Janalakshmi

I recently finished a two and a half month internship with a company called Janalakshmi Financial Services here in Bangalore. Janalakshmi is a microfinance institution whose primary goal is to provide banking services to the Indian sub-prime sector. This sector is composed of the country’s “urban poor” as well a large income segment that is technically not below the “poverty line”. Janalakshmi’s target market is primarily individuals who are unable to obtain financial assistance from the existing formal banking/financial services sector. Because of their low income and small asset base, borrowers in this sector are forced to resort to informal credit (from moneylenders, pawn-brokers, etc.), paying interest rates that are sometimes as high as 10% per day. The organization’s name exemplifies it’s vision well: Jana, meaning people, and Lakshmi, meaning wealth.

Janalakshmi, or People’s Wealth, conducts its operations through what it refers to as “doorstep banking”. Unlike traditional lending entities, many microfinance institutions employ field workers who bring the companies’ services directly to the customer. Field workers carry handheld electronic devices called POS units. POS stands for Point of Sale, although the acronym has been expanded to encompass other definitions, depending on whether or not the device is working properly. Along with “Smart Cards”, they were integrated into the company’s loan collection system to improve efficiency—and they do improve efficiency; they’re awesome. Smart Cards are about the size of a credit card and they store all a borrower’s personal information, including his/her current outstanding payments. Upon payment collection, the customer inserts his/her card into the POS and verifies his/her identity using a fingerprint scanner on the POS unit. After the loan payment is processed, the Field Executive can then use the POS to print a receipt for the customer—all on the customer’s “doorstep”.

I learned a lot of cool things during my internship. Sitting in on the interview process was particularly interesting. After each interview, the HR executive, Somya, would sit and discuss with me what she had seen as strengths in the applicant, or in some cases, what she identified as a red flag.

Interview Excerpt 1:
Somya: Well, unfortunately, we just filled that marketing position, so it’s no longer available. Do you think you might be interested in any of the other openings we have right now?

Applicant: Uh, yeah. I’ll take anything. <-- Red Flag

Somya: Ok...

Interview Excerpt 2:
Somya: So, tell me about your interest in Janalakshmi. What made you want to apply?

[applicant shrugs] <-- Red Flag

Somya: Well, what do you know about what our company does?

[applicant shrugs] <-- Red Flag

Somya: OK.

[Somya proceds to explain what the company does]

It was also fascinating to see how cultural differences affected the recruitment process. For example, I’m under the impression that to a greater extent in India, who your family is indicates to others strongly who you are. Applicants were always asked to describe their family background and to explain what their parents do for a living. I was also surprised to find on the application forms a box labeled “caste” next to “gender” and “date of birth”. I've had a few jobs, but I don't recall having seen this before. Armed with the moral fodder of my Western upbringing, my initial inclination was to jump to my feet, slam my fists on the table, and unleash a torrent of wailings about the presumptive discriminations and injustices of the system. I decided instead to draw a small leprechaun in my notebook.

I certainly don’t believe Somya, Janalakshmi, or Indians in general to be any more judgmental than Americans or anyone else. Ultimately, I think I just don’t understand the intricacies of Indian culture well enough to make judgments regarding this particular issue. Good day.

Goa

Last week, a couple of us made a visit to the city of Goa. Goa lies on the west coast of the country, overlooking the Arabian Sea. The city is a tourist hotspot, with hundreds of thousands of international and domestic visitors every year.

Hailed as one of India’s most beautiful places, the city’s reputation proceeds itself. I had no idea what I was in for, because like any natural wonder, photos did not do it justice. The best I can do to describe it to you is to say that we spent the weekend in paradise. The monsoon rains had created the green lushness of a rain forest—a rain forest with warm, sandy beaches and palm trees. In 1999, National Geographic Magazine apparently compared Goa to the Amazon and Congo basins for its rich tropical biodiversity. Its wildlife sanctuaries boast of more than 1512 documented species of plants, over 275 species of birds, over 48 kinds of animals and over 60 genera of reptiles. In spite of this, I only managed to see a couple mangy dogs and a crow. Oh, and there was a wildman who lived on our beach named "Pedro", but I have no way of proving that he is actually some other bipedal Hominidae primate, decended from a seperate branch in the evolutionary chain.

The monsoon season was still in full swing, but we avoided rain the entire weekend. And since monsoons chase away tourists, we also managed to avoid crowds. We swam in the ocean and walked up and down the beach. And we feasted. The beaches are several miles long, with little restaurants along the entire stretch. Dinner was my favorite part of the day: calamari, king fish, and shark, all prepared with a uniquely Indian taste. And entertainment comes free with every meal. The sports bar 60 inch pales in comparison to the 100 mile wide displays found in Goa. Our tables sat directly on the beach, so we to had front row seats to the main event. It's almost exhausting watching wave after wave climb the beach, only to be pulled back into the sea a moment later. They didn’t give up though, which was admirable.

Our dinners were always illuminated first by the yellows and oranges and purples of the western sky over the water and minutes later by the intimate glow of candles on the table. It was incredible, and what pervaded my mind more than anything else was the thought, “This is so beautiful. I cannot believe how lucky I am.”

The experience seemed even more incredible when you consider what it took to get there. The journey was absolutely horrible. Unless you’ve experienced the Indian bus system for yourself, do not attempt to empathize with me. For over 14 hours, we spent the night being thrown around the bus like rag dolls while the driver set national transit records. Hitting holes in the road and flying around corners at 100 km per hour makes even air ride suspension resemble the sensation of a footloose wagon rolling down a hill on the Oregon Trail. The Indian government is exploring options to extend this virtual reality experience to American theme parks by summer 2009. We were exhausted and we were miserable, so the best we could do was to try to sleep.

This didn’t work though, and after an unknown lapse of time, I was awakened from a dream by a painful strike to the side of my head. I was very upset because it was a pleasant dream (something relating to being trapped in a cement mixer), but the throbbing pain in my temple demanded my attention. My neck muscles must have made some attempt to relax during my sleep, so when we hit an especially deep rut in the road, my head was bashed against a window. Fortunately, the window didn't break, so I said a prayer of thanks and made my way to the row of empty seats in the back of the bus with a firm resolve to slip soundly into a coma. I stretched out across the seats and was sound asleep within 20 seconds.

Then it happened. Imagine the most traumatic emotional experience of your life and then hit yourself in the face. The bus driver slammed on the brakes for whatever reason, and I was wrenched out of sleep and launched from my bed. Completely unable to brace myself, I smashed my face into the back of an armrest on the seat in front of me. Pain shot through me and I struggled desperately to lift myself back into the seat. was in shock, so it was difficult. A moment later a dull ache began to form in my throat, and I realized it must have taken a hit as well. I tried to swallow, and a stinging pain confirmed this. I lifted my hand to soothe the burning in my chin and when I held it to the light a moment later, I realized that it was covered in blood. And then, I wanted to cry. I wanted to cry not from the pain, but from sleep deprivation and the utter sense of desolation. I was miserable.

I huddled in the corner of the bus, dreaming of my American home, imagining how wonderful it would be to have a soft, warm bed and some waffles. And then I did about the only sensible thing left to do at that point; I started to laugh. I imagined watching it all happen in a comedy movie, and I laughed. And then I realized that my life in India basically is a comedy movie, and I decided that things weren’t so bad after all.

The Imprisonment of Alexi

Alexi is another foreign exchange student at my college. He’s from France. We were having dinner a while back when suddenly he said, “I went to jail last night.” We stared at each other then burst out laughing. “What?” I asked.

Apparently he and some friends were having a little get together the evening before, and their music was playing a little too loud for a neighbor’s comfort. Some time after midnight, one of his friends came running into the room yelling, “The cops are here! Turn off the music!” They did. They turned off the music, and they turned off the lights too, and when the cops knocked on the door, they pretended to be asleep. The officers refused to go away, so finally someone got up and to see what they wanted. In the groggiest tone he could muster, the kid says, “Can I help you, officer?” The cops insisted on coming inside, and after seeing that all 11 people had climbed into the same bed, they figured that no one was actually sleeping.

The kids apologized for playing their music too loudly, but Indian cops insist on being difficult. They quickly ushered everyone outside and put them in their SUV—all 11 of them. Then they took them to jail. The funny thing is that a couple of the kids actually were sleeping and hadn’t had anything to with the noise. Dazed and confused, they were brought outside with everyone else and worst of all, they didn’t have shoes.

By 1:30 am, they had arrived at the station. Alexi, of course, had no idea what was going on, and didn’t understand what was being argued about in Hindi. There was a lot of sitting around, a lot of “trying to get some sleep”, and very little speaking. Moral was low. At 4:30 in the morning, someone finally offered the cops a large enough bribe, and they let them go. It wasn’t large enough for a ride home, apparently, because they had to call a friend to come pick them up.

I guess the party was over.

3 Tips to Surviving in Bangalore

Tip Number 1: Insist on the meter. When you’re traveling around the city, the easiest mode of transportation is the auto rickshaw. Ricks are everywhere. In most parts of the city, you won’t have to wait more than 30 seconds to find an available driver. They’re especially splendid because they’re small enough to fit through the holes in traffic that most cars can’t manage, which means you’ll get to your destination at least 40 seconds faster. In Bangalore, all rickshaws are metered. The current rate is 7 Rupees (18 cents) per kilometer, but if you don’t insist that they use the meter, they won’t. I learned my lesson the hard way. When I first got to India in June, I ignorantly paid over 10 times what I should have for a ride home one day. I wondered why the driver was so unusually enthusiastic about his job, but when “let’s mock Elliot for how much he paid” became the hottest new craze to hit school since the advent of the iPod, it seemed to make sense.

In the past few weeks, Joey and I have taken to using the bus system. It’s substantially cheaper, and now that Bangalore has discontinued use of the Chinese buses they were testing, it’s just as safe. Our advisor, Jacob, told me that the local government had purchased 100 buses from China as a trial run for a large fleet replacement they were preparing to make. “Too many” of them spontaneously burst into flames during operation, he said, so they decided to go with a different company.

Tip Number 2: Be Flexible. When you go to a restaurant, you might not get what you ordered. When you’re getting ready for school, the water might not work—and if it does, it might be frigid. When you’re in the middle of cooking dinner, watching a movie, or typing a paper, the power might go out. These things happen all the time. There are language barriers, there are problems with the plumbing systems, and the city of Bangalore is straining its power capacity.

Let me tell you about a real inconvenience, though. At my school, there are 3 computer labs. Each lab has the following utilities:

Lab 1: Windows, USB drives, printers. This lab has only two computers and is operated by two college employees. Because it's the only place on campus where students can print things, you have to use the computers as quickly as possible. You are only allowed to print here, you can't use a computer for anything else.
Lab 2: Windows, internet access.
Lab 3: USB drives, internet access, some obscure operating system that is incompatible with everything ever created.

Note that no single lab has the combination of Windows or Mac OS, internet, and printers. One day, I typed an essay at school using Microsoft Word which I needed to print. How did I do it? Can you solve the riddle? I typed my paper in Lab 2 (remember, you can't type in Lab 1), then emailed it to myself. I walked to Lab 3 and downloaded my document from my email onto my USB drive. Then I walked to Lab 1, where I uploaded my document from my USB drive and printed it.

The point is that if you’re not flexible, you will soon be insane.

Tip Number 3: Don’t drink and drive Don’t walk and text message. If you aren’t paying attention while you walk down the sidewalk, you’re gambling with your life. In Bangalore, sidewalks double as overflow lanes for traffic. At any moment, motorcyclists attempting to get around traffic jams may swerve off the road. If you’re in the middle of typing, “I dnt lk indian food, letz eat smwhr else”, you are going to die.

But renegade motorcycles are only part of the fun that awaits you on your journey to the grocery store. Under every sidewalk in Bangalore is a large drainage ditch. Sidewalks are actually nothing more than the 3-inch-thick concrete slabs which cover them. These slabs are commonly cracked, broken into pieces, or missing entirely, so if you aren’t watching where you’re walking, you might find yourself plunging knee-deep into something unpleasant.

One day, on our way to school, Joey and I saw a couple of shopkeepers place a piece of cardboard over an exposed portion of drainage ditch. We turned to each other in horror with the obvious acknowledgment that this little maneuver was going to hurt someone. And suddenly, it hit me. Suddenly, I realized exactly what was going on. Suddenly, I realized exactly how boring it must be selling bananas and lemons all day. Suddenly, I realized that these gents were merely doing the best they could with what they had. They had created an underground gambling ring built around a system in which patrons can place bets as to how much time will pass between pedestrians falling into their booby trap. These men needed entertainment, and in that moment--in that sudden moment--I finally realized the extent of this truth. I also discovered how incredibly creative Indian shopkeepers are. Give them a lemon, and they’ll make an underground gambling ring.

Beggars

I felt a little uneasy writing this article, because I didn’t want anyone to interpret what I say the wrong way. So as you read, please remember that this is not supposed to be “Elliot’s Guide to Dealing with India’s Poor People: the Observations of a Disconnected Rich American”. This is simply an account of my personal experience, which includes concepts/activities/behaviors that have been explained to me by the people I’ve met here. That being said, let me tell you a little bit about institution of begging in India.

Beggars are everywhere—outside of churches, schools, malls, and stores. You can’t walk more than a kilometer without being approached at least once—especially if you’re white. It’s not so much the fact your skin is lighter as it is an obvious indication that you are a foreigner. While you’ll often be asked to pay more for rickshaw rides and approached more often by beggars and hagglers, there are actually lots of “advantages” to being white (this sounds like a ridiculous thing to say, but please just bear with me). At many restaurants and hotels we’ve visited, the staff seemed to make a considerable effort to ensure that we had everything we needed. Even my teachers and friends at school consistently ask me “how everything is going”, if my living conditions are adequate, and in general, go out of their way to make me feel comfortable. But beggars know you’re a foreigner too, and the general assumption is that white people are rich.

Deciding whether or not to give money can be difficult. My friend Zeeshan told me that begging has developed into sort of a “business” in India (as it has in many countries). There are entire families of beggars who work under “pimps” (for lack of a better word). The pimps sometimes employ hundreds of beggars and control several neighborhoods. But the word “employ” can be misleading; essentially, the beggars turn over everything they make during the day in exchange for food and shelter, and the pimps buy themselves a pair of Ray Bans. It’s sick; and what’s even more sick is that there have been reported incidents of self-mutilation by the beggars and even mutilation of their own children in an attempt to increase their collections. Zeeshan also told me that there are very successful professional beggars. He explained that by successful, he meant that there are families that make so much money begging, they own a house, a car, and even a big screen TV. “It’s very hard, man, very hard. Some people really do need money; you just can’t tell who they are.”

He’s right; it’s very hard. It’s nearly impossible to really know. When beggars ask for money, they almost always say that they’re hungry. In this instance, an obvious alternative to giving money is simply to give them food. If they’re legitimate, they’re very grateful.

I’ve given cash to someone only once. She was a little girl (about 7 years old) who had developed a sort of street performance. She had a large metal ring which she used to do contortionist body movements through. After a series of gymnastics, she concluded with a string of back handsprings down the sidewalk and ended with a back flip. I gave her some money, because I was pretty impressed.

Bombings

In case you haven't heard, there have been a series of terrorist attacks in India during the last week.

In Bangalore, 9 bombs went off throughout the city within minutes of each other during the busy Friday lunch rush. The devices were set on timers and despite their low-intensity, 2 people were killed and 12 others were injured. Besides a jammed cellphone network, I was more or less unaffected by the blasts, although two of them did go off in my neighborhood. On Saturday, a live bomb was diffused in a mall that Joey and I walk through (or next to) everyday, which is a little unsettling.

In Ahmedbad, a city about 929 miles from Bangalore, 17 more bombs were detonated on Saturday. This attack was far worse with 46 people accounted dead so far and 161 people injured. A little-known group called the "Indian Mujahideen" has claimed responsibility for this second attack. They also claimed to have carried out the attack in the western city of Jaipur in May where 63 people were killed.

I was a little nervous while all this was taking place, and I half-expected every vehicle that passed me to explode. People have returned to life as usual though, so I guess I might as well too. My friend, Aj Mal, from Afghanistan has told me, "Small bombs, small bombs, no problem", so I'm doing my best to take solice in that.

Old Storm Cloud

After some thought, I decided that this update should stay off the Internet until I've secured my grades for this semester. I'm sending it to everyone on the mailing list, though. If you're not on the list and you want a copy, let me know.

Adventures at the Arabian Sea

We're traveling fiends. Last week we made a visit to the west coast village of Murudeshwara. It's 282 miles from Bangalore, and takes about 8 hours by bus. "Murudeshwara" is another name for the Hindu god Shiva, and the town is famous for its 123 foot tall statue of him. It's pretty intimidating.

The highlight of the trip was definitely the Arabian Sea. It's monsoon season, so during our swims and walks along the beach, the weather would abruptly shift from warm and sunny to violently windy with torrential rain. Torrential, I'm telling you--it felt like being pelted with icicles. In a moments time, the weather was gorgeous again, though, so we didn't mind too much. The beach was littered with interesting things. Litter, for one, but also fisherman, whale bones, enormous puffer fish, and dead dolphins. It was awesome.

The trip home was quite an adventure in itself. There were a shortage of seats, so our group had to divide between two sleeper coaches. The buses are specially designed to distribute the impact of each and every hole in the road across the two upper cots in the back of the bus (where Joey and I were sleeping). You could have told me the bus was rolling down a hill, and I would have believed you.

Things were worse on the other bus, though. One girl was awakened in the night to the sound of someone... well, he was pooping. She wasn't certain at first, but when the stench of diarrhea began to burn her nostrils, it was pretty well settled. She then saw him wrap his treat up in some newspaper and throw it out the window. When he got down from his cot a while later, he had large brown stains running down the back of his pants.

Simply hilarious.

The Cat of Nine Tails

I received my first dose of chastisement during school yesterday (that’s right, on Saturday—we have school on Saturday). It was the end of my Health Economics class, and everyone was packing up their things and talking amongst themselves. I was putting things into my backpack and whistling to myself, when I hear my professor start hissing at me. I look over at him and he motions for me to come over to him. “Why are you whistling?” he asks me angrily. I’m stunned, of course, but my background in national television interviewing has taught me to think on my feet. “Uh, I’m very sorry, Sir. It will never happen again.” I stammer. “Whistling is not allowed!” he confirms, “Now return to your seat!”

I passed him in the hall later that day, and was again summoned with a barrage of sharp hisses. When I turned around, he gave a couple snaps of his finger to indicate the pressing nature of his beckon. I let out a long sigh secretly in my head and marched over to him. The conversation went as follows:

Professor: What do you have to say for yourself?

Me: I’m very sorry, Sir (assuming he was referring to that morning’s incident).

Professor: What you have done in the class is a serious offense! Whistling will not be tolerated!

Me: Yes, Sir. It will never happen again.

Professor: Did you think this would be tolerated?

Me: Well, Sir, actually I was not aware of that rule, but I know now, Sir, and it will never happen again.

Professor: You must be aware in the classroom!

Me: Yes, Sir.

At this point, he grunted loudly for good measure and walked away. When I told my Indian friends, they laughed at me, but confirmed that whistling doesn’t violate some cultural law of India. I’m assuming he just hates children.

While I certainly plan on watching my step in the future, the whole ordeal was absolutely hilarious and definitely worth the beating.

In the Midst of the Action

We had school off a couple days ago and took the opportunity to visit the city of Mysore (about 91 miles Southwest of Bangalore). Among other things, we visited the gorgeous Mysore Palace—previously the official residence of the former royal family of Mysore. The palace is quite unique in that it can be illuminated at night in a variety of ways: with spot lights, as seen here, or with over 10,000 actual bulbs lining the walls, as seen here. Other palace novelties include courtyard tours on a beast of your choice. For $2.50, I rode the elephant.

Our fun was far from over, however. After a decision by the government of Kashmir to award a section of protected forest land to a group of Hindu pilgrims, a week of violent protests by Muslim activists ensued throughout the state. The decision was rescinded, which then caused the Hindu-nationalist Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP) to call for a nationwide strike to put pressure on the state government. The violence was much more contained down here in southern India, but we still saw evidence of the protests. We were in the middle of enjoying a delicious lunch on the way to Mysore when suddenly this crowd of BJP members swarmed the restaurant and forced the owner to shut down. Fortunately our adviser from the college was traveling with us and knew what was happening. The second he saw them coming he said, "Children! Finish eating right now, we go!"

When we got into Mysore, our van had to make a U turn because government buses were being attacked by drunk protesters throwing rocks on the road ahead. We took another street. When we finally reached the hotel, we arrived to find that it had already been closed. The van drove around to the back though, and we entered through the back door of an attached restaurant. I never really felt like I was in danger, but we were instructed to only use the stairs because the elevator could be seen from the street. It was pretty exciting, to say the least.

Anyway, I'm safe and sound, so don't worry.

Nandi Hills

This past weekend, a few of us decided to visit Nandi Hills. Because of its steep sides, it was an ideal fortress for Mysore sultans for hundreds of years. The site is named for the ancient Nandi temple that is located there (in which a thousand year old sculpture of Nandi is housed).

To make the trip from Bangalore, it takes about three hours by bus. We had to make a stop in the town of Chickballapur to transfer buses. Our second bus (pictured here) was quite a bit smaller than the first. This didn't seem to be any cause for concern, however, because the Indians are accustomed to packing like sardines into absolutely anything; I'm not kidding, seeing 8 people in a small four-door car or 3 people on a motorcycle or bike is not uncommon. This particular bus had seats for about 20 people with some standing room in the front. We piled in, but because it was so full, two of us ended up on some make-shift seats in the front window next to the driver.

As the bus headed up the steep, windy hills, more and more people continued to pile in with each successive stop. Before long, every cubic inch was was occupied, and people were overflowing into the door well. One guy was fortunate enough to find a seat straddling the gear box, but he soon discovered he wasn't going to be able to relax, considering each shift into 1st, 3rd, or 5th gear put his testicles in considerable peril. As we drove, Joey, who had fallen asleep near the window, awakened to find that he could no longer raise his drooping head because several people were using the space above him to brace themselves. Consequently, he spent the rest of the trip with his spine curled like a slice of onion.

Due to our considerable overload, the bus could only do about 10 mph up the hill. It sounded pretty stressed, and the guy on the gear box had to stand up because his bum was getting burned. When we eventually arrived, I made a point to count how many people actually got off the bus. In addition to the 10 people I later discovered had been riding ON TOP, 49 passengers got out.

The return trip was a bit more fun because it was all downhill, and we asked if we could sit on top of the bus. Besides the occasional power line or tree branch that we ducked for, it was fairly reminiscent of a roller coaster. The whole "I might die right now" aspect was pretty exhilarating.

I'm Going to be Famous

Well, Joey and I are going to be on Indian MTV next week. They were interviewing foreign students yesterday to get a general sense of how they like the country and the school system. Then the camera crew followed me to my classroom and did some "life in the classroom" shots. It was kind of embarrassing because they walked in and said, "Hey, we're from MTV (class begins cheering). We'll mostly be filming Elliot because he's the star (class cheers again)." All I did was pretend to take notes.

I can't stand MTV, by the way, but the prospect of being on national television is still exciting. It's kind of like meeting the president--even if you think he's an idiot, you're still meeting the president.

Joey and I are the only two who haven't died of dysentery fallen prey to illness yet on this journey. One girl woke up vomiting and had diarrhea, another has a peculiar eye infection (which has come and gone for several days now), and a third was hospitalized for 3 days due to tonsillitis. We're crossing our fingers and washing our hands, but in all likelihood, it's only a matter of time.

Prepotency and Otherwise

Yesterday was my first day of class. Unlike liberal arts schools in the US where you can pick each individual class, Christ College uses a system called “threads”. I signed up for the 500 level PES thread, which means my classes fall under the topics of Psychology, Economics, and Sociology. Rather than changing classrooms throughout the day, the other PES students and I remain in a homeroom and our teachers come to us. It’s like elementary school again.

Because the same students are in all of my classes, the dynamics of each class depend completely on the instructor who is teaching it. In my Abnormal Psyc class, the teacher has absolutely no control over anything. Despite her best efforts to quiet the class by yelling and banging a piece of wood on her desk, the students could not be pacified. They talked and laughed amongst themselves for an hour while the instructor continued teaching loudly over them.

Things were a bit different in Econ and Sociology. I heard both instructors referred to as “Hitler”, and my classmates were completely silent and attentive during their classes. You stand when they enter at the beginning of the period, and if you’re late, you remain at the door until they acknowledge you. Also, my Sociology teacher makes students stand on their desk if they are caught talking. Although I suspect they are secretly warm and good-natured, in the classroom, they command the submission of banshees, demons, and other mystical terrors.

Short excerpts from the day:

(A student is caught daydreaming)
Instructor: Why are you looking out the window?!
Student: Uh, I’m sorry, Sir.
Instructor: Good. What’s out there, a monkey? Pay attention!

(A student enters late)
Instructor: Why are you late?
Student: There was traffic, Sir.
Instructor: That is a bad excuse; you should have left earlier. Go sit down.

(It is discovered that a student did not complete her assignment from the previous day)
Instructor: Get out of here. Go stand outside.

(A student is caught sneaking a drink of water)
Instructor: What do you have there?!
Student: A bottle of water, Mam.
Instructor: Come up here. Now go outside and fill it to the top.
(Student leaves the class, then returns)
Instructor: Now stand there and drink it.
(Student stands in front of the class and chugs the entire one liter bottle)

(Student caught smiling while the teacher is giving his lecture)
Instructor: You! Why are you smiling?
Student: No reason, Sir.
(Instructor stares the student down)
Instructor: There will be no unnecessary smiling in my class.

(A student is caught whispering to another student)
Instructor: You! What is your name?
Student: Zeeshan, Sir.
Instructor: Come to the front of the class!
(Student walks forward)
Instructor: What did you get in your Economics course last semester?
Student: 74, Sir.
Instructor: That is a poor score, go sit down.

My first day was awesome. I made some cool friends, and I can’t wait to go back tomorrow.

Oh, and I ran into my Econ professor on campus later that day. He insisted we have tea, and turned out to be a great guy.

Bureaucracy and Lubrication

When you first arrive in India from the United States, you are required to register at the local police commissioner’s office within 14 days. To save time at the office, our program leader Jacob John (a Bangalore resident), acquired all the paperwork in advance. As we filled them out, he told us, “Even if you’ve served in the military, indicate that you haven’t. They will think you are a spy and give you problems.” We had to have ID photos taken at a local photo shop, and affix one to every single page in the packet (a bit unnecessary, considering the packet is stapled together as one file).

We didn’t save time. Evidently, new forms had been adopted since Jacob received them, which (according to the police commissioner) rendered our forms invalid. The sweeping changes in the paperwork consisted of a move in the “attach photo here” box from the left side of the form to the right side.

As it turned out, we were forced to copy all of our information onto the new forms, find a store in the area to make 5 new photocopies, and buy glue to transfer our photos to the new forms. Furthermore, Jacob had to drive back to the college (45 minutes each direction) and print new documents.

Needless to say, it was a long day. What could have been finished in an hour ended up taking 7 hours. We experienced an extra 1.5 hour delay because the cops decided to close the office for their lunch break just as we were nearing the last few people to register. We’ll be going back tomorrow (again, 45 minutes each way) to fetch our “Temporary Residence” papers (which, for whatever reason, they couldn’t give us today).

Ironically, Jacob John told us yesterday that the cops would be giving us less trouble because he pays them well. These bribes (or “lubrication”, as he calls it), keep the police from “causing problems”.
The whole thing was pretty funny, so I guess you could say it was a great day.

Safe Arrival

Three quick bits:

I have arrived safely. The food is awesome. The traffic is torrential.

With every street I cross, I gamble with my life. There are no cross walks, and the traffic doesn't stop for anything. Except cows. If you've ever played the game Frogger, you should have a pretty good idea of things.

What's Going On

From June 1st through November 4th, I'll be taking a leave-of-absence from St. Olaf to attend Christ College in Bangalore, India. The campus is home to over 8,000 undergraduate and graduate students from every state of India. Although this program is not conducted through St. Olaf, I'm not going alone. I'll be attending the college and sharing an apartment with my close friend Joey Fleming (a fellow St. Olaf student). Our apartment is about a 15 minute auto-rickshaw ride from campus. Auto-rickshaw is the main mode of transportation in Bangalore; you can see a photo here.

As noted, I'll be done with school on November 4th, but I might not come home right away. I may continue traveling in India or the neighboring country of Bangladesh.

I assume that I'll be pretty enveloped by everything while I'm gone, so I'm not counting on having plenty of free time to write home to everyone individually. I created this blog to keep you updated. If you'd like to receive e-mail notifications that alert you when I post, please email me at robia@stolaf.edu and I'll add you to my mailing list.

My contact information is at the bottom of the right-hand column. The phone number listed was the number provided to me by the program I'm traveling through. I don't know if it's my apartment number or some office number, but I'll let you know when I find out. I'll also get a cell phone when I arrive. We can have voice and/or video conversations for free using Skype. If you don't have Skype, you can download it here. My Skype name is "mr.robia".

I'd love to hear from you while I'm gone. In addition to the any of the listed means of contact, you can comment specifically on any of my posts. Your comments are not displayed publicly.