I was never very good at goodbyes. When I went to New Zealand and lived with as an exchange student (of sorts) for 5 weeks I found myself tearless at the airport trying to console the other 3 girls with me as we went back to America. I always like the scene in the Sixth Sense where the boy and the man pretend that they will see each other the next day even though this will be their last goodbye.
The boy says, "See you tomorrow."
The man replies, "See you tomorrow." And the man walks off.
I wish all my goodbyes could be that inconspicuous, none of this waving a handkerchief, running after a train, long crushing hugs. I would just like to walk out of your life like I walked into it. And we'll both know what that interaction (long or short) did or did not mean to us; none of this flaunting our relationship through dramatic scenes of parting sorrow.
The Daniels see so many students come and go I feel like all their goodbyes are of the simple, loving, but short nature. I'm sure they miss some students more than others. But they don't make a big deal about it. The first time I left them I know they didn't think I was coming back. They thought I hated India, and well they were sort of right. Only later did I see the value of my experiences in India. I knew (even then) I would come back, if only to prove to myself that I could do it better the second time.
Well, do it better I did. I even came to love the place. Strange that something so difficult could become so beloved.
I came to really love that family, especially Jeeva. Jeeva, the host mother, is a gentle quiet woman. I'm afraid that many students come to see her as part of the background. I think they perceive her as possibly a little dumb and quite submissive. Over those 4 months I was living there in their house I came to respect her more and more as a strong leader in her family, in the church, and among her neighbors.
My last day there Matthew, the host father, had gone into town. The girls, Jeeva and I sat on the porch waiting for 11:30 bus to come. We moved to the bus stop near their house. Jeeva came and stood with me, something I never expected her to do. As I stood by this small woman I knew we had shared a lot. I can't quite describe what we shared, or what made it different to leave her this time, but it was different. I think it has something to do with the many little moments we had together.
• That one Sunday night her Salomane tied me in a saree like the old village women and I hobbled around making Jeeva, Priya, and Salomane laugh harder than I've ever heard them before.
• The sacrament meeting where I watched Jeeva cry while giving a talk.
• The random evenings spent hanging around the kitchen just shooting the breeze.
• The daily ritual (created over time) of finding Jeeva when I got home and asking about her day and telling her about mine.
• The day I made Jeeva and Matthew laugh by sharing my silly thoughts on wanting to pick up the short old crabby ladies on the bus so they can hang on the tall bar (like some monkey bar) and stop pushing me out of my spot.
• The water days where we got Jeeva to come to the government tap (our own "nuclear weapon" to any conflict) to deliver justice and put the other ladies in their place.
• The mornings I woke early and watched with interest as Jeeva dunged the courtyard.
• The times she invited me in alone to eat with her family.
• Hearing her tell about bearing her testimony to the Jehovah Witnesses that came by.
• Listening to her broken English as she talked about what she saw on Guinness World Records Television Show and being amazed with her at all the crazy feats people do.
• The afternoons she put me in charge of their family's little shop while she ran an errand.
In some way all of those little moments added up to a deep and meaningful relationship and I was sad to leave her. Not that I was sad to leave India. It felt like the right time for me to leave. I knew I had had wonderful experiences and would have those memories for a long while.
It was my deep relationships with people in the States that made me homesick while in India. And it will be those deep relationships in India that make me long for that place. My ex-boyfriend grew up in Kenya and Nepal, but always spent his summers in Idaho at his grandma's house. He talked about living in-between, never really having a place he considers home. I don't feel that. I have a home and it's in Arizona. But I am finding that I make myself at home wherever I go by surrounding myself with loving relationships. After enough traveling I suppose I'll always be missing someone from a place far from me.
Showing posts with label India. Show all posts
Showing posts with label India. Show all posts
Friday, December 12, 2008
Preparation for Reentry
When I came to India I tried to keep myself from daydreaming about my life in the States--I didn't want to crave one place while residing in another. I wanted to embrace fully Indian's "live-in-the-moment" way of life. And for the last seven months that meant living in India. So there I was on my last long bus ride, I was leaving for the States in less than four days. The girls in my group teased me that I would be so weird when I got home. And I knew they were right. I had tried in the last three weeks not to talk too much of home since the girls weren't leaving for another two weeks. I realized I wasn't quite ready to go home. So I thought to myself, "OK Liann you have got start thinking about going home. You don't want to be too weird on reentry."
Thoughts I had previously forced out of my head were now welcomed in with all their vividness. Images of my parents' three-story home, large dinners of Thanksgivings past, warm showers, my overly abundant wardrobe, and my little gray Sentra came and went as I watched the lush green plants of India pass by. More vivid images rushed in: my brothers and sisters, my nieces and nephews, my friends--all dressed in nice, clean clothes, some with expensive cell phones and new cars. I pictured conversations I'd have with my family, trying to summarize my "foreign" experiences trying to understand what they found important in the last seven months of their lives.
My thoughts were interrupted as the bus came to a stop. The trees gave way to a dusty bus stop. About 10 men dressed in lungis and thread bare button-up shirts swarmed the bus. Each carried a basket full of some fruits or vegetables to sell; most carried cut up cucumbers. Each man rushed to a different window yelling to the passengers inside, sometimes even pushing the bag into the window forcing the vegetables on unsuspecting persons.
Instead of the feeling annoyed like I usually do when I get bombarded with aggressive salesmen, I saw these men for what they were: people, men, most likely husbands and fathers with more than their own mouth to feed. Questions came to mind. How many bags of 10 rupee cucumbers a man must sell in a day to provide for his family? What happens if he doesn't sell all the bags? Is he able to store and sell them again tomorrow? All I know is these men were fighting in this small town bus stand to sell what they had.
I normally don't get emotional about these kinds of scenes in India--they happen regularly. It's just the way of life here--poor people beg every day. Especially after living the life of a villager for so many months (carrying my own water, eating at humble roadside stalls, experiencing the regular power outages) it didn't feel needful to mourn their lifestyle. However, that day the gap between my own life in America and the lives of these men felt so wide. I fought back tears. I had seen so much poverty in the last seven months but not yet mourned it and I wasn't ready to cry over it all here on this crowded hot bus.
I remember talking with a European woman while I was in Thailand who had visited India. She described passing begging children on the street her first day in Delhi. She took them to an ice cream stall and bought each one of them ice cream then went to her hotel and cried and cried over the poverty she had seen. As I listened to her story I felt myself do a mental shrug. "What an overreaction" I thought. Then worry filled me! "Has living in India so long really made my heart so callous?"
I don't know the answer to that. I do know what I felt that day on the bus. I also know I don't feel compelled to dedicate my life to international development. I've seen a little more of the world than some and understand the magnitude of the things I own, but also the burden they bring at times. I'm very privileged materially, but also didn't see much of my father while growing up. So here I am, in America wondering how I'll ever put all these beautiful, painful, and sometimes strange life experiences in some sort of perspective. It's all just piecemeal, no simple and beautiful conclusion--kind of like how they are presented on this blog, one random story after another. That's life I guess. And if struggling with that makes me a little "weird" on reentry...well so be it.
Thoughts I had previously forced out of my head were now welcomed in with all their vividness. Images of my parents' three-story home, large dinners of Thanksgivings past, warm showers, my overly abundant wardrobe, and my little gray Sentra came and went as I watched the lush green plants of India pass by. More vivid images rushed in: my brothers and sisters, my nieces and nephews, my friends--all dressed in nice, clean clothes, some with expensive cell phones and new cars. I pictured conversations I'd have with my family, trying to summarize my "foreign" experiences trying to understand what they found important in the last seven months of their lives.
My thoughts were interrupted as the bus came to a stop. The trees gave way to a dusty bus stop. About 10 men dressed in lungis and thread bare button-up shirts swarmed the bus. Each carried a basket full of some fruits or vegetables to sell; most carried cut up cucumbers. Each man rushed to a different window yelling to the passengers inside, sometimes even pushing the bag into the window forcing the vegetables on unsuspecting persons.
Instead of the feeling annoyed like I usually do when I get bombarded with aggressive salesmen, I saw these men for what they were: people, men, most likely husbands and fathers with more than their own mouth to feed. Questions came to mind. How many bags of 10 rupee cucumbers a man must sell in a day to provide for his family? What happens if he doesn't sell all the bags? Is he able to store and sell them again tomorrow? All I know is these men were fighting in this small town bus stand to sell what they had.
I normally don't get emotional about these kinds of scenes in India--they happen regularly. It's just the way of life here--poor people beg every day. Especially after living the life of a villager for so many months (carrying my own water, eating at humble roadside stalls, experiencing the regular power outages) it didn't feel needful to mourn their lifestyle. However, that day the gap between my own life in America and the lives of these men felt so wide. I fought back tears. I had seen so much poverty in the last seven months but not yet mourned it and I wasn't ready to cry over it all here on this crowded hot bus.
I remember talking with a European woman while I was in Thailand who had visited India. She described passing begging children on the street her first day in Delhi. She took them to an ice cream stall and bought each one of them ice cream then went to her hotel and cried and cried over the poverty she had seen. As I listened to her story I felt myself do a mental shrug. "What an overreaction" I thought. Then worry filled me! "Has living in India so long really made my heart so callous?"
I don't know the answer to that. I do know what I felt that day on the bus. I also know I don't feel compelled to dedicate my life to international development. I've seen a little more of the world than some and understand the magnitude of the things I own, but also the burden they bring at times. I'm very privileged materially, but also didn't see much of my father while growing up. So here I am, in America wondering how I'll ever put all these beautiful, painful, and sometimes strange life experiences in some sort of perspective. It's all just piecemeal, no simple and beautiful conclusion--kind of like how they are presented on this blog, one random story after another. That's life I guess. And if struggling with that makes me a little "weird" on reentry...well so be it.
Friday, November 14, 2008
Her Big Fat Hindu Wedding
I had just convinced myself that I am happy single. Not that it's been hard to convince myself of—I've been unexplainably happy here in
However, I found my resolve melting as I watched this wedding unfold. Wait, first I’ll explain: I had been invited to this unconventional wedding by a professor in the Physical Education Department at
Jeff was working for an IT company in
We came the night before the wedding to watch the many ceremonies surrounding the engagement. And that’s when my perfectly happy single future started looking like it might be missing something important.
Jeff was sitting on the “stage” holding the wedding saree his bride would be wearing the next morning. He was supposed to be presenting the saree to Vidiya’s sister. While holding out the saree to his soon-to-be sister-in-law, an old man from the village stood in front of the two singing old Tamil songs. The man was dressed in a worn button down shirt which was not quite white anymore, a lungi which looks like a long white hiked up to his knees and a towel wrapped around his head like a makeshift turban. He would throw rice at certain intervals during his singing and the drummer would hit his drum to emphasize the rice throwing. Frankly, it looked sort of ridiculous. Having been in
Jeff thought so too, but tried desperately to keep his composure, maintaining the dignity of the ceremony. He did well until the man’s singing droned on and on. Vidiya sneaked into the audience, sat on the second row, and started smiling at Jeff. His calm, dignified listening was interrupted as he couldn’t keep from smiling at her—a very shy sort of smile. My eyes darted back and froth between the two of them—yep, it was the look of love.
I watched them both again the next morning—this time I was sitting behind Jeff who was in the audience on the first row as he anticipated the arrival of his bride. His anticipation was killing me! She walked in and he only had eyes for Vidiya dressed in that beautiful pink saree. There are so many clichés I could use, but I must say I don’t think I’d do that couple justice. Their love for each other was so visible. I was touched at her willingness to go through a Catholic wedding and his willingness to go through a Hindu wedding. The sacrifice they were willing to make, the complete acceptance of each other (“weird” culture and all), and the deep love they conveyed in those small glances.
Maybe I won’t be so happy as a lone world traveler. Maybe I would like to have someone like that in my life. Maybe. It's yet to be seen if love will attack me with such force.
Friday, November 7, 2008
Making a Living by His Sweat and Blood
I don’t want you to think that this is normal—in the 10 months I have spent in India (last trip and this) I have never seen anything like this. Not that there aren’t beggars in India. There are plenty women carrying babies asking for milk money, kids touching your arms again and again repeating “Ma!”, and handicapped people laying on the side of the road displaying their deformities for money. But this, this was different.
I’d seen this “family” before—one man, an adolescent girl, and a small boy about 6 or 7 years old. On Diwalli we watched the man crack his whip and walk down the street to the sound of bells on his anklets. The girl will often play the weird sounding drum—I’m struck by her dirty salwar camis and her missing scarf. The boy often tags along with the drumming girl.
This Saturday afternoon we were standing at Gandhipuram waiting for the bus 96 to take us home when the family began. The man cracked his whip a few times in front of the waiting crowd. The young boy wandered through the mass with what looked like red paint splotches covering his chest. The girl started playing the weird drum while the boy and man emerged from the crowd and started stomping around with their bell covered feet, dancing on this makeshift stage--the road.
When he felt like enough of the apathetic crowd was watching, the man pulled out a knife turned so we could all see as he began cutting his forearm again and again—slicing it like the “cutters” I learned about in my psychology class. My stomach turned as I saw pink flesh. I tried to look away, but noticing the many scars on his arm I couldn’t stop staring. This was not the first time.
Like he had pulled a magic rabbit out of a hat he displayed his bleeding arm to the now fidgety group. He walked back and forth ignoring a bus as it pulled through past him and making a show of smearing some blood onto his own chest.
The drumming increased, but I didn’t appreciate the added dramatic flare. Horror came as I watched the boy lay down on his back, the man kneeled next to him and squeezed his fists over and over again so blood would drip onto the boy’s chest—making one more red splotch. The man then stood, cracked the whip a few times—intentionally hitting his arm with the tip as he wrapped it around himself.
The money collecting began. The girl, boy, and man wandered through the throng their hands out ready to collect spare rupees. The crowd was amazingly still and silent and a few reluctant people gave. The man stomped his feet in front of a group of well dressed Indian men, gestured to his bleeding arm, and stared with pleading in his eyes. It was a look that said, “I’m giving my sweat and blood here—can’t you spare a few rupees?” As I watched his face I could only think, “I didn’t ask you to do this to yourself. I’m not going to give you money, encouraging you to repeat this sadistic performance. There has to be a better way for you to provide. Your children should be in school, not taking part in this.”
I swallowed the bile in my mouth willing myself not to loose the contents of my breakfast. I tried to avoid counting the large drops of dried blood on the boy’s chest as he neared me, but I wondered how many times they’d done this “show” today. I hoped he wouldn’t get too close to me—the blood on his chest. I did what I normally do in India when I want to avoid contact: I gave that practiced blank stare and with it the tight control on my emotions. I have this smooth, apathetic look that helps me keep the tears from coming.
I watched as the family collected maybe 5 or 10 rupees for this little performance—20 cents for those drops of blood. There has to be another way. There has to be. I've thought quite a bit about that family since then, but I don't have any concluding thoughts. I'm still trying to figure out what this very vivid scene means to me.
I’d seen this “family” before—one man, an adolescent girl, and a small boy about 6 or 7 years old. On Diwalli we watched the man crack his whip and walk down the street to the sound of bells on his anklets. The girl will often play the weird sounding drum—I’m struck by her dirty salwar camis and her missing scarf. The boy often tags along with the drumming girl.
This Saturday afternoon we were standing at Gandhipuram waiting for the bus 96 to take us home when the family began. The man cracked his whip a few times in front of the waiting crowd. The young boy wandered through the mass with what looked like red paint splotches covering his chest. The girl started playing the weird drum while the boy and man emerged from the crowd and started stomping around with their bell covered feet, dancing on this makeshift stage--the road.
When he felt like enough of the apathetic crowd was watching, the man pulled out a knife turned so we could all see as he began cutting his forearm again and again—slicing it like the “cutters” I learned about in my psychology class. My stomach turned as I saw pink flesh. I tried to look away, but noticing the many scars on his arm I couldn’t stop staring. This was not the first time.
Like he had pulled a magic rabbit out of a hat he displayed his bleeding arm to the now fidgety group. He walked back and forth ignoring a bus as it pulled through past him and making a show of smearing some blood onto his own chest.
The drumming increased, but I didn’t appreciate the added dramatic flare. Horror came as I watched the boy lay down on his back, the man kneeled next to him and squeezed his fists over and over again so blood would drip onto the boy’s chest—making one more red splotch. The man then stood, cracked the whip a few times—intentionally hitting his arm with the tip as he wrapped it around himself.
The money collecting began. The girl, boy, and man wandered through the throng their hands out ready to collect spare rupees. The crowd was amazingly still and silent and a few reluctant people gave. The man stomped his feet in front of a group of well dressed Indian men, gestured to his bleeding arm, and stared with pleading in his eyes. It was a look that said, “I’m giving my sweat and blood here—can’t you spare a few rupees?” As I watched his face I could only think, “I didn’t ask you to do this to yourself. I’m not going to give you money, encouraging you to repeat this sadistic performance. There has to be a better way for you to provide. Your children should be in school, not taking part in this.”
I swallowed the bile in my mouth willing myself not to loose the contents of my breakfast. I tried to avoid counting the large drops of dried blood on the boy’s chest as he neared me, but I wondered how many times they’d done this “show” today. I hoped he wouldn’t get too close to me—the blood on his chest. I did what I normally do in India when I want to avoid contact: I gave that practiced blank stare and with it the tight control on my emotions. I have this smooth, apathetic look that helps me keep the tears from coming.
I watched as the family collected maybe 5 or 10 rupees for this little performance—20 cents for those drops of blood. There has to be another way. There has to be. I've thought quite a bit about that family since then, but I don't have any concluding thoughts. I'm still trying to figure out what this very vivid scene means to me.
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
Crowded Buses: India's Real Battleground
I meant to write about the wedding I went to this last weekend, but ended up writing more about the bus ride there, which spawned this blog entry. I promise an entry on the wedding will follow soon enough.
As we get near to bus stops women try and reposition themselves for an easier and quicker exit. It feels like when you try and put on that old pair of jeans that you know is just a little too tight for you. You inhale deeply and hold it, button, and then exhale and let the fat muffin over the top of your pants. First the inhale—women squeeze themselves into seemingly impossible walls of people. As I stand next to the seats my hip bones get pressed up against the seat as the women force their bodies pass me towards the door or further into the bus to their “spots.” It’s temporary pain as we collectively inhale, but once the bus starts up again we’ve all seemed to find more comfortable ways to bulge at the seams of the bus. Like the tight pair of jeans—it’s never completely comfortable, but it's livable.
Crowded buses are prime time for tempers to flare. With 3 women crammed in the spot near any one seat, when a woman stands to exit the tin can the battle for the empty seat begins. The oldest women are the dirtiest fighters—using elbows, bags, looks that could kill, and loud Tamil as weapons against you. You thought WWII was bad, you should see these women. The white haired ladies may look old, frail, and remind you a little of your sweet grandma at home, but baby all pretenses are off in a crowded bus.
Megan one time had a woman choke her with her own scarf, elbow her in the gut, and then use the strong arm block to claim the seat in front of them both. Creative tactics woman I have to give you that. I always get the sly ones who slip into my seat while my attention is focused on how to shift my weight and bag to get into the seated position while the bus is coming to a complete halt. Sneaky.
Now the buses sound like complete amoral ground, but every new student soon realizes that all is fair in bus wars, except one thing—pregnant women and women with infants always get a seat, so someone better cough it up before the old women start enforcing the rule.
With long hot days in the city and the reality of riding the whole hour home to Chavadi standing settling I sometimes find a bit of fight in me. But I’m not equipped enough for these battles. In general I wish I spoke a little Tamil, but when those women get to yelling at each other over bus seats the desire to know Tamil burns in me. At least I think the fight is over the seats, it could be an ongoing family feud over land—I’d believe it the women fight with enough passion.
I must say while some women see our white skin as easy targets for open seat stealing, others act as the country’s ambassadors. The ambassadors always try to ensure we get seats while the conniving seat thieves go in for the easy kill. I enjoy talking with the ambassadors and have varied reactions to the thieves. Sometimes I get outraged, other times aggressive, and in rare moments I react with a Christian spirit of “you probably need it more than I do.” Maybe all these bus rides are just tests of character. I wonder if I'll ever pass.
As we get near to bus stops women try and reposition themselves for an easier and quicker exit. It feels like when you try and put on that old pair of jeans that you know is just a little too tight for you. You inhale deeply and hold it, button, and then exhale and let the fat muffin over the top of your pants. First the inhale—women squeeze themselves into seemingly impossible walls of people. As I stand next to the seats my hip bones get pressed up against the seat as the women force their bodies pass me towards the door or further into the bus to their “spots.” It’s temporary pain as we collectively inhale, but once the bus starts up again we’ve all seemed to find more comfortable ways to bulge at the seams of the bus. Like the tight pair of jeans—it’s never completely comfortable, but it's livable.
Crowded buses are prime time for tempers to flare. With 3 women crammed in the spot near any one seat, when a woman stands to exit the tin can the battle for the empty seat begins. The oldest women are the dirtiest fighters—using elbows, bags, looks that could kill, and loud Tamil as weapons against you. You thought WWII was bad, you should see these women. The white haired ladies may look old, frail, and remind you a little of your sweet grandma at home, but baby all pretenses are off in a crowded bus.
Megan one time had a woman choke her with her own scarf, elbow her in the gut, and then use the strong arm block to claim the seat in front of them both. Creative tactics woman I have to give you that. I always get the sly ones who slip into my seat while my attention is focused on how to shift my weight and bag to get into the seated position while the bus is coming to a complete halt. Sneaky.
Now the buses sound like complete amoral ground, but every new student soon realizes that all is fair in bus wars, except one thing—pregnant women and women with infants always get a seat, so someone better cough it up before the old women start enforcing the rule.
With long hot days in the city and the reality of riding the whole hour home to Chavadi standing settling I sometimes find a bit of fight in me. But I’m not equipped enough for these battles. In general I wish I spoke a little Tamil, but when those women get to yelling at each other over bus seats the desire to know Tamil burns in me. At least I think the fight is over the seats, it could be an ongoing family feud over land—I’d believe it the women fight with enough passion.
I must say while some women see our white skin as easy targets for open seat stealing, others act as the country’s ambassadors. The ambassadors always try to ensure we get seats while the conniving seat thieves go in for the easy kill. I enjoy talking with the ambassadors and have varied reactions to the thieves. Sometimes I get outraged, other times aggressive, and in rare moments I react with a Christian spirit of “you probably need it more than I do.” Maybe all these bus rides are just tests of character. I wonder if I'll ever pass.
Monday, October 20, 2008
Subject to the Elements
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.
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.
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.
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.
Monday, September 15, 2008
The Answer is 42
As her field facilitator Heidi and I would talk about how to deal with the unique situations she ran into in India. I remember her saying over and over again, "I don't know the answer." as if there was just one answer. I would laugh and having recently read Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy I would respond, "The answer is 42."
In the field studies way I would never try to give her an answer (not that I had one to give in the first place). So, we would talk about the cultural, social, and practical implications of what she might do. We would talk about issues like race, gender, or economic status. We would talk about past field studies students and the impact of their choices. We would then surmise how certain actions would be received within the Indian context. After all that, either Heidi or I would say, "I just don't know the answer." and we'd be back to the old response of 42.
I feel that now. I am back in India facing more new and unique challenges and I don't know what the answer is. Life is too messy for simple answers, and yet I wish it were that simple--like the rote memorization Priya used to get a 20 out of 20 on her latest English test in school. I wish the answer was simply 42.
In the field studies way I would never try to give her an answer (not that I had one to give in the first place). So, we would talk about the cultural, social, and practical implications of what she might do. We would talk about issues like race, gender, or economic status. We would talk about past field studies students and the impact of their choices. We would then surmise how certain actions would be received within the Indian context. After all that, either Heidi or I would say, "I just don't know the answer." and we'd be back to the old response of 42.
I feel that now. I am back in India facing more new and unique challenges and I don't know what the answer is. Life is too messy for simple answers, and yet I wish it were that simple--like the rote memorization Priya used to get a 20 out of 20 on her latest English test in school. I wish the answer was simply 42.
Monday, September 8, 2008
I actually don't like new things
I've heard many college students say that they like to travel because they like to experience new things, they like getting outside their comfort zone, or they like the adventure of it all. I used to use these kinds of phrases as well when I was trying to explain why I like to travel, but I never felt satisfied with those answers. They sounded right, but I never felt right. And they aren't.
In returning to Coimbatore and Chavadi for the third time now I realize I actually love when new places become familiar. As I shared the village gossip about our neighbors with the new field studies students, showed them the shortcut to the second bus stop, and introduced them to my favorite saleswoman at my favorite store (Pushpam at Sree Ganapathi) I felt a certain joy.
It's hard for me to navigate in a new city. I get lonely when I don't know anyone in a place. I feel out of my comfort zone when I have a hard time communicating with locals. Matthew was kind enough to remind me yesterday how miserable he was when I came to India the first time.
The fun thing for me is to wander around one city long enough to know the place. I love having friends to visit or being a regular at a shop. I get such satisfaction from speaking in my Indian English, head bobble and all. So, it's not that I like new places. I like making new places familiar.
In returning to Coimbatore and Chavadi for the third time now I realize I actually love when new places become familiar. As I shared the village gossip about our neighbors with the new field studies students, showed them the shortcut to the second bus stop, and introduced them to my favorite saleswoman at my favorite store (Pushpam at Sree Ganapathi) I felt a certain joy.
It's hard for me to navigate in a new city. I get lonely when I don't know anyone in a place. I feel out of my comfort zone when I have a hard time communicating with locals. Matthew was kind enough to remind me yesterday how miserable he was when I came to India the first time.
The fun thing for me is to wander around one city long enough to know the place. I love having friends to visit or being a regular at a shop. I get such satisfaction from speaking in my Indian English, head bobble and all. So, it's not that I like new places. I like making new places familiar.
I'll make a good Indian wife yet
Whenever I did an awkward thing--like drop my clean, wet laundry on the dirt courtyard or go out to lunch with frizzy hair--Matthew would laugh at me. And in my frustration I'd say I'd never make a good Indian wife, and it's good I'll marry an American! In my mind there are three tasks that Jeeva does regularly that used to seem impossible to me: (1) Haul water (2) Wash laundry (3) Cook Indian food.
I've mastered the art of hauling water during my first stay in the village. I used to spill water all over myself while carrying those small jugs back and forth between the tap and the cistern. I'd watch with envy as Jeeva hauled the big jug of water on her hip and then gracefully bend down to pick up a small jug, never spilling a drop. After 2 months of village life I found that grace of water hauling so unique to Indian women.
However, when it came to laundry during my first stay in the village I'd abscond with my dirty clothes to the bathroom and while I showered I'd wash my clothes in a bucket. During my second stay in the village I think I finally mastered the task of doing my laundry. Thanks to Jill and her helpful tips I have learned the art of beating my laundry on a rock. You may be thinking to yourself, "Come on Liann how hard can it be?" Well, like many things in India (like starting that old kerosene stove)--what seems like a juvenile activity, is actually quite difficult and takes great skill.
To do laundry first I buy a small packet of soap powder, fill a bucket half full of water, and soak your clothes in that soapy water for about a half hour or so. I then haul the bucket of soapy clothes and a bucket of clean water to the large rock.
I take the item of clothing (a pair of pants for example) and use a bar of laundry soap and rub it up against the clothes. With pants I make sure to soap up the hem of the pants and the crotch. Then I lift the pants slightly again and again (sort of like kneading bread dough) to get the soap and water consistent all the way through the cloth. Then comes the fun part.
I whack the pants against the rock, a great stress reliever. I first whack the legs, then the top, and then fold them in half and whack the middle. As I whack the pants against the rock, I watch with satisfaction as the soapy water sprays off the pants, taking the dirt and grime of Indian life with it.
I then scoop clean water onto the pair of pants and whack again and again--this time trying to rid the garment of the soap. I do this twice until the water has fewer suds. I ring out the pants and hang them on one part of the line. When I finish all the clothes in the bucket I add some fabric softener to the clean water and let the clothes soak for five minutes. I ring the water out of the clothes one more time and hang them out on the line to dry.
The key to good laundry is doing it when you hear the whacking of clothes on rocks in your neighborhood. The women choose to wash the mornings the government tap is on and during short, cloudy portions of the afternoon, not during the heat of the day--which is when I usually think to do my laundry. They never seem to wash on a day it rains, never. So, when I hear that rhythmic whacking all around me I know it'd be a good laundry day.
The one seemingly impossible task before making a good villager's wife would be to make tasty Indian food. I have watched Jeeva day in and day out cook out of that small kitchen, power or no power. I've woken up many times to the smell of breakfast wondering how does one create such a beautiful scent. Maybe during my third stay here I'll learn to cook...maybe.
Unfortunately, even if I do I learn how to cook, there are tons of other daily tasks Jeeva does effortlessly that I may never master--like dunging the courtyard, sweeping the veranda just right, and running a tutoring program on her veranda in the evenings to list a few. I'm just glad I'll get to marry someone who is grateful I'm college educated even though I lack many practical life skills.
I've mastered the art of hauling water during my first stay in the village. I used to spill water all over myself while carrying those small jugs back and forth between the tap and the cistern. I'd watch with envy as Jeeva hauled the big jug of water on her hip and then gracefully bend down to pick up a small jug, never spilling a drop. After 2 months of village life I found that grace of water hauling so unique to Indian women.
However, when it came to laundry during my first stay in the village I'd abscond with my dirty clothes to the bathroom and while I showered I'd wash my clothes in a bucket. During my second stay in the village I think I finally mastered the task of doing my laundry. Thanks to Jill and her helpful tips I have learned the art of beating my laundry on a rock. You may be thinking to yourself, "Come on Liann how hard can it be?" Well, like many things in India (like starting that old kerosene stove)--what seems like a juvenile activity, is actually quite difficult and takes great skill.
To do laundry first I buy a small packet of soap powder, fill a bucket half full of water, and soak your clothes in that soapy water for about a half hour or so. I then haul the bucket of soapy clothes and a bucket of clean water to the large rock.
I take the item of clothing (a pair of pants for example) and use a bar of laundry soap and rub it up against the clothes. With pants I make sure to soap up the hem of the pants and the crotch. Then I lift the pants slightly again and again (sort of like kneading bread dough) to get the soap and water consistent all the way through the cloth. Then comes the fun part.
I whack the pants against the rock, a great stress reliever. I first whack the legs, then the top, and then fold them in half and whack the middle. As I whack the pants against the rock, I watch with satisfaction as the soapy water sprays off the pants, taking the dirt and grime of Indian life with it.
I then scoop clean water onto the pair of pants and whack again and again--this time trying to rid the garment of the soap. I do this twice until the water has fewer suds. I ring out the pants and hang them on one part of the line. When I finish all the clothes in the bucket I add some fabric softener to the clean water and let the clothes soak for five minutes. I ring the water out of the clothes one more time and hang them out on the line to dry.
The key to good laundry is doing it when you hear the whacking of clothes on rocks in your neighborhood. The women choose to wash the mornings the government tap is on and during short, cloudy portions of the afternoon, not during the heat of the day--which is when I usually think to do my laundry. They never seem to wash on a day it rains, never. So, when I hear that rhythmic whacking all around me I know it'd be a good laundry day.
The one seemingly impossible task before making a good villager's wife would be to make tasty Indian food. I have watched Jeeva day in and day out cook out of that small kitchen, power or no power. I've woken up many times to the smell of breakfast wondering how does one create such a beautiful scent. Maybe during my third stay here I'll learn to cook...maybe.
Unfortunately, even if I do I learn how to cook, there are tons of other daily tasks Jeeva does effortlessly that I may never master--like dunging the courtyard, sweeping the veranda just right, and running a tutoring program on her veranda in the evenings to list a few. I'm just glad I'll get to marry someone who is grateful I'm college educated even though I lack many practical life skills.
Sunday, August 31, 2008
Back in Incredible India!
As I looked at the Immigration form, which the stewardess had somehow tucked between my body and my seat while I was sleeping, I turned it over and read, "Welcome to Incredible India!" I sighed, folded the form, tucked it into the back pocket of the seat in front of me and went back to sleep.
After a great couple of days in Chang Mai I had mixed feelings about coming back. I felt glad to be on the last leg of this trip and grateful to be meeting up with my new group of BYU Field Studies students, looking forward to going back to the village. I was feeling sad to leave Thailand after making some great backpacking friends. I was also dreading all the physical hardships that come with "Incredible India", and frankly I was ready to go home. After spending a full day on a bus and a restless night in the Bangkok airport I was grateful I had the whole emergency row to myself. I sprawled across the seats and slept through most of the flight--sitting up occasionally wiping the drool off my face, gingerly touching my hair wondering how bad it looked, checking my watch and then laying back down to sleep.
We landed, a half hour later than scheduled. I figured that if I was able to get stamped through immigration, pick up my large bag from the conveyer belt, and breeze through customs by 10:00am I'd grab some rupees from an ATM and take a prepaid taxi to the branch building in Chennai and try and catch at least the last two hours of church. It was 9:30 when we deplaned, but I was determined to make it, elbowing my way to the front of the line and booking it through the terminal.
I was out of the airport terminal just as my watch read 10:00! Even the taxi ride worked out great--he only had to stop and ask directions once, well twice actually. I made it just in time to hear the closing hymn--I was ecstatic. I dropped my large bag in the corner of the room, tried to smooth my hair, and asked around to find out which classroom I should be in for Sunday school. After missing two weeks of church in Thailand it felt great to be with members again. I talked with the American wives of embassy workers, some members I remembered from May, and a even made a new friend.
I walked hesitantly out of the air conditioned building to into India, wondering if I'd find it to be so incredible today. I hailed a rickshaw driver bargained a little with a laugh and rode to the Egmore railway station. I felt good to be back. It felt a little like coming home again--especially when we pulled up to Egmore station and I knew right where we were. I told the driver where the hotel was and found myself back in Hotel Regent, that place with the crazy night man from 4 months ago. It felt like I was here yesterday and it didn't hurt that the afternoon hotel manager knew my face and welcomed me with an air of family. I asked about the crazy night guy--we laughed as he said he's still working here, rolled his eyes, and talked about what a pain he is.
Dropping my bag on the stained mattress and peaking into the bathroom I remembered that I had been quite spoiled in Thailand. But now I was back in India roughing it again. There is something about the challenge of this place and yet the familiarity that has made my homesickness pass. Maybe I'm just back into that old "honeymoon phase" we talk about when discussing phases of culture shock, but I like it. I'm back in India for another 3 whole months, incredible!
After a great couple of days in Chang Mai I had mixed feelings about coming back. I felt glad to be on the last leg of this trip and grateful to be meeting up with my new group of BYU Field Studies students, looking forward to going back to the village. I was feeling sad to leave Thailand after making some great backpacking friends. I was also dreading all the physical hardships that come with "Incredible India", and frankly I was ready to go home. After spending a full day on a bus and a restless night in the Bangkok airport I was grateful I had the whole emergency row to myself. I sprawled across the seats and slept through most of the flight--sitting up occasionally wiping the drool off my face, gingerly touching my hair wondering how bad it looked, checking my watch and then laying back down to sleep.
We landed, a half hour later than scheduled. I figured that if I was able to get stamped through immigration, pick up my large bag from the conveyer belt, and breeze through customs by 10:00am I'd grab some rupees from an ATM and take a prepaid taxi to the branch building in Chennai and try and catch at least the last two hours of church. It was 9:30 when we deplaned, but I was determined to make it, elbowing my way to the front of the line and booking it through the terminal.
I was out of the airport terminal just as my watch read 10:00! Even the taxi ride worked out great--he only had to stop and ask directions once, well twice actually. I made it just in time to hear the closing hymn--I was ecstatic. I dropped my large bag in the corner of the room, tried to smooth my hair, and asked around to find out which classroom I should be in for Sunday school. After missing two weeks of church in Thailand it felt great to be with members again. I talked with the American wives of embassy workers, some members I remembered from May, and a even made a new friend.
I walked hesitantly out of the air conditioned building to into India, wondering if I'd find it to be so incredible today. I hailed a rickshaw driver bargained a little with a laugh and rode to the Egmore railway station. I felt good to be back. It felt a little like coming home again--especially when we pulled up to Egmore station and I knew right where we were. I told the driver where the hotel was and found myself back in Hotel Regent, that place with the crazy night man from 4 months ago. It felt like I was here yesterday and it didn't hurt that the afternoon hotel manager knew my face and welcomed me with an air of family. I asked about the crazy night guy--we laughed as he said he's still working here, rolled his eyes, and talked about what a pain he is.
Dropping my bag on the stained mattress and peaking into the bathroom I remembered that I had been quite spoiled in Thailand. But now I was back in India roughing it again. There is something about the challenge of this place and yet the familiarity that has made my homesickness pass. Maybe I'm just back into that old "honeymoon phase" we talk about when discussing phases of culture shock, but I like it. I'm back in India for another 3 whole months, incredible!
Sunday, August 3, 2008
Hi my name is Liann and I am addicted to shoes
I have bought six pairs of shoes while in India. Six pairs! Two pairs while in Coimbatore that are safely stored at Matthew and Jeeva's home, one pair while in Delhi, and three pairs while here in Amritsar. All while I'm trying to live a life of simplicity--one backpack and few belongings. I find that I am obsessed.
But please let me explain. There just comes a time when you spy that pair of shoes and think to yourself "I wonder if those would look that fantastic on my feet as they do nailed to that wall," you point and say your size, the man brings them to you and helps you slip your feet in into the pair, you take a few ginger steps around the store and then to the mirror (if they have one). Then the moment of realization hits you, the realization that you cannot leave the store without that pair of shoes. Nevermind that you have at least 20 to 25 pairs of shoes sitting in a box in your parents' attic while you traspe about India in your beloved Chacos, these shoes have just crossed that line from a want to a need.
You bargain as much as you can trying to hide the fact that you will pay whatever you have to in order to walk out that door with your new found lovers. Yes lovers. You pay the pittance you must to release them bondage and take home them home to start a love affair that will last as long as the style doesn't shift. Amazing. I sometimes amaze (and disgust) even myself. The funny thing is I can't wear half the shoes I bought because they are either too sexy, too clean and white, or too impractical for walking around in this country. So I'll have to wait another 3 months (at least) just dreaming up the outfits to go along with these cute little shoes.
Bumming it with the Buddhists in Bodhgaya
I've had some real beautiful experiences in Bodhgaya, the city where Buddha recieved enlightenment. The town is small and full of monestaries and temples built by Buddhist countries. Bodhgaya was my favorite stop on my last tour of India. Unfortunantly it was overrun with loud and obnoxious Hindu pilgrims dressed in orange. So I missed the quiet of the place. But I still had a few great experiences I wanted to share--
Sitting under the Bodhi Tree where Buddha recieved enlightenment talking quietly with a monk from Cambodia. He's studying world religions at a university in India and his mother who provides for his schooling has come from Canada to travel to these sacred spaces in India. She was dressed in white and he in deep gold robes, both had the shaved heads, and were chatting congenially before we approached him. He told me about what prayers he repeats while fingering his 108 prayer beads. He also talked about why he wanted to become a monk at the age of 13. He was aware of suffering and wanted to escape (or was it learn to deal with) that suffering. I don't know what his life was like in Cambodia, but at 13 I think I was concerned with my own ugliness and awkwardness and not the suffering in the world. The conversation was beautiful and insightful.
One afternoon I sat at the temple and contemplated life as I listened to the breeze in the tree. It was a windy day and I decided I wouldn't leave until I had a Bodhi leaf to glue into my journal, a piece of this peaceful place. I sat and waited and watched as a few precious leaves fell, but people would scury and pick them up. I didn't want to get my leaf that way--I may get my train tickets by elbowing my way in line, but not this. I wanted getting my leaf to be a good memory. After some time I decided that maybe it was time for me to seek after my leaf rather than wait for it to come to me. I walked in the yard behind the tree. I picked up one leaf, but found it was quite dirty, maybe this wasn't the leaf. I kept walking and a small leaf blew towards my feet. I picked it up. I was beautiful--small, light green, with some speckles. I loved it and I loved that it came to me in such a way. I think that's what I love about India--it teaches me to love and appreciate the small things. Enjoy the process not just the outcome.
My last night in Bodhgaya I went back to hang out at the temple. I watched a woman dressed in white water the tree with her water bottle--it was a bit of a process to get the bottle through the bars. She then sat down and started chanting prayers from a book. Her voice was melodic and beautifully solemn as it quietly piered the night. The first morning I walked into the temple a butterfly happened across my path and stayed to flirt a little with me. I thought to myself, "Enchanting. This place is enchanting." And as I walked back up the steps to leave the temple that last night I felt that again. Enchanting. Simply enchanting.
Saturday, July 19, 2008
Hospital Stay
The five hour bus ride to Bangalore feels like an eternity. David is now holding his backpack limply and resting his head on it. He looks more and more pale. While I feel the breeze cool my sweat soaked face and body I touch David's dry forehead with worry. The situation is made comic as the baby next to me pours milk on me and my purse. As the mother and father stand to leave the bus I ask the lady's husband with furrowed brow how to get to Wockhardt Hospital, the hospital that a calm and detached voice on the other end of the phone told me to go to. I hate and love SOS international, a phone service for sick students in study abroad programs.
We make it to the bus stand. I help David into his bags and then put on my own. We walk to the prepaid rickshaw stand. I load the little rickshaw with our large bags--I hold David's bag in place with my neck and head. In the back of the rickshaw I see as far as change I only have 4 tens--always the change game in India. I put the 4 tens in one pocket, but hope the driver will break my 100. The driver takes us to the hospital. 42 rupees. I hand him 100 rupee bill and a 2 rupee coin. He says, "I want 10 extra" and points to the large bags. Rage surges within me. I snatch the bill out of his hand, then hand over the 40 rupees from my pocket. He retracts his hand. and says, "10 extra for baggage."
I say, "Fine if you don't want it, I'll keep it." and start handing Dave's bag to him as he stands outside of the rickshaw looking both pale and sun burnt (from the rash he’s had). Again the driver says, "Ten extra for the baggage." I say no. I'm out of the rickshaw bags in hand now. He finally puts our his hand to receive payment and I throw the 4 bills in his direction. David raises an eyebrow and I roll my eyes and motion towards the hospital, which looks more like a five star hotel--damn SOS! This is going to be expensive, but I don't have the time to get him somewhere else.
We check in at the reception lobby. A nice man with a trimmed moustache works the desk tonight. His English is good and his smile genuine and calming, not greasy like most Indian men who look at me like I'm the new stripper in town. We get into a room and a female doctor in a lab coat asks lots of questions. She comes back 10 minutes later and encourages David to be admitted. David is hesitant, by the cleanliness of the room and status of the lobby we know this will be pricey. I run back to the lobby and get a pricing list--just to see how much this pretty little room will cost us. It's 2100 a night for a semi-private room (a shared bathroom down the hall but a room with an extra couch made into bed for me to sleep on). That's 50 bucks a night. We go ahead and pay the down payment.
That first night involved running back and forth to the mall getting food, filling out paperwork, going through an orientation, and getting keys, a remote control for the TV, and an "attendee" badge. David gets poked and prodded all night long. We both wake every time a nurse comes in. By 6:00 they bring David his morning tea and at 7 they want him to step out of bed so they can change the sheets. We both roll our eyes and try to sleep a little more after they leave him with a fresh pair of pajamas.
The doctor comes in at 10:00am while I'm out getting breakfast for me and trying to put more minutes on my emergency cell phone. He tells David, "We'll know by Wednesday." He doesn't explain what tests he's running, what treatment he's planning to give, or why he hasn't given David any medication yet. Nothing. Which then becomes a pattern. Each time the nurses come in they never explain what they're doing or why or even what David's vitals are. I finally stop asking because each time we ask the nurse something she just repeats the word in English with some blank stare and says, "yeah, yeah." Sometimes the nurses use gloves and sometimes not. When they don't I shake my fist at SOS!!
Three days like this. 6:00 milk is brought in by the kitchen staff who wear a tuxedos minus the dinner jackets. 7:00 the nurse and one of the cleaning staff to change the sheets. You can tell the nurses by the caps they wear, their white shoes, and light blue uniforms while the cleaning staff wear a dark blue with black shoes. The nurses are all female the cleaning staff all male. 8:00 the cleaning staff wet down the sink and the floor with soapy water and squeegee the floor dry then use a dry mop to finish it off. I am always amazed at how dirty the water gets and how much it smells like a hospital after they leave. 9:00 a guy comes and sprays the room with pest control. 10:00 the doctor makes a formal visit, says very little and pats David on his knee. I run errands in the afternoon--giving David and I some alone time. By dark I come back to the hospital. I make one ice cream run for the two of us after dinner and we spend the night watching some more TV--mostly movies on HBO. We crack a few jokes about Indian hospitals or lame films on HBO and by 11 or 11:30 we turn out the lights. I try to sleep on the uneven couch-made-bed they've provided. The staff at night usually come in once or twice which makes me wake with a start to do who knows what. I sit up and wait until they leave to go back to sleep.
By Tuesday we have a diagnosis, Dengue fever. We've talked about David going home, but nothing was set until we found he had more than just your everyday "Viral Fever." We make more expensive calls home and to the office. They want to keep David at the hospital because his blood platelets are low. I bring the nice night receptionist an ice cream on my Tuesday night ice cream run. And Wednesday morning we are told we can leave today. By 3 in the afternoon we finally get released and try to catch a rickshaw to the hotel I've made reservations for. What a week. I've enjoyed getting to know Bangalore a bit better, India's New York City. But I'll be ready for this to be over--Sunday we fly to Delhi and that night David is going to head home.
Homebody or Lone Wanderer?
Karthik, my new found friend in India, offered to take me to a hill temple just outside of Coimbatore. We drove in his car, a privilege I've come to appreciate after hours and hours on the bus. We hiked up the steps to the Hindu temple for the god of Karthik, a son of Shiva and Paravati.
The story goes that Shiva told his two sons, Ganesh and Karthik, that he would give a reward to the son who goes around the world and comes back first. Karthik jumps on his peacock and starts his journey around the world. Ganesh simply walks around his parents--indicating that his parents are his world. When Karthik returns to find his brother has won, he goes up to a hill and pouts. This is why temples for Karthik are always built on hills.
So, I find myself climbing stairs with Karthik, the man, trying not to breathe too heavy. We reach the top and drink deeply from the water taps. I don't care if it made me sick it feels great to scoop it in my hands and then lap it up enjoying the sweet taste. We walk around the temple and watch the sun set on the mountain. Karthik tells me the story of god who sees the wolrd, but is cheated of his father's prize. On our way back down we even catch a peak at a real peacock.
And for me? I find myself vacillating between intense loneliness and a deep gratitude for the experiences I've had as a single woman. I haven't tried to avoid marriage, in fact I've spent a lot of time seeking after it. And yet, I still find that wandering spirit in me. I fear that I'll never be completely content with living a quiet life in some quiet part of the world as a wife and mother. And yet, I watch with a bit of longing my married brothers and sisters with their growing families. I hold their children and sense the beauty that comes in family life.
Karthik or Ganesh? Homebody or Lone Wanderer? Are we ever just one or the other?
Honored by the Swamaji
Visiting the Swamaji
Sravanabellagola is a major religious site for Jain pilgrims. The town is small and set between two mountains made of pure rock. One is small and has a temple complex, the other is large and after climbing the 647 rock steps you get to hang out in this temple built around a 57 foot tall naked statue of a man. I love it. I love every minute of it.
For every Jain temple there is a Swamaji, who oversees the temple. A couple of our group members got together and wrote a letter requesting an audience with the Swamaji. Our requests were granted and nine of us found ourselves in a simple room sitting around a soft speken man dressed in orange robes who spoke English really well. He asked who was in charge. Everyone looked to me "the Field Facilitator." I who hadn't set up this meeting, who hasn't read a thing about Jainism in the last 3 years since I was in India, I who didn't even know who this guy was. Yep, me. I'm in charge. I explained my role as field facilitator and that I had been three years previously. He asks me to move to the front so that I can help "translate" which meant repeat the questions in louder and more Indian English.
During our hour with him I was struck by two things: He is always smiling. It feels sincere, but it makes him look like he's always got a joke he feels is too naughty to say. I was also struck by how this man's religiosity is made possible because others are supporting him. For example, he has made an oath not to ride in a vehicle except for an emergency. He told us proudly he's only ridden in a car 3 times since he made that vow 5 or so years ago. Who gets your groceries? That's what I want to know!
After an hour of asking questions he motioned to his "servants" who brought us cream cotton shawls, necklaces, booklets, and small replicas of the naked monolith. The men quietly put the shawls and necklaces around my neck. I stood as if I was receiving a medal of honor for courage. I then stepped forward and received the gift of a booklet and statue from the Swamaji, handed to me with two hands like a Buddhist monk. I watched as each of the group members did the same.
He exclaimed that our questions were excellent and well informed. He mentioned that this hour was not wasted and that he'd like to meet with our little group again. We set a time for Monday morning and then were escorted to the VIP dining hall where we ate a simple, but delightful Jain meal--no potatoes, garlic, honey etc. Nothing that would cause harm. We laughed over our situation, all nine of us eating at this beautiful wood dining table wearing our cotton shawls and necklaces.
Being white can be frustrating in this country--always getting ripped off. I call it the white man tax. But I also realized that day that being a foreigner interested in and knowledgeable about Indian culture and religion can open up a lot of doors. I sometimes consider my skin as my ticket in, but it does come with a cost.
Monday, June 30, 2008
Something Inspiring
Sydney and I met Katie at church in Coimbatore. White people always stick out in an Indian congregation. We asked her what she was doing here in India. She explained that she was working with an orphanage. What peaked my curiosity was when we asked her what was next for her in life and she responded that she hoped to do this "orphanage thing" for the rest of her life.
Sydney and I took two buses and eventually a rickshaw to "Families for Children" and walked into the office one afternoon. Katie took us around the three different complexes and explained each project There were Infants with physical deformities and other waiting for adoption. There were toddlers, young and old girls, young and old boys, a silk making project, goats, special needs children, elderly care, a doctors office, a physical therapy area, a large kitchen to feed the kids, a smaller kitchen for the girls to learn to cook, housing for volunteers, a paper making project, and sewing projects and bag making for polio victims and poor women from the surrounding area.
It was overwhelming and beautiful the way this simple place managed to do so much good. The director of the orphanage has throat cancer and hasn't been able to visit in the last 7 years, but still keeps up reguarly with the staff and knows what is going on. I wouldn't be surprised if she knows the names of all 400 kids living there.
What was most impressive was talking with Katie, a 29 year old single Mormon who felt the need to come to India. She was drawn to this project through a series of events and here she is feeling the contentment that comes when you know you're doing the right thing for yourself.
Sydney and I caught a bus back into town and ate dinner. Sydney said, "Man Liann you must have been hungry." I looked down and realized two things 1-I was just about to slop up the last of the masala with my last piece of naan and 2-I hadn't said much of anything to Sydney since we ordered.
I looked up and said, "Yeah I must have been...Sorry I haven't been talking." Then I trailed off trying to explain.
She said, "It's OK. we just saw something that was very beautiful and inspiring."
"Yeah." We finished up our meal trying to find words to describe what we just experienced, but it was just hard to capture what we both felt other than saying we were inspired. I was inspired, but not necessarily to open up my own orphanage. No, I just want to find some good I can do in some small corner, something I know God feels pleased that I am doing.
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