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Brand new baby Radha

by Cindy Ryan (with Aarti Kalro) (photos by Aarti Kalro)

Maya’s howling, healthy, full-term baby girl, born in a cramped, low-ceilinged home the size of a small bathroom in North America arrived not in a hospital as we had hoped, but in her home with the help of neighbours. Prem, Suman and Nandini have a new sister named Radha. The news of Radha’s birth was given to us by Aarti Kalro who, along with Jaita Guha, has been helping Maya keep her appointments with the Foundation for Mother and Child Health. Dr. Rupal and her excellent caring team were responsible for giving Maya the much-needed advice to keep her healthy during her pregnancy and give hope to all of us that she would have a healthy child.

Just before I left Saki Naka, I helped Maya register at a municipal hospital with the thin shred of hope that she would manage to give birth there when the time came. While municipal hospitals are in need of scrubbing and staff with more time to give, giving birth in one is possibly cleaner and safer than giving birth in a slum home. A hospital birth ensures the baby will have paperwork, a leg up on the system of becoming a bonafide person in India.We can only speculate as to why Maya gave birth at home. Her husband may have been at work when Maya’s labour started and Maya may not have had time to make it to the hospital or she decided she wanted to give birth at home. Radha was born without benefit of doctors, nurses or bureaucracy, as well as being a girl, all a possible recipe for poverty in the mired caste system. What she does have is a loving mother, a father who seems to be excited by her birth and two sisters and a brother who have managed to live through malnutrition and stunted growth to become healthy, active, very smart children. Given a chance in India’s complex social system they could live a fruitful life. Maya is about 25 years old and is a strong, yet physically very tiny woman who is able to stand up for her children and herself and do what’s best in very difficult living conditions. Since Radha’s birth about  6 weeks ago, Maya’s family has chosen to move from Saki Naka to a different community in Mumbai where they will have some help from her husband Pramod’s relatives and a larger room to live in. For that we are all grateful. DWP will continue to assist Maya’s children and support the family with much help from Aarti and Jaita.

Below, in Aarti’s words, are her thoughts on Maya and her involvement with the family.

Maya. 

More than words I am overcome with emotion when I think of Maya.  
While many who don’t know her, might make the assumption that she is shy and a victim of her circumstances, I think differently.  
Maya has been a positive influence in my life. Rather than me giving her anything she has given me a lot. Maybe (it’s my hope) that we give each other strength. I know that Maya has become more brave now that she has DWP’s support. In return, she is an inspiration for me and a reminder that your circumstances do not dictate your happiness.  With her perennial smile, and her innocence, she lifts my spirits when I feel low. 

The last nine months have been exciting and also fraught with worry. Maya calmly left it to us, accepting help and suggestions with full faith. We all hoped at DWP that Mayas pregnancy would go smoothly and the baby be born in a hospital with a birth certificate. We tried. It was not to be so. The baby was born at home with the help of the neighbour . However the baby is healthy and that is most important.  She has an aura of calmness about her and beautiful curious wide eyes like her older sister Nandini. Will she be mischievous like Prem ? Or bubbly like Nandini ? Will she be blatantly truthful like Suman? I don’t know.. She will be loved without doubt.. By 5 wonderful people-her family-and then many more. While she may not grow up with the chances that a lot of us are fortunate to have, I know that she will grow up into a loving individual and have a vibrant life.I hope we can give her a chance to study and a chance to dream. 

Aarti was given the honour of naming the baby which required her to think passionately about what she hopes for this new life. Below is her reason for choosing the name Radha.

Radha was Lord Krishna’s advisor and friend. He was in love with her but she was married. However they are always depicted together, and some say she was even more important than Lord Krishna himself. She is also supposed to be the original goddess of Shakti ( power/energy ).

It is a beautiful name and just has a loving feeling , and softness to it…   Aarti.

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It’s finally here!!!

After 3 years of work which included assistance from numerous people who donated their time to taste test recipes, offer editing expertise and the time-consuming work of designing the book, (huge thanks to Nicole Sims (Coley Sims Creative) who donated hours and hours and hours…) Kerosene Curry has arrived. The book’s journey began in the slum community of Saki Naka, Mumbai nearly three years ago. My mother (Cindy Ryan) spent a very hot and cramped couple of months inside tin shacks huddled over kerosene burners in the lane ways of the community madly trying to decipher the hindi/marathi language using hand gestures as she penned the women’s recipes. The women, who come from all parts of India to attempt a better life in Mumbai, were  humbled, excited and proud to show off their traditional styles of cooking passed down through generations. Leaving Mumbai with a small book filled with wrinkled pages of notes and hundreds of photographs she arrived back home. Three years later, which included multiple trips straddling India and Canada, the crumpled note book has morphed into a beautifully designed book with the women’s stories, recipes and photos of the community they call home. This book has been the ultimate labour of love and we are so excited to bring their recipes to life for all of you.

The women of Girls Can Be (also from the Saki Naka community) spent hours sewing reversible aprons made from 100% cotton sheeting to be sold as a compliment to the cookbook or alone. The colourful, bold patterned sheeting is used in slum homes as bedding and can be seen drying in the sun on bamboo poles, hung on wire lines on the backs of tin huts, and used as curtains in ragged doorways offering colour and pattern to bleak surroundings.

DWP’s new partnership with Lost + Found Cafe in Vancouver has given DWP a new home base here in Canada where you can purchase your very own copy of Kerosene Curry! All proceeds from the sale of the book go to the Dirty Wall Project.

Kerosene Curry Cookbook: $29  

Reversible Apron: $20 

Combination Kerosene Curry cookbook + reversible apron $45 (shipping/handling $5 per book/per apron (within Canada)/ $9 (USA)/ International rates differ depending on country.

To purchase a copy of the book please email: dirtywallproject@gmail.com or call Lost +Found Cafe 604-559-7444 (Vancouver)

Below is the story of how this book came about…

June 2010,  Mumbai, India

My eyes water. It may be from the heap of onions, freshly sliced, sitting on a plate nearby, or it may be from the smoke of burning garbage, or the sweat dripping from my forehead into my eyes, or it may be the kerosene burner, throwing invisible fumes into the small, windowless room.

I wear a scarf to wipe my eyes and my forehead. I wipe my hands on my pants, so that the pen doesn’t slip out of my fingers, and the paper I am writing on stays dry. It is humid, hot and stifling in the tiny dwellings in the slum. I have been invited into their homes to watch and learn how to make amazing, simple, Indian food.

Once the women wake the children, put away the sleeping mat, sweep out their tiny homes, and clear the puddles and garbage away from their doors, we walk to the shops. There is some excitement in deciding what to cook. We shop together at the markets, but I pay for everything. This allows the women to cook recipes they wouldn’t be able to afford, and to make enough to feed their families for a few days, with ingredients left over. I am excited about their menus each day, eager to make sense of the complex flavours, and  learn the methods for making delicious curries, chapati, and sweet treats.

The Saki Naka slum community is home to women from all over India. The food they cook reflects their heritage in the spices they use, the methods they use, and the type of food they covet. Goats were slaughtered in front of me, chickens necks were sliced and their feathers were expertly and quickly removed, fish were grabbed by the gills from a bucket of murky water, slapped on a large, grimy stump, heads were removed, and the scales were scraped with a dull knife. All this bloody carnage was plopped in plastic bags, tied tight, and dropped into the women’s shopping bags, but not before the flies had had their feast on the raw meat. Vegetable vendors line the uneven streets with piles of expertly arranged produce to seduce the crowds of shoppers. We buy bitter gourd, tiny eggplant, lots of onion, bags of garlic, and bunches of cilantro. The tomatoes are plump and juicy and thrown into another plastic bag with some green chilis. I am the subject of much conversation. I can tell by the hundreds of eyes who are staring at the only westerner in these parts. The stares melt into grins and a nod of the head and sometimes a lilting “hello”.

The cooking and the prepping takes place on the floor. Indian women handle food with delicate gestures,  slow chopping, and gentle stirring. The food is not attacked, it is seduced into simmering broths of heady, spicy aromas. Debris from slicing, grating and pounding is scraped by hand off the floor, and put into a container to be disposed of later. Knives are basic. All the prepped ingredients are put into little containers to be used as necessary in the preparation of a meal. Dishes are washed and rinsed under a tap in the corner of the room where they also bathe. They take care to wash all meats and vegetables before using, and  expertly guide children, with their muddly feet,  around the sliced and diced ingredients laying in dishes on the floor. Children are offered tastes in tiny, metal dishes and relish the flavours. Torn pages from newspapers drink the leftover oil from deep fried morsels. Nothing is wasted in the slum. Everything is repurposed.

I watch from my cross-legged position in a corner of the room and write furiously in my notebook,  making notes about approximate quantities (they don’t measure), cooking times, and trying to decipher what they are telling me. They speak Marathi. Sign language is necessary. I am startled when all the homes have an electric grinder to make the masala paste and grind spices. This is their most coveted cooking tool and the their only appliance. As the food bubbles in hammered aluminum pots with plates for lids, the women wipe away the mess on the floor and bring out a wide stainless steel tray with 3″ sides. Flour is sifted in to the tray, water is added bit by bit and their strong, bony hands deftly knead the flour and water mixture into a smooth, elastic dough. Balls of dough are pinched off the large piece, rolled into balls, dipped in flour, flattened into small disks, rolled out, folded, floured, rolled, flipped and finally laid to rest on a pan, pre-heated on the kerosene burner. There is more flipping, and pressing of the dough to make cloud like puffs of air within the layers of dough. Of all the food I have watched the women prepare, the chapati is revered and each woman treats the dough slightly differently, some oil the dough while cooking, some splash it with water. It is eaten everyday and it is necessary for a cook to master the process.

When the food is cooked and ready to eat, all the cooking pots are moved under the tap to be washed later and a fabric or a woven plastic mat is laid out on the floor for seating. Water is poured, perhaps a mango drink is offered. Kane and Ashley are called from their work and the three of us eat, cross-legged on the floor, all eyes watching us.  The hospitality is gracious and sincere. Guests eat first, the family eats later, despite our protestations. Neighbours come by to see how we like the food, children lurk in doorways, and we pepper Ashley with questions about the food, the women and their families, their situations and where they came from. The stories are as varied as the women, and though they all have different financial situations from dire poverty to ownership of a slum home, they live in a community of people bound by a caste system with few opportunities to swim against the tide of poverty.

It has been an enriching experience. I will take with me their lessons on generosity, neighbours helping neighbours, giving when there is nothing to give, and the sincere attitude these women had when trying to teach the foreigner in their midst how to cook on one burner, without measuring, crouched in living spaces not much bigger than a western bathroom.

Though they have yet to dress me in a saree, but have intentions to, I have learned how to say “enough, no more”, in Marathi. “Bus, bus!!” I moan, as they try to feed me another plateful of food.

The Dirty Wall Project will be producing a cookbook of these recipes, with the women’s stories, and photographs of their families, themselves, and their homes. The cookbook will be for sale, with 100% of the proceeds used to make many lives more comfortable in india.

Sincerely,

Cindy Ryan

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The ladder shakes as I reach the top, I steady myself and turn around. I look down through the top of the window where the brown paper has started to come undone and watch people as they walk by. I remember three months ago my bike leaning against the window, face pressed against the dirty glass looking into the space for the first time. My memory flashes forward and I see myself weaving through downtown traffic on my bicycle, a roll of brown paper tucked under my arm, a personal loan, and a rolled up copy of the lease jammed into my front pocket.

It has been two months since I have written a post about DWP and our newest project but things have been anything but quiet. Ten weeks ago, my parents, Salomeh and I walked into the 100 year old building on Vancouver’s downtown east side armed with a tool box and energy. Since then the floors have been ripped up, walls built, puttied and painted, equipment purchased and the kitchen built.  Perched on top of the ladder I look out at the space that will become the ” Lost + Found Cafe”. Four years ago I combined my love of travel and photography into a way to give back to the communities who had welcomed me and DWP was born. Now with the help of my family and Salomeh we are combining my love of travel, photography and social work and adding great food and atmosphere to the mix plus a great space for fundraisers and events. DWP will have a permanent home in the new space. Products sourced from women’s collectives and independent NGO’s have been purchased from South Africa, Cambodia, Uganda, India and Mexico giving funds directly to the people who make them and in turn providing DWP with retail products to sell which will generate funds for DWP projects both in India and Canada. Although the website and Facebook pages have been quiet, India and the communities we support have been steadily in our minds. With the help of Jaita and Aarti we have been able to monitor Maya’s pregnancy from afar. Maya has passed her suspected due date but is relatively healthy. She is nervous but resilient and we all anxious for the arrival of the newest addition to her family.  We speak often to Ranjana, Usha, Indu, Shashi and the girls of GCB.

Over the last month DWP supporters have not gone quiet and donations have continued to flow in despite my relative absence from the website. The continued support has been amazing and I can’t wait to show all of you what the DWP team has created in a 100 year old vacant space in what is dubbed the poorest neighbourhood in Canada.

On behalf of all us we wish you all a Merry Christmas and see you in the New Year…

 

Cheers,

Kane

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