(Jorgen) Tomorrow morning Jared and I will get on a plane and go halfway around the world. We are going to land in the west coast city of San Francisco at 7:20 on Wednesday night. Are we finally “going home” after a 3 month trip? Or are we moving our home from here in India back to California? Which question you choose makes all the difference, at least in my opinion, about the kind of experience we had here in India.
It’s a weird thought to think that you can actually get on a plane and travel to not only “another place“, but another culture, country and continent. That’s the exact venture that Jared and I undertook, however, when we left California in mid-January. Now we’ve reached the end of this adventure and we’re preparing to return.
India has proven itself to be an intense place of contrast and contradictions. We’ve been blasted by every smell, sight and sound that you can imagine. Literally every thing that you can imagine. The grotesque and stomach turning -- open sewers filled with garbage and worse. The loud and annoying -- streets crammed with hundreds of cars all honking, at the same time. The sad and heart wrenching -- little kids forced to live and beg on the street. The tasty and delicious -- freshly prepared coconut milk rice. The stunningly beautiful -- the Taj Mahal (beyond words).
In the midst of such contrast reality has shown through.
People asked me, before I left, what I was most nervous about, I always answered that I was nervous about seeing the poverty. To my surprise this did not get to me as much as I thought it would. What affected me the most were the bonds I made with people.
I had to make a choice when I was at the children’s home, whether or not to invest my heart in the people there. In testament to the grace of God he pushed me to love that place in brand new ways. I played with the kids, I made new friends, I invested myself fully in that place. And things happened. Bonds were formed. I gave what I had, as small as it was, and God multiplied it. Jared and I were remarking that this was like the little boy who gave up his small lunch so Jesus could feed the multitude.
As our time in India comes to a close I want to share a few final stories. A few weeks ago I wrote about my good friend, Rajesh. I thought of him often over our final two weeks and missed him a good bit. The day he left I gave him a small gift, because his birthday was April 1st and he would not be back by then. On April 1st Jared and I were treated to a trip into town with Daddy Mekala. He took us out to eat and we had a good time of relaxing in honor of us having completed our teaching job. As we drove back to the children’s home Jared and I talked about Rajesh and how long it had been since we had seen him. It hit me at that time just how much of a friend I felt that Rajesh was. We got back to the home and I made my way up to our room to go to bed. As I was preparing to bed down a short little guy rushed into the room beaming and gave me a monster hug -- Rajesh! He had come back for just one more day and I got to see my friend one last time.
The last story happened as we were leaving the home on Saturday morning (April 3rd). I wasn’t feeling as emotional as I thought I should be, but I let that go. In honor of our departure all of the children (roughly 130) lined up should-to-shoulder to shake our hands and say goodbye. As Jared and I walked through the line I felt the emotional weight hit me hard. I tried hard to hold back tears, I was unsuccessful. My heart was feeling because I had chosen to love.
So, as I go back to California I must honestly say that for me I am moving my home back to California. I moved away. I lived in India. I loved this place. And now God is bringing me to a new home.
I leave with a mind chock full of memories and a heart that has been stretched in new ways.
Monday, April 12, 2010
Saturday, March 20, 2010
Close Friend
(Jorgen) It was late January when we first drove into this then foreign compound. It was well after midnight by this time and we were still in a daze from our Delhi days and train ride. A little person came out to “meet us” which really meant that he grabbed my big duffle bag (that roughly equaled his size) and ran up to our third-floor room with it. I’m not sure we even caught his name that first night, we barely caught a glimpse of his face. In fact, the next morning, there was argument, between us, as to which one of the short guys walking around had carried the bag the night before. We eventually remembered and made a connection with him, his name was Rajesh. At that time I were able to ascertain that he a) was a former student, b) worked at the children’s home, c) was 23 years old. I have since learned that he was actually the very first child ever brought in by the Mekalas. His English was very minimal, but his attitude was awesome.
For a long while all of my interactions with him were rigid and short. For example, one time in early February he came into our room to look around. Motioning towards my camera he asked, “see pictures?” He then looked at no more than three pictures when he said, “thank you”, and darted out of the room. That was Rajesh.
I’m not sure what changed in March but something did. Whether it was me or Rajesh that changed more, I don’t know, but we started spending more time together. For example -- A couple of late-night conversations, eating dinner together, and me riding the bus he works on a few times. Rajesh and I were quickly becoming friends. This was evidenced by the conversation I told of in a recent email when he said to me, “Nawunenu, Telugu meaning close friends.” The language barrier was unable to stop the tidal wave of friendship.
However, in that same conversation he also told me that he had to head back to his village for two weeks --my last two weeks at the Children’s home. He was going to leave in just a few days. Those days passed quickly and it came to Thursday morning, the morning he was going to leave. I chose to ride the bus with him, one last time.
When I came down it looked like the bus was about ready to leave and he motioned me to hop on. However, the bus driver was running late that morning. So while Rajesh and I sat on the bus talking for awhile I gave him a picture of me that I had, which he quickly showed to the other bus attendants, just before they pulled out. Then our driver finally came and we were off. We did the normal bus run, cramming 65+ people onto a 25 passenger bus. And then, as we were passing back through the nearest town, the bus pulled over and Rajesh told me to hop off with him. We both jumped out onto the street and the bus drove on, to pick up the final few passengers down the road. Rajesh walked me over to a street vendor, offering some delicious fried goods. He ordered two dishes, and we sat down and enjoyed “Tiffin” (a word used for a light breakfast). Two friends from two very different worlds enjoying one final meal together before they separate. The bus came back and picked us up and we drove back to the school. I got off the bus and said goodbye to Rajesh, for very likely the last time here on this earth.
Goodbye is always bittersweet. But I will never forget this “close friend” English meaning Nawunenu.
For a long while all of my interactions with him were rigid and short. For example, one time in early February he came into our room to look around. Motioning towards my camera he asked, “see pictures?” He then looked at no more than three pictures when he said, “thank you”, and darted out of the room. That was Rajesh.
I’m not sure what changed in March but something did. Whether it was me or Rajesh that changed more, I don’t know, but we started spending more time together. For example -- A couple of late-night conversations, eating dinner together, and me riding the bus he works on a few times. Rajesh and I were quickly becoming friends. This was evidenced by the conversation I told of in a recent email when he said to me, “Nawunenu, Telugu meaning close friends.” The language barrier was unable to stop the tidal wave of friendship.
However, in that same conversation he also told me that he had to head back to his village for two weeks --my last two weeks at the Children’s home. He was going to leave in just a few days. Those days passed quickly and it came to Thursday morning, the morning he was going to leave. I chose to ride the bus with him, one last time.
When I came down it looked like the bus was about ready to leave and he motioned me to hop on. However, the bus driver was running late that morning. So while Rajesh and I sat on the bus talking for awhile I gave him a picture of me that I had, which he quickly showed to the other bus attendants, just before they pulled out. Then our driver finally came and we were off. We did the normal bus run, cramming 65+ people onto a 25 passenger bus. And then, as we were passing back through the nearest town, the bus pulled over and Rajesh told me to hop off with him. We both jumped out onto the street and the bus drove on, to pick up the final few passengers down the road. Rajesh walked me over to a street vendor, offering some delicious fried goods. He ordered two dishes, and we sat down and enjoyed “Tiffin” (a word used for a light breakfast). Two friends from two very different worlds enjoying one final meal together before they separate. The bus came back and picked us up and we drove back to the school. I got off the bus and said goodbye to Rajesh, for very likely the last time here on this earth.
Goodbye is always bittersweet. But I will never forget this “close friend” English meaning Nawunenu.
Thursday, March 18, 2010
Curry Culture
(Jared) This is how a meal goes here (generally):
1) rice is served in large piles on plates.
2) curry(s) is served in smaller quantities on/next to the rice.
3) those partaking mix the curry in the rice (a little at a time, as they go)
4) food is transferred to mouth by way of right hand.
5) seconds are offered.
6) hands are washed.
You see, in India, rice is universal. And it isn’t just a common type of food - it IS food. By way of demonstration, the children here at the hostel eat rice three times a day. It seems that many Indians eat something else for breakfast (known as “tiffen”) -- we are served dosa (a sort of pancake), idlii (a small steamed rice-cake of the same batter), chipathi (a delicious sort of tortilla), or toast (we’re not sure if this is purely a gesture towards us, or something they eat as well) most often for breakfast.
Even so, it is rice for lunch, rice for dinner. Around the time of one of these meals a child may check if we’ve eaten, saying “you eat food?” motioning with their hand toward their mouth. I made an extraordinary discovery about their use of the word “food” the other day. Out of the blue, an older boy asked me
“You no eat food in America?”
(uh…yes we do)
“You no eat food? Only bread?”
Oh. Food, as opposed to bread. I understand.
“You mean rice? We eat rice sometimes, and bread sometimes.”
While there might be an array of dishes with the rice, there is inevitably the curry. The follow-up question to “you eat food?” is sometimes “what curry you have?” - rice and curry are assumed, and so it will be a curry with brinjal, or egg, or potato, or chicken, etc.
This understanding that rice for an Indian is food was first crystallized after Mommy Mekala treated us to some “food” while in town one day. We had spent a couple hours at the shopping mall and she asked if we were hungry. It was around lunchtime, and we said “yes.” She took us next door to a line of food stands and started purchasing. We ended up each having a fried chicken leg, a “chicken egg roll,” and a different fried something when back in the car. It was all delicious and as we drove away, I piped up, “Thank you for the lunch.” Daddy replied “You will have lunch at the house.” Oh, right…
Needless to say, we were pretty full after lunch that day.
Which witnesses to another fact of life here - generous hospitality and service. When eating dinner downstairs with children, I have sometimes been offered more curry or rice by 6 different people, turning each down before convincing them I was satisfied. It’s usually easier if a second helping is accepted first.
Just last night, we attended the inauguration of a new prayer meeting down the street - Mommy presiding. After the service, we along with a fair-sized group of the children were served food (it seems to be a given, when hosted for any sort of function like this - you will eat). When I was nearly finished with a generous helping, I was offered more rice, and refused, putting my hand up to say no thank you---I was still served two spoonfuls more. “Thank you” was all I could say.
Jorgen and I have decided that it’s simply not possible to convince them not to give you food if they’ve a mind to it. We realized this on our recent return to the shopping mall in town. This time we had bought our own food at the stands, and were picked up well past lunchtime. In the car, we were asked if we were hungry - we staunchly said no, that we had eaten and were satisfied. 5 minutes later we both received a chicken egg roll.
Just a snack. Not food.
1) rice is served in large piles on plates.
2) curry(s) is served in smaller quantities on/next to the rice.
3) those partaking mix the curry in the rice (a little at a time, as they go)
4) food is transferred to mouth by way of right hand.
5) seconds are offered.
6) hands are washed.
You see, in India, rice is universal. And it isn’t just a common type of food - it IS food. By way of demonstration, the children here at the hostel eat rice three times a day. It seems that many Indians eat something else for breakfast (known as “tiffen”) -- we are served dosa (a sort of pancake), idlii (a small steamed rice-cake of the same batter), chipathi (a delicious sort of tortilla), or toast (we’re not sure if this is purely a gesture towards us, or something they eat as well) most often for breakfast.
Even so, it is rice for lunch, rice for dinner. Around the time of one of these meals a child may check if we’ve eaten, saying “you eat food?” motioning with their hand toward their mouth. I made an extraordinary discovery about their use of the word “food” the other day. Out of the blue, an older boy asked me
“You no eat food in America?”
(uh…yes we do)
“You no eat food? Only bread?”
Oh. Food, as opposed to bread. I understand.
“You mean rice? We eat rice sometimes, and bread sometimes.”
While there might be an array of dishes with the rice, there is inevitably the curry. The follow-up question to “you eat food?” is sometimes “what curry you have?” - rice and curry are assumed, and so it will be a curry with brinjal, or egg, or potato, or chicken, etc.
This understanding that rice for an Indian is food was first crystallized after Mommy Mekala treated us to some “food” while in town one day. We had spent a couple hours at the shopping mall and she asked if we were hungry. It was around lunchtime, and we said “yes.” She took us next door to a line of food stands and started purchasing. We ended up each having a fried chicken leg, a “chicken egg roll,” and a different fried something when back in the car. It was all delicious and as we drove away, I piped up, “Thank you for the lunch.” Daddy replied “You will have lunch at the house.” Oh, right…
Needless to say, we were pretty full after lunch that day.
Which witnesses to another fact of life here - generous hospitality and service. When eating dinner downstairs with children, I have sometimes been offered more curry or rice by 6 different people, turning each down before convincing them I was satisfied. It’s usually easier if a second helping is accepted first.
Just last night, we attended the inauguration of a new prayer meeting down the street - Mommy presiding. After the service, we along with a fair-sized group of the children were served food (it seems to be a given, when hosted for any sort of function like this - you will eat). When I was nearly finished with a generous helping, I was offered more rice, and refused, putting my hand up to say no thank you---I was still served two spoonfuls more. “Thank you” was all I could say.
Jorgen and I have decided that it’s simply not possible to convince them not to give you food if they’ve a mind to it. We realized this on our recent return to the shopping mall in town. This time we had bought our own food at the stands, and were picked up well past lunchtime. In the car, we were asked if we were hungry - we staunchly said no, that we had eaten and were satisfied. 5 minutes later we both received a chicken egg roll.
Just a snack. Not food.
amendment
For anyone who read my recent post (now deleted)-- I made an inexcusable mistake, and I apologize. From now on I'll think more and do my research.
Sunday, March 14, 2010
Couple's Shop (a poem)
(Jorgen) Recalling events that happened Friday March 12th.
The old couple is resting
Half asleep and half resigned
It seems so strange and curious
As we pass and peer inside
The intense heat demands us, “rest!”
And we dutifully oblige
The next thatched hut is empty
So, we take a seat inside
We soon grow restless in our rest
And commence our journey home
The heat has left us thirsty
So, we search for the unknown
We step back on the road
And are reminded of this place
We make a start towards home
At a slightly slower pace
When we reach the couple’s shop
The lady has been stirred
I ask her for a drink
She doesn’t understand a word
We duck inside the shop
And motion towards the fridge
She slowly gets to work
And hands us beverages
These drinks are something different
Though they certainly aren’t new
But we figure it can’t hurt
And pick our favorite two
The cost and flavor matter not
Both insignificant in every way
But think of this old couple
And how we maybe made their day
We didn’t come with riches
We didn’t come for show
We came because of thirst
And that’s all they seem to know
The shop was far from crowded
Not a living soul around
But in this old, empty shop
Our satisfaction was found
The old couple is resting
Half asleep and half resigned
It seems so strange and curious
As we pass and peer inside
The intense heat demands us, “rest!”
And we dutifully oblige
The next thatched hut is empty
So, we take a seat inside
We soon grow restless in our rest
And commence our journey home
The heat has left us thirsty
So, we search for the unknown
We step back on the road
And are reminded of this place
We make a start towards home
At a slightly slower pace
When we reach the couple’s shop
The lady has been stirred
I ask her for a drink
She doesn’t understand a word
We duck inside the shop
And motion towards the fridge
She slowly gets to work
And hands us beverages
These drinks are something different
Though they certainly aren’t new
But we figure it can’t hurt
And pick our favorite two
The cost and flavor matter not
Both insignificant in every way
But think of this old couple
And how we maybe made their day
We didn’t come with riches
We didn’t come for show
We came because of thirst
And that’s all they seem to know
The shop was far from crowded
Not a living soul around
But in this old, empty shop
Our satisfaction was found
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
Cutting
(Jorgen) Anil Kumar (one of the oldest boys here) took one look at me, and exclaimed with shock, “where is your cutting?”
He had expected to see me with a haircut on this particular afternoon (Wed. the 3rd). His shock was not completely unfounded, however; there had been talk of going to the barber that morning but alas, as is all too often the case, those plans had fallen through.
This story really begins a few weeks before this date when Sudheer mentioned that I might want to get my beard trimmed. I at first rejected the idea, figuring it did not matter too much what my appearance was, and holding on to the ideal of not shaving until I returned home. Then on Tuesday night, the 2nd, the older boys made it very clear that I must get a “cutting”, Indian slang for a haircut. Even I can now admit that my beard was looking a little straggly. So we decided that I would go early the next morning to the barber. As aforementioned this fell through. That afternoon I went down to spend time with the kids--this is when Anilkumar saw me and rushed to my side with the above exclamation. This time however, he would except no excuses and personally took on the task of accompanying me to the barber.
First of all to “go to the barber” meant walking in the dirt along the road for 1 km. Then to my surprise the barbershop was a tiny little shack with barely enough room for the barber and the chair. Once inside I could easily stretch my arms out and touch any two opposing walls. The barber was a young man, maybe in his mid twenties. All work was done manually - meaning there was no electronic razors or blow dryers.
It goes without saying that the barber didn’t speak any English, so Anil had to attempt to translate my wishes and ended up communicating with mostly hand signals. I then sat back in the chair and the magician went to work. He placed an old piece of cloth around me to catch the hairs and tied it in a rough knot behind my neck. He then started chopping away methodically at my hair. This was quite a worrisome time for me: my hair was at the mercy of this man who did not even know my language (although this is often the case where I get my hair cut back home as well… hmm). I had to communicate through hand motions that I wanted it to be cut shorter on top… 3 times. He still left it a little long. Then came the beard trimming. The barber leaned the chair back and got our his supplies. It was the most classic beard trimming experience you can imagine (Excepting of course that I’m in a shack in India, and this is for real as opposed to just nostalgic). He lathered my face up with shaving cream, using a brush. He then took out an old fashioned one-blade, fold-out razor and got to work. He was a true artist and cut my scraggly beard down into a nice, short and kempt-looking goatee.
Honestly, I’m not sure what that kind of service and quality would cost me in the US, and it would probably not be done manually in the year 2010. But in India, Incredible India, I walked out of there with a nice trimmed look, an authentic experience, and 30 rupees less (60 cents American).
He had expected to see me with a haircut on this particular afternoon (Wed. the 3rd). His shock was not completely unfounded, however; there had been talk of going to the barber that morning but alas, as is all too often the case, those plans had fallen through.
This story really begins a few weeks before this date when Sudheer mentioned that I might want to get my beard trimmed. I at first rejected the idea, figuring it did not matter too much what my appearance was, and holding on to the ideal of not shaving until I returned home. Then on Tuesday night, the 2nd, the older boys made it very clear that I must get a “cutting”, Indian slang for a haircut. Even I can now admit that my beard was looking a little straggly. So we decided that I would go early the next morning to the barber. As aforementioned this fell through. That afternoon I went down to spend time with the kids--this is when Anilkumar saw me and rushed to my side with the above exclamation. This time however, he would except no excuses and personally took on the task of accompanying me to the barber.
First of all to “go to the barber” meant walking in the dirt along the road for 1 km. Then to my surprise the barbershop was a tiny little shack with barely enough room for the barber and the chair. Once inside I could easily stretch my arms out and touch any two opposing walls. The barber was a young man, maybe in his mid twenties. All work was done manually - meaning there was no electronic razors or blow dryers.
It goes without saying that the barber didn’t speak any English, so Anil had to attempt to translate my wishes and ended up communicating with mostly hand signals. I then sat back in the chair and the magician went to work. He placed an old piece of cloth around me to catch the hairs and tied it in a rough knot behind my neck. He then started chopping away methodically at my hair. This was quite a worrisome time for me: my hair was at the mercy of this man who did not even know my language (although this is often the case where I get my hair cut back home as well… hmm). I had to communicate through hand motions that I wanted it to be cut shorter on top… 3 times. He still left it a little long. Then came the beard trimming. The barber leaned the chair back and got our his supplies. It was the most classic beard trimming experience you can imagine (Excepting of course that I’m in a shack in India, and this is for real as opposed to just nostalgic). He lathered my face up with shaving cream, using a brush. He then took out an old fashioned one-blade, fold-out razor and got to work. He was a true artist and cut my scraggly beard down into a nice, short and kempt-looking goatee.
Honestly, I’m not sure what that kind of service and quality would cost me in the US, and it would probably not be done manually in the year 2010. But in India, Incredible India, I walked out of there with a nice trimmed look, an authentic experience, and 30 rupees less (60 cents American).
Sunday, February 28, 2010
CMR
(Jorgen) Shopping is quite the experience here. On Friday Jared and I were reawakened to this reality. Now, shopping on the streets of Delhi was one thing; You’d kind of expect street vendors to heavily endorse their product and try to make the sale. This type of endorsement becomes a whole different animal when you are shopping at “real” stores.
On Friday our first stop was the CMR: shopping mall. It isn’t really a mall, just a single store that carries a wide variety of merchandise on multiple floors. The most striking thing about this store was the customers, or lack thereof. As far as I could tell there was one other person (besides Jared and I) who was patronizing the store. Amazingly though, the store felt extremely crowded. Maybe that’s because CMR deems it necessary to employ an ARMY of employees. There was something like 30 men, all in their pink CMR uniform shirts, working (mind you this is just in the men’s clothing department). For reference, this clothing department is roughly the size of your average Target’s clothing department. 30 employees is definitely overkill. It becomes worse when they try to sell you on a product, not just one but three or even five employees at a time. They will crowd over you, breathing down your neck trying to persuade on any random article of clothing. As you move around looking at different types of products you will inevitably attract many employees who work in the area. There seems to be one or two designated employees for each different product - T-shirts, long sleeve shirts, short sleeve shirts, undershirts, pants, shorts, longer shorts, etc., etc..
For instance: I thought I’d stroll around the t-shirts in case I liked any of the designs. Quickly I found myself surrounded by 5 pink-shirted men pulling t-shirts off the racks and showing them to me. I saw one design I thought I might want to purchase and tried it for size, too small. Since I had so many employees at my service I asked them for a bigger size of the same design. I quickly found my myself bombarded with a myriad of gray shirts in many sizes. None of them had the same design, they were just the same color. Half of them weren’t even a different size--they just happened to be another gray shirt that was not the one that I had in my hand. Finally after much of this nonsense one of them produced the same design in what he said was a medium. Excitedly I tried it for size and realized this shirt could fit me and the 5 employees who had helped me locate it at once, it was a 2XL. Needless to say I didn’t buy any t-shirts.
The CMR hasn’t quite figured out that westerners like to shop on their own, and will purchase an item if they want it. really the only reason I didn’t end up buying much was because I could hardly see the merchandise through the employee desperately trying to show me it. But when in Rome… right? I guess I’ll just have to get used to this kind of vigorous shopping experience.
On Friday our first stop was the CMR: shopping mall. It isn’t really a mall, just a single store that carries a wide variety of merchandise on multiple floors. The most striking thing about this store was the customers, or lack thereof. As far as I could tell there was one other person (besides Jared and I) who was patronizing the store. Amazingly though, the store felt extremely crowded. Maybe that’s because CMR deems it necessary to employ an ARMY of employees. There was something like 30 men, all in their pink CMR uniform shirts, working (mind you this is just in the men’s clothing department). For reference, this clothing department is roughly the size of your average Target’s clothing department. 30 employees is definitely overkill. It becomes worse when they try to sell you on a product, not just one but three or even five employees at a time. They will crowd over you, breathing down your neck trying to persuade on any random article of clothing. As you move around looking at different types of products you will inevitably attract many employees who work in the area. There seems to be one or two designated employees for each different product - T-shirts, long sleeve shirts, short sleeve shirts, undershirts, pants, shorts, longer shorts, etc., etc..
For instance: I thought I’d stroll around the t-shirts in case I liked any of the designs. Quickly I found myself surrounded by 5 pink-shirted men pulling t-shirts off the racks and showing them to me. I saw one design I thought I might want to purchase and tried it for size, too small. Since I had so many employees at my service I asked them for a bigger size of the same design. I quickly found my myself bombarded with a myriad of gray shirts in many sizes. None of them had the same design, they were just the same color. Half of them weren’t even a different size--they just happened to be another gray shirt that was not the one that I had in my hand. Finally after much of this nonsense one of them produced the same design in what he said was a medium. Excitedly I tried it for size and realized this shirt could fit me and the 5 employees who had helped me locate it at once, it was a 2XL. Needless to say I didn’t buy any t-shirts.
The CMR hasn’t quite figured out that westerners like to shop on their own, and will purchase an item if they want it. really the only reason I didn’t end up buying much was because I could hardly see the merchandise through the employee desperately trying to show me it. But when in Rome… right? I guess I’ll just have to get used to this kind of vigorous shopping experience.
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