AFMFT: Indian Parents

Despite all of the countless times that I’ve moved, shifted, relocated, and transitioned in my lifetime, it never gets easier. Gearing up to leave a place you have come to love is all the more painful when you consider all of the wonderful people you will be leaving.

Joshua and Anita were two people with which I formed the most unlikely of attachments. They were the host family for my friend, Jen, during her three month stay in Chennai, so it was destined that we should meet during my first few weeks in India. For our introduction, they invited me to join them and Jen for dinner and, after a few weeks of hostel food, the invitation was a welcome reprieve. The spread was chicken lollipops, fish curry, chapatti, rice, vegetable sides, fresh fruit, and ice cream. After skipping meals and subsisting on peanut butter and jelly sandwiches my first few weeks in Chennai, I was in heaven. I left well-fed and nourished by the homey environment.

After about two months, Jen’s time in India reached its end and I anticipated the same for dinner times with Joshua and Anita. But I was wrong. They continued to invite me over for weekly dinners along with my friends, Rose and Joseph, so that we could continue to share meal times laughing over stories and seeking to understand each other’s cultures and all the differences therein. The night before Christmas Eve, we gathered around their upright piano and sang Christmas songs, holding lighted candles as we remembered the meaning of the holiday and its significance for each of our lives. It was like a picture on a Christmas card of family singing carols; only in this card, I stood out from the group externally. Within, I felt no different.

Joshua and Anita have dubbed themselves as my “Indian parents” and embraced me as a friend and daughter. I cherish the times I’ve shared with them, singing songs and encouraging one another in our faith. So, to give you a picture of the times we shared, I’m providing a link to a video of Joshua and Anita singing “Country Roads.” I love this video which I secretly filmed while they were serenading each other. There is no other word for this memory than precious. 

Country Roads

A Few of My Favorite Things

I've decided that the very best way to begin concluding my India interlude is to post various clips and pictures of some of my FAVORITE memories, people, and things I’ve gathered during my time here. 

So without further ado, click on the link below to see one of my favorite memories in India...

Dadi's Poem

What you have just seen is something actually quite incredible. My friends' grandmother, Dadi, has just recited the only English she knows in the form of a poem she learned in primary school. During the time Dadi went to school; women in rural areas generally were not allowed to advance in education beyond the primary level. Education was deemed as frivolous because the societal expectation for women was simply to marry, have children, and tend to the household. So Dadi was taken out of school completely by around thirteen years of age and given away in marriage by the time she was fifteen.

While still attending school, Dadi was so eager to learn that she stood outside the door of a classroom to learn English even though it was forbidden for women to study. All these years, she has remembered the simple lines of this little poem:

“I have two hands and I can see;

The book that is in front of me.

The wall, the ceiling, and the floor…

She trails off on the last line of the poem, but this is unforgettable nonetheless. 

Dadi had an amazing impact on me in the way she loved each of her children, grandchildren, and other family members. The entire family doted on her like a queen, showering her with kisses and care. She worked hard throughout her lifetime with very little opportunity in education, but she has raised a family of men and women who are making incredible strides in education and business. To me, it all began with her tenacity to learn by standing outside the classroom as a little girl. 

She is simply unforgettable.

Dadi 

Animal House

I am not sure that many people would pass over a pool party to go to a research lab. I know I probably wouldn't if the options were laid out openly for me to choose from. But as with most of life, things are not always clear up front and you just have to go with it.  This is especially true in India…

This past Saturday morning, I was relaxing over a leisurely cup of tea at my friend Lullu’s bachelor pad. Lullu is 47 years old and, by choice, has never been married.  She is sort of a Renaissance woman in India and a world traveler to boot, so we always have a good time swapping stories and laughing together.

During this particular conversation though, Lullu was spending an exorbitant amount of time trying to convince me to skip a pool party that some German friends had invited me to in favor of a picnic venture to the outskirts of Chennai. The plan was to take a nice drive through the country and grab lunch along the way. Lullu mentioned we would also stop somewhere which had something to do with some sort of research, but she sort of glossed over that.  An alarm went off in my head at her evasiveness about the destination, but she pleaded ignorance when I pressed her for more information. In the end, I buckled under the pressure and out of sheer curiosity.  I don’t really like pools anyways.

The car arrived with Lullu’s friend, Arun, in the driver’s seat. He is a Herculean sort of man with a booming voice and billowing stomach. After introductions, I climbed into the back seat next to a pile of law books and settled in to enjoy a much-needed retreat from the city.  The reprieve literally lasted one minute before my thoughts were jarred by bullet-like questions directed at me from Arun’s seat. He wanted to know what I did, where I worked, my general tasks, how much money the project used, etc. etc. etc. After 20 minutes, I was exhausted and began to wincingly regret my earlier choice to skip the pool party. But when I found out that he was a civil lawyer who consorted with all sorts of politician on India’s frontline, my intrigue perked and I came to learn some fascinating aspects about India’s political system along our drive to the unknown destination.

Alas, the political lecture came to an end once we pulled into a gated compound where stark white buildings surrounded a central courtyard. On the ride, I learned that the “research thingamagig” that Lullu mentioned earlier was actually a non-governmental organization called IIBAT; this was our picnic destination. Arun inherited the organization from his father and intended to give us a tour of the facilities. 

The tour began with being led into a small, dark room where I immediately detected a very strange and offensive odor. The four walls were white with tinted glass all around, and the air reeked of a humid donkey-like stench. My first thought was that my close proximity to Arun was the reason for the odor, but it was too strong a smell to come from any person. I’m not one to follow social etiquette at times by holding my tongue so I asked him what the horrendous smell. To this, he replied:

“A cow.”

"Excuse me?" I gasped.

That was when I came to know that I was standing in the middle of a research lab that tests various chemicals and toxins found in products and the environment on little animals of every sort. As a recovering vegetarian, I was appalled and the P.I.T.A. within me balked at being on the premises. But “Bill Nye the Science Guy” also had a major role in swaying my horror towards a developing intrigue.

Arun led us through the lab where the affects of chemicals commonly found in products and the environment were tested on animal so that the results could be examined from the skeletal to cellular level to assess the potential damage to humans. IIBAT functions as a regulatory organization that keeps both foreign and national companies from releasing harmful substances into the market. Only once a product has passed their thorough inspection can it then be released into the market with government approval. It was fascinating stuff! So Lullu and I were led into mosquito breeding rooms where mosquitoes with malaria were studied. We entered a worm lab where two tons of worms were processed each year to test soil and the effects of chemicals on the environment. We watched the brain of a mouse be dipped into wax, sliced into thin sheets, and then placed onto slides for examination. We met doctors, lab technicians, and researchers who all did their best to explain to us the complicated scientific processes.

However, my intrigue ended with the last stop of the tour.

Arun led us out of the compound and into a tree grove where plants were also grown for testing. Along the path, Arun said he was taking us to the first and oldest “animal house” ever established in all of India. Don’t get me wrong; I like animals. A lot. As a little kid, I begged to go to pet shops and would have, in my childish excitement, been thrilled at the prospect of seeing something called the “animal house.” However I was too keenly aware of the purpose of the animal house based off of the labs containing slides, skeletons, and samples of various animals that I had just seen. Lullu and I began to protest seeing the animal house, but Arun insisted.

So Lullu and I put on doctor’s caps, covered our shoes, and were led docilely through an air shower to enter the facility while Arun waited outside.  Two men showed us into a room adorned from floor to ceiling with cages where the Cadbury bunny is kept. Opening a random cell, a giant white rabbit was hoisted out by his drooping ears and placed on a metal table for us to pet. I obliged by stroking the quivering animal and silently wishing him a quick death. The next room contained a breeding room of white guinea pigs that frantically scattered to the furthest corner of the room from us. Their little beady red eyes watched us cautiously as they formed little protective huddles of white fur. The next few rooms were more of the same blur of white fur, red eyes, and frantic animals. It was so incredibly sad and traumatizing. Once we were outside I breathed the fresh air but could still somehow feel the animal’s scent clinging to my skin.

On the ride home, I came to know that the entire afternoon was a set-up by my darling friend as an interview for a possible internship with IIBAT. Lullu said that if she had told me the real purpose, I wouldn’t have come (which is probably true). Arun, who thought I was aware of the interview, stated that he wondered at my apparent lack of knowledge about IIBAT and why I hadn’t read up on the organization before touring its facilities.  I was flabbergasted but couldn’t help laughing at the way the afternoon had turned out aside from the animal house. I think I'll have nightmares about that one for a week!

So my Saturday went from pool-side relaxation to an animal house. Who would have ever thought? 

Chortle Weaponry

What kind of sense of humor does one need to survive the international field?

 One that stretches beyond all of the usual lines of humor and wit.

According to Wikipedia (take that graduate studies): “The hypothetical person lacking a sense of humor would likely find the behavior induced by humor to be inexplicable, strange, or even irrational.” Dear Wiki, never a truer word has been said.

Without generous amount of humor paired with the ability to laugh at oneself, the “inexplicable, strange, or even irrational” undercurrent of life in India would nearly drive you bonkers. Humor has come to be the only way I can function day in and out in India. It is my “fundamental weapon in the cognitive arsenal” to wield off the more surprising events and comments occurring daily at a surprising rate.

Just today, while sitting at my desk, one of my coworkers walked into the room and after taking one look at me said:

“You are looking very white today.”

As opposed to purple, green, or fuschia? I’ve never received such a greeting in my life, but something tells me it was meant as a compliment. My response to him was:

“Thank you?”

These kinds of comments are quite frequent, but they never cease to surprise me.

You have to learn to anticipate anything, and I do mean anything, when it comes to living in India.  A few weeks ago, I was shopping in a grocery store with one of my friends. I stopped to look at a rather pretty stuffed animal peacock with my 7 year old niece in mind. While debating the purchase, I felt a rather abrupt bump on my left arm from a woman in a sequined sari standing with two others. I’m used to being jostled to some extent and didn’t think much of it even though we were standing in an aisle entirely empty of people.

I then felt something rather awkward being hoisted into my arm that was like a gangly sack of potatoes. Looking over, I saw these gaping, kohl-lined eyes staring back at me a few inches from my face. Apparently, I had not been jostled by a woman just eager to look at stuffed animals but because she wanted to shove her small, diaper-less child in my arms so that she could take a picture of us. With lots of cackling and enthusiasm the woman and her friends gathered round me and the baby, snapping pictures with their camera phone. My friend was pushed off to the side where she stared wordlessly with her mouth hanging open.

I started cracking up and directed my smiles towards the woman with the phone though I usually make it a rule never to pose for people in pictures (the fact that I even have to say that is laughable!). But apparently my smile didn’t suffice because the women pulled and pushed my arms to readjust the baby on my shoulder and closer to my face. At that point, the line between horror and humor began to blur, and I could feel my face getting more flushed by the second. I smiled for one more shot and then handed the baby back to the mother so I could escape the increasingly awkward situation. My friend and I dodged into the next aisle where she assured me that she had never in her life seen something like that happened. We doubled over in laughter at the absolute strangeness of the event.

Though that’s one of a few times where more noticeably humorous things have occurred, I have more than enough reasons to chuckle ever day. Just in the past two weeks, I have been chased by a three-legged dog that ended up just eager for love. I have walked towards a little girl who suddenly squatted on the sidewalk to make a deposit before resuming her jaunt. I’ve had a crow skydive at my head to grab my hair. The list goes on…

All in all, I am having more than my fair share of amusement in every form and facet and am learning to always arm myself with humor no matter what happens. It’s a good thing that I love to laugh.

Sounds of India

The ceiling fan was churning at a million miles per second, generating a whirlwind that beat the thin sheet against my legs as I tried to sleep. Outside, the sound of the rooftop pigeons chirruped and tweeted their off-beat songs in a pleasant, cooing fashion. I lay there with my eyes closed, trying to absorb the sensations of sound I sensed in the midst of my futile slumber.

Outside, the knell for the Muslim call of prayer must have sounded, sending waves of their eerie prayer all around me. There is something about their songs and prayers that creates a sense of reverence in the air. Whatever I may be thinking in that moment ceases to be; all I can hear is their praise.

The ability to hear in India is probably one of the most exhilarating aspects to my time here. The cackle of the shop sellers bartering with customers; the echo of horns disturbs the air; the conversations of two men speaking any of India’s many languages with arms draped around each other’s shoulder in friendship. All of these sounds flood my senses and enliven me.

While walking through the slum area later that day after my futile but peaceful nap, three little girls caught sight of me as I passed their corrugated, metal shack. My peacock earrings attracted their attention, and they began to chase after me shouting the Hindi word for peacock (“Mor! Mor!”). Two of the girls ran together with arms around each other’s shoulders; the girl in front catapulted herself through the air on a giant stick, casting shy smiles towards me as we walked.

Later that evening, I sat round the dinner table at the Salvation Army officer’s home listening to the lilting accents of the family’s mix of Tamil and Telagu as I feasted on the spicy fish curry, rice, and vegetable dishes. In quiet, simple moments like these, I am my happiest in life. Sometimes it doesn’t take much.

I think most people tend to be overwhelmed when they first arrive in India with all of the olfactory sensations. But I’m learning to separate the senses with the more time that I’m here, cherishing each aspect of this magical and stunning culture as I discover it. In all of it, I never cease to be amazed…

Ganga Aarti

Standing on the river bank of the Ganges now floods me with a sense of awe. I am about to observe a Hindu ceremony called ‘Ganga aarti’ in which prayers are made and lights set afloat on a river that Hindus believe to be a goddess. The priest have soaked the grounds with sacred water from the river’s mighty flow and roped off the section for the ceremony. Rishikesh, or the Gateway of the Himalayas, is the purest place of worship at the Ganges because this is the place where the river meets the plains from the mountains. However, it is the Mother Ganges herself who is the source of purity, so followers gather nightly at the shore to wash their sins away and pay her homage.  

To enter the holy banks of the Ganges in this purified place, you must remove your shoes and ring a bell to herald your humble approach to the gods.  The sound rises in a cacophonous pattern of clangs, dings, and hums. Eight small tables containing puja, or a form of worship, are placed in perfect symmetry to each other with towers of unlighted candles upon each. The sound of praise from the crowd commences with the sound of the bells, welcoming all to hear, join, and praise. The crowds raise their hands together as the priests in their ankle length skirts carry the flaming towers to the holy water where they wave the mounting flames to and fro. The crowd cries out a sacred chant to commemorate their gods and bring their praise to the Mother Ganges. Their hands are pressed and raised to their hearts as a symbol of dedication. While observing all of this, I realize that I’m standing too close to the bell so that my ears are now ringing loudly and temporary deafness is setting in. But the sight is incredible and unforgettable.

The priests raise the flaming towers one last time and then carefully carry them back to the small tables. They begin to sprinkle water from the holy river on the gathered crowd to include myself and then distribute small carnation-like flowers that have been blessed by the priests. The aging woman in front of me eagerly beckons the priest to give her a blossom before the others, but he bids her to wait her turn. The smoke from the candles is intoxicating and I can no longer hear properly from my left ear.  Though I’m temporarily deafened from the bells, all of my senses are alive.

I've just been given a blossom by a man in a turban which I accept with the palms of my hand brought together and facing the sky. Though I consider saving the flower to press it in this journal, I realize the ceremony calls for me to cast the blessed flower into the rushing river. I throw it in and wash my hands in the pure river bed as those around me do. A priest then approaches with a flaming tray carrying blessed sweets and a flaming candle lit from the ones used for the ceremony. He bids me to wave my hand over the flame and eat the white round sweet that he pours into my hand. It tastes like pure sugar and crunches between my teeth.

My conscience is stricken in this moment as I only wish to observe the ceremony, not participate. However, somehow, I am always pressed by the overwhelming crowds to partake in the various ceremonies I have observed to include this one. Lest I offend, I mimic their motions in a holy observance of rituals that mean nothing to me.

The flaming candles illuminates the faces of eager followers who reverently place their clay tray containing puja of sweets, flowers, and a lighted candle into the water.  The floating candles either hover on the banks of the water or rush away in the river’s vibrant current. Together, the pinkish glow of the retreating sun along with the flickering, floating candles diminish into the night against the backdrop of the mountains.

Curious followers of the ceremony observe my frantic writing as I seek to preserve this moment with words. I’m sure that I’m as curious of a sight to them as their ceremony is to me. 

Whisky Chocolates

The henna on my hands has long dried, flaking onto the key boards as I type this. I have spent the past week with a Hindu family at the base of a valley town called Dehradun huddling under blankets and wrapped in layers of clothes to warm me in the midst of the North India chill. Its been an incredible holiday; one that has led me to furiously record occasions as they occur so as to preserve them forever. All of the sounds, sights, and flavors of this time  must be remembered  so that I can be transported back in a moment in the future. Its too precious of a time to forget. So in the spirit of Christmas, I thought I would share the following experience so you can be transported to this place alongside me...

"I am sitting on the side patio in the warm afternoon sun of Dehradun. The rays of sunshine are making me sleepy and heating the shawl around my neck till it radiates warmth. I was invited to sit here beside an ancient grandmother and her aging daughter, the relatives of a friend of mine who invited me to join her family for the hoildays. I've been told to call them by their Hindi names for grandmother and aunt as I've now become part of the family for the holidays. Dadi, the grandmother, cracks the shells of peanuts and places them in my hand for me to eat. Boha, the daughter, knits baby booties for her newest granddaughter who was born just two weeks ago. The sun lights on the identical faces of a mother and daughter separated only in looks by time that spans a few decades.

They both stand at five feet tall with knee length dppattas on and hair tightly pulled back. They have spent Boha's entire life together living in a joint family in the valley town of Dehradun. Their quiet way and soft-spoken Hindi is captivating and soothing to my senses so I do not have to understand what they say to simply enjoy being in their presence. Nevertheless, I wish with all my heart to understand and soak up their words which have been marinated in a lifetime of love and laughter.

In an effort to present a small gift to share in this moment, I excused myself to go grab a chocolate bar that I obtained earlier in my journey in Delhi. I paid no mind to the fact that the truffled chocolates contained a gooey center that has been infused with Grouse's Whisky. Only after presenting it did I remember that Hindus don't partake of alcohol as part of their religious observances.

By the time I realized my mistake, it was too late to withdraw the gift. Both Dadi and Babu had curiously opened and eaten the decadent chocolate, marveling appropriately at the taste as only the kindest of people do when they receive a gift. I felt too guilty not to divulge myself for presenting them with sinful treats. Being that neither of them speak English, I explained the situation to Dadi's grandson who thankfully laughed and informed both the women of the chocolate's true nature. Dadi's eyes widened and her toothless mouth gaped; alcohol had never passed her lips over the span of more than eighty years of her lifetime. Boha's eyes lighted up, and she chuckled at me. Both looked at the chocolates, at me, and then back at the chocolates again. Boha then carefully wrapped the chocolate bar up and put the chocolates in the box to be saved for Dadi's son, the father of my friend, who secretly liked to take an occasional and secret whisky in a separate room from the family.

Throughout the rest of the day, my mishap was told with subsequent laughter that was shared by all to include myself. The climax of the retelling came when Dadi wobbled in a comedic rendition of drunkenness to the delight of the entire family...."

The rest of my Christmas time tale goes on, but I'll save more of its telling for another time lest the blog get too long. Until then, I hope you all had a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year!