The Language Lesson, And My Struggle With India

The afternoon was cloudy, and I almost didn’t recognize the sky in the absence of the thick sun. It wasn’t quite on the verge of raining yet, but we all hoped that storms would come along and bring the cool air that usually rides shotgun.

“You want to come to one of my English lessons?” Asked Tushar, a thin but sure-footed Fellow in the program. “I’m teaching two girls English in a nearby village, it might be good for your Hindi.” I was still shell-shocked from everything that had hit me in the past few days, and paused for a brief moment of general reservation before coming to my senses.

“Of course. Lets go.” I said before spinning around and walking to my room for a pen, paper, and a bottle of water for our journey.

We met at the front door of our hostel where I found Tushar holding a red bike in his hands. Upon closer inspection, the bike was in a distinct state of disrepair by American standards, but “bullet proof” by local benchmarks. Now, he didn’t have to say anything because from what I had seen in the village, and from the smirky look on his face, I knew right away that this was going to be a bike ride for two. After some talking back and forth, and Tushar’s unavoidably valid point that I outweighed him by 60 pounds, I hopped on the driver's seat and said “just don’t hold on to my waist dude” before churning away as my copilot sat comfortably on the back. Like a wobbly new born calf taking its first steps, I awkwardly peddled and struggled for control with the extra weight on board, but soon got the hang of it. I also couldn’t help but smile at the irony that the last time I was on a bike was my spin class two weeks ago. Flanked by soccer Moms and portly business men, it was a stark contrast to the honking motorbikes, grumpy camels and tattered buses that accompanied me this time. Regardless, the two of us continued our journey down the main road out of Bagar, and quickly dissolved into the distance.

The nearby village wasn’t much more than a mile or so way, and we arrived soon with Mangos in hand that Tushar had picked up on the way. “Wait here” he said, as he opened the family’s gate and walked in. We had discussed earlier that he would have to speak with the two girls and their mother before having me walk in. Apparently bringing a huge white guy to English lessons in a tiny Indian village wasn’t a usual custom. But after a brief conversation, I was waved in and met Anju and Sushila, my two new classmates.

After greeting their mother with a respectful “Namaste”, the four of us made our way into their hut. Sushila was 14, and her sister Anju was 18 and preparing for nursing school. The four of us sat on the large and sturdy bed that took up about 50% of the brick hut’s dirt floor. The two were quite reticent in my presence, and often displayed shy smiles when we made intermittent eye contact during the lesson, but we made progress nonetheless. Towards the end of the lesson, Anju, Sushila and I - granted, with strong help from Tushar - were able to ask and answer questions to each other using both English and Hindi. We stumbled over tenses and tripped over verbs, but were able to communicate, all while their mother knelt at the foot of the bed and rubbed fresh mud on the floor, effectively resurfacing it.

After about an hour we left, and Tushar gave the two girls and their three siblings Mangos as a treat. The two of us soon hopped back onto the bike and began our return journey as the clouds finally started to drizzle. “Wow, that was really cool man” I said as the drops grew larger. I couldn’t see Tushar’s face behind me, but I would bet that he was smiling too.

This was all not a few days ago, but I found out this morning that Anju died. Apparently something went wrong with her health, but no one really knows what happened, and no one ever will. She was cremated a few hours later in an emotional but raw ceremony that I attended this afternoon. I’m still struggling with some parts of India.