all across Karnataka state for over thirty years. Their attention to detail, commitment to grassroots initiatives and raising the voices of tribal communities, and understanding of the vast complexities that exist in a rapidly developing country has continued to amaze and stun me. For the next two weeks, we are incredibly fortunate to be taking classes from the Vivekananda Institute of Indian Studies with SVYM on everything from Indian Culture and Civilization, Gender Studies, Global Health and Labor Economics, and Kannada.

My favorite by far, has been the Global Health classes. Each lecture has been incredibly eye-opening and informative about the public health system in India. For a country of 1.3 billion people, there exists a system designed to serve the primary, secondary, and tertiary level health care needs that strives to deliver free, accessible, and quality treatment. I'm not going to go into the entire structure, but at the primary level, there are three main lines of defense: ASHAs (Accredited Social Health Activists), sub-district centers, and primary health centers (PHC). These institutions and the staff that run them are responsible for overseeing tens of thousands of people who otherwise cannot afford private health care.

We had the privilege of visiting an urban PHC and talking with the medical and nursing staff, as well as the ASHAs. The medical officer (the senior doctor who runs the PHC) sees anywhere from 70-100 patients per day and provides diagnostics, basic lab services, immunizations, and other basic treatment services. However, it was the ASHAs, all women dressed in pink saris that caught my attention. Their work had been described to us in class as being the first resources for any community. They were members of the communities they were chosen to serve and were responsible for an enormous amount of responsibilities. ASHAs are all married mothers, who bear the task of acting as health educators, messengers who remind patients of upcoming check-ups, consultants, and maternal health workers. For so much work, ASHAs are guaranteed no pay. They only receive incentives for successfully completing tasks, like ensuring a mother attends pre- and ante-natal care with the public system, as well as delivering the baby with the public institution. A growing trend of mothers utilizing ASHA services but ultimately delivering their children at private institutions has negatively impacted many of these ASHAs - for if they will not be paid if the mother does not ultimately stay within the public system. All five ASHAs present at the PHC expressed their discontent with the salary and payment system - and revealed to us that they had organized and were fighting to receive better financial security.

These were not the only issues with the public health system. All along the public health institutional structure, there are staff and supply shortages that need to constantly be met. We learned the extent of these shortages - particularly with doctors, specialists, and health staff - in class and it brought up several questions: what has the Indian government done so far to encourage more medical students to take up these posts? Are we seeing more medical students express and pursue interests in public health?

Despite plans to make public service compulsory for medical graduates and a growing need for public health health workers, the current answer is that we will always be looking at these shortages unless something changes. Commonly, the private sector or international opportunities lure talent and brainpower away from these public positions. I felt frustration at this until I realized that all around the world - including the US - this is a phenomenon that occurs over and over. I had entered into the premed track with the intention of pursuing a medical career in neurosurgery that would take me to the top, cutting-edge hospitals. The thought of it is alluring and hard to resist. No matter how strong your conviction is in medicine and helping to save lives, the very real need to be practical can't be ignored. With rising tuition bills, increased concerns over getting into medical schools, and general economic worries, it would be ridiculous to not admit that financial stability was an enticing factor.

But this work is important, irregardless of the money it pays or doesn't pay. Public health is the active fight to protect and ensure the health of our communities. It is concerned with every determinant of health that exists, beyond the biomedical lens. Public health is involved in politics, in social justice, in environmental issues, in the ways that we treat each other on a day to day basis. The gravity of this work is not lost on me - we learn from SVYM and VIIS every day about the complexities of delivering and supporting initiatives that have not reached communities that need it most. Beyond all the sight-seeing and colorful tourism, I don't feel that I am mistaken in saying that the strongest impression that my experience in India will leave me with is the reaffirmation of my passion for service and healthcare. Only a week in, and I've been given an amazing chance to work alongside one of the most amazing NGOs I've ever heard of, and I can't wait to see what comes next.

I will continue to document the next two months and keep you all updated on my embarrassing experiences and all that I will learn. I am just as, if not more, awkward of an international tourist/student as I am a domestic citizen/student. Until the next extravagantly long post in which I will probably say something cliche and sappy again, I'm wishing all of you love and happiness.

Matte siguva (See you again), Winnie

PS: I've never flown Emirates before this trip, but after flying Emirates, it's all I want to fly again. This has little relevance to the rest of my experience but I finally watched Dr. Strange, Tangled, and Up and yes, I did cry during Up even though I've seen Carl and Ellie's story like 87 times because I am an utter wreck of emotions and a hopeless romantic at heart.

PPS: How on earth I got through this entire post without mentioning food is beyond me. The food is delicious and I am adjusting to going vegetarian for the summer. My spice tolerance is slowly building but I am slightly scared because apparently my next work site, the food is spicier than it is here and no matter how much I like the food here, I am currently craving grilled cheese sandwiches and my mother's cooking. Please send food.

PPPS: I am V MAD because Tropicana has been holding out on us because did you know they have lychee juice here??? I did not. Also Tropicana Slice Mango juice is to DIE for and you will catch me drinking this by the gallon if I could.

PPPPS: This is my last post-script, for now.