Giving to Beggars

As the bus rolled past the market, I strained my neck to try to catch a glimpse of the fruit being sold today.  Tumba bisilu – jasti bisilu – idde (it’s so hot – too hot) and the last thing I wanted to do was to walk 1.5 km carrying my week's worth of fruit. On the other hand, if I didn’t buy it today I would have to buy from a grocery store later on in the week, and I much prefer buying it direct. Plus, I tell myself, what would be better on a day like today than an ice cold fruit smoothie when I get home?

We rolled through the signal and around the corner, and I was the first to hop off, dodging the passengers overeager to board. I retraced the bus’s steps and my fruit farmer spotted me before I spotted her; there was no turning back now.  The table was plain fruit; nothing too exotic: 2 pineapples, 3 cantaloupes, 20 sweet limes (Uffda! 20?), a plate of black grapes, and – finally – bananas.   

Halfway through our conversation, I became aware of an old woman in a red sari behind me. Standing, watching, waiting. She had her hand extended, quietly, and I knew what she was asking for.

Knowing how to interact with beggars is often a struggle for me in this “developing” and “corrupt” country, as it probably is for others, too.  Foreigners are told to ignore begggars; they may be pimped out, they may be enslaved, they should be in school instead and giving to them only encourages the system. However, Scripture says not to shut your hand from your brother in need; and, may I add, once you look into the eyes of a beggar, your life will never be the same.  Bananas are some of the most practical foods to share, and today my farmer friend had given me more thank I had asked for.  When I turned around, I placed the bananas in the woman’s hand.  She lifted her eyes to mine in thanks, and I smiled into hers, then walked away.

I often struggle after giving to the poor – how am I supposed to feel? Proud of myself for doing something good? Down on myself because I know that I can never do enough?  Because I fumble for a 2 rupee coin with one hand while holding my iPhone in the other? After buying some spinach I began my walk home in the dusty evening light and reached up to finger the pendant hanging from my neck: the widow’s mite.  I bought the mite in Jerusalem nearby the temple ruins; it is a relic of the story of the widow who came to the temple and was giving her offering at the same time as the Pharisee. The Pharisee gave in all his gold and his glory, but the woman gave humbly and gave everything that she had to live on. The Pharisee gave out of his excess, but the widow gave out of her poverty.

I gave this woman a bundle of bananas that I didn’t need; they were extra.  Because of who I am, where I come from, the manner in which I am employed, giving of food isn’t a sacrifice and, Lord willing, never will be.  I eat simply, yes, but never have to wonder where my next meal will come from.  Heck, I have the luxury of deciding if I am going to buy my produce from the farmer or the grocery store, and the choice of shopping later if I am feeling too lazy to lug it home.  How – how – can I give out of my poverty? Give sacrificially? Give in a way that is not self-centered, give with wisdom and love? That is the question of my heart this Palm Sunday. Because the widow at the temple isn’t the only one who gave – Jesus did, too.

One Billion Rising

Violence against women is a horrific and oppressive reality the world over, but with the recent global publicity of the torturous gang-rape in Delhi, violence against women - especially sexual violence - is taking the stage in an entirely different spotlight in India.  On Valentine's Day, I joined NGOs and concerned citizens in Cubbon Park, Bangalore, to sing, dance, act, paint, and ultimately say "No" to violence against women.

India is a culture that is permeated by struggles for women's rights, but also that is filled with strong women and men who are standing up for justice.  The use of art at this event was especially powerful.  Not only was art on display, but the participant was invited to paint banners, join dances and mimes, or take a canvas to the grassy lawn to paint their response; to enter the struggle.  I have hope that this year may be the year of the woman in India, beginning to build a solid foundation for the rights of generations to come.

To learn more about the movements to say "No" to violence against women, visit www.onebillionrising.org.

The Day I Began to Fall in Love with India

On this Valentine's Day, I thought I'd throwback to a reflection of a day in early July 2010:  The day I began to fall in love with India.

Some say that when you fall in love,

You just know.

Not this girl.

I didn’t know it then,

But four months later,

As I was pondering my beloved with a smile,

It came to me.

I remembered that moment…

The moment

That I started to fall in love with India.

It was my seventh day in Incredible India,

And it was a hot day in Incredible India.

The air was so dense

I had to push myself through it

And as I rode in the local taxi

I rolled down my window

As far as it would go,

Positioning my body

To be the recipient

Of as much of the passing air as was possible.

Traffic was stop-and-go

But not stop-and-go like you’d picture in America.

This was an India-style traffic jam.

Cars were everywhere,

Horns were blaring.

As I looked at the bikes and the auto-rickshaws around me,

I found myself thankful

That there were only four passengers in my vehicle.

Four, and not fourteen.

I averted my gaze from those crowded cars

(it made me sweat even more just looking at them)

and my attention was captured

by the town around me.

Dusk was falling.

As I focused in on the scene before me,

The blaring of the traffic

Faded.

The sounds

Of a town waking up for their evening activities

Came alive.

I was captivated.

Food was sizzling

On the street-vendors’ carts

And grey smoke

Puffed up into the air,

Becoming nothing but a haze…

A haze that

Created a mirage effect

On the reel I was watching.

The smell of the street food

Blended gently

With the scent of incense

That always lingers in the air,

And I found it soothing.

Calming.

Cozy.

Yes, I felt cozy amidst the chaos.

Children were laughing.

They were riding their bicycles

With giant smiles on their faces

Chasing each other

In-and-out of the stop-and-go-traffic.

Can I play?

Men were gathered around the vendors

Dressed in Western clothing

And deep in discussion.

No doubt they were talking politics and religion,

And all I wanted to do was listen.

Still others sat away from the groups,

On doorsteps and curbs,

Watching me like I was watching them.

Women were walking

And talking,

Adorned in colors and patterns

That I had only before imagined.

Their bangles and ankle chains

Jingled with every step

And the music that it made

Invited me to dance.

Even among the honking horns,

The milieu was idyllic.

My heart swelled,

And my only desire

Was to leave the car

And walk with them.

I couldn’t perceive it at the moment,

But this was where my journey began.

This was when I began to fall in love with India.

Good Tidings of Great Joy

Love has come

That the world may know

What the wise men knew

Such a long time ago

A thrill of hope

The weary world rejoices

Truly he taught us to love one another

His law is love and his gospel is peace

Chains he shall break for the slave is our brother

And in His name all oppression shall cease

Mary did you know that your baby boy has come to make you new?

This child that you delivered will soon deliver you

The blind will see

The deaf will hear

The dead will live again

The lame will leap

The dumb will speak

Born that man no more may die

What love

What grace
What redemption

What freedom
What hope

What a Savior.

Merry Christmas from Pottery Town!

No Nasties!

I spent today doing a fun little photo shoot for an awesome organic, fair-trade t-shirt company called No Nasties.  IT WAS SO MUCH FUN!  I'm generally the girl behind the camera, so it was fun to be the one being photographed for a change...I was even attacked by a goat!

I confess that the fair-trade and organic movement is something I have been aware of for a while, and it was always a lifestyle that I admired but - like many people - looked forward to living when I was "grown up" and could afford it.   When I first came to India in 2010, however, I worked with academic programs at an NGO and the opportunities I had with them allowed me to experience firsthand the importance of organic and fair trade food and products. I researched farmer suicides on the ground in Kerala and interacted with child labourers in northern Karnataka.  I spent a day on an incredible organic farm with an amazing man who has been fighting against multinational seed companies for the majority of his life.  These experiences made the movement personal; I was led to do more research and to learn even more about why fair trade and organic is the best route for me, the land, the animals, the farmers, and - last but certainly not least - the people involved in production.  While I can't say that I live a completely fair-trade, green, and clean life, I do my best to make informed decisions about the food I buy, the products I use, and the clothes I wear.

Here's my challenge to you: explore organic and fair-trade for yourself!  No Nasties does a great job of telling the story behind the importance of organic and fair trade and how you can help.

And here's my shameless plug: if you're into ethical fashion, check out No Nasties.  If you're not into ethical fashion but you're into t-shirts, check out No Nasties.  You just might find yourself into ethical fashion quite soon :)  Are they asking me to do this? No way, Jose.  I just love companies like No Nasties that are passionate about what they do, passionate about people, passionate about making change...and passionate about cute clothes!  

The Explorer Store

This is my favorite store in all of Bangalore, rivaled ONLY by the Mysore Saree Udyog.  I mean, let's be honest, it's hard to say that the store you walk into and cry because it's so BEAUTIFUL isn't in the running for your favorite store [Ahem - those of you who love textiles will understand].

BUT.  This isn't Mysore Saree.  This is The Explorer Store.  At least, that's what I call it...I'm not sure that it has a name.  It is the store that sells trinkets and artifacts collected from all of India over years and years and years.  We once found an antique Tibetan Prayer reel with a stale and discolored, ages-old prayer rolled up inside. One afternoon, I sat with the owner while he told me the history of India through coins.  #Winning

I get excited just looking at it.  It is a single-aisle store with every inch of wall and ceiling space used to the fullest.  And it is absolutely amazing.

Olympic Runners

This morning I went for a walk around my neighbourhood.  Tomorrow is my 5k so I didn't want to work out, but I also didn't want to let my muscles lie dormant.  The sun was rising, and one of my absolute favorite things about morning in India is the way the new sun shines through the dust.

As I was smiling about that, I tripped.  I believe I have mentioned it before, but Bangalore isn't exactly a pedestrian-friendly city.

This got me thinking about Olympic runners.  I always love the short biographical documentaries that they make about the "hopefuls", the "underdogs", and the "bests".  The ones of runners from Africa are always so serene and inspirational; may fave is always the aerial shot of the runner taking beautifully long strides down a dirt road with nothing else in sight.

I laughed out loud.  I would love - LOVE - to see a short doc about a runner born and brought up in Bangalore (or any other "developing" city with a population of multimillion, at that).  It would start with the new morning sun shining through the dusty air and gleaming on the colorful buildings.  And then show the Olympic hopeful dodging uneven bricks and jumping over holes in the sidewalk that leave the open sewer a dangerous variable to your morning run.  The arial view would zoom out slowly - first, the runner.  Then, a dog will start to bark.  and chase him/her.  another dog would join.  and another. and another.  Two old men would walk by, arms in mountain pose, as they do their morning yoga walks.  The woman sweeping the street doesn't even look up as the runner passes by, and s/he gets a faceful of garbage-filled dirt.  A bike comes out of nowhere and the runner has to jumps out of the way to avoid getting hit.  An auto was on the other side of the bike, and honks loudly, swerving in the exact same direction as the runner, who then has to dead halt to avoid another deathly collision.  It would be even better if the auto was on its morning school route, which means that there are about 14 children inside and the runner is kind enough to stop to pick up the books that they dropped as a result of the swerve.

Wow.  It sounds more like a video game than a biographical short.  And I'm getting tired just thinking about it...but I'm smiling big.  Please, India, bring some city-runners to the Olympics.  I want to watch the story of their runs. In fact, I would probably find them more inspirational than the peaceful and reflective films from the plains of Africa.  If someone can become an Olympian by running through Bangalore, there's hope for us all.

This is My Town

I love Bangalore.  and I love that it's home.
Today I spent time with my friend from SIT who just arrived Friday for his practicum.  I met him on MG Road, we met some friends by UB city, walked Brigade and Commercial, and I dropped him at Shivaji Nagar.  It was SO fun to show someone around my town and to share with him my India :)
The best part?
We were in FabIndia and he was trying on some gorgeous kurtas.  I picked one up that was next to me so I could feel the embroidery, and the salesman said, "That is a large, madam" to which I replied "Yeah, that's too big - I need a small."  The security guard laughed and said something to the salesman, who then turned to me and asked, "Excuse me madam, but are you a regular here?"
I was taken aback.  "Well, I haven't been here for 8 months, but when I lived here last year I came often and always brought friends..."
"Yes, madam.  It is just that this guy here just told me that I don't need to tell you about sizes because you were a regular and used to come often."
I am a regular at FabIndia.
The second best part?
After making sure Cabbie got to the right platform and knew his bus number, I walked back down Commercial to catch an auto at dispensary.  I haggled for a price, feeling like this guy was a bit familiar but not knowing how.  Once we started driving, he turned to make conversation.
And I knew.
This was the driver I had last December who taught me how to drive an auto rickshaw.
I answered his question about how long I had been and how long I was staying, and then I said, "But I lived here 6 months in 2010, and I think that you drove me in December.  You taught me how to drive your auto...?"  He looked back at me, looked at the road, looked back again and said, "Ahhh yes madam!  On Hennur Main Road - Kothanur!"
"Yes!" I said, laughing.
"Do you want to drive today? After Mekhri circle?" he asked.
"No, no. It's dark, and there is traffic, and the road is so busy!"
But when he pulled over after Mekhri circle and motioned for me to get into the front seat, I couldn't resist.
And I drove myself the rest of the way home :)

Running into People I know

My coworker takes French lessons at the Alliance Francaise, and this week they were having some cultural events.  It is right down the street from the office, so after work we ambled over to check it out.
We were early for the concert, but there was an art exhibition opening.  Of course we'll take the free wine, thank you.  They also had bread and cheese, which was very cute and French.  We stood chatting with each other, wanting to meet new people but unsure how to go about it, as everyone seemed to stay with the people they came with.  None of Suma's classmates were there, so she was bummed she didn't know anyone.
"Wait a minute," I said.  "I think I know those people - see the man in the hat with traces of pink in his beard?  I'm pretty positive that they sat by me on the plane from Delhi on the way here....yeah, there's his wife.  I sat by her...I slept the whole time though. Should I say hi?"
We ventured over and stood on the outer ring of their conversation circle.  When they looked at us inquisitively, I said, "Hi - I'm Jen.  I think I sat by you on the plane from Delhi 3 weeks ago...?"  He looked at me and said, "Yes, yes you did!  I remember your hair.  And you must remember my beard." (I'm glad he said that before I did!)  His wife said, "I think that you must have been very tired, because if I remember you were sleeping the entire flight."  Yeah, sorry I was antisocial.
We chatted for a while, though, and it turns out that they are very active at the Alliance Francaise.  She took our numbers so that she can let us know what is going on, and "we don't have to wait for that - we can have coffee."
Suma turned to me and said, "Of course.  I'm the Bangalorean.  I'm the one who is a student here.  But I don't see a single person I know.  You have been living here 3 weeks, and already you are running into friends."
What can I say? It's a small world.  And if you look around, you might start to see (my favorite quote by Anne Lamott, found in the book Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life).

Living in a Dream World

Well today was a blast from the past.  I heard from Sid on Thursday that Roshen wanted to hang out with us on Saturday - was I free?  He didn’t even need to ask...I’m clearly always free for a triple date with Sid and Roshen.  The most exciting part was when Roshen texted, though, asking if I meeting at 4pm outside of Gangaram’s was ok.  I got butterflies in my stomach and almost squealed, “EEEEEEE” from my air-conditioned car.   Gangaram’s is a multi-level bookstore; what better place to meet Rosh than at a bookstore.  For old time’s sake.  But when I got there, we didn’t even step inside.  I heard him giggling before I even saw him, and he swept me into a hug and away over to India Coffeehouse, where we chatted quite awhile until, “Jen, I think we have exhausted our white privilege here, and we should move on to another coffee shop.”  Siddo met us at Coffee Day, and we caught everyone up on everyone else’s work...then moved to the Empire for dinner, where we hemmed and hawed and laughed and groaned over last year’s program, and finally on to Cornerhouse, which is simply the best ice cream I have ever tasted.  They have changed their sizing since I left in December, too - a regular is now 3 scoops, a junior size 2.  Same prices.  Booya.

Sometimes I feel like I am living in a dream.  As we were walking down the street to part ways, I finally verbalized what I had been feeling all night long - all week, even: “Guys, isn’t it weird that I live here now???”  Roshen just giggled.  

Sometimes I wait for something to happen to break the surreal feeling of it all, but as I rode on the back of the bike down back country roads, the Indian evening breeze whipping through my hair, it was pretty hard to believe that I had ever left at all.

Different Already

I knew that this time around, India would be different.  But I am already noting the vast ways in which these differences are extremely obvious.

Let’s start with my accommodations.  My first days are being spent in my boss’ building in an apartment that is owned by a professor who is in the United States 6 months and India 6 months.  It is two floors, multi-bedroom, living room, dining room, huge balcony.  I am alone in a palace.  And the places I am looking to live are so expensive (by Indian cost of living) that they make me nauseous.  Juxtapose this with my first days in 2010...my current bathroom is about the size of my living quarters last year.  There were cockroaches, moldy bathrooms, mosquito nets, a holey red tile roof.

Second, transportation.  We walked, took the bus, or took an auto.  Thus far, I have traveled only by air conditioned car, sometimes with a driver, sometimes driven by my boss. In this car, there is a remote control in the backseat so the passengers can control the volume/radio station on the stereo.  

Third: food.  I am eating solid, homemade Indian food in the mornings and evenings, and thankfully in smaller portions than I was fed last time around, but lunches are taken out or ordered in.  Yesterday the first question was, “Do you want to order pizza?”  We ended up going to Au Bon Pan (it was the only fastish place in walking distance that served something gluten-free...aka rice. in India!).  Today we ordered from an online menu and had Chinese delivered to the office.  Tonight I met up with some girls who are working at an international school in the area (both from England, but originally French-Zimbabwean and Colombiana)...we went to a cowboy-themed club where the mixed drinks cost as much as my tear-jerking steak last fall.  It was bumpin with the latest and greatest American music.  Pop/hiphop though, not country.  They clearly failed when it came to consistency with the theme.

And I just realized that, since getting here, I have been either in a car, in my office, or in an apartment building.  This is so different from the amount of time outside I had in 2010.  Scratch that, I was outside today...standing outside of the shopping mall trying to recruit students to serve as extras in our corporate video.

Deja Vu

As my plane landed in Bangalore last night, I felt a wave of nostalgia.

I remembered all the times I’ve been to this airport...

- arriving - scared and excited, I told Sid I was, “Fresh as a daisy” and he said, “welcome home”.  little did I know that it would soon become home.

- picking up the students - I felt like a local, and I was so excited for my kids.

- picking up my mom - nervous for my worlds to collide, but thrilled to share my life.

- flying to delhi - I was the “mom”, the guide, the leader.  and mom experienced white privilege firsthand for the first time the first encounter we had at the airport.

- returning from delhi - we hired a cab, probably the only driver in the city who spoke only hindi.  he got lost, and lost, and lost, and eventually we got out, walked to the rickshaw line, and hired an auto.  which was great, until the wheel fell off.  so we carried all our luggage to the bus depot and hired another auto to take us as far as a restaurant, and bribed another handsomely to finally take us home.

- dropping off my mom - she was so cute going through all the ticket lines, and after she made it through we went to find our driver only to realize he wasn’t answering his phone and we had no idea where he had parked...15 minutes of wandering the parking lot later, he finally answered.

- dropping off the kids - bittersweet.  this ended an era for them, for us. but i’m not going to lie, i was also excited to know i had my last weekend for me and only me to do with as i wished.

- leaving - terrible. cafe coffee day with Siddo and Roshen, laughs and jokes as we waited for goodbyes, even as I went through ticketing and signed with them through the window. but when I got to my gate...the waterworks began. and, minus naptimes, didn’t stop for a good 24 hours.

In December, Sid and Roshen said they gave me 6 months til I was back.

And here I am.

When I got off the plane, it was like deja vu...like I’d been here before. 

The World from the Back of a Bike

Today, I rode on a motorbike for the first time.
At first, it was scary.
Like the first 20 seconds.
But from then on, I didn’t ever want to get off.
There’s something to be said about
Whizzing by an auto-rickshaw with a half-inch to spare
Or taking your time leisurely turning taking a right-handed u-turn
[thanks to the British, Indians drive on the “wrong” side of the road].
As we zipped through the city
I couldn’t help but feel like I was in a movie:
My hair coming unbraided in the wind
As I wiped the bugs off the inside of my euro-style helmet,
Indie-style purse wrapped across my body
And my red linen skirt hiked just-high-enough
For me to feel like a rough, tough, adventuring girly-girl…
I even gained enough comfort and confidence to relax my death grip
And balance with my core.
The movie-star feeling was enhanced
Due to the fact that there are very very few
Scandinavian girls riding motorbikes through
“inner city” Bangalore ☺
As we zoomed through the narrow, stone, garbage-filled streets
of the poorer Muslim area,
people were milling all around and I just tried to take it all in.
Sometimes I imagined that I was in a chase scene in a Bond movie
And my confession is that other times I closed my eyes and pretended I was in Rome…Lizzie McGuire movie anyone?
Anyway, the whole time I was wishing that I could be videotaping
And capturing incredible photos
But chose instead to enjoy the moment…
It’s times like these that personal paparazzi would come in handy ☺
We even got pulled over by a cop…and then bribed him to let us go.
Only in India.

A Free Ride in a Rickshaw

Today was a big day.

Day 3 of India, and it was time to leave my jungle sanctuary and go into the Big City:

Bangalore.

There are many things I could write about, but I today I am going to tell you only about our rickshaw adventure.

I went into the city with a girl named Crystal, who has been here awhile and knows almost all the ropes.

We had been in town for a few hours (dare I say it....yes, we were shopping) and it was time to go to another street. We stopped to ask someone for directions (Indians are very friendly and love to be helpful) and a rickshaw driver pulled up and told us that he could take us there for 10 rupies. This is very inexpensive, and we asked him several times to confirm that it would only be 10 rupies. He insisted, so we got in. (This is where Grandma Mabby squeals and closes her eyes, remembering a certain rickshaw ride in London and trying not to imagine us in a rickshaw in the middle of the busy Indian street.)

As we chatted with the driver, he said that he was able to offer us a ride so cheap because it was his company. I took this to mean that he owned the rickshaw business and was like, oh cool! Crystal knew better. It turns out that he was taking us to his company and that in exchange for a 10R ride we had to spend 5 minutes in a very expensive gift shop. We argued with him for awhile and then gave in, entering the store, browsing, and leaving. We got back into our ride, and he told us that because we weren't in the store for 5 minutes we had to go to another one. What?!?!

The owner of the store will give the driver of the rickshaw a coupon for discount gasoline if they bring tourists to their gift stores. But the owner will only give the driver a coupon if the tourist spends 5 minutes in the shop. By this time our hands were tied, so we grudgingly walked into the next shop, browsing as slowly as possible and chatting with the clerks. Crystal and I ended up being pushed on a garden swing inside the shop for awhile while the clerks told us how mesmerizing our eyes were, engaging the clerks in conversation while trying to avoid committing to either purchasing something or having dinner with them. Eventually I gave in and made a purchase...don't worry, Crystal didn't give in to a dinner date.

We got back into the rickshaw and the driver was now happy. He drove us to our street, chatting the whole way, and let us out. I didn't have 10R, so Crystal was going to pay with a larger bill, but the driver didn't have any change.

He said, "That is all right girls. If you do not have the exact money, you do not have to pay me."

We looked at each other, looked at him, and said, "Ok, thank you!"

All that....for a free ride in a rickshaw. Only in India.