Oh, come, oh, come, Emmanuel,
And ransom captive Israel,
That mourns in lonely exile here
Until the Son of God appear.
Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel
Shall come to you, O Israel!
Oh, come, our Wisdom from on high,
Who ordered all things mightily;
To us the path of knowledge show,
and teach us in her ways to go.
Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel
Shall come to you, O Israel!
Oh, come, Desire of nations, bind
In one the hearts of all mankind;
Oh, bid our sad divisions cease,
And be yourself our King of Peace.
Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel
Shall come to you, O Israel!
-----------------------------------------
So: it's advent. The four weeks before Christmas when we wait and long and hope for the coming of the Christ--for something better. Above are my favorite three verses of a classic advent hymn. I went to two different (VERY different) churches yesterday, and we sang this song at both places.
At St. Joan of Arc, the very liberal Catholic church my dad and I visited, they said that the heart of advent is "finding the extraordinary in the ordinary". I like that. This song has been 'ordinary' for me my whole life, and I've never liked it all that much. A lot of times it sounds suspiciously like a funeral dirge, evoking feelings very different from hope and expectation. This week, though, I found something extraordinary in it. This song is sung from the perspective of the Jewish people (Israel) longing for the Messiah to come. These three verses express hope that the Messiah will "ransom" the enslaved people, show them wisdom and knowledge* and bind their hearts together in peace. Isn't that what we still want? freedom, wisdom, and peace are almost universally desired.
But freedom from what? For the Jews of Jesus' day, it was freedom from the Roman empire--in 70 AD there was an armed insurrection which was promptly squashed. In fact, Jesus' non-violent ethic is specifically designed to encourage the oppressed Jews to creatively reclaim their dignity from cruel Roman rule, not through violence but through love. When the song says "Ransom captive Israel" the reference is to the exile, when the Israelites were captured by the mighty Babylonian empire. Many Christians today would read "ransom captive Israel" as a plea to be freed from the shackles of sin. That's all well and good--I certainly believe that we, as flawed humans, are desperately in need of release from cycles of violence, greed, and hate. But it's important too to consider that millions of people the world over are still living in slavery or in exile. Can we plead on their behalf?
The verse about peace can be read with a similar lens. When we privileged people ask God for peace, we are often asking for some kind of personal mental or psychological relief. Many of us, of course, are suffering very acutely from grief, loss, or some other non-peaceful sensation. If that is the case, to pray for peace for oneself is certainly justified. In some ways, though, we, as privileged people, need to be uncomfortable. David Selvaraj, the director of the place I stayed in India, says his work is to "comfort the disturbed and disturb the comfortable." Those of us with enough food, shelter, education, and dignity need to be disturbed by the fact that many people live without those rights. Can we sing this verse for them? Can we ask God to bind our hearts to theirs, so we too feel the pain of injustice?
The second verse says something to me about this Jesus fellow that we're always talking about. The path of knowledge that's asked for here could be wisdom to resolve an office squabble or successfully navigate relationship land mines (and don't get me wrong, those things are important!) but I think there's more to it than that. When I think about salvation, it's this wisdom that I turn to. Going to heaven is a great idea, and I won't deny that I'd like to end up there, but if that's all that salvation's about then Jesus doesn't mean that much to the world. I believe that salvation is really about Jesus' wisdom--about his social and ethical teachings on love, non-violence, and creative resistance to injustice. If we follow Jesus, really follow him, we can join with God in saving the world, in making it more like heaven here.
So it's advent. The time of hope, expectation, looking for something better. freedom, Wisdom, Peace... so I say, along with the world's poor and marginalized, Oh come, oh come, Emmanuel!
P.S. a little side-note: You know in the "wisdom" verse when it says "teach us in her ways to go"? The reason they use the feminine pronoun there is because in the book of Proverbs, 'Wisdom' is personified as a woman, Sophia. Even the ancient Israelites knew women were pretty rockin.
Monday, December 21, 2009
Friday, December 18, 2009
Sweet Home Minnesota...
I'm home.
It's cold here. There's a lot of space and nothing smells bad. It's like the opposite of claustrophobia. I miss waking up to birds singing, and I miss my friends from the program. I've hardly slept in the last 60 hours.
weird.
It's good to see my family though, and my bed is probably the most comfortable thing God ever invented. I'll be ok, but it might take a while to readjust. This requires a whole new kind of cultural sensitivity. Weird.
It's cold here. There's a lot of space and nothing smells bad. It's like the opposite of claustrophobia. I miss waking up to birds singing, and I miss my friends from the program. I've hardly slept in the last 60 hours.
weird.
It's good to see my family though, and my bed is probably the most comfortable thing God ever invented. I'll be ok, but it might take a while to readjust. This requires a whole new kind of cultural sensitivity. Weird.
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
Pilgrims
We're back in Bangalore now after a month on the road. We've had two units: Environment and Livelihood and Religion and Culture. If you're following along on a map, we've been to Orissa (Koraput district), Hyderabad, Andrha Pradesh (Zahirabad district), Delhi, Agra, and Varanasi.
Varanasi (also called Banaras) is one of the oldest living cities anywhere. It's situated on the Ganges and is probably the holiest site in Hinduism. Some people go to Varanasi when they know that death is near, hoping that it will speed their way to enlightenment. The river is lined all day with funeral pyres, pilgrims bathing in the holy water, and the poor washing clothes. When we were there on a sunrise boat-ride, the river was covered in a flock of migratory white birds. Like everything in India, this place is a paradox--both beautiful and horrifying.
Over the course of our week in Banaras, we visited about five Buddhist temples, two hindu temples, and a Catholic cathedral. We met with a Buddhist monk, a Hindu monk, a Jain scholar, and a Catholic sister and priest. We heard the bells in the temple of Durga, stood under an offshoot of the tree under which the Buddha achieved enlightenment, planted where he gave his first sermon, and celebrated an intimate mass for the first Sunday in advent. We bought some sweet t-shirts. We learned a lot of philosophy. We watched many, many episodes of "The Office" on someone's laptop.
I wrote the following poem after seeing the Ganges at sunrise. It incorporates (I realized after I wrote it) elements from almost every philosophy or religion we learned about this week.
Pilgrims
The birds, they say, are migratory.
White handfuls of wing and flight that
fling themselves, baptized,
off the water and against the sun
as it rises like blood to the brain.
They have nothing to lose
in such an action.
They are pilgrims like the rest of us.
They come to the holy water
to drink and to eat, to escape
the cold, to churn their muscles
so that they rise, again and again,
from a watery grave.
They are nothing but bellyfulls of
fish, and feathers pasted on cardboard.
They are caused, created by no one
but themselves and by my eyes.
The birds, they say, are migratory.
We are all pilgrims to the river,
and migrants to the world.
We are traveling in skin that
is not our own. We are clay
squeezed by no one's hand.
Our rudimentary minds,
handfuls of muscle,
see birds and river and
self with boundaries
drawn in chalk.
The water
wipes them away, like sin.
Varanasi (also called Banaras) is one of the oldest living cities anywhere. It's situated on the Ganges and is probably the holiest site in Hinduism. Some people go to Varanasi when they know that death is near, hoping that it will speed their way to enlightenment. The river is lined all day with funeral pyres, pilgrims bathing in the holy water, and the poor washing clothes. When we were there on a sunrise boat-ride, the river was covered in a flock of migratory white birds. Like everything in India, this place is a paradox--both beautiful and horrifying.
Over the course of our week in Banaras, we visited about five Buddhist temples, two hindu temples, and a Catholic cathedral. We met with a Buddhist monk, a Hindu monk, a Jain scholar, and a Catholic sister and priest. We heard the bells in the temple of Durga, stood under an offshoot of the tree under which the Buddha achieved enlightenment, planted where he gave his first sermon, and celebrated an intimate mass for the first Sunday in advent. We bought some sweet t-shirts. We learned a lot of philosophy. We watched many, many episodes of "The Office" on someone's laptop.
I wrote the following poem after seeing the Ganges at sunrise. It incorporates (I realized after I wrote it) elements from almost every philosophy or religion we learned about this week.
Pilgrims
The birds, they say, are migratory.
White handfuls of wing and flight that
fling themselves, baptized,
off the water and against the sun
as it rises like blood to the brain.
They have nothing to lose
in such an action.
They are pilgrims like the rest of us.
They come to the holy water
to drink and to eat, to escape
the cold, to churn their muscles
so that they rise, again and again,
from a watery grave.
They are nothing but bellyfulls of
fish, and feathers pasted on cardboard.
They are caused, created by no one
but themselves and by my eyes.
The birds, they say, are migratory.
We are all pilgrims to the river,
and migrants to the world.
We are traveling in skin that
is not our own. We are clay
squeezed by no one's hand.
Our rudimentary minds,
handfuls of muscle,
see birds and river and
self with boundaries
drawn in chalk.
The water
wipes them away, like sin.
Sunday, November 8, 2009
He-Oh, Bessay Nehai!
A month on the road sounds like a long time. Some days it feels like it-- like nothing would be nicer than my own space, my own food, my own people. To turn off India. Other days I can't fathom going home, and the snow and and the sidewalks and the giant houses seem all too close. How can I go back and be happy and well-fed and obscenely rich?
But here we are: one month on the road, two weeks back in Bangalore, and then home for Christmas. If you're following along on a map, we're hitting up Orissa (Koraput district), Hyderabad, Medak, Delhi, Agra, and Varanasi. Lots of planes, trains, and automobiles.
One week in and we're spending the weekend in Hyderabad. Last week was Koraput, a hilly rural district dotted with tribal villages. We visited several of them, and even spent the night in one. It was incredible. No advertisements. No trash on the ground. People living in and with the forest, taking from it and giving back. They had a mini-hydro-electric dam which gave them enough energy to run a mill and light their houses but didn't cause much environmental harm at all. They were incredibly kind. I can't explain how beautiful this place was, or the people. I learned to say 'very good' in the tribal language. Bessay Nehai. Yes. Very good.
We had a meeting there on climate change. They told us their story. The people here, who are deeply in tune with the earth's rhythms, noticed that their seasons were changing before they had ever heard the words 'climate change' or 'global warming'. The rainy season here has shrunk and the hot summer has expanded, making agriculture difficult. Wild fruits ripen at different times, and the food is smaller in size and less good to eat than before. Water is less plentiful. The star patterns, which they study to know when to plant and when to celebrate festivals, don't line up with the seasons like they used to. They had been wondering if they were being punished by God for something, that the earth itself is rebelling against them. Slowly, however, they learned that other villages, even other countries, are experiencing the same thing. Now they are worried about how to survive, how their children will survive in future generations. We tel them that they are by no means being punished (except, perhaps, for the actions of others)-- that the way they live in partnership with the earth is admirable, an example for the rest of us. We apologize for the role that we and our culture have contributed to the hardship they are experiencing, and tell them that together we want to try to stop it. And we tell them to keep telling their story—that people like us, too disconnected with the earth to notice these changes, need to hear from them. We need to know that livelihoods are being affected by our consumptive actions now, not just in some distant future. The people of Putsil are innocent in terms of climate-changing behavior, yet they are worried about their survival. Climate change is real, and its urgent. It needs more than our lip-service to change it—it needs our real dedication, our willingness to change our lifestyles, and all the ingenuity we can muster.
But here we are: one month on the road, two weeks back in Bangalore, and then home for Christmas. If you're following along on a map, we're hitting up Orissa (Koraput district), Hyderabad, Medak, Delhi, Agra, and Varanasi. Lots of planes, trains, and automobiles.
One week in and we're spending the weekend in Hyderabad. Last week was Koraput, a hilly rural district dotted with tribal villages. We visited several of them, and even spent the night in one. It was incredible. No advertisements. No trash on the ground. People living in and with the forest, taking from it and giving back. They had a mini-hydro-electric dam which gave them enough energy to run a mill and light their houses but didn't cause much environmental harm at all. They were incredibly kind. I can't explain how beautiful this place was, or the people. I learned to say 'very good' in the tribal language. Bessay Nehai. Yes. Very good.
We had a meeting there on climate change. They told us their story. The people here, who are deeply in tune with the earth's rhythms, noticed that their seasons were changing before they had ever heard the words 'climate change' or 'global warming'. The rainy season here has shrunk and the hot summer has expanded, making agriculture difficult. Wild fruits ripen at different times, and the food is smaller in size and less good to eat than before. Water is less plentiful. The star patterns, which they study to know when to plant and when to celebrate festivals, don't line up with the seasons like they used to. They had been wondering if they were being punished by God for something, that the earth itself is rebelling against them. Slowly, however, they learned that other villages, even other countries, are experiencing the same thing. Now they are worried about how to survive, how their children will survive in future generations. We tel them that they are by no means being punished (except, perhaps, for the actions of others)-- that the way they live in partnership with the earth is admirable, an example for the rest of us. We apologize for the role that we and our culture have contributed to the hardship they are experiencing, and tell them that together we want to try to stop it. And we tell them to keep telling their story—that people like us, too disconnected with the earth to notice these changes, need to hear from them. We need to know that livelihoods are being affected by our consumptive actions now, not just in some distant future. The people of Putsil are innocent in terms of climate-changing behavior, yet they are worried about their survival. Climate change is real, and its urgent. It needs more than our lip-service to change it—it needs our real dedication, our willingness to change our lifestyles, and all the ingenuity we can muster.
Saturday, October 31, 2009
Bethany in the Himalayas
You wanna hear an adventure story?
I just got back from a weeklong trip up to the Northern part of India with some friends-- Brendan, Katie, Alyssa, Allie, Britta, and her boyfriend (visiting from the states) Mike.
We started out our trip at 6:00 AM with a taxi to the B-lore airport, whereupon it was quickly discovered that I had forgotten (all too typically) my purse with credit card and passport. After some quick shuffling around of tickets and payments and a bit of begging to security guards, we made it to the gate with 5 minutes to spare. Flight to Delhi, taxi to the train station, several hours sitting on the dirty floor of the station or walking down the dirty street (if we would have wanted a marble statue of any Hindu god, we would have been golden. That's all they sold on this street. Well, statues and signs.) We were supposed to meet Mike there. Time passes, departure approaches, but where is Mike? nowhere to be found. Images flash through all of our heads of a poor American, new to India, wandering lost on the streets of Delhi... and we leave two members of the group behind to find him. The rest of us run fulltilt to the platform and make it just in the nick of time onto our train, only to find that car D6 is apparently a phantom. We walk up and down the length of the train with our big bags squeezing down too-small aisles trying to find the right part of the train. When we do, there's an elderly couple in our seats. Enter train conductor and every passenger in the car, who attempt to oust the very sweet old couple and install us in our rightful seats... in the blur I'm not sure where we found a place to sit, but sit we did. in seats. and we breathed for a while.
We met our friends in Rishikesh the next morning, a very jet-lagged Mike in tow.
Rishikesh was cold mornings, sadhus in orange, pilgrims and beggars with tin cups, prayer beads and music in every shop, nutella pancakes at every meal, cheap ayuravedic massages, white-water rafting the Ganges, sunrise in the foothills of the Himalayas, sparkling sand, sending prayers on little boats downstream, eating a giant grapefruit and street food, plunging into the river at dawn alongside the devout, visiting the Ashram where the Beatles wrote the white album, the yoga-capital of India, dirty-hippies trying to find meaning in the mess of it all. There were a lot of cows, but whats new?
After two days we took a couple of buses up to Musoorie, the queen of the hills. Katie had some friends from Wilderness Canoe Base teaching at an international school there. Small world-- they know almost everyone I know-- camp friends, highschool friends, even a cousin. Nan and Laura squired us around this beautiful little town nestled in the foothills.
Musoorie was good cheese, wool hats and mittens, layered sunset over the hills like a parfait, a ferris wheel powered by a man, climbing around on the inside, hiking up a hill swathed in tibetan prayer flags, views of the snowy peaks, playing silent football, little cafes, eating momos at every meal, visiting a tibetan buddhist temple, incredible vistas around every corner.
This is exactly what vacations are supposed to be: relaxing, refreshing, beautiful, exciting, adventurous, a cultural experience and brimming with happiness.
I just got back from a weeklong trip up to the Northern part of India with some friends-- Brendan, Katie, Alyssa, Allie, Britta, and her boyfriend (visiting from the states) Mike.
We started out our trip at 6:00 AM with a taxi to the B-lore airport, whereupon it was quickly discovered that I had forgotten (all too typically) my purse with credit card and passport. After some quick shuffling around of tickets and payments and a bit of begging to security guards, we made it to the gate with 5 minutes to spare. Flight to Delhi, taxi to the train station, several hours sitting on the dirty floor of the station or walking down the dirty street (if we would have wanted a marble statue of any Hindu god, we would have been golden. That's all they sold on this street. Well, statues and signs.) We were supposed to meet Mike there. Time passes, departure approaches, but where is Mike? nowhere to be found. Images flash through all of our heads of a poor American, new to India, wandering lost on the streets of Delhi... and we leave two members of the group behind to find him. The rest of us run fulltilt to the platform and make it just in the nick of time onto our train, only to find that car D6 is apparently a phantom. We walk up and down the length of the train with our big bags squeezing down too-small aisles trying to find the right part of the train. When we do, there's an elderly couple in our seats. Enter train conductor and every passenger in the car, who attempt to oust the very sweet old couple and install us in our rightful seats... in the blur I'm not sure where we found a place to sit, but sit we did. in seats. and we breathed for a while.
We met our friends in Rishikesh the next morning, a very jet-lagged Mike in tow.
Rishikesh was cold mornings, sadhus in orange, pilgrims and beggars with tin cups, prayer beads and music in every shop, nutella pancakes at every meal, cheap ayuravedic massages, white-water rafting the Ganges, sunrise in the foothills of the Himalayas, sparkling sand, sending prayers on little boats downstream, eating a giant grapefruit and street food, plunging into the river at dawn alongside the devout, visiting the Ashram where the Beatles wrote the white album, the yoga-capital of India, dirty-hippies trying to find meaning in the mess of it all. There were a lot of cows, but whats new?
After two days we took a couple of buses up to Musoorie, the queen of the hills. Katie had some friends from Wilderness Canoe Base teaching at an international school there. Small world-- they know almost everyone I know-- camp friends, highschool friends, even a cousin. Nan and Laura squired us around this beautiful little town nestled in the foothills.
Musoorie was good cheese, wool hats and mittens, layered sunset over the hills like a parfait, a ferris wheel powered by a man, climbing around on the inside, hiking up a hill swathed in tibetan prayer flags, views of the snowy peaks, playing silent football, little cafes, eating momos at every meal, visiting a tibetan buddhist temple, incredible vistas around every corner.
This is exactly what vacations are supposed to be: relaxing, refreshing, beautiful, exciting, adventurous, a cultural experience and brimming with happiness.
Sunday, October 11, 2009
Nine Months of Rain
This week our group was split into two halves for field visits to different parts of southern India to learn more about 'Globalization and the Ethics of Development', which is the theme of our second unit. I'm representing the half of our group that went to the coastal state of Kerala. We were in it's poorest region, Wyanad, which is situated in the Western Ghat mountains. The week was amazing-- the region is beautiful (green mountains, incredible birds... you get the idea) and we had some awesome experiences getting different perspectives on issues like health, education, and agriculture. We asked the question “What is development? Who does it, for whom, and at what cost?” and found a plethora of interesting new ideas, both about the Indian context and our own.
I (creative soul and hopeless romantic that I am) wrote a poem one early morning, looking out over a hill in Wyanad, listening to the birds and reflecting on our experience. I hope it gives you some idea of what our week was like.
Nine Months of Rain
The language here falls like
water over rocks
skipping and rolling over itself,
a stream from the green mountains.
Words bubble like a spring from
the mouths of people as old as
earth to say 'yes, your gods with
human shape are selfish, so, they
steal the earth they rape the forest.”
coming from mouths that now take rice, take
sugar with their tea when it used
to be wild honey, and now they live
in exile and impotence while the
ancient knowledge leaks away.
They speak in words like bitter
water tainted with poison,
scarce despite nine months of
rain because of the greed of bananas
and the big men who buy them.
And even the neighbors, each with too-too
small land who plant their crops together--
even they sell their coffee their
pepper their tea by prices
decided in New York.
But again the air is full of sounds:
it's birds with long tails, it's birds
who sing like fountains, it's shy-daughters
singing old love-folk-songs after dinner,
and then the drums, and dancing--
wildly! Around and around to music
like water that doesn't stop and
doesn't stop until we can hardly-hardly
breath. It is like this, too, when we
stand on top of a mountain and see:
rice-paddies like patchwork,
mountains behind the mist, forests unrolling
like carpet, and water that glints in the sun.
and here any words that bubble up are whisked
away by the wind, so we are speechless.
And speechless too when we know that
water-that-glints is water-that-rises:
a dam, or the ghost of one,
where water had risen and risen like words,
like a scream so that homes and lives were drowned
in a word from some big man and
none of their words could stop it.
No. the water still rises and rises,
hungry, and when it rains they hide
their children, or the rising water
will be their end.
And now it's a foreign mouth with
words rising and rising like water
to say there is this place where moss
grows like velvet,
and birds sing like fountains,
where there is water;
in streams-resevoirs-floods-rains-wells
or conspicuous by its poison or its absence
or as it is tumbles,
joyous-sad-ancient-rising,
from all of our mouths together.
I (creative soul and hopeless romantic that I am) wrote a poem one early morning, looking out over a hill in Wyanad, listening to the birds and reflecting on our experience. I hope it gives you some idea of what our week was like.
Nine Months of Rain
The language here falls like
water over rocks
skipping and rolling over itself,
a stream from the green mountains.
Words bubble like a spring from
the mouths of people as old as
earth to say 'yes, your gods with
human shape are selfish, so, they
steal the earth they rape the forest.”
coming from mouths that now take rice, take
sugar with their tea when it used
to be wild honey, and now they live
in exile and impotence while the
ancient knowledge leaks away.
They speak in words like bitter
water tainted with poison,
scarce despite nine months of
rain because of the greed of bananas
and the big men who buy them.
And even the neighbors, each with too-too
small land who plant their crops together--
even they sell their coffee their
pepper their tea by prices
decided in New York.
But again the air is full of sounds:
it's birds with long tails, it's birds
who sing like fountains, it's shy-daughters
singing old love-folk-songs after dinner,
and then the drums, and dancing--
wildly! Around and around to music
like water that doesn't stop and
doesn't stop until we can hardly-hardly
breath. It is like this, too, when we
stand on top of a mountain and see:
rice-paddies like patchwork,
mountains behind the mist, forests unrolling
like carpet, and water that glints in the sun.
and here any words that bubble up are whisked
away by the wind, so we are speechless.
And speechless too when we know that
water-that-glints is water-that-rises:
a dam, or the ghost of one,
where water had risen and risen like words,
like a scream so that homes and lives were drowned
in a word from some big man and
none of their words could stop it.
No. the water still rises and rises,
hungry, and when it rains they hide
their children, or the rising water
will be their end.
And now it's a foreign mouth with
words rising and rising like water
to say there is this place where moss
grows like velvet,
and birds sing like fountains,
where there is water;
in streams-resevoirs-floods-rains-wells
or conspicuous by its poison or its absence
or as it is tumbles,
joyous-sad-ancient-rising,
from all of our mouths together.
Friday, September 25, 2009
T-Two
I just visited a ghost-gold-mining-town where men cut off their thumbs to afford for their daughters to marry and then couldn’t mine the gold so that we can do it in style. Blood-diamonds-bloody-gold. And thirteen million tons of useless rock heaped on the fields so now nothing will grow there, rock that will put holes in your lungs and the doctors say to drink up and keep working. Hail Brittania, who tore up the country-side in search of shiny things and tore up the people and taught them to speak english. The widows-of-the-mine have to pay for water that comes in a tank on a truck every few days will Jesus painted and chipping on the back of it (and a church every two miles, yes that was Bethany Lutheran Church where are we anyways?) all the water they need for cooking for drinking is holy water.
and then I climbed a mountain this morning and I watched the sunrise like a blood-orange and then met a girl who raped-by-her-cousin-with-a-child-no-family-will-touch-her and she tried not to cry when she said that no one blames him not a speck. They hide him away somewhere and say it was some shepherd from a lower caste but he never touched her and all she wants is for her daughter to know who her father is. Then girls at a convent school learning to be office assistants who give me a bindi and kiss my cheeks and say “oh, so pretty!” and dance about their mothers beaten by drunken fathers and say their dreams: to live a good life in fear of God, to care for my mother-and-father-in-law, to go to the U.S. I can't stop smiling because they smile so big, like suns. Sister Stella is teaching them self-confidence. They ask us to pray for them.
We have a saying here: T-two. In roman numberals: TII. This Is India.
In India we shower in buckets. There is never toilet paper. On the street you can buy a coconut and a man will hack off the top with a machete and stick in a straw. I wear a scarf every day: a dupatta. The word for hello means “I see God in you.” “Namaskara.” The trucks are painted bright colors. Today I saw one that said “We Two, Ours One”. What does that mean? The women wear strings of flowers in their hair every day and saris in colors I didn't think existed. The men wear checkered dhotis, like a towel around th e waist. There are more motorcycles than cars. Cheese is nearly non-existent, but homemade yogurt is at every meal. Eat with your right hand, wipe with your left. I speak “swelpa swelpa Kannada” and no Tamil, Urdu, Hindi, Malyalam, Telagu... but I can hear them all on the street, or could if I could tell them apart. There are dogs everywhere, and cows. In some places, pigs or goats or cats. And everywhere trash lining the sides of the road. There are mountains that are piles of impossible gray rocks and long grass. There are temples on top of them. There are not clothes-dryers. You see women washing clothes violently in the same slow river where one man washes his motorcycle another his cow. We rode for an our on top of a bus, like Indians do. The kids try out their english “Which country? Your name is?” “America, U.S. Nanna hessaru Bay-ta-ny. Ninna hessaru yenu?” “oh, chenna-gee-day!” I can't write the loopy blunt alphabet. My favorite word: Sundara, beautiful. I say this when the girls smile, when someone hands me a baby, when I see the mountains, but I don't know how to express in any language what it is to hear the story of a woman who is holding her child and they are both crying.
This Is India.
and then I climbed a mountain this morning and I watched the sunrise like a blood-orange and then met a girl who raped-by-her-cousin-with-a-child-no-family-will-touch-her and she tried not to cry when she said that no one blames him not a speck. They hide him away somewhere and say it was some shepherd from a lower caste but he never touched her and all she wants is for her daughter to know who her father is. Then girls at a convent school learning to be office assistants who give me a bindi and kiss my cheeks and say “oh, so pretty!” and dance about their mothers beaten by drunken fathers and say their dreams: to live a good life in fear of God, to care for my mother-and-father-in-law, to go to the U.S. I can't stop smiling because they smile so big, like suns. Sister Stella is teaching them self-confidence. They ask us to pray for them.
We have a saying here: T-two. In roman numberals: TII. This Is India.
In India we shower in buckets. There is never toilet paper. On the street you can buy a coconut and a man will hack off the top with a machete and stick in a straw. I wear a scarf every day: a dupatta. The word for hello means “I see God in you.” “Namaskara.” The trucks are painted bright colors. Today I saw one that said “We Two, Ours One”. What does that mean? The women wear strings of flowers in their hair every day and saris in colors I didn't think existed. The men wear checkered dhotis, like a towel around th e waist. There are more motorcycles than cars. Cheese is nearly non-existent, but homemade yogurt is at every meal. Eat with your right hand, wipe with your left. I speak “swelpa swelpa Kannada” and no Tamil, Urdu, Hindi, Malyalam, Telagu... but I can hear them all on the street, or could if I could tell them apart. There are dogs everywhere, and cows. In some places, pigs or goats or cats. And everywhere trash lining the sides of the road. There are mountains that are piles of impossible gray rocks and long grass. There are temples on top of them. There are not clothes-dryers. You see women washing clothes violently in the same slow river where one man washes his motorcycle another his cow. We rode for an our on top of a bus, like Indians do. The kids try out their english “Which country? Your name is?” “America, U.S. Nanna hessaru Bay-ta-ny. Ninna hessaru yenu?” “oh, chenna-gee-day!” I can't write the loopy blunt alphabet. My favorite word: Sundara, beautiful. I say this when the girls smile, when someone hands me a baby, when I see the mountains, but I don't know how to express in any language what it is to hear the story of a woman who is holding her child and they are both crying.
This Is India.
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