I am on the backside of my stay here in India, and I still have some questions about what it means to be a missionary. At this particular moment, I have decided that being a missionary is simply being Love in action; yes, that's Love with a capital L so it isn't always a simple thing to be.
Here are two stories about Love.
One of the ways I try to be Love in action is to show gentleness, gentleness to people, gentleness to children, and gentleness to animals. In this part of the world, gentleness is not openly displayed and often its counterpart is what you see, lots of slapping, ear tweaking, etc.
As I have shared with you before, The Dogs of Durgapur are an interesting lot. Some of them have found good places to hang out (school) and actually look pretty healthy giving birth to healthy pups. But at the diocesean compound, where the pickings are slim because the kitchen only operates when there are people here for conferences, etc., the dogs look like they could belong to the Dalit Caste, the lowest of the low, the untouchables.
One of these dogs took up with me early in my stay here, or rather, I took up with her because she was the thinnest, mangiest mongrel around, and I couldn't turn away from her. Then she got pregnant. No family planning in the dog world, but while she was pregnant, she looked pretty good. Then the puppies came along. There were four of them and they were cute. Aren't they all? She was a good mother, but she chose to have her puppies near the guard's hut which is far from the kitchen. The guard showed some gentleness to her by fixing her a safe place in some logs and brought her some straw. I was impressed by that. We had a lot of people here at that time so there were food scraps to be had, but she couldn't leave her puppies. I decided I needed to feed her. After all, she was a nursing mother and with that, the Soup Kitchen was created. You can't buy actual dog food here so I bought baby cereal and mixed it up every morning. Then I graduated to oatmeal adding whatever I could find to dice it up a bit, an egg, some gravy, and one week, due to a mistake at the grocery store, they got chicken hearts, yummy.
Of course this puppy feeding attracted a lot of attention from the staff. Whoever heard of such nonsense, cooking breakfast for these mangy creatures. I put them in the category of "the least of my brothers" and continued on. A couple of the maintenance men got in on the act and started hauling scraps from the kitchen to add to the usual breakfast of oatmeal plus.
It wasn't long before all the pups were infected with the mange or whatever it was, and so I located a chemist who also sold pet meds, described the condition, bought the meds and began administering them twice a day. Again, a maintenance man eagerly helped to crush the pills and I mixed them into the oatmeal. The men helping me with this effort were not staff people. These men live in slums themselves so they know what survival means. Then there was the spray, but the puppies had to be clean, so I gave them all a bath. They actually seemed to enjoy the bath. I think the cool water eased the itching for a few minutes, but the spray was a different matter. Ouch!
Now, one by one, the puppies have died and there is just one left. As soon as I enter the gate with breakfast in tow, she greets me, tail wagging, rolling around on my feet. I can hardly walk to the feeding place and sometimes I just have to put her in my basket and ride her to the feeding spot. Mom always enjoyed her share, but now she is missing and who knows what fate has befallen her.
Gentleness to all creatures. Love in action.
Another Story:
One day when I was volunteering at Mother Teresa's Ashram, I noticed a new baby in the nursery. She looked to be about 5/6 months old. She was extremely thin and her head was a bit too big for an infant, and she had a mouth full of teeth. She is more like a two year old. I was told that the mother was in the hospital there and that she wasn't doing well, not eating, not responding, nothing.
I later learned that the mother and child had been picked up off the platform at the railway station where they were lying. MTs decided to take them both because of the child. Usually, only people with TB come to this ashram.
I asked to visit the mother. There she was, stretched out on the bed, eyes closed and totally unresponsive, and oh so thin. One of the women there gave me a glass with some kind of drink in it and I took a spoon, filled it and gave it to this young mother. At first she wouldn't open her mouth so the woman slapped her on the face and yelled something at her and she opened her mouth just enough for me to slip the drink in. This kind of behavior is shocking but not unusual, and I cannot get used to it. The young woman drank all of it, spoonful by spoonful. It was tea, of course!
The next day, I made some applesauce and took it to the ashram. So now in the mornings, I'm making my breakfast, breakfast for my dog family, and breakfast for the
young woman. She ate all of the applesauce, and when the woman wanted to slap her face to get her to open her mouth, I intervened and said "No hitting." Then I spoke gently to the young mother and she opened her mouth and ate.
I thought she might be more encouraged if she got to hold her baby. I spoke with the sister who asked the sister in charge and the next day, they brought the baby for a visit. I didn't get to see this encounter.
Every morning I continued to fix her breakfast moving up to baby cereal then baby cereal with dahl and veggies. She was eating every bit of it and faster as well.
One morning she started calling for Babu, Babu (pet name for a child). I asked if I could go and get Babu from the nursery. I was given the okay sign and took off for the nursery. Babu was getting her breakfast shoveled down her throat and howling the whole time. I started talking to the baby. She stopped crying. I took the spoon and fed her whatever it was. Then I picked her up. This was my first time to hold one of the babies. Outsiders are not allowed to even touch these children for fear of germs. I held her tiny body close to me, tiny legs and arms dangling, weighing next to nothing. Then off we went to visit mommy. I placed the baby next to her mother. The mother never opened her eyes. I took the mother's hand and ran it over the baby. I took the baby's hand and ran it over the mother. The visit ended and I returned Babu to the nursery.
Each time I have gone to the ashram, the mom has improved. We now know her name, Jorna. Her eyes are open. She is sitting up and slowly, slowly she is walking. She is eating solid food so now I am taking her juice when I go to visit.
The last time I took Babu to visit, I set the baby on her mother's lap and got her to hold the baby. I,too, was holding onto her. These moments have been so tender.
When I am in the nursery, now that I can touch the babies, I make it a point to talk to all of them, make faces, play Here Comes Mommy Creepy Mouse and all that silliness that goes on around babies. These babies respond with smiles and giggles. Even Babu was laughing out loud the other day. The babies are taken care of. They are fed, they are bathed assembly line style, and kept dry. Their beds are clean and the nursery is clean, but these babies are not loved. They are not cuddled. So being Love in action means I try to teach these women in the nursery how to cuddle and be silly with the babies.
Two stories about Love in action, about being a misisonary.
Saturday, April 26, 2008
Monday, April 7, 2008
To Bangkok and Back
I am in India on a tourist visa which means my passport does not have to be registered, but I did have to leave the country and come back in before 180 days had expired.
At first I thought I would just take the train to Bangladesh since it is close, but then I learned that the Bangladeshis and the Indians aren't very friendly toward each other and as a result, Indian trains cannot cross the border. Okay, I'll fly. the bishop offred his brother's residence and hospitality to me and everything seemed ready, almost at any rate. I needed a visa to go to Bangladesh, not an easy thing to accomplish since the High Commission of Bangladesh in Calcutta is only open for a blink of the eye each morning. It would take about three days to get a visa. While I was in Calcutta making my travel arrangements with the bishop's travel agent, the travel agent suggested Bangkok. No visa for American passport holders and he could put together a nice little package for me at a reasonable price. So all was arranged. I would fly out on Friday, the 28th around noon, be picked up by the staff of the company the travel agent uses for hotel packages, etc., be taken on a tour of Bangkok on the way to a nice hotel, then taken back to the airport on sunday for the trip back to India.
The bishop provided a car and driver for me and we left early on Friday morning for Calcutta and the airport. It's my birthday.
I checked in, got my boarding pass and headed to Immigration. That's IMMIGRATION!
Now I have to confess I knew I had overstayed the 180 days by a couple of weeks, but I was counting on Immigration to be like India Post, totally incompetent, or at least have a stall at the airport where visa delinquents could pay the penalty and move on. At the first station, the officer is looking at my visa and counting on his fingers from Sept to March, which is six months. He says, "You've been in the country longer than 180 days, you must register." I say politely, "No, I only have to leave the country which is what I am trying to do." At the next station, since more officers have been alerted, the officer growls at me about being a visa delinquent, but I stay calm. I don't say anything stupid like, "So what are you going to do, put me in jail?" I don't dissolve into silly putty on the floor. I do call Bishop Dutta. "Help, I'm in trouble." He speaks with Mr. Growly, but even the bishop has no clout with Immigration, and he tells me I must return to Durgapur and then go to Bardwan (county seat) to the Chief of Police and register my passport. "Then, he says, you won't even have to leave the country." "Oh great." By this time, I was looking forward to leaving the country. Another officer appears and says, " You can register at the Foreign Office for Registration of Passports in Calcutta. But you cannot fly today." Dollar signs started flashing through my mind. I was escorted back to the Jet Airway's desk, and this officer hands them my boarding pass. "This is really happening," I'm thinking. But the airline folks were great. They changed my ticket for Sat. and extended it a day, flying back on Monday at no charge. I have friends who must be getting a good chuckle out of this whole scene.
I called Peter, the travel agent to tell him my plight. The bishop had already called him, and he had already cancelled my package.
First I had to go to the registration office. Again I was reprimanded for overstaying my welcome, but then this officer was pleasant with me the rest of the time. I told him I needed to register, and he explained that a tourist visa cannot be registered, but that I still needed to leave the country. I told him that Immigration at the airport was a bit confused about this. He was surprised by that. I get all the paperwork done and head to the travel agency to work out another booking. Peter breaks the news to me that the company Globotel will not change my itinerary nor will they give me a refund. Peter is not happy, and I am certainly not happy, even if it was my fault. Peter says he will no longer do business with Globotel, and I hope he doesn't. Some birthday.
I fly out the next day at the same time, get myself to the hotel, which is okay, and then try to figure out how to do Bangkok in eight hours.
Unfortunately, I arrived at the hotel late and didn't know you had to book a tour a day in advance, so seeing Bangkok with a tour group was nixed. A nice young Thai taxi driver offered to take me around for the day at what seemed a reasonable fee to me.
I didn't see the floating markets, not even from the shore as they are located outside the city and required a long drive. I didn't see the temples, or the Thai people at work along the canals. I did go to a couple of handicraft galleries (driver's idea) and finally I got him to take me to a market that was listed in the things to do brochure I picked up at the hotel. The very things that were in the galleries were also on the street, though much less expensive. The driver probably got a commission of some sort for bringing folks to the galleries. Oh well, I still enjoyed my stroll along the street.
I did see, however, skyscrapers, McDonalds, Starbucks, KFC, Tescos, 7/11, Shell, Esso, and of course lots of Toyotas,and Hondas. The cars are like ours, big, but the drivers stay in their lanes which are actually marked, and there is virtually no horn blowing, and it's clean, all unlike India.
I did go to a Dairy Queen to satisfy my craving for a chocolate milkshake and to Boots to get an Rx that India Post just can't seem to deliver to me.
Sounds like a nice place to visit, right? It is if you like everything western, but I love the color, the sights, the smells of India. Yes, it's frustrating not to be able to buy simple things like tweezers (lost mine in Bangkok), or a can opener without searching through the markets and the department stores which takes days. India Post is the pits requiring all kinds of rules for mailing packages yet having no rules for deliveries. About five of my packages have "gone astray."
I love all the different kinds of transport: the buses, the motorscooters and cycles, the rickshaws, the bikes, and the three-wheeled goods carriers. I love dodging the free roaming cows, dogs, and goats, the poojas and the people.
I can understand why Gandhi had such strong feelings about preserving India's culture, refusing to buy or use anything that was not Indian made.
When the west moves in, the culture moves out. Back at the hotel, I did enjoy some time in the jacuzzi and a Thai massage by a hefty Thai woman, but I was ready to get back to the colorful and lively world of India.
Sunday, March 9, 2008
Women's International Day
Today, at St. Michaels's Church, we celebrated International Women's Day. Since our priest, Fr. Sam, had to be at another church, he turned this service over to the women. He helped, of course, in the planning to keep us within the parameters of acceptablility.
The Vice-Principal of St. Michael's School, Archanna Dey, was the leader.She put in manyy hours trying to get everything just right, including as many women as she could in the service.
She also wanted a "special song" to be sung by small group of women, mostly teachers from the school. She adapted the song People Over the World to make it Women Over the World.
Fr. Sam got out one of the hymnals friends from St. Mary's had sent to us, and together we searched for some appropriate hymns to include in the worship service,
trying them out on the new keyboard, a gift from the UK. It was fun playing around with the different tones, tempos, and styles available on this little Yamaha. Then Archanna asks me to pick out the tune for Women Over the World. This, I cannot do. I can play the right hand, the melody, and only about two octaves to the right of Middle C, so we enlist the help of the music teacher at St. Michael's, the go-to-guy when we want music, real music at the church. He jots down the notes and then Archanna asks me to play the keyboard with the "choir!" Are your hysterics over? Have you picked yourselves up off the floor yet?
Those of you who know me and have been to my home, know that I love music and that I have all kinds of instruments: a piano, guitar,dulcimer, several recorders, a tambourine, and even a little African harp like thing, but I can't play any of them.
But being a Franciscan, I have to rise to the challenge and like I said, there is tempo, style, and voice on the keyboard menu, so all I really have to do is play the melody with my right hand and let technology do the rest.
So I practice alone and with the "choir" but there is never one complete run-through of this song. Archanna has added an extra part which is a verse a half note higher and will be sung just before the ending to end the song. There are five members of this group and so five different variations on the theme. Each time we start out, I am never sure where we are going with this song, but I finally realize that I can just hold a key down (organ mode) and let them go off in whatever direction they want and it's okay.
The music teacher has agreed to play All Creatures of Our God and King and Seek Ye First the Kingdom of God. I know, it's Lent and we shouldn't be singing Alleuias, but cut us some slack, OK?
Now the music teacher has a really good ear and claims all he needs is the key and he can take it from there, no notes necessary. Before the service, I hand him the hymnal already turned to All Creatures, but he just wags his head and says no problem.
No Problem IF everyone knows the tune, that is. We don't.
Archanna has also requested that those of us in the service wear saris and bangles (bracelets). I had to arrive early so someone could wrap me up in my sari and Archanna loaned me lots of bangles to wear.
So we are all set to process in our saris and bangles and we even have a girl Crucifer. Normally we don't have a Crucifer at all.
Archanna nods to the organist who gives us only chords. Archanna has a lovely voice, but in her nervousness starts us out about an octave lower, forgets the tune completely after the first two lines, and no one knows where in the world we are including the organist, but we process anyway. Thank God for short runways. That misery ended quickly.
Soon it was time for the "special song" and my debut as the only right-handed keyboardist with a two octave range in the world. I traded places with the real musician, click on the buttons I need and I am ready, but the organist thinks I have forgotten how to do this, so he helps me out by undoing the settings. The girls are still getting situated so I have time to reset. We begin. It's not bad, but when we get to the place where the added segment should be, Archanna decides, on the spot, not to do it thinking the women have forgotten how it goes and moves the final line of the song. Quickly I catch on and catch up. Then it's over. Alleluia! sorry.
Seek Ye First went much better because Mr Keyboardist played the melody along with his beloved chords. Guess he caught on from the processional hymn.
The rest of the service went well with Rita Dutta, the bishop's wife, delivering a short homiliy about the International Women's Conference she and Bishop Dutta had attended at the UN in New York the week before.
We processed out to Showers of Blessings, yes that's right, and it was a rousing processional.
What did you do for International Women's Day?
The Vice-Principal of St. Michael's School, Archanna Dey, was the leader.She put in manyy hours trying to get everything just right, including as many women as she could in the service.
She also wanted a "special song" to be sung by small group of women, mostly teachers from the school. She adapted the song People Over the World to make it Women Over the World.
Fr. Sam got out one of the hymnals friends from St. Mary's had sent to us, and together we searched for some appropriate hymns to include in the worship service,
trying them out on the new keyboard, a gift from the UK. It was fun playing around with the different tones, tempos, and styles available on this little Yamaha. Then Archanna asks me to pick out the tune for Women Over the World. This, I cannot do. I can play the right hand, the melody, and only about two octaves to the right of Middle C, so we enlist the help of the music teacher at St. Michael's, the go-to-guy when we want music, real music at the church. He jots down the notes and then Archanna asks me to play the keyboard with the "choir!" Are your hysterics over? Have you picked yourselves up off the floor yet?
Those of you who know me and have been to my home, know that I love music and that I have all kinds of instruments: a piano, guitar,dulcimer, several recorders, a tambourine, and even a little African harp like thing, but I can't play any of them.
But being a Franciscan, I have to rise to the challenge and like I said, there is tempo, style, and voice on the keyboard menu, so all I really have to do is play the melody with my right hand and let technology do the rest.
So I practice alone and with the "choir" but there is never one complete run-through of this song. Archanna has added an extra part which is a verse a half note higher and will be sung just before the ending to end the song. There are five members of this group and so five different variations on the theme. Each time we start out, I am never sure where we are going with this song, but I finally realize that I can just hold a key down (organ mode) and let them go off in whatever direction they want and it's okay.
The music teacher has agreed to play All Creatures of Our God and King and Seek Ye First the Kingdom of God. I know, it's Lent and we shouldn't be singing Alleuias, but cut us some slack, OK?
Now the music teacher has a really good ear and claims all he needs is the key and he can take it from there, no notes necessary. Before the service, I hand him the hymnal already turned to All Creatures, but he just wags his head and says no problem.
No Problem IF everyone knows the tune, that is. We don't.
Archanna has also requested that those of us in the service wear saris and bangles (bracelets). I had to arrive early so someone could wrap me up in my sari and Archanna loaned me lots of bangles to wear.
So we are all set to process in our saris and bangles and we even have a girl Crucifer. Normally we don't have a Crucifer at all.
Archanna nods to the organist who gives us only chords. Archanna has a lovely voice, but in her nervousness starts us out about an octave lower, forgets the tune completely after the first two lines, and no one knows where in the world we are including the organist, but we process anyway. Thank God for short runways. That misery ended quickly.
Soon it was time for the "special song" and my debut as the only right-handed keyboardist with a two octave range in the world. I traded places with the real musician, click on the buttons I need and I am ready, but the organist thinks I have forgotten how to do this, so he helps me out by undoing the settings. The girls are still getting situated so I have time to reset. We begin. It's not bad, but when we get to the place where the added segment should be, Archanna decides, on the spot, not to do it thinking the women have forgotten how it goes and moves the final line of the song. Quickly I catch on and catch up. Then it's over. Alleluia! sorry.
Seek Ye First went much better because Mr Keyboardist played the melody along with his beloved chords. Guess he caught on from the processional hymn.
The rest of the service went well with Rita Dutta, the bishop's wife, delivering a short homiliy about the International Women's Conference she and Bishop Dutta had attended at the UN in New York the week before.
We processed out to Showers of Blessings, yes that's right, and it was a rousing processional.
What did you do for International Women's Day?
Saturday, February 23, 2008
something light, something dark
Now that you have Christmas packed away and Valentine's Day all wrapped up for another year and are swimming through waves of bunny rabbits and Easter chicks, I want to tell you about Christmas in India.
It was different, but not so different. The big shops in Durgapur were packed mainly because they were having a "buy one get one absolutely free" sale. This message blared through the sound system over and over again. No soft Christmas music playing in the background to entice you to dig dipper into your wallet and buy that gift for Auntie.
At St. Michael's, there was the usual round of Christmas caroling throughout the neighborhoods and there was a big Christmas get together with all the churches in the diocese. We even had a service of Lessons and Carols.
Of course there were the programs: school programs, Sunday School programs, and Diocesean Children's Project Programs. I saw Nativity Pageants performed by Christians and Hindus and being totally objective here, I have to say our slum children's Nativity Tableaux was the best. Our costumes were really nice, sarees for the kings, dhotis for the shepherds, and cute little white dresses with shiny wings for the angels.
Not many people decorate their homes for the season. No tree, but since there are no live Christmas trees here, I guess that's to be expected. There are artificial trees, not made to look real, but made to look artificial, mainly a pole with tinseled branches widely spaced and standing no more than 3 or 4 feet tall. My own little faker was about 12" tall but the branches, also widely spaced, sort of had a fir look to them. It was easy to decorate with one little silver strand which had ornaments spaced along it. I cut out wrapped packages from an old Christmas card and stuck them under my tree. My grandchildren sent me a better tree all decorated which held the place of honor on my table the rest of the Christmas season. Putting Christmas away was very easy.
Since there were no Christmas trees, there were no wrapped packages under the tree. There was nothing to shake, no packages to count, and no piles to measure. the Indians may be onto something here. Usually the family just takes the kids shopping and lets them pick out a thing or two and that is pretty much it.
The only Christmas Eve service at St. Michael's was the midnight one, so I arranged to stay at the center so I could attend. It was a candlelight service, but there was no musical accompaniment, and there were very few of us in the congregation, maybe six. Since most people walk, cycle or ride motorbikes getting out at such a late hour just isn't done.
Fr. Sam was all alone at the altar, preparing the table, juggling a candle, and leading the singing of Oh Holy Night hoping we wouldn't fade away in the middle of it when he had to stop singing for a moment. Well, when he stopped, we all stopped, a nice little pause in the middle of the liturgy. Having the entire service in candlelight was clearly not a good idea, but we sang Silent Night and Once in Royal David's City, so it was okay.
The next morning, 7:30am, the service was not much better, but at least there was an altar helper and a keyboardist. Then at 8:30, there was the Bengali service and I stayed for that one mainly because it was packed with people spilling out into the yard and little children seated on the floor in a space up front. We ended the service with Angels We Have Heard on High, so my three favorite carols were sung and that was enough for me.
The church was gaily decorated with balloons, crepe paper streamers, and other brightly colored lanterns hanging from the ceiling of the church. I'm sure the Indians would think our "greening" of the church pretty drab in comparison.
So guess what! It happened anyway. Christmas happened without the hype and the hoopla, without my packages arriving on time for my family to open them together, without Christmas carols weaving in and out of the daily routine. But what struck me the most about Christmas here is that everybody celebrated it. The Hindu children in my building had a Christmas party, complete with Santa and a little tree, on the roof to which I was invited. A Hindu teacher from the school played the keyboard at the Bengali service on Christmas Day, and as I said, just about all the Nativity plays were performed by Hindus.
When the Hindu Poojas were in full swing last fall, everyone celebrated with them. Yes, there are some fundamentalist here in India, like everywhere, but so far they haven't shattered the spirit of tolerance and respect for other faiths. Here, everyone was wished a Merry Christmas, not a Happy Winter Solstice, and in Oct. we were wished a Happy Diwali.
It this little corner of the world, it almost seemed like Peace on Earth, Good Will Toward Men.
From the Dark Side:
I've been giving some thought to death lately; the different kinds of death one might experience, the violent ones, the tragic ones, the war ones, the old age ones, and the peaceful ones.
Eventhough St. Francis welcomes Sister Death in his Canticle to the Sun, death, for most of us I think is not an easy thing to contemplate.
Sometimes we are able to say "He died in peace," or " She lived a full and happy life," and if the loved one had been battling cancer or AIDS, or Alzheimer's we can say "At last the suffering is over."
In America, death takes its toll on the highway wiping out the lives of both young and old; such a senseless way to die.
Our decadent life style takes more lives, heart disease, diabetes, cancer, obesity; again, such a senseless way to die.
Since I've been in India, Iv'e been exposed to another kind of death, death by poverty, starvation, neglect, ignorance, such a senseless way to die.
This kind of death is ugly. Here, death has dominion.
I am fully aware that death is part of the cycle of life and that we need it to close one generation and make room for another, but does it have to be by poverty, starvation, neglect, ignorance?
As most of you know from my e-mail about the woman in bed#28, I witnessed the dying of a woman who was all alone in this world. Imagine that! No one caring about her, no one assisting her out of this life to whatever lay ahead for her, no one to tell her good-by or that she was loved. That kind of lonely, cold, despairing death makes me shiver.
How did that happen? How did she get in that situation? Where was her family?
Then there was Punima, 13 years old; a beautiful young girl who, escaping an attacker, jumped from a second story window. She broke her leg in the fall and ended up in the government run hospital. She was discharged at some point, her leg still in a cast, but readmitted sometime later. Her leg was still in the same cast and because she had been bed-ridden the whole time she was at her home, bedsores appeared over most of her buttocks; deep penetrating sores eating through her flesh and tissue all the way to the bone and into the bone. Neglect and ignorance landed this child with her severly infected body back in the hospital. I could do nothing for Shakil in bed #28 but keep her cleaned and fed until the day she died, but I was able to talk to the Misssionaries of Charity about Punima, and they decided to get her discharged into their care. Punima would die, but she would die knowing that there were others who cared about her.
These kinds of death are happening all over India on a daily basis. They are happening in countries in Africa where AIDS has a mighty grip on the population.
Maybe you're thinking it's a population problem and a little family planning would solve everything. That usually seems to be the first response whenever the subject of povery arises, but I think that's a "cop-out" kind of answer, one that frees us from the responsibility of looking deeper into the root causes of poverty. By looking deep, we might just discover that we are playing a big role in the plight of these people, our neighbors on the other side of the world.
There is always talk about addressing the issue of poverty with all its ramifications, and in Sept., 2000, something concrete was born- The Millenium Development Goals. These eight goals were drawn from the Millenium Declaration that was adopted by 189 nations and signed by 147 heads of state and governments during the UN Millenium Summit. Since then, many churches have adopted the MDGs as part of their own declaration to fight poverty; The Episcopal Church in N. America is one of them.
The MDGs address the issues of extreme poverty and hunger, lack of education, gender equality & women's empowerment, child mortality, maternal health, HIV/AIDS, and environmental stability and global parnerships. Couched in all of these are some serious questions about excessive life-styles and how these life-styles exacerbate the issues at hand. This is where thinking DEEP comes into play. It's realizing we are connected to each other, Shakila in bed 28, Punima, and scores of other men, women, and children who, in one way or another reap what we sow.
Their pain is our pain.
Their misery is our misery.
Their despair is our despair.
"How is this possible!" You might exclaim.
Just think about it.
Where do you shop?
What do you buy?
What do you drive?
Where did the resources used to build your nice, new, big home come from?
The farmers in Ethiopia hit by draught due to extreme climate changes don't drive SUVs, we do.
Agri-business coffee growers have forced many family coffee growers in Central and South America to abandon their farms and look for employment elsewhere, perhaps across our borders. Still not buying Fair Trade Coffee?
The MDGs are a great step in the right direction and only a pittance is required to help with the funding, 0.7% of your yearly income. Even I can afford that.
But to stop the cycle of poverty and all that goes with it, we must be willing to make the necessary changes, real changes, life-style changes, and yes, it will hurt, but it will also liberate. Until we do, death will continue to have dominion in the impoverished countries of the world.
It was different, but not so different. The big shops in Durgapur were packed mainly because they were having a "buy one get one absolutely free" sale. This message blared through the sound system over and over again. No soft Christmas music playing in the background to entice you to dig dipper into your wallet and buy that gift for Auntie.
At St. Michael's, there was the usual round of Christmas caroling throughout the neighborhoods and there was a big Christmas get together with all the churches in the diocese. We even had a service of Lessons and Carols.
Of course there were the programs: school programs, Sunday School programs, and Diocesean Children's Project Programs. I saw Nativity Pageants performed by Christians and Hindus and being totally objective here, I have to say our slum children's Nativity Tableaux was the best. Our costumes were really nice, sarees for the kings, dhotis for the shepherds, and cute little white dresses with shiny wings for the angels.
Not many people decorate their homes for the season. No tree, but since there are no live Christmas trees here, I guess that's to be expected. There are artificial trees, not made to look real, but made to look artificial, mainly a pole with tinseled branches widely spaced and standing no more than 3 or 4 feet tall. My own little faker was about 12" tall but the branches, also widely spaced, sort of had a fir look to them. It was easy to decorate with one little silver strand which had ornaments spaced along it. I cut out wrapped packages from an old Christmas card and stuck them under my tree. My grandchildren sent me a better tree all decorated which held the place of honor on my table the rest of the Christmas season. Putting Christmas away was very easy.
Since there were no Christmas trees, there were no wrapped packages under the tree. There was nothing to shake, no packages to count, and no piles to measure. the Indians may be onto something here. Usually the family just takes the kids shopping and lets them pick out a thing or two and that is pretty much it.
The only Christmas Eve service at St. Michael's was the midnight one, so I arranged to stay at the center so I could attend. It was a candlelight service, but there was no musical accompaniment, and there were very few of us in the congregation, maybe six. Since most people walk, cycle or ride motorbikes getting out at such a late hour just isn't done.
Fr. Sam was all alone at the altar, preparing the table, juggling a candle, and leading the singing of Oh Holy Night hoping we wouldn't fade away in the middle of it when he had to stop singing for a moment. Well, when he stopped, we all stopped, a nice little pause in the middle of the liturgy. Having the entire service in candlelight was clearly not a good idea, but we sang Silent Night and Once in Royal David's City, so it was okay.
The next morning, 7:30am, the service was not much better, but at least there was an altar helper and a keyboardist. Then at 8:30, there was the Bengali service and I stayed for that one mainly because it was packed with people spilling out into the yard and little children seated on the floor in a space up front. We ended the service with Angels We Have Heard on High, so my three favorite carols were sung and that was enough for me.
The church was gaily decorated with balloons, crepe paper streamers, and other brightly colored lanterns hanging from the ceiling of the church. I'm sure the Indians would think our "greening" of the church pretty drab in comparison.
So guess what! It happened anyway. Christmas happened without the hype and the hoopla, without my packages arriving on time for my family to open them together, without Christmas carols weaving in and out of the daily routine. But what struck me the most about Christmas here is that everybody celebrated it. The Hindu children in my building had a Christmas party, complete with Santa and a little tree, on the roof to which I was invited. A Hindu teacher from the school played the keyboard at the Bengali service on Christmas Day, and as I said, just about all the Nativity plays were performed by Hindus.
When the Hindu Poojas were in full swing last fall, everyone celebrated with them. Yes, there are some fundamentalist here in India, like everywhere, but so far they haven't shattered the spirit of tolerance and respect for other faiths. Here, everyone was wished a Merry Christmas, not a Happy Winter Solstice, and in Oct. we were wished a Happy Diwali.
It this little corner of the world, it almost seemed like Peace on Earth, Good Will Toward Men.
From the Dark Side:
I've been giving some thought to death lately; the different kinds of death one might experience, the violent ones, the tragic ones, the war ones, the old age ones, and the peaceful ones.
Eventhough St. Francis welcomes Sister Death in his Canticle to the Sun, death, for most of us I think is not an easy thing to contemplate.
Sometimes we are able to say "He died in peace," or " She lived a full and happy life," and if the loved one had been battling cancer or AIDS, or Alzheimer's we can say "At last the suffering is over."
In America, death takes its toll on the highway wiping out the lives of both young and old; such a senseless way to die.
Our decadent life style takes more lives, heart disease, diabetes, cancer, obesity; again, such a senseless way to die.
Since I've been in India, Iv'e been exposed to another kind of death, death by poverty, starvation, neglect, ignorance, such a senseless way to die.
This kind of death is ugly. Here, death has dominion.
I am fully aware that death is part of the cycle of life and that we need it to close one generation and make room for another, but does it have to be by poverty, starvation, neglect, ignorance?
As most of you know from my e-mail about the woman in bed#28, I witnessed the dying of a woman who was all alone in this world. Imagine that! No one caring about her, no one assisting her out of this life to whatever lay ahead for her, no one to tell her good-by or that she was loved. That kind of lonely, cold, despairing death makes me shiver.
How did that happen? How did she get in that situation? Where was her family?
Then there was Punima, 13 years old; a beautiful young girl who, escaping an attacker, jumped from a second story window. She broke her leg in the fall and ended up in the government run hospital. She was discharged at some point, her leg still in a cast, but readmitted sometime later. Her leg was still in the same cast and because she had been bed-ridden the whole time she was at her home, bedsores appeared over most of her buttocks; deep penetrating sores eating through her flesh and tissue all the way to the bone and into the bone. Neglect and ignorance landed this child with her severly infected body back in the hospital. I could do nothing for Shakil in bed #28 but keep her cleaned and fed until the day she died, but I was able to talk to the Misssionaries of Charity about Punima, and they decided to get her discharged into their care. Punima would die, but she would die knowing that there were others who cared about her.
These kinds of death are happening all over India on a daily basis. They are happening in countries in Africa where AIDS has a mighty grip on the population.
Maybe you're thinking it's a population problem and a little family planning would solve everything. That usually seems to be the first response whenever the subject of povery arises, but I think that's a "cop-out" kind of answer, one that frees us from the responsibility of looking deeper into the root causes of poverty. By looking deep, we might just discover that we are playing a big role in the plight of these people, our neighbors on the other side of the world.
There is always talk about addressing the issue of poverty with all its ramifications, and in Sept., 2000, something concrete was born- The Millenium Development Goals. These eight goals were drawn from the Millenium Declaration that was adopted by 189 nations and signed by 147 heads of state and governments during the UN Millenium Summit. Since then, many churches have adopted the MDGs as part of their own declaration to fight poverty; The Episcopal Church in N. America is one of them.
The MDGs address the issues of extreme poverty and hunger, lack of education, gender equality & women's empowerment, child mortality, maternal health, HIV/AIDS, and environmental stability and global parnerships. Couched in all of these are some serious questions about excessive life-styles and how these life-styles exacerbate the issues at hand. This is where thinking DEEP comes into play. It's realizing we are connected to each other, Shakila in bed 28, Punima, and scores of other men, women, and children who, in one way or another reap what we sow.
Their pain is our pain.
Their misery is our misery.
Their despair is our despair.
"How is this possible!" You might exclaim.
Just think about it.
Where do you shop?
What do you buy?
What do you drive?
Where did the resources used to build your nice, new, big home come from?
The farmers in Ethiopia hit by draught due to extreme climate changes don't drive SUVs, we do.
Agri-business coffee growers have forced many family coffee growers in Central and South America to abandon their farms and look for employment elsewhere, perhaps across our borders. Still not buying Fair Trade Coffee?
The MDGs are a great step in the right direction and only a pittance is required to help with the funding, 0.7% of your yearly income. Even I can afford that.
But to stop the cycle of poverty and all that goes with it, we must be willing to make the necessary changes, real changes, life-style changes, and yes, it will hurt, but it will also liberate. Until we do, death will continue to have dominion in the impoverished countries of the world.
Friday, February 8, 2008
fitting in
When I arrived in Durgapur, I was ready to meet the challenge of "fitting in." I was going to live simply; I am. I was going to learn the language; I'm trying. I was going to dress in the Indian way; I am with some modifications, and I was going to eat their hot, spicy food even if smoke was pouring out of my ears and my nose was running; I have done this, and I have eaten with my right hand, literally hand, on many occasions.
Most of the people at the school and the Center have been very warm and welcoming, hospitable and supportive, but there was one maintenance person working at the center, a young man, who clearly was not happy with my presence at the school for the children from the slums. He never spoke to me, in fact I wondered if he could even talk, and he wore a frown in my presence. I started feeling a bit nervous whenever he and I were at the Center at the same time which was every day, so I started avoiding him as best I could.
Then two things happened at about the same time. One was the garden project which he became very interested in and kept close tabs on as the space was cleared, the soil cultivated, and the seeds planted. The other was the painting project. I had decided to paint the ABCs on one wall of each classroom with pictures, like I did in Jordan (my world project?) He also became very interested in this.
When I was drawing the letters on the wall, he was still glaring and growling, but when I began to paint, he started coming into the classroom to watch. Then when I began the picture part of the project, he really took notice. He would come in and sit at one of the desks and watch. After several pictures were on the wall, he gave me the Indian head wag of approval and the Indian OK sign. He even managed a smile.
Slowly, as his trust in me grew and vice-versa, I found myself teasing with him a bit. Now when he sees me coming, he knows exactly which rooms to open, and if he needs to leave before I am finished, he leaves the keys with me with strict instructions about which rooms to lock and where to leave the keys. His name is Ragabir and he has become a favorite of mine, and I think he likes me a little as well. Fitting in!
Missionary aka celebrity. I didn't know that was part of the job description, but lately I have been honored by different groups, being invited to be the Chief Guest at this function or that. this means I get to sit in the best seat and hand out prizes or gifts. sometimes it means saying a "few words." The Indians are quite good at this kind of surprise. "And now, Ms. Lynn, would you say a few words to the group. This is not what I do best, but I started trying to be a bit prepared for such occasions. So at our Christmas program after all the teachers were introduced and on the stage, the bishop hands me the mike and asks me to say a few words. This was an audience of parents from the villages and a few other guests from St. Michael's and St. Peter's. The lights were very bright and I couldn't see any of their faces. I did not like that at all, but the show must go on, right? I began by greeting them with Nomashkar, which they loved, and then I asked them how they were in Bengali, lots of clapping and cheering for that effort. I have to tell you this was kind of an inside joke as the children quiz me continually every day on these two phrases: kaemon achen and palo achi, How are you and I am fine. After that it didn't really matter what I said and after the program, the parents were eager to meet me and shake my hand. Fitting in!
At another program where I was an important guest and got to say a few words, I was able to use the Muslim greeting Asalamualikum. The parents and the children who were mostly Muslim returned the greeting with wa alikum asalam amidst cheers, laughter and clapping. I spent a lot of that day greeting different parents as the children dragged me from one family to another. Fitting in!
One afternoon I was painting, as usual, and one of the guys came into the room with an old pound cake still in its package and asked me if I wanted it. I told him no that he could have it if he wanted it. He went back to the kitchen and returned a few minutes later and invited me to tea. So there I was hanging out in the kitchen with three maintenance guys drinking tea and eating stale and a bit frozen ( the kitchen fridge tends to do that) pound cake. Fitting in!
The last little cultural tip to fitting in is the dance. Now I love to dance. I've never been any good at it, but it's just something I like to do and the Indian dances are great fun. One day before the Christmas break, we decided to have a little party of our own, just the teachers and the kids here at the Center. This is where the stale pound cake came from. The CD player was dragged out onto the veranda and turned up full blast and the dancing began. We were all dancing and having a great time of it. I had to go into the computer room for something and there was Rogabir, all alone and dancing. and smiling. Fitting in!
Being a missionary is a lot more than arriving in a country with a bag of band aids, some kind words, and a big smile. It's also allowing the people who live in the place the time to warm up to you and to trust you in their own way and in their own time.
You never know exactly what will make a difference but you do know when it happes just from the response.
It's quite a cool feeling, this "fitting in."
Most of the people at the school and the Center have been very warm and welcoming, hospitable and supportive, but there was one maintenance person working at the center, a young man, who clearly was not happy with my presence at the school for the children from the slums. He never spoke to me, in fact I wondered if he could even talk, and he wore a frown in my presence. I started feeling a bit nervous whenever he and I were at the Center at the same time which was every day, so I started avoiding him as best I could.
Then two things happened at about the same time. One was the garden project which he became very interested in and kept close tabs on as the space was cleared, the soil cultivated, and the seeds planted. The other was the painting project. I had decided to paint the ABCs on one wall of each classroom with pictures, like I did in Jordan (my world project?) He also became very interested in this.
When I was drawing the letters on the wall, he was still glaring and growling, but when I began to paint, he started coming into the classroom to watch. Then when I began the picture part of the project, he really took notice. He would come in and sit at one of the desks and watch. After several pictures were on the wall, he gave me the Indian head wag of approval and the Indian OK sign. He even managed a smile.
Slowly, as his trust in me grew and vice-versa, I found myself teasing with him a bit. Now when he sees me coming, he knows exactly which rooms to open, and if he needs to leave before I am finished, he leaves the keys with me with strict instructions about which rooms to lock and where to leave the keys. His name is Ragabir and he has become a favorite of mine, and I think he likes me a little as well. Fitting in!
Missionary aka celebrity. I didn't know that was part of the job description, but lately I have been honored by different groups, being invited to be the Chief Guest at this function or that. this means I get to sit in the best seat and hand out prizes or gifts. sometimes it means saying a "few words." The Indians are quite good at this kind of surprise. "And now, Ms. Lynn, would you say a few words to the group. This is not what I do best, but I started trying to be a bit prepared for such occasions. So at our Christmas program after all the teachers were introduced and on the stage, the bishop hands me the mike and asks me to say a few words. This was an audience of parents from the villages and a few other guests from St. Michael's and St. Peter's. The lights were very bright and I couldn't see any of their faces. I did not like that at all, but the show must go on, right? I began by greeting them with Nomashkar, which they loved, and then I asked them how they were in Bengali, lots of clapping and cheering for that effort. I have to tell you this was kind of an inside joke as the children quiz me continually every day on these two phrases: kaemon achen and palo achi, How are you and I am fine. After that it didn't really matter what I said and after the program, the parents were eager to meet me and shake my hand. Fitting in!
At another program where I was an important guest and got to say a few words, I was able to use the Muslim greeting Asalamualikum. The parents and the children who were mostly Muslim returned the greeting with wa alikum asalam amidst cheers, laughter and clapping. I spent a lot of that day greeting different parents as the children dragged me from one family to another. Fitting in!
One afternoon I was painting, as usual, and one of the guys came into the room with an old pound cake still in its package and asked me if I wanted it. I told him no that he could have it if he wanted it. He went back to the kitchen and returned a few minutes later and invited me to tea. So there I was hanging out in the kitchen with three maintenance guys drinking tea and eating stale and a bit frozen ( the kitchen fridge tends to do that) pound cake. Fitting in!
The last little cultural tip to fitting in is the dance. Now I love to dance. I've never been any good at it, but it's just something I like to do and the Indian dances are great fun. One day before the Christmas break, we decided to have a little party of our own, just the teachers and the kids here at the Center. This is where the stale pound cake came from. The CD player was dragged out onto the veranda and turned up full blast and the dancing began. We were all dancing and having a great time of it. I had to go into the computer room for something and there was Rogabir, all alone and dancing. and smiling. Fitting in!
Being a missionary is a lot more than arriving in a country with a bag of band aids, some kind words, and a big smile. It's also allowing the people who live in the place the time to warm up to you and to trust you in their own way and in their own time.
You never know exactly what will make a difference but you do know when it happes just from the response.
It's quite a cool feeling, this "fitting in."
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
more stories
The Post Office
Ah yes, the post office. That wonderful bureaucratic establishment that is supposed to help us stay connected to our loved ones and friends. Let me tell you about our little post office here in Bidhannager. It is a branch office, so it is small although doesn't seem to be understaffed.
The first time I went to the PO, which is within easy walking distance of my flat, I merely wanted to mail some thank-you notes. That posed only a small problem, particularly with the cost of the stamps. The stamp man sold me the stamps, I applied them to the notes and dropped them in the box outside the office. A couple of days later, a staff person from the Center brings me one of the notes and tells me there isn't enough postage on it. Another trip to the PO fixed that problem, and I hope you received your note.
The next time I visited the PO, I wanted to mail a package. UH OH, a package! That's a little more complicated. First, I had to go behind the wire cage where the business of posting takes place. I sat awhile, and then the man who had sold me the stamps on the previous visit, tried to tell me the package wasn't ready to be mailed. There was a loose piece of tape dangling from one end, but I intended to buy packaging tape and fix that. That wasn't the problem. "No tape." he tells me. I must tell you that I had already asked at the Center about mailing a parcel and knew something had to be done, but no one seemed able to tell me exactly what. After a time, the PO man took me to the bank, yes the bank, and he handed my parcel to a man there who looked at it wonderingly. Finally he weighed it and told me the cost. I paid him, and then we went back to the regular PO. I kept fretting about the loose tape, so the man took some glue and glued the loose end down. "This package isn't going anywhere," I'm thinking. The man dropped the parcel in a bin and assured me in so much body language that it was okay. So I left. Actually, the parcel arrived and in time for the birthdays it was meant for.
Now I have Christmas parcels to mail. I know I must do something, but I still don't know what.
I ask my friend, Ms. K. what time the PO closes since everything closes at 2:00, but I'm hoping the PO is different. She only answers by giving me numbers: 2, 4 hours, 6 hours. I have no idea what she's talking about. I decide to take a chance since this is Friday and time is swiftly fleeing.
I load up the packages on the back of my bike and set off walking my bike to the PO. I get there just a little after two and notice that it is open. Oh good! I unload the boxes and walk into the PO not even stopping at the window but go right around to the business area and plop my parcels onto the desk. My "friend" is there and another postal worker who looks at me and my parcels in a funny way. "I want to mail these parcels." "You can't," he says. "Why not?" I ask. "Because they are not wrapped properly." "How should they be wrapped?" "In cloth." I sort of knew this.
"Where do I get the cloth?" No answer. I volunteer some shops, but still no answer. Finally he says the bedding shop. Then he says, "You must have someone make the bag, and you must buy the seal." I notice from a package sitting nearby, properly wrapped, that there is some brown gunky stuff stuck here and there on the parcel. "Where do I get that and what do I ask for?" No help. Am I getting a little frustrated at this point? You'd better believe it. Then he says, even if I had the parcels wrapped, I couldn't mail them because we are closed. I said, "Your doors open." "We're open for internal business only. Come back tomorrow between 10 and 2 and you can mail your packages."
I lug the packages back out to my bike, load them up and walk home. I carry the things up three flights of stairs and shove them into my house and head to the Center.
I vent my frustration on the bishop who chuckles a bit and says, "Lynn, let us mail your parcels for you. Do not use the PO here. We will take them to Calcutta where everything you need is at the PO. A man sits outside the PO with the cloth, sews the bags, seals the bags, and addresses them. Then we take the parcels into the PO and they are mailed." I ventured to tell him I had tried once before to get them to mail a package, but wasn't heard, probably just as well.
So on Monday my packages went to Calcutta. They won't arrive on time, but maybe in time for my family to get them when they congregate after Christmas Day.
The Gardening Project
Our beans came in but in small numbers, so I had to figure out how to distribut them to the children. There was no way really unless each family got one bean, so I decided to do Stone Soup thing in the village closest to the Center.
First I went to the market to get some chicken bones which is what the villagers use to jazz up their rice and dal. I asked the shopkeeper for some bones, and he said "Prawns, yes prawns" and whips out a small package of frozen shrimp. I point to my bones and say "Not prawns, bones." I hold up my skin, and say "skin." "Oh, skinless," and he goes to the freezer to get a package of skinless chicken. I give up and say "wings." Okay, now he know and he gets me a package of wings.
Off I go to the village with the wings and a little bag of beans. This is my first time to go the village by myself and I'm excited about it. When I arrive, the children run out and greet me. I tell them what I want to do. First we need a big pot, a dekshee. Someone runs to get a pot which is actually a water jug. Now we need a place to work. I keep trying to set things on an outdoor platform with cooking utensils on it. "No miss, no, not there." "Where, then?" "Here, here."
There is a larger platform nearby so I set the chicken on it and the beans and the pot. "Now we need a potato. Does anyone have a potato?" Eyes light up and one child says, "I do." He runs to get the potato. We end up with two potatoes, two onions, some rice and some dal. The kids get busy and wash the chicken, peel the potatoes, snap and string the beans, and chop the onion.
"MMMm, where will we cook this soup?" A moment of silence comes and then a little boy says, "Come to my house." We head for his house. I must tell you that we have a gathering of other children and the parents who have not found work this day, all watching and giggling. The door is very low and I have to duck to go inside. Inside it is dark, but the stove is there on the ground. Are you thinking gas? It's more like an outdoor camp stove except there is no wire rack to set the pot on. The kids build the fire and smoke is pouring out of the house, and their eyes are watering, but we are having fun. We cook the chicken, then veggies, then the rice and dal. I have to leave, but did sample a bit of the rice, pretty good.
In the afternoon, the children come running to the Center telling me that the soup was very good.
I hope before too long, we'll have more beans and another pot of stone soup at the other villages.
Pics of this event will follow later. The bishop wants his computer.
Shanti
Lynn
Ah yes, the post office. That wonderful bureaucratic establishment that is supposed to help us stay connected to our loved ones and friends. Let me tell you about our little post office here in Bidhannager. It is a branch office, so it is small although doesn't seem to be understaffed.
The first time I went to the PO, which is within easy walking distance of my flat, I merely wanted to mail some thank-you notes. That posed only a small problem, particularly with the cost of the stamps. The stamp man sold me the stamps, I applied them to the notes and dropped them in the box outside the office. A couple of days later, a staff person from the Center brings me one of the notes and tells me there isn't enough postage on it. Another trip to the PO fixed that problem, and I hope you received your note.
The next time I visited the PO, I wanted to mail a package. UH OH, a package! That's a little more complicated. First, I had to go behind the wire cage where the business of posting takes place. I sat awhile, and then the man who had sold me the stamps on the previous visit, tried to tell me the package wasn't ready to be mailed. There was a loose piece of tape dangling from one end, but I intended to buy packaging tape and fix that. That wasn't the problem. "No tape." he tells me. I must tell you that I had already asked at the Center about mailing a parcel and knew something had to be done, but no one seemed able to tell me exactly what. After a time, the PO man took me to the bank, yes the bank, and he handed my parcel to a man there who looked at it wonderingly. Finally he weighed it and told me the cost. I paid him, and then we went back to the regular PO. I kept fretting about the loose tape, so the man took some glue and glued the loose end down. "This package isn't going anywhere," I'm thinking. The man dropped the parcel in a bin and assured me in so much body language that it was okay. So I left. Actually, the parcel arrived and in time for the birthdays it was meant for.
Now I have Christmas parcels to mail. I know I must do something, but I still don't know what.
I ask my friend, Ms. K. what time the PO closes since everything closes at 2:00, but I'm hoping the PO is different. She only answers by giving me numbers: 2, 4 hours, 6 hours. I have no idea what she's talking about. I decide to take a chance since this is Friday and time is swiftly fleeing.
I load up the packages on the back of my bike and set off walking my bike to the PO. I get there just a little after two and notice that it is open. Oh good! I unload the boxes and walk into the PO not even stopping at the window but go right around to the business area and plop my parcels onto the desk. My "friend" is there and another postal worker who looks at me and my parcels in a funny way. "I want to mail these parcels." "You can't," he says. "Why not?" I ask. "Because they are not wrapped properly." "How should they be wrapped?" "In cloth." I sort of knew this.
"Where do I get the cloth?" No answer. I volunteer some shops, but still no answer. Finally he says the bedding shop. Then he says, "You must have someone make the bag, and you must buy the seal." I notice from a package sitting nearby, properly wrapped, that there is some brown gunky stuff stuck here and there on the parcel. "Where do I get that and what do I ask for?" No help. Am I getting a little frustrated at this point? You'd better believe it. Then he says, even if I had the parcels wrapped, I couldn't mail them because we are closed. I said, "Your doors open." "We're open for internal business only. Come back tomorrow between 10 and 2 and you can mail your packages."
I lug the packages back out to my bike, load them up and walk home. I carry the things up three flights of stairs and shove them into my house and head to the Center.
I vent my frustration on the bishop who chuckles a bit and says, "Lynn, let us mail your parcels for you. Do not use the PO here. We will take them to Calcutta where everything you need is at the PO. A man sits outside the PO with the cloth, sews the bags, seals the bags, and addresses them. Then we take the parcels into the PO and they are mailed." I ventured to tell him I had tried once before to get them to mail a package, but wasn't heard, probably just as well.
So on Monday my packages went to Calcutta. They won't arrive on time, but maybe in time for my family to get them when they congregate after Christmas Day.
The Gardening Project
Our beans came in but in small numbers, so I had to figure out how to distribut them to the children. There was no way really unless each family got one bean, so I decided to do Stone Soup thing in the village closest to the Center.
First I went to the market to get some chicken bones which is what the villagers use to jazz up their rice and dal. I asked the shopkeeper for some bones, and he said "Prawns, yes prawns" and whips out a small package of frozen shrimp. I point to my bones and say "Not prawns, bones." I hold up my skin, and say "skin." "Oh, skinless," and he goes to the freezer to get a package of skinless chicken. I give up and say "wings." Okay, now he know and he gets me a package of wings.
Off I go to the village with the wings and a little bag of beans. This is my first time to go the village by myself and I'm excited about it. When I arrive, the children run out and greet me. I tell them what I want to do. First we need a big pot, a dekshee. Someone runs to get a pot which is actually a water jug. Now we need a place to work. I keep trying to set things on an outdoor platform with cooking utensils on it. "No miss, no, not there." "Where, then?" "Here, here."
There is a larger platform nearby so I set the chicken on it and the beans and the pot. "Now we need a potato. Does anyone have a potato?" Eyes light up and one child says, "I do." He runs to get the potato. We end up with two potatoes, two onions, some rice and some dal. The kids get busy and wash the chicken, peel the potatoes, snap and string the beans, and chop the onion.
"MMMm, where will we cook this soup?" A moment of silence comes and then a little boy says, "Come to my house." We head for his house. I must tell you that we have a gathering of other children and the parents who have not found work this day, all watching and giggling. The door is very low and I have to duck to go inside. Inside it is dark, but the stove is there on the ground. Are you thinking gas? It's more like an outdoor camp stove except there is no wire rack to set the pot on. The kids build the fire and smoke is pouring out of the house, and their eyes are watering, but we are having fun. We cook the chicken, then veggies, then the rice and dal. I have to leave, but did sample a bit of the rice, pretty good.
In the afternoon, the children come running to the Center telling me that the soup was very good.
I hope before too long, we'll have more beans and another pot of stone soup at the other villages.
Pics of this event will follow later. The bishop wants his computer.
Shanti
Lynn
Monday, December 10, 2007
just stories
Well, it's Christmas here in Durgapur; I don't know what happened to Advent. I want to share a few stories with you, some Christmassy, some not.
Story 1
Awhile back, one of our kids was missing a lot of school. We learned that he was sick, so I suggested to Ms.Kobiraj (my friend that we go to the village and visit him. She was a bit reluctant, said it was getting dark. I thought that strange since this woman treks about at night all the time and without a torch. She agreed and we started out after school which was about 6:00 PM. We were on the shoulder of the highway and very close to the village entrance when I noticed in the distance an elephant. AN ELEPHANT! I trotted on ahead in a modified jog leaving Ms K. in the dust in the hopes of getting close enough to snap a few photos. Seeing an elephant ambling down the highway was exciting for the villages as well, and they had congregated along the shoulder, laughing, squealing and pointing. The handlers of the elephant saw me and turned the big guy around. "Mmmm, a chance to make some money here." They let me take photos, of course with them in the picture, and then they wanted some rupees, lots of rupees. "Where is Ms. K.", I'm wondering. She soon joins the crowd of giggling children and adults and when she learns what is happening, she lights into the handlers telling them if I gave them money for their idol, the elephant, for this was at the tail end of a Hindu Puja and the elephant is revered greatly during this time, I would be in big trouble with my God. That seemed to work, and we turned into the village to complete our mission. The elephant turned in as well, and at first I thought they were going to try once more to squeeze some money out of me. Fortunately, they were just looking for a place to stay the night.
Story 2
O Little Town of Durgapur
On Saturday, the children had their Christmas Program here at the center. For s couple of weeks, we have been getting ready for this program. The dancers have been dancing, the dramatists have been rehearsing, and I have been making angels with some of the kids and angel wings. It's been very busy.
Finally the big day arrives and I'm curious as to how all this will work out. The children arrive at the center about 3:00 in the afternoon and we start getting them ready. The angels are dressed, their star headbands are in place and their wings are attached. The kings are robed in sarees (sarees make great kings' robes), the shepherds are dressed, and the dancers are in their dancing skirts. This looks pretty good, I'm thinking.
Christians here in India know all about the Hindu Festivals and Hindus know all about Jesus, Mary, Joseph, Gabriel and the rest of the cast. These kids are Hindu. I'm thinking how authentic these characters look with their dark skin and brightly colored costumes.
It's time for the pageant to start. It's all done in Bengali. There is a narrator and the cast acts out the script. These kids are great. Gabriel announces, the angels dance, Mary and Joseph take their place on the stage, the shepherds come, the kings come and before long, all are rejoicing at the news of the birth of Jesus. All but Mary and Joseph break out and dance. It is quite an amazing scene. In my memory, I don't remember a Nativity Story quite like this one. I must tell you about our Jesus. Our Jesus was a teenage doll with blond hair in a purple evening dress with a purple veil. Can you beat that? Fortunately, no one got to see her as she was nestled in some straw in a pretty ratty manger/box.
We also had a Santa Claus, who remains a mystery to me. He was great, very funny, and delighted the children with his antics. He was a dancing Santa. Indians love to dance, as you may have gathered.
The children are arriving, and I'm not finished, but will post these two stories anyway.
Peace to you this Christmas season and peace to the people in the Middle East where Bethlehem is walled in and not such a joyous place to be. I am putting a piece of barbed wire around my little Creche to remind me of the suffering of the people in that holy place.
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