Due to excessive rain the Indian government declared today a holiday. Seriously? Couldn’t anyone fill in the white non-Tamil speaking girl before she hauled herself and about 150 surveys, envelopes, and pens across sloshy Coimbatore??
It’s cool though. I had a great moment on the bus with the rain coming down thinking about the feeling of drinking hot sweet milk and just watching the rain fall. I do love that Indian villages just kind of stop and let themselves be subject to the elements. They sleep in on rainy mornings and wait out the rain on their verandas on during afternoon showers.
So next time I wake up to pouring rain I’ll know better and roll over on my mat and fall back to sleep because I know that’s what the Indian government would want me to do.
Monday, October 20, 2008
Country Music
Listening to country music makes me want to sell what I have, buy a horse, move to a good ol' country town, work on a ranch, and fall in love with a boy who loves his horse almost as much as he loves me.
Saturday, October 18, 2008
An Indian Palm Reading
“Let me see your palm.”
I dropped the papers in my hand onto the table in front of the classroom. I looked around to make sure none of the students were finished with their surveys and waiting for me to collect them.
I put my right hand out so she could see the palm—obeying without thought. The woman, dressed in a simple and smartly wrapped saree, pulled my left hand towards her as well. She looked down quickly at the palms now in her hands.
“Put them together.”
“Wha..?”
Before I could ask she pushed my hands closer together. She shifted her position so that both of us were facing the open, sunlit windows looking at my palms as if I was begging to god for a rupee coin.
She stopped pouring over my empty hands and looked at me. “You can go as far as you want in education.”
“You’re reading my palm?” I thought to myself—not realizing in the last quick moments that this Professor and Head of the Applied Mathematics Department was actually reading my palm. Well of course she would say that about my education—I had come to her to get her permission to conduct a survey in her classroom. I had explained I was a master’s student in sociology in the States and showed her the necessary paperwork I had received from the Registrar of Bharthiar. And now the students in her department were sitting filling out the surveys—talking amongst themselves (helping each other with the English)—while this woman read my palm at the front of the classroom.
She nodded and continued stating the facts she had read, “You will have a good marriage. And your health line is deep—good health. You have a good palm.”
I smiled and let my hands go to my side. “How did you learn to…?”
“My father was also a professor, but he had this as a hobby. I learned from him.” She picked up my hands again, pushing them back together. This time adjusting them to face the light of the windows better.
While pouring over my hands she said, “Yes you do have a good palm. You will be good at your education if you choose to continue.” Looking at me she explained, “Some girls will come to my office and I will look at their palms. I sometimes see that their education is short; something will get in the way of their studies. I don’t take on those students because they will not complete the program. I know they won’t finish so I don’t take them on. But you have a good line—you will be successful at education.”
I was intrigued and wanted her to continue mostly wondering if she saw something bad she was trying to keep from me. I tried not to look if the students sitting at their desks were listening in on this palm reading. I didn’t want to draw attention to them.
“You do have a good palm.” She pulled my hands which now hung limp at my sides again to the same position and poured quickly again. “Yes good health and you will have a handsome husband.”
“Thanks.” Feeling like the comment about my husband was more of bonus she had just thrown in for fun. She pulled away and asked the students if they were finished with the surveys. I picked up my papers and watched for students finished thinking, “Only in India would a professor read your palm and not think anything of it.” I smiled and tried to suppress the desire to ask her more about the future in my hand.
I dropped the papers in my hand onto the table in front of the classroom. I looked around to make sure none of the students were finished with their surveys and waiting for me to collect them.
I put my right hand out so she could see the palm—obeying without thought. The woman, dressed in a simple and smartly wrapped saree, pulled my left hand towards her as well. She looked down quickly at the palms now in her hands.
“Put them together.”
“Wha..?”
Before I could ask she pushed my hands closer together. She shifted her position so that both of us were facing the open, sunlit windows looking at my palms as if I was begging to god for a rupee coin.
She stopped pouring over my empty hands and looked at me. “You can go as far as you want in education.”
“You’re reading my palm?” I thought to myself—not realizing in the last quick moments that this Professor and Head of the Applied Mathematics Department was actually reading my palm. Well of course she would say that about my education—I had come to her to get her permission to conduct a survey in her classroom. I had explained I was a master’s student in sociology in the States and showed her the necessary paperwork I had received from the Registrar of Bharthiar. And now the students in her department were sitting filling out the surveys—talking amongst themselves (helping each other with the English)—while this woman read my palm at the front of the classroom.
She nodded and continued stating the facts she had read, “You will have a good marriage. And your health line is deep—good health. You have a good palm.”
I smiled and let my hands go to my side. “How did you learn to…?”
“My father was also a professor, but he had this as a hobby. I learned from him.” She picked up my hands again, pushing them back together. This time adjusting them to face the light of the windows better.
While pouring over my hands she said, “Yes you do have a good palm. You will be good at your education if you choose to continue.” Looking at me she explained, “Some girls will come to my office and I will look at their palms. I sometimes see that their education is short; something will get in the way of their studies. I don’t take on those students because they will not complete the program. I know they won’t finish so I don’t take them on. But you have a good line—you will be successful at education.”
I was intrigued and wanted her to continue mostly wondering if she saw something bad she was trying to keep from me. I tried not to look if the students sitting at their desks were listening in on this palm reading. I didn’t want to draw attention to them.
“You do have a good palm.” She pulled my hands which now hung limp at my sides again to the same position and poured quickly again. “Yes good health and you will have a handsome husband.”
“Thanks.” Feeling like the comment about my husband was more of bonus she had just thrown in for fun. She pulled away and asked the students if they were finished with the surveys. I picked up my papers and watched for students finished thinking, “Only in India would a professor read your palm and not think anything of it.” I smiled and tried to suppress the desire to ask her more about the future in my hand.
A Bucket Shower Thought
After spending all week getting little sleep, spending at least 18 hours on a variety of buses, and knowing that I would do it all again next week I had a hard time getting out of bed this Saturday morning. I rolled over on my thin mat, smelled my nasty pillow as I pulled my knees under me. I said a short prayer, felt myself drifting back to sleep, and then moved into a sitting position in front of my unorganized backpack of clothes. I pulled out my ziplock of shower supplies. I rummaged through my stuff trying to find my box of soap that was not in the ziplock. I tried to be quiet, but gave up the search, I softly said, “Alyssa you mind if I use your soap?” She mumbled, rolled over to a sitting position near her things, and pulled out some soap then rolled back to her sleeping position.
I grabbed my thin Indian towel hanging from the clothes line above my bed and headed out to the shower. I filled up a bucket of water in the toilet area of the bathroom and placed it in the other portion of the bathroom. I looked at my watch—7:05. No time to dabble. I dumped the first cupful of cold water on my head. Cold!
Now, this is nothing new. With the cooler weather has come cold water to bathe in. I haven’t minded much—it’s usually that first cupful that’s the worse. I usually just shiver, suppress a cry, and follow it with the next cupful while trying to rub my hair so that it gets wet all the way through. But today as I was putting the second cupful I visualized my shower at my last apartment. It was nothing special, but it had a spout that forced warm water onto my body and into my hair.
The thought of not having to try and maneuver one hand to pour water while the other hand tries to scrub the copious dirt off my body—well the thought was powerful. I yearned so badly at that moment for my American shower. Nothing could console me except the thought that I will be leaving the village (and its accompanying cold bucket showers) in two weeks, where I spend a short three weeks showering in a slight upgrade in the bathrooms of backpacking hotels. After those five weeks and a 20 (or so) hour journey I will be home taking a warm shower without wearing my sandals!
As I finished up my bucket shower I was surprised at my feelings. I have taken plenty of bucket showers in the last 6 months. Sometimes I think, “I’m glad I don’t have to do this the rest of my life.” But I never really care all that much—it’s just a thought. Today was a full on visualization and accompanying emotions of longing for home.
Basically what I’m saying is it’s been a very busy (and rough) couple of weeks and I’m ready for this research project to be finished so that I can get home and enjoy the holidays with my family! Good thing too since I’ll be home in no time wishing for the simplicity of things like bucket showers.
I grabbed my thin Indian towel hanging from the clothes line above my bed and headed out to the shower. I filled up a bucket of water in the toilet area of the bathroom and placed it in the other portion of the bathroom. I looked at my watch—7:05. No time to dabble. I dumped the first cupful of cold water on my head. Cold!
Now, this is nothing new. With the cooler weather has come cold water to bathe in. I haven’t minded much—it’s usually that first cupful that’s the worse. I usually just shiver, suppress a cry, and follow it with the next cupful while trying to rub my hair so that it gets wet all the way through. But today as I was putting the second cupful I visualized my shower at my last apartment. It was nothing special, but it had a spout that forced warm water onto my body and into my hair.
The thought of not having to try and maneuver one hand to pour water while the other hand tries to scrub the copious dirt off my body—well the thought was powerful. I yearned so badly at that moment for my American shower. Nothing could console me except the thought that I will be leaving the village (and its accompanying cold bucket showers) in two weeks, where I spend a short three weeks showering in a slight upgrade in the bathrooms of backpacking hotels. After those five weeks and a 20 (or so) hour journey I will be home taking a warm shower without wearing my sandals!
As I finished up my bucket shower I was surprised at my feelings. I have taken plenty of bucket showers in the last 6 months. Sometimes I think, “I’m glad I don’t have to do this the rest of my life.” But I never really care all that much—it’s just a thought. Today was a full on visualization and accompanying emotions of longing for home.
Basically what I’m saying is it’s been a very busy (and rough) couple of weeks and I’m ready for this research project to be finished so that I can get home and enjoy the holidays with my family! Good thing too since I’ll be home in no time wishing for the simplicity of things like bucket showers.
Thursday, October 9, 2008
A few of my favorite things
The way Jeeva looks at me, like a daughter and friend.
The way I feel after filling the cistern with water.
Putting my legs up after a long ride home standing on the bus.
The way Solomani and I are now good friends even though we can't communicate verbally.
The way I've come to really enjoy dressing up Indian style! (chuidar, earrings, bindi, bangles, jasmine in my hair, jingling anklets and all)
That Appa knows my name.
Being able to confront my anger and frustrations when things don't go my way.
Drinking hot, thick milk with sugar in the mornings.
Idli. so yum.
Fighting my way up the bus to get a seat.
Standing up for myself while fighting out the water politics--yes it's our turn to fill our cistern, no I don't speak Tamil, and no you will not fill just 4 buckets.
The juiceman at Ghandipuram and how he asks about us when we haven’t come around in awhile.
Sitting around just chatting to pass the time.
Long talks on the long walk to the and from the main road.
The way our internet guy smiles at us when we come in saying "browsing"--yes we're regulars and yes this is the best internet in town.
Hour long conversations on the veranda.
Shopping in Coimbatore. Taking the time to do a little bargaining.
Eating out at a really fancy restaurant for under 5 bucks.
Getting a good night’s sleep on a thin mat and cement floor.
Feeling like this is home.
I’m starting to wonder if I’ll be ready to go home when the time comes. I only have a month and a half left—3 weeks of which will be spent on the road! I know I’m looking forward to getting home to my family, my friends, and my overly large shoe collection, but I will sure miss this place. I’m sure I could think of plenty more to add to the list, but I’ll refrain.
The way I feel after filling the cistern with water.
Putting my legs up after a long ride home standing on the bus.
The way Solomani and I are now good friends even though we can't communicate verbally.
The way I've come to really enjoy dressing up Indian style! (chuidar, earrings, bindi, bangles, jasmine in my hair, jingling anklets and all)
That Appa knows my name.
Being able to confront my anger and frustrations when things don't go my way.
Drinking hot, thick milk with sugar in the mornings.
Idli. so yum.
Fighting my way up the bus to get a seat.
Standing up for myself while fighting out the water politics--yes it's our turn to fill our cistern, no I don't speak Tamil, and no you will not fill just 4 buckets.
The juiceman at Ghandipuram and how he asks about us when we haven’t come around in awhile.
Sitting around just chatting to pass the time.
Long talks on the long walk to the and from the main road.
The way our internet guy smiles at us when we come in saying "browsing"--yes we're regulars and yes this is the best internet in town.
Hour long conversations on the veranda.
Shopping in Coimbatore. Taking the time to do a little bargaining.
Eating out at a really fancy restaurant for under 5 bucks.
Getting a good night’s sleep on a thin mat and cement floor.
Feeling like this is home.
I’m starting to wonder if I’ll be ready to go home when the time comes. I only have a month and a half left—3 weeks of which will be spent on the road! I know I’m looking forward to getting home to my family, my friends, and my overly large shoe collection, but I will sure miss this place. I’m sure I could think of plenty more to add to the list, but I’ll refrain.
A Quarter of a Century
I am officially turning 25 (a quarter of a century) in 3 days time. I can't tell you how excited I am. Well, not THAT excited since most likely all I'll do is watch General Conference and share candies with my host family and church friends (an Indian tradition). But there is something magic about 25. I feel like I'll be old enough, but not too old. I can be taken seriously, but don't have to take myself seriously. I'm young enough to dream, but old enough to make those dreams actually happen. No really it feels a bit magical. Things just get better with age and this year I can feel myself just getting better and better all the time.
The usual and unusual happenings in India
I've been so busy getting research done I haven't had much time to think about posting on my blog. I think maybe a list of the usual, the strange, and maybe the uniquely Indian things I've encountered lately would suffice.
I think I have waited over 12 hours outside the principal’s office at the PSG college over a period of about two weeks--watching her poor assistant jump up and run into the plush red carpeted office every time she rang a buzzer from behind her desk. I just wanted to get permission to do research and a letter stating such, but apparently I didn't have enough clout to avoid the waiting.
The women on the bus may fight all the way up the stairs (elbowing and all) in order to get a seat, but then are graciously willing to hold the varied belongings of those unfortunate enough to have to stand. The other day I was on a particularly crowded bus. Having fought the fight for my seat when a little boy was shoved between the two ladies I assumed he was being entrusted to my care. I spied the mother in between the shoulders of some women between us, and she was surprised to see a white girl holding her young son! They never seem to let us (the white girls) hold their brown babies. He fell asleep on my lap during the 30 minute ride home--beautiful.
I was riding the bus home one night when the driver slammed on the breaks. There was an annoyed cry from everyone standing, but the breaking didn't stop. A car hit the front side of the bus, on the drivers side! I have only seen one accident in India (an amazing thing to me with all the crazy, no logic driving that happens here), but for the first time I was actually involved in an accident. Being so close to home, I got out and stood on the periphery of the crowd to see if the people in the car were alright, then walked the rest of the way home.
A couple of nights ago Alyssa and I were sitting in the dark on the veranda talking, since neither of us could catch a wink of sleep with the power out and the fan not running. She saw something slither and said, "I think I saw a snake." I went and got a flashlight to be sure. By the time I got back sure enough the snake had slithered it's way towards the veranda. We woke up first Marc, a visiting field facilitator, then Appa, the grandfather in the family who sleeps on the veranda. He came wielding his broom (logical, since when we usually scream it's over a spider) when he saw the snake he banged on Matthew's door. Matthew came out, looked closely at the snake, said it was poisonous, and then killed it by crushing the head with a large stick. We all stood there for some time watching the snake twitch post death and Matthew would jump in and say how grateful he was we saw it and were able to kill the thing. In a concerned voice he talked about how his wife often walks out to go to the bathroom in the night without a flashlight--"she could have stepped on it" he said over and over while shaking his head. It felt like having a close call while driving my car--I'm grateful I didn't hurt anyone or anything, but feel scared at how close that could have been.
Having lived in this village for a total of 5 months I've heard lots about snakes (how dangerous they are etc.) but I had never seen them. Well Alyssa and I were walking out to the road for lunch yesterday when we saw a rather large, thick snake crossing the road. We patiently waited for him to pass and then went on our way. Two snakes in two weeks--must be an auspicious time for me.
One other thing. I went to a holiday for work--it's a Hindu holiday where they clean up their workplace and organize things and then bless all the machines and whatnot. I sat for 2 hours watching men put up streamers. I couldn't help but think it was funny watching these manly men carefully rolling the streamers and color coordinating and everything. They would have put Martha Stewart to shame. The women swept up the floor of the small factory and made a kolum (a large chalk design) outside the office door. Flowers were hung everywhere. And when the big moment came for the pooja, the men lit a long line of firecrackers that popped for at least 5 minutes while the priest was running around lighting all the camphor placed on the machines. Like many Hindu ceremonies it was long, drawn-out, and felt a bit anticlimactic, but also worth it. We ate, hung around for quite some time, and finally caught the 3G bus home.
I think I have waited over 12 hours outside the principal’s office at the PSG college over a period of about two weeks--watching her poor assistant jump up and run into the plush red carpeted office every time she rang a buzzer from behind her desk. I just wanted to get permission to do research and a letter stating such, but apparently I didn't have enough clout to avoid the waiting.
The women on the bus may fight all the way up the stairs (elbowing and all) in order to get a seat, but then are graciously willing to hold the varied belongings of those unfortunate enough to have to stand. The other day I was on a particularly crowded bus. Having fought the fight for my seat when a little boy was shoved between the two ladies I assumed he was being entrusted to my care. I spied the mother in between the shoulders of some women between us, and she was surprised to see a white girl holding her young son! They never seem to let us (the white girls) hold their brown babies. He fell asleep on my lap during the 30 minute ride home--beautiful.
I was riding the bus home one night when the driver slammed on the breaks. There was an annoyed cry from everyone standing, but the breaking didn't stop. A car hit the front side of the bus, on the drivers side! I have only seen one accident in India (an amazing thing to me with all the crazy, no logic driving that happens here), but for the first time I was actually involved in an accident. Being so close to home, I got out and stood on the periphery of the crowd to see if the people in the car were alright, then walked the rest of the way home.
A couple of nights ago Alyssa and I were sitting in the dark on the veranda talking, since neither of us could catch a wink of sleep with the power out and the fan not running. She saw something slither and said, "I think I saw a snake." I went and got a flashlight to be sure. By the time I got back sure enough the snake had slithered it's way towards the veranda. We woke up first Marc, a visiting field facilitator, then Appa, the grandfather in the family who sleeps on the veranda. He came wielding his broom (logical, since when we usually scream it's over a spider) when he saw the snake he banged on Matthew's door. Matthew came out, looked closely at the snake, said it was poisonous, and then killed it by crushing the head with a large stick. We all stood there for some time watching the snake twitch post death and Matthew would jump in and say how grateful he was we saw it and were able to kill the thing. In a concerned voice he talked about how his wife often walks out to go to the bathroom in the night without a flashlight--"she could have stepped on it" he said over and over while shaking his head. It felt like having a close call while driving my car--I'm grateful I didn't hurt anyone or anything, but feel scared at how close that could have been.
Having lived in this village for a total of 5 months I've heard lots about snakes (how dangerous they are etc.) but I had never seen them. Well Alyssa and I were walking out to the road for lunch yesterday when we saw a rather large, thick snake crossing the road. We patiently waited for him to pass and then went on our way. Two snakes in two weeks--must be an auspicious time for me.
One other thing. I went to a holiday for work--it's a Hindu holiday where they clean up their workplace and organize things and then bless all the machines and whatnot. I sat for 2 hours watching men put up streamers. I couldn't help but think it was funny watching these manly men carefully rolling the streamers and color coordinating and everything. They would have put Martha Stewart to shame. The women swept up the floor of the small factory and made a kolum (a large chalk design) outside the office door. Flowers were hung everywhere. And when the big moment came for the pooja, the men lit a long line of firecrackers that popped for at least 5 minutes while the priest was running around lighting all the camphor placed on the machines. Like many Hindu ceremonies it was long, drawn-out, and felt a bit anticlimactic, but also worth it. We ate, hung around for quite some time, and finally caught the 3G bus home.
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