First-ish impressions

I feel like it's a bit my blogging duty to let you all in on life in Tiruchuli. The only problem is that, much like everything I see, nothing has a unifying sense. There is no "story" to tell about my coming here and not even really one about how the last week has unfolded. So in no particular order, here is some of what I've seen:
Almost all men wear light cotton, plaid printed shirts, and the shirts are sold in abundance in just about every store I pass. The women from the microfinance self-help groups crowd around me and exclaim that my hair is too short and that my earrings are very fine though not made of gold. Some wonder, because of my retainers, if I've lost all my teeth. This rumor subsists for a number of days, only to be stamped out for good once I give a short demonstration of their removal to a few interested staff members. I thank God I don't have braces on here. I could never explain them. One day, as I choked on a curried pea at lunch, one of the staff members gave my head 5 impressive, yet gentle, slaps. One must not wear shoes into the Hindu temple, but cell phones left on "ring" are ok. I asked one of the staff members what his favorite color was, and he replied "Rose." There is a mutt at the office who could rival any of the dog fighters in Amores Perros. She is all rough and grunge and just what Eminem wants you to think of Detroit and what you hope, deep inside, Paris Hilton doesn't encounter in jail. Sometimes, staring at her from a safe distance, I wonder if she's not Cerberus searching for her other two heads. Her name is Rainbow. But the way it's pronounced here, it sounds like Rambo, and that's what I say as I skirt around her. Yesterday I went Sari shopping. I left my shoes outside the shop, shuffled in past rows and rows of saris stacked to the ceiling, stretching down a single, fluorescent lit hallway. I sat on the ground and a man tossed one sari after another at me, leaving me no time to decide which ones I liked. And you can't decide what you like. There are too many and if you express interest in one, 20 more that slightly resemble it are tossed your way until you think you might drown in a sea of plastic and sequins and silk. "You like?" he asks. "You like." He asserts. Apparently enough. I bought 2 cotton saris, a thinner "synthetic" one, and a silk one for the wedding I'll be attending, as well as my own weight in cloth for the tiny belly shirts that all women wear underneath their saris. Today, I was brought to a house on the main street where a woman ushered me into her sewing room so she could measure me for the shirts. Four Indian women stood around, gaping at the size of my arms, and the seamstress kept darting out of the house to find a prototype shirt that would fit me. She must have ran all over town looking for one, banging on the door of the largest woman she could find after I practically ripped the first one she had me wear. Only after three tries, showers of laughter at the width of my shoulders, and much head wobbling and general commotion about my very non-Indian size, it was decided that the shirts could, against all odds, be made.

The days are simple and ripe and full of laughter. As one staff member describes the office life "Each day is being a holiday. Each day is being a work day."

-Phoebe