He Says I Have Talent!

Tonight I got to co-facilitate a session on weekend fun with Sid, and I did a little needs assessment and activity. Nothing fancy, just small stuff. (I led a brief re-entry session this summer, after which Roshen told me I can do re-entry and some other sessions throughout the semester.) Later this evening, I bumped into Roshen and we were debriefing the day and he said, “You are just so talented at that! I am going to learn so much from you.” And I was like, Rosh, I have books and books of activities like this, I can show you some if you want,” to which he replied that he would much rather just watch me do it. Yay yay yay! (and thank you, TDEL!)

Discombobulated Day

Well, my worst fears came true. My life has completely changed. And I don’t really know how to deal with it. The girls are all asking me where I am, why I am not eating with them, which (a) makes me so sad because I absolutely cherished that time with them and (b) makes me feel really special because they love me J I am running around like a crazy person trying to get myself and everybody else balanced and settled, and it is making me pretty discombobulated. I know that things will settle down, though, and I also look forward to those weeks that the kids will be traveling and I can go back to my rice 3x/day with the girlies. I also have to find the balance between administrator and friend, and my high context/low context pendulum is swinging back and forth more quickly than a metronome keeping superfast time. Things will settle, things will settle…but for now, I just have to deal with the discombobulation!

BUT the exciting thing is that Kengemma has started asking me to read with her. A few weeks ago I realized that she can’t really even identify all of the letters in the alphabet, and definitely can’t identify the sounds that they make in order to form words. I have asked her in the past if she wants to read with me, and she has shook her head violently and said, “grrr no auntie no!” But today she came up to me and asked to read! It made me so so happy and I hope it continues!!!

Me and Julio Down by the Schoolyard

So last night we picked the kids up at the airport and got back to Visthar at around 3am. Yup, that was way past my bedtime. To pass the minutes while we waited for them, Sid and I made up a name game. We had a roster of the kids’ names, hometowns, majors, etc., but nothing else. Therefore, he said a name, hometown, major, and I said the very first association that came to mind. For example:

Jackie (female): Women’s Studies: Well, Jackie Robinson was the first African-American baseball player. There was a movie made about the first women’s baseball team…so Jackie, women’s studies.

James: James is a strong name. James was Jesus’ brother, so clearly James is studying philosophy.

Alexander: Alexander the great was born in Jordan (I have seen his birthplace) and it was on a grassy hill with lots of trees…equaling Alex is studying environmentalism.

Etc.

Whenever I didn’t have one, he did. His were more of a reaction to the name, though, such as:

Rachel [last name]: ah, a good Jewish girl!

[First name] Underwood: oh, well that’s easy! Underwood is such a British name, he must be studying English!

Several of mine also stemmed from songs [of course], like

Devaney from Montana: “My home’s in Montana - Devaney wears a bandana…”

Julio, who is studying political science: you know that Paul Simon song? “Me and Julio down by the schoolyard…” they always wondered what me and Julio were doing down by the schoolyard. Now we know that they were studying political science.

This was a great game. And gave us many, many laughs in those hours of delirium between 10pm and 1:30am. However. It didn’t really help us connect names with faces; instead, when I met Rachel all I could think was “ah, a good Jewish girl!” and I still haven’t stopped singing “Me and Julio down by the schoolyard…”

Tomorrow My Life Will Change

Well, this is it. Tomorrow, the students are coming. And I think that it is going to be a hard adjustment to make. I have gotten so used to my schedule, to my space, and my time, and tomorrow that is all going to be shaken up. I am not going to be able to eat my meals with the girls, and the time that I do get to spend with them is going to dramatically decrease. Even though I came here for the semester program with American students, for some reason I wasn’t anticipating getting so connected with the girls and I (a) don’t want to lose my time with them and (b) don’t want to share them. Yes, look at me, I’m so selfish. Oh, and I’m also getting a roommate…so I have to share my little brick hut, too. I was talking to a visiting former intern about this yesterday over dove chocolates, and right after I mentioned the roommate part I looked down at the promise in the wrapper: appreciate the people around you and share. We got a great laugh out of that omen ;) Regardless of my fears about change, though, I am really excited for the kids to come. Nervous, because what if they’re bad? What if they’re mean? What if they don’t like us? But so excited because it is 16 new relationships, 16 growing minds and souls, and I finally get to strut my stuff and do my thing, and I am so so so excited.

7-Star Hotel

Well today Sid and I continued our “research” for places to bring the students when they get here, and that research led us to the Leela Palace, Bangalore’s 7-star hotel. I walked in and knew that I wouldn’t mind coming back J OH to be in a place so pristine and sophisticated was absolutely wonderful. Sometimes I wonder at the contradictions in my life – here I am, living with nature and studying social justice, poverty, and development, yet I love me some upper-class comfort.

Sick Day Part Deux

Guess who has a fever again? Yup, I do. This morning the first people I saw were Anu and Roshen, and the first thing Roshen said to me was, “You look awful.” Gee thanks, Rosh. I can tell that it isn’t as bad as the last time, though, and I went back to bed for the afternoon to avoid it getting worse. The absolute bummer of being sick, though, is that I had to cancel my English class. Today was my favorite class, 3rd, 4th, and 5th, and I had really been looking forward to it.
When I walked down to tell them that I wasn’t going to make it, Gangamma saw me coming and ran out to meet me with open arms. She stopped dead in her tracks when she got within a few feet of me, put her hand to her throat, and asked me with inquisitive eyes, “Jaya (fever), auntie?” I smiled weakly and nodded, and she wrapped her arms around me and walked me to the classroom. At this point, it started raining, and all of the girls came and got me inside. Shacuntala got me a chair to sit in, and they made me sit until the rain let up, most of them stroking my arm or hair. At dinner that night, Gangamma came to sit by me and (after inquiring about the status of my fever) told me, “Auntie, I was badger (mad/sad) today that we didn’t have English class. I like English class. I like you. I was badger that you were sick.” (This was in a lot more broken English, which I wish I could remember so that you can get a better feel for how the girls speak, but alas I have only my understanding of what was said). This warmed my heart in so many ways – first and foremost, that she likes English. Secondly, that she likes my English class (and me ☺). I ran into Shiva on my way out, and she seconded Gangamma’s thoughts. And asked if we could make it up tomorrow. Or Saturday. Or Sunday. Or Monday. Or Tuesday. Or Wednesday. Oh man I love these girls.

Pondering Pomegranites

Since I moved to India, pomegranates have become my new favorite fruit. I have always loved pomegranate-flavored things, pomegranate juice, pomegranate frozen yogurt at Freeziac, and chocolate-covered pomegranate seeds, but I realized that I have never actually eaten the fruit purely on its own. I even have a pomegranate tree outside my front door, which makes me so so happy.

Yum. Besides its delicious taste and incredible nutritional value, I think I love pomegranates so much because you cannot eat them in a hurry. Pomegranates take a long time to eat, and for that reason you enjoy them more. You can’t eat a pomegranate while doing something else (even reading – the seeds are too juicy), and to that end you are completely concentrated on the process of breaking apart the flesh and pulling out the seeds. Eating a pomegranate isn’t a mindless activity like pulling out a bag of potato chips would be. You are focused on the process, on the taste, on the juice, and are able to think, to relax, to enjoy conversation. A small pomegranate should take at least 20 minutes to eat; today, I had a medium-sized one that I ate in 45 minutes…and even that was rushing it a little bit. Who has time to take 45 minutes to eat one fruit, you ask?

I think that we all should.

You're Gonna Miss This

I know I already wrote a little something today, but I just needed to write about one more thing that happened. Tonight, I was having a mini heart-to-heart with Padma, one of the oldest girls here at Bandhavi and definitely a girl who was born to lead. She is in the 10^th class, and was telling me how excited she is to finish 10^th class in March and go back to her village. She misses her family (she only gets to see them once a year) and feels very stifled by life here at Visthar. You would, too, if you were 17 and lived the same life, by the same rules, as the 9-year-olds…but took the responsibility and the brunt of most of the blame of things that happen. As she was talking, I did agree with her; I know that it is hard to be away from your family (I am only gone for six months; she has been gone for five years) and that, as a developing young adult, you want – and need – freedom.

However, I also looked around at where we were sitting. Here she was, surrounded by 60 of her closest friends – sisters, they call themselves. I looked at her and I said, “Padma, I know that it is hard to be here sometimes, and iknow that you are excited to go back to your village, to go to college, and to get away from the things about Bandhavi that you don’t like. But I also know that there are parts of it that you do like, and next April, you are going to miss those things. You are going to miss living with your friends. So try, just a little bit, to enjoy the things that you like about living here because once you move home, you won’t have them any longer. I know it is hard to believe, but you are going to miss this.” I was tearing up as I said this, remembering all the times in my life that I have wished myself into the next stage rather than enjoying where I am (and, of course, started singing the country song that is the title of this blog) and thinking about how that is something that I continuously have to work on. And I hope, I hope, that she understood at least a little bit of what I was saying and that she will take it to heart and apply it.

Breaking the Fast

I have some coworkers who are Muslim and observing the Ramadan fast, and today during morning tea we started chatting about the amount of delicious food that can be found near the mosques during this season. Mr. Francis (the only staff before whose name we use a title) is not Muslim, but really enjoyed the shish kebabs that he found around 6:45 last night. So we started talking about breaking the fast, when they break the fast, and how the time that Muslims can break their fast is 6:47pm. Not only is 6:47 when they are able to break their fast, they are required to eat something at this time. When Mr. Francis realized that this was the case, the look on his face was incredulous and, hoping that his friend would not face horrible implications if he should happen to break the fast a moment too late, he turned to Sham and asked, “And do you have a good watch?”

It Was Bound to Happen Sometime

Well, today it happened:

I officially became overcommitted.

Just a few days ago, I was footloose and fancy free

And loving the sense of balance that I had in my life,

Shaming myself for the busy lifestyle that I keep back in the states.

Then, without even realizing it, I became committed to twelve if not more hours of work a day, plus Friday and Saturday afternoon/evenings administering fun, plus a weekend sewing class.

A class that a coworker told me she has been wanting to start for a long time, and I told her that it was a great idea and I would love to help.

Now suddenly I am the teacher and main source of creativity.

Not to mention being “resident assistant” for the American students that are coming next week

As well as their “weekend fun” coordinator.

Oh. And I think I am supposed to be finishing my Master’s degree, too…

Yup, before this week is out

I am going to need to regain some balance in my life.

Confrontation and re-establishment of boundaries (two of my very favorite things) here I come!

Handwash Only

This morning, I didn’t go to church. Instead, I resolved to spend the morning reading my Bible. The only other thing I was going to do during this devoted Sunday morning was do two loads of laundry.

The first time I brought my clothes up, the power was out and somebody else’s clothing was in the machine. So I made sure that the machine was set to start when the power came back on and I headed to breakfast. After breakfast, the power was back so I went to hang up the stranger’s clothes and put mine in.

I couldn’t open the door to the machine.

Now, this isn’t a new occurrence. When I got to India, the handle was tricky. Then someone broke it off, and it became easier because you just had to push in the grey button. Today, the grey button wasn’t working. I mean, it was working, and it pushed all the way over to the “unlatched” position at which point the door SHOULD have opened, but it didn’t.

I think I tried to open it for a half an hour.

Then, I started to swear so I decided that that wasn’t making me become any more of a positive, holy, or hardworking person. Alternatively, I decided to handwash my laundry.

Now. The girls handwash all of their clothes all the time. I have done the occasional top…how hard could it be?

Well, I can answer that question because here I sit two hours later, absolutely exhausted, having burned probably 2,500 calories and gotten through only my sheets, towels, pillowcases, underwear, a pair of pajama pants, two tank tops, a sweater and a hoodie. That may sound like a lot…but I didn’t even touch my whites, which I have been saving up over the past two weeks to wash today. The whites that I wear under most of my tops, aka white tank tops and camis as well as a few dressier blouses.

Oh, and yes, you read correctly – I bucket-washed my bedsheets. And my towel. And a hoodie sweatshirt. I feel like I’ve just competed in a world’s strongest man competition. At the beginning, it was fun and I decided that I would always handwash my stuff. By the middle I realized that I use way more water handwashing than a washing machine ever would, and it would be pointless to keep handwashing when I have a machine so closeby.

I began the task as a pioneer woman, and ended as a city girl. I don’t even have the energy to lug all of my wet, heavy things to the clotheslines to dry, so they are laid out on my bushes in the sun (where they tend to dry more quickly anyway). But if it starts to rain, I think I might cry.

Are We Having Fun Yet?

Today became quite possibly the worst weather day I have ever experienced in india. Like close your eyes and picture a monsoon. And then stick me right in the middle of it. Why was I in the middle of it, you ask? Because I am a “Fun Administrator” for the American students that are coming this week; Sid and I have created 2 weekend modules of fun around Bangalore for every Friday and Saturday that the students are available, and we will each be leading a different module depending on the interests of the students. Which is how we found ourselves on foot and motorbike trekking through the city in the midst of a monsoon, checking out museums, restaurants, cafés and clubs so that we could accurately map out our forced fun. The theme of the day seemed to be, “Are we having fun yet?” and from time to time one of us would take on the persona of a whiny American college student, wet and cold and not impressed by our ideas of fun. One of our modules, for example, includes the Karnataka State Aquarium, which contains two floors of fish tanks. Many tanks are repeats. One tank is from Texas. Doesn’t sound thrilling, but we found it pretty entertaining. Hopefully they do too J We are also hoping that they get as exhausted by the city as we do: about halfway through our list, we found ourselves at an ice cream shop unable to move or to hold coherent conversation, counting all the reasons why we shouldn’t finish our investigating that day and even convincing ourselves to scratch one area of town altogether. Haha – don’t we sound like fun?

Ants in my Pants

The past few days, I have enjoyed working from the “love hut,” which is the term previous interns have given to the open air, mud-floored, straw-roofed gazebo that overlooks our agriculture fields scattered with coconut trees. I alternate between sitting on the ground and perching on the ledge. Today, however, I was sitting on the ground and felt something crawling up my leg. Then it bit me. I felt something else moving….yes, I had ants in my pants. I laughed as that English phrase took on a whole new meaning to me…and did a little jig to encourage the ants right out of my pants.

Day 2 of Discipline

Just wanted to report that this is the second day

That I have risen before 6am for a morning of discipline.

I almost didn’t do it,

I almost continued to sleep,

But then I thought,

Really, Jen?

You have been in bed since 10PM last night.

You got 7 hours of sleep.

You have been saying since you got here that this is a great place for you to find balance and practice self-discipline.

If you can’t do it here, where there are absolutely zero outside demands on your time,

How will you do it when you return to America?

So I told myself the little lie that I would dissapoint the girls if I didn’t show up to morning yoga (which is really just 15 minutes of calisthenics),

I pulled myself out of bed.

It is now 7:18

And I am bursting with pride

At the fact that I did it.

I try to bring myself back down

By reminding myself that it is only Day 2,

But to no avail. Therefore, I let myself be proud.

If I am proud of Day 2,

I will be even more proud of Day 3

And exceptionally proud by Day 21, which is the 3-week mark.

It takes 3 weeks to form a habit, I’ve heard.

2 days down, 19 to go!

P.S. today I found the saddest youtube video for helping kids learn English...if you would like to watch it, go to http://www.youtube.com/user/KidsOnlineEnglish. It's so painful, it's amusing. For about 30 seconds.

Slipping Through my Fingers

Here we are, day 3 of the ABBA titles for my blog posts. My most sincere apologies.

Today, Crystal left.

I am officially the only intern left at Visthar.

This morning when I watched the girls leaving for school,

Backpacks bobbing,

I started singing “Schoolbag in hand, she leaves home in the early morning – Waving goodbye with an absentminded smile…”

As the day progressed, this song continued to ring true and gain more meaning.

I wrote more here, but it turned into a personal reflection rather than a post for the world, so I will just continue with this:

Today was kind of rough, but rewarding.

Now that Crystal has left, it means I have been here almost 2 months.

The students are coming in a week and a half,

And then the time will fly.

But as I sit on the girls’ beds at night

Listening to their English reading,

As they braid my hair,

As they tell me that they didn’t like me when I first came

But now I am “Super, Auntie”,

As their house mother comes and gets me for an “Emergency”

Which turns out to be heaping bowls of ice cream snuck from the kitchen

That we share in muffled giggles

(and the continued whispered exclamation of, “It always tasted better when it is stolen!”),

I realize how quick this is all going to go,

How it is

“Slipping through my fingers all the time

I try to capture every minute

The feeling in it

Slipping through my fingers all the time”.

I Have a Dream

Tonight I found myself chatting with Lakshmi G., one of the girls that I haven’t spent much real time with. I am going to be teaching English classes solo beginning next week, and I asked her what she wanted to learn. She started telling me that she doesn’t speak very good English, which is a consistent complaint among the girls, but we don’t let that be an excuse for them to speak Kannada and are consistently praising their English skills. I told her that she does speak very well, and that the more she practices the better she will become…and that every time she speaks with me, she will be practicing. And we can talk about anything, so that she can practice speaking about all topics.

She began telling me about her family, and her mother, and how she is in 8^th class but in March will be in 9^th and then 10^th and then college for her first degree and then maybe her second degree. She wants to be a teacher. Her mother’s degree is social work, and so her mother is always saying, “Lakshmi, do social work.” Her brother is a doctor, so he is always saying, “Lakshmi, be a doctor.” Her brother’s wife (for some reason) always says, “Lakshmi, do social work.” Always always always her mother is saying social work. But she wants to be a teacher. She wants to teach Kannada, her language. And social studies. Then, abruptly, she said, “Your dream, Auntie?” Whoa, that made me start. Her dream was so easy, so clear-cut (not easy considering all of the barriers that she will most likely come across, but simple nonetheless). So inspiring.

In this conversation, two things happened: 1) a reminder to always have a dream, and to not make life too complicated and 2) an idea for my English class: the writing and presenting of their dreams. More to come J

P.S. Yes, this is Day #2 of ABBA songs as my blog post titles. Sorry, just can’t help it (thank you, Levys, for engraining ABBA forever in my heart). I think I could probably narrate my life by song lyrics…and the lyrics of this song reminded me of Lakshmi and her dream:

I have a dream

A song to sing

To help me grow

In anything

If you see the wonder

Of a fairy tale

You can take the future

Even if you fail…

I have a dream

A fantasy

To help me through

Reality

And my destination

Makes it worth the while

Wishing through the darkness

Still another mile

Thank you for the Music

If you haven’t noticed, my life in India is full of song and dance. Chock full of it. And being here, surrounded by people who so easily and unabashedly get up and perform, blessing others with their melodies and movement, has given meaning to this wonderful ABBA classic:

Thank you for the music

The songs I'm singin'

Thanks for all

the joy they're bringin'

Who could live without it?

I ask in all honesty

What could life be?

Without a song or a dance, what are we?

So I say

Thank you for the music

For giving it to me

Independence Day

Today was the day of Indian independence from Britain.

(It seems as if we're all trying to get away from the British, doesn't it?)

Even though it was a Sunday, the girls all had programs at their school. During the week leading up to Independence Day, all of the stories that we were writing in English class revolved around the anticipated Independence Day festivities, and any and all free time was spent practicing the dances and songs that were to be performed.

So on Sunday morning, I went to the Dodda Gubbi school, where girls in the 8th, 9th, and 10th classes go to school. We hadn't even gotten off the motorbike before it was swarmed by the girls (who had arrived early to practice) and dragged off the bike, up the road, and into the school. We saw each classroom and several girls were proud to point out their seats in the front row or the ways that they had helped decorate the school for Independence Day. Then, we sat and watched the flag hoisting and many dances and songs. After a while, it seemed as if it was over...but we were just reforming for a "march" through the neighborhood around the school, stopping to salute and have a moment of silence at a cemetery where a war hero had been buried. We returned to the school, were fed some rice, and then watched several more hours of singing and dancing. The majority of performances were by our girls, and I had my camera out the whole time filming and taking pictures like a proud parent.

We walked home from school, and I was convinced that it was about 6:00. Man was I exhausted...and I wasn't even doing anything but watching! The girls were even more tired than I was...and it was only 2:00! They had a whole day of homework ahead of them...I, on the other hand, had the luxury of falling asleep to a rainstorm :)

My New Job

Today, my job description changed.

Rather than being the International Education intern,

I think that I have become the "Hair Braiding Intern".

Although braided hair is definitely the vogue for Indian women and girls,

French braids are rarely seen.

Therefore I spent all afternoon French braiding...

mostly into pigtails for the smaller girls,

but a few headband-style for the older ones.

Thanks to many years of camp counseling,

my fingers were ready!

I was even braiding in the pitch-black when the current was out for about 2 hours...

and enlisted to help braid in the morning before their Independence Day program.

Watch out, Master's degree...I may have had a career change :)

Married and Pregnant?

An old intern has returned to Visthar
to stay for a few weeks and spend time with the girls.
Since she left a year ago,

she has gotten married and is now pregnant.

In Indian culture, girls get married very young

so it is not abnormal for the girls to ask me

if I'm married, why not, and tell me

that after I return to my village it will be time for me to get married.

But now, thanks to Barbara,

I have been told that before I can come back to Visthar

I need to be married and pregnant, too.

Thanks, Barbara :)

25% Complete

Today marks the day where I celebrate being one-quarter of the way done with my 6 months in India.

Am I counting down?

No.

How do I know?

Welll….I brought four toothbrushes to India. And at the beginning of Week Two, I started getting anxious that I would forget to switch out a toothbrush and end up using the same one for 6 months (gross) or that I would be too hard on one and throw it away early, therefore using up my ration and maybe running out of toothbrushes (or at least functional toothbrushes) before I came home.

So I, being the concrete sequential person that I am,

Pulled up my calendar and counted the days, divided by four, and then counted the days until I knew which days would mark my “New Toothbrush Days”. I wrote the dates on a post-it, and that post-it is now stuck to my desk so that I don’t forget (It’s right next to my “Malaria Mondays” reminder post-it).

Dad, I know you’re laughing right now…but I also know that you would have probably done the same thing J

English Frustrations

English is the most awful language that there is. I have always heard that it is one of the most difficult languages to learn, but never realized that that also makes it one of the most difficult to teach.

Really.

Why the heck do we have silent letters? That doesn’t make any sense. If you don’t say them, don’t write them. And imagine not only the learner’s confusion but also my own as we’re reading a story and she struggles with “night”, pronouncing it “niGet”. I explain to her that when “gh” are together, they are silent, you don’t say them. Three sentences later we get to the word “laughing.” In laughing, the “gh” is pronounced like…an F?

Consistency people, consistency.

*Note: I do know the answers to all of these questions that I pose about language…I took linguistics and many, many years of grammar that have helped me understand how the presence of those silent letters and sounds often change the sound of proceeding or following vowels…but to try explaining that to somebody who barely speaks English and whose language you don’t speak? VERY frustrating indeed.

Sick Day

Well, last night I went to the hospital again. But this time, it was for me.

Sunday night I got home from a dinner out and had goosebumps, extreme chills, and was sweating something awful. All day long I had had a headache.

I went to bed right away (8:45!) tossed and turned through the night, and got up at 7:15 to skype with my family. My throat hurt and I must have looked terrible, because they all looked really worried about me and suggested that I take it easy. Which I did, going back to sleep until I was awakened for our Monday reflection at 10:50, then to bed again until 1:45 when a friend brought me a plate of plain white rice. At this point my coworkers got kind of nervous that I had malaria (don’t worry, I don’t) and told me that I should go to the hospital.

I always like it when people tell me to go; I would never go otherwise. I’m always nervous that I’m not sick enough to warrant seeing a doctor.

Anyway, the Indian hospital was quite the experience. We were offered tea, the nurse took my temperature in the waiting hallway, and another patient’s consultation took place in the doorless room directly in front of me. They called me into the doctor’s room, and Crystal took a seat in the room next to another older lady who was there the whole time (I still haven’t figured out who she was). The door, which led directly to the waiting room, was open the entire time. The doctor was very nice and asked all the routine questions, got to the bottom of the problem, and announced that I have a tonsil infection. She then prescribed an injection, an antiseptic to gargle with morning and night, and three different oral medications.

I was then instructed to lay down on the table so that I could get my injection. They pulled closed the half-curtain which covered just up to my waist. I glanced at the old lady, shot Crystal an, “Ah help me!” look and then I focused my gaze through the open door into the waiting room, gripping the table as they gave me a great big booster shot.

And then it was over. I bought half of my prescriptions at the hospital and then walked down the road to get the rest at the pharmacy, praying that they were correct because the guy running the shop was not a doctor nor a pharmacist and he definitely didn’t speak English. I bought some pomegranites and oranges for vitamin C….and then it started to rain.

We caught a rickshaw to take us most of the way home, and the rain let up a little bit…until the rick stopped and it was time for us to walk. Of course then it decided to pour, which was very conducive to a speedy recovery J

This is Sandhya's Story

Remember when I was willing my legs to move me towards that hospital room a few weeks back? Well, I was visiting a precious 9-year-old named Sandhya, and she died today.

Sandhya was suffering from HIV/AIDS. She had most likely contracted the disease at birth, for her mother was a Davidasi. In Hindi, dasi means slave, and davi means god. Therefore, working as a temple prostitute, her mother was a slave of god. Sandhya joined us at Visthar in an effort, I’m assuming of her grandparents but am not positive, to protect her from being dedicated as a temple prostitute as well. None of the other girls knew of her disease. In India, HIV/AIDS carries a stigma larger than an elephant and if they had known, the sad truth is that Sandhya may have been treated differently. But as it was, the girls were sisters. 70 loving, playful sisters.

Because Sandhya was sick, her immune system was lower than the others’. She caught cold a few weeks ago, which quickly progressed into a violent flu and pneumonia-like disease, bringing her to a nearby hospital and soon to one further away when the first could not provide the proper treatment for her. As Sandhya’s body grew weaker and weaker, the girls held long moments of personal prayertime before their mealtime prayers, crying and praying for the restoration of her health. But Sandhya was propelled towards jaundice and into a coma, which is when she passed away.

This is a part of the life cycle that I was not planning on experiencing while I was in India.

My organization has members from several different faiths, so we had a multifaith memorial service for small Sandhya. I don’t always agree with the theology that is used during these times together, but a few things did stick out to me. To keep things, short, these are the two points that I would like to share with you:

1. In times of hardship, pain, death, dying, and despair, we often comfort ourselves with the words, “It is God’s will.” I don’t know about you, but, in the moment, that isn’t very comforting to me and is very difficult to understand. Yes, it perhaps God’s will that this was the time for her short, sweet life to end and He is holding her now up in heaven, where she is no longer ravaged by disease. HOWEVER. Pain, death, dying, and despair are never a part of God’s will. Satan came to steal and destroy, but JESUS came to bring life, and life abundant (John 10:10). Sandhya’s death was the result of a deadly disease that was brought on by an oppressive tradition…neither of which were ever within God’s perfect plan for mankind, but the result of our own sin.

2. This is not just Sandhya’s story. All around the world, there are thousands of children dying from HIV/AIDS. Thousands. This is sometimes hard to understand until it is real, and in the world that you and I live in this number is often just a number. A sad number, but a number nonetheless. Now, that number has a name. That name is Sandhya. And Sandhya is only one.

Prayer

Prayer is a relationship; half the job is mine. If I want transformation, but can’t even be bothered to articulate what, exactly, I’m aiming for, how will it ever occur? So now I take the time every morning to search myself for specificity about what I am truly asking for. I kneel there in the temple with my face on that cold marble for as long as it takes for me to formulate an authentic prayer. If I don’t feel sincere, then I will stay there on the floor until I do.

This is another excerpt from Eat. Pray. Love. She writes this while practicing meditation in an Ashram in India, and while I’m not really into that whole meditation thing, her comment on prayer really resounded with me. it reminds me of when, within Christian culture, we pray for “blessings”. What does that even mean? Do we even know what kind of blessings we are looking for? Would we know if God answered our prayer for blessings if we don’t even ask for them in a certain form? Are we shorting ourselves? Are we shorting God by not allowing him to display his full power in answering our prayers?

Oh. And how many of us are this disciplined? To stay with your face on that cold marble for as long as it takes to formulate an authentic prayer? (It causes quite the back pain; believe me, I tried it this morning.) In fact…when was the last time you truly prayed an authentic prayer and not just a rub-a-dub-dub-thanks-for-the-grub? My challenge to you: formulate an authentic prayer today. And don’t get up until you do.

Wedding Whoops

Today, I was showing some of the girls pictures.

They wanted to see pictures of "my village",

and I was struggling.

I don't really have many pics out and about in Eden Prairie,

and they had already seen pics from Brattleboro.

So I asked if they wanted to see pictures from an American wedding,

which they got very excited about.

I think they were disappointed.

Although my best friend's wedding was beautiful,

it lacked the colors and craziness of which most Indian weddings boast.

We also show a little bit more skin.

They got a little more into it when I started reaching pictures from the dance

(mostly because it was one of the first times that I had pictures of the bride and groom together)

but when they saw the first dance, they asked, "Aren't there rules for dancing, auntie?"

and I was like, No, no rules.

I kept flipping through,

and came to one of my dad and I dancing

which made them very confused.

"You don't feel any shame, Auntie?"

At which point I realized that it probably is not normal for males and females to dance together in this culture. So I asked if men and women dance together at Indian weddings, and got a resounding, "Nooooo Auntie." The bride and groom don't even dance together. In fact, the groom sits and the women dance.

Ooops. Not only have I just exposed them to the scantiness of Western fashion, but also to the scandalous dance practices of Western weddings...and they have seen evidence of me partaking in both. A part of me feels guilty, like I should protect them from it. But at the same time, they are 18 and want to know where I come from. And there is nothing inherently wrong with our fasion (most of the time) or with our wedding dances (as long as they're classy).

I just wonder what they think of me - of us - now...

Dance Dance Revolution

Every time I go over to visit the girls, somebody is dancing.

They have memorized the dances from lots of films

and they turn on the music

and dance away.

And they are GOOD.

The best girl, Raji, denies that she has any talent at all,

and would rather that I teach HER a dance.

Ha.

After much cajoling,

and the promise that if I teach her, she will teach me,

I agreed.

So now, I am undecided:

Do I teach her the macarena,

the electric slide,

or the cupid shuffle?

They're all just such complex dances,

full of art,

that require so much skill, capture the attention of the onlooker,

and represent our culture so well...

I don't know how I will ever decide :)

But I do know one thing, and that is that after this,

it is likely that the girls will most likely leave Indian dancing forever

and be continuously enraptured by the

essence of "American" dancing.

Ha.

I get the feeling that by the sixth round of "slide to the left"

there won't be any requests for the YMCA.

The Disconnect

Why do we, as humans, live so disconnected from so many things that are vital to our lives?

For example. Let’s start with food, since that is what I am thinking about most of the time. We once lived in a time when we grew our own. That’s long-gone. Then, we went to a general store and told the worker what we wanted, and they handed it to us…but at least we knew that the supplier of eggs to our general store was our chicken-farming neighbor. Now, we go to the grocery store and pluck a can of beans off of the shelf. Where were they grown? No idea. Who grew them? No clue. Old El Paso may be distributing them, but what does that even mean? Are there other ingredients in this can besides beans? Yes, but rarely do we look at the label. And in fact (I learned this when I started living gluten-free), there are ingredients in this can that they don’t even list on the label. Yet…we put it into our bodies.

Our bodies. Aren’t they supposed to be a temple? Yet how often to we really listen to them, really give them what they need? Really care for them? No, I think we tend to use them. We make our bodies work hard, depend on them to do what we ask of them, fill them with food that we know little about and that more often than not isn’t really that good for them, and we ask them to function on very little sleep.

And what about the earth? We are called to care for the earth yet, like our bodies, oftentimes end up using it with no concern of our impact and without recognizing and appreciating everything that it gives to us…you know, like oxygen. In Asia and the Middle East, they used to eat sitting on the ground, reclining, etc, in fact, I still eat like that here in India sometimes. Maybe that’s why picnics are so fun – because you eat them not only outside (where everything tastes better), and on the ground, which is where most of our food originally comes from anyways.

Lastly…each other. We each live individual lives, in a hurry to get things done. We send text messages, emails, pray that we will get someone’s voicemail so that we don’t have to spend the time talking to them. I am even guilty of skyping with somebody who is sitting just down the hallway from me, or calling my mom who is upstairs when I am in the basement…what stops me from going to them and talking face to face? We are busy, we claim…yet we crave community. What stops us from connecting to the things in our life that we all want to prioritize but for which we “don’t have time”?

Food (Part 1 of Many...)

Here in India, we grow our own food. And by we, I mean the organization. I have only done agriculture work once, but it was at 6am and I felt like I was more of a hindrance than a helper. However, the point is that I am eating absolutely delicious, fresh, organic food. They even kill their own chickens sometimes (ew. I haven’t volunteered for that job yet, but I appreciate the freshness).

This land of fresh food is the perfect ground for me to continue to learn about food, which is something that I have been more interested in since going gluten-free and reading the labels of foods, realizing how many nasty and unnecessary things are in our food. My interest in food increased when I articulated my passion for social justice, and desired to live as just a life as possible…and started to realize that most of the food that we eat comes at the cost or even life of those who are growing it. And that our food could be doing really harmful things to us as consumers, as well.

I am not really going to get into it much in this post, but here are some things that I encourage you to look into and that you can expect to hear about from me in the next couple months:

• - Eating organically. It’s better for you, better for the farmer, better for the earth.
• - Genetically Modified foods = nasty. Horrible for the livelihoods of farmers, for the natural development of crops, and for human and animal health. PLEASE THINK TWICE BEFORE PUTTING THESE INTO YOUR BODY.
• - Eating locally. It builds community, lets you know where your food came from and how it was grown, lets you eat foods that are in season, and cuts down on the use of fossil fuels and therefore decreases pollution.
• - Growing gardens. Oh man, I am so excited to do this. I want a garden SO BADLY. Those of you in the Twin Cities and interested in gardening should check out the organization Backyard Harvest (www.pricoldclimate.org/about_backyard_harvest) – I have already decided which of the gardeners I want to help me with my backyard harvest…and then we are going to get married J

So there’s just a few of my thoughts towards food…if you’re looking for a good book, check out Stuffed and Starved by Raj Patel. If you’re looking for a good documentary, check out Food, Inc. and I’m serious. I used to be one of the people who avoided movies like that because I’d rather not know all the dirty details about the food that I’m eating…yes, I was the ultimate example of “ignorance is bliss.” But then food did its permanent damage to my intestinal tract, and I’ve decided that it’s better to be informed…

Water - WATER! - You can Brush your Teeth with it

(Kudos to the Rado Aahs classic about water…which is only mostly true. In the U.S. you can brush your teeth with water. In India, you just have to make sure that you don’t swallow after you rinse J)

We’ve all seen the commercial that shows a plastic bottle of water, vibrating slightly, for an “I’m beginning to get bored” amount of time. Around the time when we start to wonder who would pay the money for such a dull advertisement, the voice tells us, “30 seconds on a treadmill. Forever in a landfill.”

Huh. Clever, I’ve always thought. And indeed, it’s also catchy – many, many times, that mantra has chanted through my head and encouraged me to carry my empty plastic water bottle until I find a recycling bin or the bring my metal water bottle with me to functions such as graduation parties and open houses, making a choice to refill and reuse it instead of creating more waste. (Plus, refilling and reusing disposable plastic water bottles can give you diseases…)

But…why do we spend money on bottles of water in the first place? Why not fill up a pitcher and get out a few glasses? Why not fill up our own water bottle before leaving the house instead of grabbing a plastic bottle from the fridge? Are we really that lazy? Maybe it’s because our water isn’t clean. Ahem. HELLOOO people. We live in the United States. We have filtered water systems. And if our water really isn’t clean (indeed, my stomach has been the victim of impure water sources in this “developed country” that we live in)…we have the luxury of purchasing water-filtering tools ourselves. In fact, did you know that some bottled waters are actually filled using tap water, not the mountain spring water that we assume? Yup, that’s fact, not legend. But still we spend $2.25 on a plastic bottle of…tap water?

So much of the world doesn’t have clean water… I am living there right now. So much of the world suffers because of the waste that comes from our consumption of bottled water…I am living there right now. And eventually…we might suffer from that waste too.

(What got me thinking about water again today was watching a short film called “The Story of Bottled Water”. I think you can find it online…I encourage you to watch it and to do your own research on the truth about water around the world!)

Deconstructing Concrete Sequentialism

Yup, this blog title is quite the mouthful.

But I just wanted to share that today, I was fed way too much food.

And as I was eating,

it dawned on me that India is playing a very instrumental role in deconstructing my concrete sequential eating habits (Dad I know you're laughing right now).

Normally I'm the girl who eats one food at a time,

taking careful care to ensure that not one food is touching another.

I even turn my plate so that the food I am eating is directly in front of me.

Not anymore!

Now I slop it all on - a little rice, a little curry, a little chicken, a little i-have-no-idea-what-this-is-but-it-is-really-brightly-colored-and-chunky-so-it-must-be-good-for-me.

Then I use my fingers to mix it all together

and shovel it right into my mouth.

A part of me wonders if this new strategy will come back to the States with me.

But then I think about intermixing my sweet potato with bites of avocado,

and I'm not gonna lie, it still makes me a little bit anxious :)

Postcards

I have decided that I am a very awkward postcard writer. I bought some yesterday, figuring that I’ve been here a month and should probably send out some Indian love. But honestly…as I've been writing, it's been kind of a struggle. What are you supposed to write on a postcard? They give you so little space to really write about your trip; at the same time there really is a lot of space…but they can’t honestly expect me to write an in-depth intimate note that’s out there for the world to read. Postcards are an odd concept indeed.

I have therefore resorted to commenting on the picture on the postcard: “Doesn’t this fruit look delicious?” “Wow, it’s a totally different world over here!” “Do you think we could fit this many people on a motorcycle?” Yup, awkward. But at least you know I was thinking of you…and if you don’t get a postcard, don’t worry – I am thinking of you too and had been planning on sending out several rounds of postcards, but as of today have lost all motivation to come up with creatively awkward postcard comments J