“LOST IN TRANSLATION”

My friend Laura and I are sitting around a table with 5 amachees (grandmothers) at a retirement home testing out our Malayalm skills. There are two stones in the middle of the table. We struggle for what seems like minutes to get the correct verb and tense and ask if the stones are for a game that these ladies play. Then, in a very matter of fact sort of way one of the women says, “Paper weights.” Oh, right.

As one who revels in awkward moments, let me tell you I think I have found my utopia. I cannot keep track of the amount of “awkward” moments that I have encountered since arriving in India inevitably revolving around a cultural faux pas that I have unknowingly committed or a feeble attempt on my part to communicate in my very limited knowledge of Malayalam. I am grateful for those who try to talk with me in English, and probably even more thankful for the ones that will patiently sit and listen to me as I say the banana 7 times in Malayalam and still get it wrong. And I have found that increasing the speed or volume of the pronunciation in no way clarifies the situation. Even better are the times when I proudly say, “I am going to church.” “Nyan palaeel pogunnu.” When the laughing subsides, I am informed that in actuality, I proclaimed, “I am going to lizard.” “Nyan palaaeel pogunnu.” I just don’t think my tongue works quite in the same way. Other times, I will be talking with someone in English and ask a question. I am given an answer that has nothing to do with my question. Interesting. So, I have determined that I must pretend like this was the information I was seeking and later, re-work a revised question into the conversation. Questions are answered that were never even asked.

UPSIDE DOWN

My drinking water is always hot; my shower, always cold. Sometimes, I don’t have any water so I just don’t bathe. I wash my clothes in a bucket and on the streets have come to trust only in the safety of a hot cup of tea. Seems like the world is turned upside down. But, it is something else that shocks my worldview. In developing countries, it is the distribution of this natural resource that is turned upside down. Water cannot be made. Yet, it is privatized and commoditized and denied to the very people that find refuge on its shores. Water as a good takes away from the acts of fishing, farming, bathing, cooking, even drinking. Major national and international corporations not only drain the water for bottling, production, and extended distribution, but also leave bodies of water contaminated and unfit for use. It is a devastating situation, as water becomes a privilege to the ones who can afford it. I have been learning about this situation through readings and lectures and it is clear that it is a problem in dire need of examination and action. The image that captures it best for me is this: while the child dreams of a pepsi, the mother sadly realizes that it is because of this globalization that she cannot even offer her child a glass of water.
Water is sacred. It is a central part of our lives-- our culture, our health, our very spirituality. Our stewardship towards humanity extends far beyond our monetary contributions- preserving the natural elements is the only way to ensure human life.

Flexibility

Sure, I stretch daily. I practice yoga and do plies on my concrete floor. My daily run is now confined to circles around an old basketball concrete. But, learn to do without toilet paper? Without cheese? Without BROWNIES? God, that’s asking a lot! Exactly what kind of “flexible” are you asking me to be here? I can learn to take cold showers and be the butt of jokes (more than usual at least). Oh, but there is so much more. The flexibility to say an impromptu speech at a meeting or to sing on command, to bide my time in a classroom with non-English speaking boisterous six year olds for two hours, to set aside what I am doing and just listen to someone. The flexibility to give a devotion to 200 girls with seven minutes notice…during a power outage.
How flexible really am I? Flexible enough to care for someone who is sick? To give up my time? My money? My stereotypes? My resentments?
When I think about it, my newfound “flexible lifestyle” is nothing to boast about. What about those who continue to make it with one-meal days, dirty water, or broken families? Maybe I will stretch to my potential and reach out to others more often. Maybe even find the flexibility to break my pride, lower me, and have the boldness to truly love others.

Resolved

If you are extremely claustrophobic I wouldn’t recommend a train ride in India. I think I have found the origin of the phrase “packed like sardines.” It is the 9:30ish train from Mavelikara to Kottayam on Monday morning. I left for a marriage of a friend’s “uncle’s” son. (You’re lucky if you know that much about the bride or the groom). Now, keep in mind, I am wearing a sari. And walking. And boarding a train. I generally attract attention, “Madama, madama (white lady). But how about a madama in a sari? That’s just asking for the stares, waves, honks and laughs that so often come my way. So, I head for the back of the train designated as the lady’s compartment. There is hardly room for both my feet to touch the floor and I am hanging on to the handle bar of the train door. But, alas that doesn’t stop half a dozen others from getting on. It was like playing the game twister with this car full of women. Right hand on blue. Hey, now; that’s my rear end! Left foot on yellow. And that is my foot! I had a grandmother learning on my shoulder and the young girl next to me was heaving her breakfast onto the tracks below. Then, heaven forbid, someone needed to get to the bathroom! As she wove under our arms and I found my body contorted into something like a pretzel. To put it frankly, I wanted to scream or push someone. But so often in these times when I am on the train I begin to stare out the window and have a word with God. It’s one of my favorite times to pray. I am normally by myself and in a reflective mood while journeying. So I got to thinking about the new year. I have certainly had my share of resolutions. We all know what they are typically composed of--and how often these desires become realities. Lucky for us, we are a ‘new creation.’ We have a fresh start over and over again, not simply at the beginning of a calendar year. I saw my quickness to anger and frustration on the train. It made me question how I handle each situation and the emotions that arise…how I cope with the smallest challenges, like a crowded train. The two young ladies in front of me were encouraging and helpful in every way possible when you are on a crowded train. Surely, I too, can find the strength to live the life of a new creation- to react to others with grace and love.

Side Note:

Christmas in India. Oh, how can one begin to describe it? I took part in many a Christmas program in which I learned some very important details that until now have been void from my own Christmas traditions. First and foremost, in case you thought otherwise, Christmas Father was present at the birth of Jesus. And it is essential that he wears balloons at the top of his hat and carries a staff reminiscent of the shepherd hovering over the cradle. Angels should like pageant children and a “candle dance” parallels a 1980’s aerobic video. With candles and pompoms. Naturally. All choir songs should be sung with a keyboard synthesizer. Next, when it comes to decorating the tree, the more the better. Especially if it has neon hues. And have you ever thought to decorate with balloons and streamers? Don’t have a fir tree? A branch from the papaya tree will do just fine.

PILGRIM

On Christmas Day, I embarked on a twenty-four hour train journey to the east India state of Andhra Pradesh. The journey was spent surrounded by Hindu pilgrims making their annual pilgrimage to Sabrimala Temple. This was my own pilgrimage. It gave a new perspective on the journey of Mary and Joseph. They were far from home, away from family. While they were more than likely surrounded by a multitude of other “passengers” on the journey, maybe they felt lonely. They certainly stuck out- possibly even a spectacle! Mary was very heavy with child and they were scrutinized for conceiving a child out of wedlock.

I spent the week at the Parakal Missions Home of Love. Here is a place where boys come when their parents have perished or can no longer afford to keep them. The surrounding villages are mostly composed of straw-roofed huts, echoing the picture I formulated as a child of the manger scene. Old men and children sit atop ox and donkey carts teeming with hay or cotton. I met the shepherds. And the day laborers. And the farmers. They still remain on the fringes of their society after some 2000 years. They continue to be exploited. But who were the first to receive the Good News? Who saw the star and were the first to greet the child? These are the times when I throw up my hands and ask, “Where is God? What is fair about any of this?” These people have next to nothing. These boys have no family, nothing of their own and live in a place that barely meets its day-to day financial needs. And, God! These are the lucky ones. At the boys’ home they have a roof and people that take care for them. And food to eat. Tears creep down my face. But, as I sit among the boys and take a deep look around, I know that God is here. He is in this place. These are the hungry, the fatherless, the widowed. The ‘least of these.’ And He is with them. Suffering with them. I have not experienced such love and hospitality as I did with these boys and the staff of the home. I see that they are loved and in the hands
I missed the Christmas season spent surrounded by my family and friends celebrating a myriad of traditions. But, this year my simple celebrations were spent with new friends and the people that welcomed me in. Maybe this Christmas was the closest I’ve been to the nativity. Never before have I hovered so closely to the trough and peered into the eyes of the Baby that came to show the world a radical way to live.

WOMAN

I hesitated for a long time writing this one because I don’t want it to be misconstrued as a comment on India’s culture. In fact, this is an issue that, sadly, is far too common in the world in which we live. So please, simply take this as my tribute to one woman.

She is patient while she teaches me my first letter of her mother tongue. Again, and again, she patiently listens to my honest attempts at making such a foreign sound and repeats the correct version for me. She stops her sweeping. She is bent over with age that is probably not nearly as old as the wrinkles on her tired face.
For years she has been beaten by her husband. Still, she remains by his side. His health is poor, broken by a stroke. She attends to him still and is faithful to his needs. In spite of his sickness - and from his bedside - he continues to beat her.