A New Way Forward

Hello and thanks to everyone who has emailed asking for an update on Hitler! I am excited to share that Hitler is now an employee with YRGCARE, the NGO that I have been working with during my time here in India. He is driving autos for our Kathir project, delivering the meals from the kitchen to their vending spots each day. The vendors are all women who are affected by HIV/AIDS or domestic violence, and Hitler is really enjoying working with them (and the vendors that I have talked to seem to really enjoy Hitler's charisma as well). The job is a blend of social service and traditional work, which Hitler really enjoys, and the position has given him a steady source of income.



Recently, over a cup of tea, I asked Hitler more about what he thought of the new position. He said that he was very grateful for it, though the pay was lower than what he could earn as a regular auto driver. He said that he still dreamed of owning his own auto; eyes sparkling, he took my hand in his as he described his new life plan.

"Nicole, Kathir work is good work, helping good women. I like this work, and stay with this job for a long time. But, if a new auto is possible, then TWO jobs Hitler can work! All days working for Jaindee and my new baby. Then, Sundays, that auto can be social service auto! Bakkalam (maybe), God blessing, this plan is good plan and will have forward movement."

Hitler was trembling with excitement as he quickly continued to describe all of the social service that he could do with his new auto. The fact that he is so committed to helping others was one of the reasons that I found him so unique to begin with. As I've mentioned before, Hitler would always take time to help Jaindee and her handicapped colleagues get to to and from work. In addition, he also volunteers at a school called Little Hearts, which works with mentally and physically handicapped children. Hitler spends time not only transporting the kids if needed, but using his infectious smile to cheer them up and get them engaged. He once described how he was often able to make connections with even the most despondent of children, who seem to really respond to his playfulness.

I still want to help to make Hitler's dream possible. As I'm entering into the last months of my fellowship here, I am hoping to keep collecting donations until May. My Indian neighbors here have even gotten involved, and have been requesting donations on Hitler's behalf from their families and friends as well. Between their donations, what I can raise, and Hitler's family savings, I believe that it is definitely possible. Hitler has saved almost half of the cost - 18,000 Rs, or about $400 - and I know that the remaining 30,000 Rs is possible.

If you can spare a few dollars, all of them go so far here. No matter what else I do this year, I would be most proud if my last view at the airport was Hitler waving from his own auto.

A new opportunity

So much has happened since I sent my first email about Hitler (see previous post). The end of December and all of January came and went in the blink of an eye, filled with traveling and redesigning plans for the rest of my fellowship here. I tried several times to create a separate bank account for Hitler, but setting one up turned out to be more difficult than it sounded. A US account required a lot of logistical gymnastics (since everything had to be sent via mail back home and then transferred to me over here), and setting up a foreigner/NRI account in Chennai turned out to be full of limitations. Frustrated, I've kept "find a way to help Hitler" on my to-do list for weeks, but kept pushing it back amidst other work and distractions.

Hitler and his wife, Jaindee, had been inviting me over for lunch at their house for weeks, and I finally had time to go and visit this past Sunday. Their house is humble: one room, a kitchen, and plenty of laughter to fill it up. They, along with some friends (also handicapped, whom I had met on a picnic in the park a few weeks ago) showed me pictures of Hitler and Jaindee's wedding, taught me new Tamil phrases, and fed me until I was ready to bust (cauliflower and karakorrumba, both my favorites - which Jaindee remembered and got up at dawn to prepare). In return, I taught both Hitler and Jaindee yoga, which Hitler has implored me to share (Jaindee's growing belly is starting to give her back pain). The entire day was simple, and beautiful; at one point, I found my eyes welling up with tears, as the thought of leaving them and Chennai slipped into my mind. Making genuine connections with people whose lives are so different then mine was my utmost hope for my time here; the mutual appreciation that we both have of each others' company is, I believe, a rare gift.



Hitler and I went to the bank today to try and open a joint savings account for him; however, since I'm a foreigner, I wasn't allowed. We also tried to get him a banking card that would make it easy to deposit money into his account, but that option wasn't possible with his savings account either. I finally decided that opening a Paypal link into my US account would be the easiest (really, the only) way that everyone could easily deposit money and get it to him. I receive e-mail acknowledgments as soon as a donation is made, so I will make sure to contact anyone who makes a deposit.

The man who previously leased the auto out to Hitler recently passed away, and the man's wife offered to sell the almost-new auto - with the city permit, which is really difficult to obtain - to Hitler for 1 lakh (100,000) rupees. Hitler has 20,000 Rs saved, so anything that you can spare can help him to take advantage of a really unprecedented opportunity.

Again, thank you so much to all of you who have listened to his story and offered to help. I've spoken enough about him for you all to realize how special I think he is; in turn, I know you can understand how much any contribution to him and his family would mean to me.

One last thought as a parting: Hitler told me today that he and Jaindee were talking last night about how excited they were to have their baby. When I asked him why he was any more excited than usual, he glowed as he said that he and Jaindee both recognized the love that surrounded them, and couldn't imagine that the baby would grow to be anything other than an embodiment of that love and kindness.

Thank you, and much love to you as well, as always.

Hitler's Story

I included this series of stories in an email to many of you in December. Each one gives a little background on how I came to know Hitler, and how he and his wife won over my heart.

Part I: A first cup

After work the other week, I had a craving for chai (which, admittedly, is less of a craving now and more of a necessity to function) and stopped at my favorite provision store/tea stand to grab a cup. Ramesh, the store owner, and I exchanged pleasantries in broken Tamil for a bit before I turned toward the street to watch the late afternoon crowd. I absolutely love the tradition and the strange absence of it that is combined in a cup of tea. The crowd outside each tea stall encompasses both genders, all ages, and most middle-class professions, without outlining any rules for interaction between the diverse tea-takers. Some people will talk for an hour, some people will stand quietly, some will gulp their tea and rush on; there are no customs or expectations in any case, so long as you hand over four rupees with your empty glass tumbler. Even though my blonde head clearly stands out, I actually feel strangely comfortable swirling the coarse grains of sugar while quietly taking in the conversations and traffic around me.
My usual musing was disrupted by a coarse smoker’s gargle, that curious medium of phlegm and sandpaper-raw vocal chords.

“Hey, where you from?”

I turned and was greeted by the beaming smile of a portly middle-aged man wearing the ubiquitous brown uniform of an auto driver. I smiled and answered, preparing myself for the inevitable five-minute conversation about my work and the fact that, yes, I do eat and love spicy South Indian food. Happy for the excuse to practice my Tamil, I asked “Unga paera enna?” (what is your name, formal)?

“Hitler!” he rasped happily. I mean, I’ve met a few people here with some oddball Western names, but….seriously??

My face must have quickly shown how many mental cartwheels my mind was going through to process why on earth this jolly Tamilian man was so inappropriately named. He laughed and said, “English people are not liking my name, because of German Hitler long time ago. But people here are not knowing, so Hitler is okay in India.”
Hitler then proceeded to tell me about his life, his passion for working with kids (he apparently worked as an occasional driver at a nearby school for handicapped children), his handicapped wife, and his friend Steven, a Brit who volunteered at the school for some time. He punctuated all of his stories with blurry cell phone images of smiling kids in school uniforms, stilted formal wallet photos, and several snaps of Hilter and a laughing, skinny white guy. “Stephen was like you,” he said, “always asking Tamil words. Everyone thought it not possible for white man to be friends with black Indian, but all wrong. Steven and Hitler are good friends, life friends. All life friendship, all life beautiful, yes?”

He beamed again, and I couldn’t help returning an equally wide smile. Planting our rupees down alongside our empty cups, Hitler made me take his number as we made motions to part. “When you not busy, you come see my school. See the children. Wonderful children, Stephen’s children, you come see in free time!”
I said that I would, shook hands tightly, and began to walk down the street as Hitler called after me. “All life good life. Happy days!”

“Happy days!” I shouted back.

*******

A week went by as they quickly do here, my increasingly precious “free time” filled with work projects, dance classes, Tamil lessons, and Indian meals shared with friends and neighbors. I didn’t (couldn’t) forget Hitler, but stored his memory away with the many other beautiful, short exchanges that I have with so many amiable Chennians on a daily basis.

Rushing to the bus stand one morning, I was incredulous when I heard a happy yell in that unmistakable rasp:

“NIKOL! Vannakam! Hello, my friend!”

Cutting in front of several buses, a vending cart, and at least two cows, Hitler’s shared autorickshaw pulled up to the curb beside me. Both equally excited to have met again, we chatted constantly while the villages between my house and work passed by in a blur. Hitler turned back towards me frequently, somehow deftly dodging people, bikes, and animals at top speed (fast even by normal ly crazy rickshaw standards) while enthusiastically sharing his life story and philosophy. His happiness was infectious, and every schoolgirl and businessman that climbed into the auto on the journey was smiling when they dismounted. When we reached Injambakkam, the small community where I work, we of course went back to our favorite tea stall for another saccharine cup and equally enjoyable conversation.

When again it was time to part, Hitler repeated his invocation to meet his family and see his school. This time, I promised, and shook his hand with all I had to show that I meant it. He grinned and gripped back eagerly.

“I think God think very well of Hitler today, to see my friend again. I very thankful for good luck and wonderful life. All good life always! Stay always happy!”

“Happy days!” I replied as I waved, and ruminated on the phrase as I continued my walk to work. I have a lot of them here.


Part II: The Happy Days Continue

This was a random encounter during work one day…

My thambi (little brother) Srikanth got into an accident on his cycle on the way to the kitchen. He was ok, with only a few scratches and bruises (the largest one ironically caused by landing on the necklaces that he wears in reverence to Shiva). However, he was pretty sore and allowed to go home for the day, so I walked him to the bus stand with another coworker, Cynthia. Waiting for the bus, Srikanth and Cynthia started asking about why we use toilet paper (the best explanation that I could come up with was that our butts would freeze if we used water in the winter....why do we use toilet paper?). Srikanth is one of the cleaning staff, and he then asked me with a look of mild terror on his face if I had been putting my toilet paper in the waste bins that he had to clean. I was laughing really hard at his face and stepped backwards straight into a pile of cow shit.

After making a similar face myself, I started wiping the poo in the dirt, and Cynthia found a five rupee piece in the dirt that I stirred up. She then exclaimed, "Lakshmi, Lakshmi!" while pointing at the cow pile. Srikanth joined in, saying that Lakshmi was in the poop and therefore I had the good luck to find five rupees. Both were excitedly trying to explain why my shitty foot was great fortune when another random older guy walks by and joins in, pointing to the poop and then the sky repeatedly. Eventually, broken TamilEnglish got the message across that the gods are even in cow dung, as cow dung fertilizes the paddy and brings forth good harvests.

In the middle of all of this pointing and laughing and shouting, I hear a loud, "NICOLE!! Hello, roomba friend!!" Hitler's auto screeches to a halt in front of our party, and Hitler and his wife amble over. With Srikanth and Cynthia looking totally incredulous ("Akka, you know an auto driver??"), Hitler gave me a huge hug and everyone continued laughing and smiling and talking about the interconnectedness of poo, god, and life.
Not that I had forgotten, but I was reminded again of why I’m happy here.

Part III: Sugar and spice – the twin tastes of India, and life

This happened one week ago on a Friday. I was exhausted, and had just settled down to work on the dengue report after pulling a long day at the kitchen.
As soon as I sat down, I saw that Hitler was calling. Hitler usually doesn't call, especially at night, so I was really surprised to see his number. As soon as I answered, I could tell that something was wrong.

"Hello Nicole, I am not disturbing you time?" His voice was cracked and dull, with none of its characteristic color. I told him that he wasn't, and he stammered a bit before he told me what he needed to.

"Nicole, my wife hospital going...tests, roomba (a lot) tests, 1500 rupees costing. Hitler knows that you offer help one time. Can you one time help Hitler?"

My heart sank. Of course I could help - I already helped him to buy his wife medicines a week or two ago - but the American side of me knew that I couldn't, and shouldn't, become an endless source of funds. I stammered as well, agreeing but clearly expressing my reluctance.

"Hitler, yes, I can help, but...I can't always give you money, you know?" I struggled to find words while I tried to sort out what I was feeling. In the big scheme of things, Rs 1500 doesn't matter; I just hated the idea of becoming the "white person," the rich girl, the other to whom money really doesn't matter. As I was weighing the pros and cons of my offer, I was surprised to hear sobbing at the other end of the line.

"Hitler so sorry to ask, I not knowing where to go. I can't pay this time, I sorry to disturb you..." he choked out. My heart fell even more as I realized how trivial my own internal debate had been. Hitler wasn't some con man trying to get money from me; his genuine smile was what had drawn me to him in the first place. I told him how to get to the end of my street where I could meet him, and he thanked me with obvious relief.

When he arrived, he walked directly up to me and enveloped me in a huge embrace. Immediately reaching into the hem of his lungi, he pulled out a crumpled doctor's note with a series of tests written on it. The simple gesture made me feel even worse, as it confirmed every ill-based suspicion that I had let creep into my mind. Look, white friend, it said: this is real. I am not a beggar. My wife is sick, and I don't know where else to turn.

When he explained what happened to his wife, tears started streaming down his face, which he wiped off with the scarf he always wears as preparation for his pilgrimage to Kerala. His wife Jinde slipped a disc in her back a few weeks back, and is both pregnant and has a weak immune system to start with. He came home, and she didn't seem to be doing well (the weather's been cool by Tamil standards, and wet, which Hitler thought was part of the reason). While he was talking to her, she passed out, and he quickly took her to the hospital. I couldn't understand what he was telling me that the doctor said, but, after an EKG and a few other tests, she apparently was ok. He pointed again to the white paper, pointing out the barely comprehensible doctor's scribbles.

I folded the paper back into his hand, and told him "pritchinne illea" - no problem. He smiled weakly and hugged me again.

"We go have tea?" he asked softly (or as softly as I've heard his raspy voice speak). Of course, we will go have tea.

He started his auto (which, since it's obviously in need of some repairs, involved manually cranking the starter with a rip cord) and we drove to the nearest tea stall. Brining the tiny ceramic mugs back to his auto, he began to tell about his life. How his marriage to his wife was a love marriage, and how money had never mattered to him until it came to caring for her. How he was actually a poet, and that his wife wrote down the poems that he composed because he is illiterate. How he loved to play with kids, because you could always get them to smile. And how he was so sorry to have to come and ask me for money.

I told him again not to worry about it, and he smiled gratefully. When I went to hand him the money, he kissed my hand in thanks and hugged me again.

"Five days coming time, I getting the money for you. I Steven calling, Steven friend in England. Steven sending money, and I can give to you," Again, I told him not to worry about it, and to pay back what he can when he can. The last was more of an acknowledgment that he was not a charity case; if a few rupees is the least that I can give him for simply existing on this earth to remind me to have faith in others, that's more than worth it,

I haven't cried for a really long time, but I did when I told my roommate Elyse about what happened. It was only a few tears, but it felt good to be human.

Part IV: The road goes on

Today, I met with Hitler for the first time since that night, and I was so grateful to see that huge smile spread across his face when he caught sight of me. Driving to work, he chatted about his wife (who is recovering slowly, but doing much better), new Tamil words for me, and about how life is beautiful (of course). Hitler promised to meet me later on in the day to pay back what he owed me, and I agreed to meet him for tea in the afternoon. I really didn’t care that he would repay the money, since I intended to give it to him anyway; however, that nagging part of my brain that I guiltily tried to push away still needed to prove that he was telling the truth.

Afternoon came, as did Hitler in his janky rickshaw, and we bounced good-naturedly down the road to the nearest tea stall. Ordering two cups of the strongest I’ve had yet, we laughed and talked for a while before he pulled out this cell phone.
“Stephen calling time, you talk to Stephen!” he said happily, dialing a number and waiting expectantly as it rang. When Stephen picked up, it was as if Hitler’s entire body electrified. His already wide grin spread to his entire being, and he physically quaked with excitement and happiness at hearing his friend’s voice.
“STEPHEN!!” he boomed, his voice cracking and the nearby table looking over at both of us quizzically (if it was me or Hitler they were more confused by, I’m not really sure). Laughing, he handed the phone over to me, and I talked with the amicable Stephen thousands of miles away. He sounded a bit tired (I have no idea what time it was in that part of the world), but genuinely appreciative both of Hitler and the help that I had given him. Hitler has a great heart, he said, and I agreed. After exchanging goodbyes and well wishes, Hitler’s eyes beamed as he offered to drive me home.

“See, thangachi (little sister), I know when you looking Hitler time, you thinking, enna Stephen? What Stephen Hitler always talking? Hitler also taking money, I know you thinking, Hitler good man paying? I am good man, I will keep promise to my thangachi. Now you knowing I am truth telling.”

With that, he took some crumpled notes from his pocket, telling me that he had to take out his last 1000 Rs to give me a part (to give you an idea, 1000 Rs – the entirety of his bank account and savings – is equivalent to about $20). I felt even guiltier as he gave it to me, as what he said had been true. I had believed him, but still was doubtful enough to need proof. I wish I could rewrite the story and say that I hadn’t, but the part of me that needed to be placated was. The amount was only a fraction of what he owed – he promised to pay the rest as soon as possible – and I told him to get what he could to me when he could. Pretchinne illea, wi tilan – no problem, spirit brother.

As we drove home, Hitler told me of his plan to someday own his own auto, which would save him the very costly daily rent. When I do, he said, “I write on the front, Happy Day!”

“Not ‘Happy Days?’” I asked.

“No, Happy Day only!” he laughed. “Because now is today, and today is Happy.”

Part V: Waiting to be written

I really wish that I could stop the story here and say that the issue had been solved with one small gift. But, as with life anywhere, life goes on for Hitler too. That means a life of happiness, but also a meager income, daily debt in order to make a living, and a wife whose health is perpetually fragile. She will need more medical treatments – perhaps sooner, perhaps later – and, as long as Hitler has to pay rent on his rickshaw, those debts will be difficult to pay.

I didn’t write all of these stories to ask for money on his behalf; Hitler has genuinely touched my heart, and, as you have as well, I wanted to share that experience with you. Hitler’s problems are typical of many wonderful Indians, who are good-natured and kind and struggling due to inefficient systems and poverty that are largely beyond their control. Given the millions of poor and suffering people in every town across the world, the battles that we choose to fight are based on what touches us most. Hitler is one of those poor people, but he is quickly becoming a close friend; I truly do want to help him.

A new rickshaw costs about 50,000 Rs (a little over $1000). I obviously can’t afford to buy him one, or even a significant portion of one, but I really do want to help with what I can. If you feel that you would like to and can help, I think the previous stories can attest to how much it would mean to both me and him. If you do, please send me an email, and I’ll arrange a way to get the money to him. I know all of us look for ways to donate around the holidays, and I can assure you that this donation would improve so much for a new family that already extends love and happiness to all those around them.

Thank you for reading to all of you who did. Take care, much love, and happy days always.

Lending a hand