Well, I am back in Blowing Rock and trying to adjust to this culture, although I don't plan to get too comfortable. I will be heading back to Durgapur in January for another 6 months.
Knowing that I would be going back made leaving a little bit easier.
I am already missing the children, the projects the diocese is involved in,my teacher friends, and the folks at St. Michael's Church.
When I go back, I don't think I will keep a journal in the blog format. I realize that responding to a blog requires a registration which most of you did not want to do. I understand that completely. With that in mind, I think I will write articles for the Highland Episcopalian for those of you in the Diocese of WNC and The Franciscan Times for those of you in TSSF. For those of you who want to hear from me via e-mail, I will need to hear from you and will put you on a new e-mail list.
If I don't hear from you, I will assume you don't want to be on my list and I will drop you.
I will be changing my e-mail address before I return to India to get rid of the hundreds of spam messages about viagra of all things. Never respond to any message that says Congratulations, you have won a laptop!
I really appreciate those of you who took the time to respond to the blog either on the site itself or through e-mail. Your comments and your own news helped me stay connected. Thanks!
Nomashkar,
Lynn
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
The Conductor and My Dog
"Chalo, Go!" the young man shouts banging his hand against the side of the bus. The bus moves away from the stop, and the conductor pulls himself into the bus closing the door behind him. In between stops, he skinnies his way through the sardine packed bus flipping through the wad of rupees with his thumb like a deck of cards letting you know he wants the fare. He puts most of the money in a leather bag he wears over his shoulder and should you need change, you will get it. He always knows who and how much.
Soon he's back at his post announcing the next stop. Some folks are trying to get off at the stop, pretty challenging since everyone's body has become entangled with someone else's, and to create as much havoc as possible, folks are scrambling to get on the bus. The conductor is a master at mob control and soon, believe it or not, people who want off, are off and people who want on, are on. If the stop is an actual stop which lasts a minute or two, the conductor is off the bus hawking the destination, "Durgapur, Durgapur!" so fast that to a foreigner's ears it's indistinguishable.
The conductor can pack a bus. He has his orders to transport a certain number of people during the day, and if he wants to keep his job, he will meet the demand, forgetting all safety precautions. So with people back to back and belly to belly and who knows what else, the conductor urges more people on. "Chalo, Go!" BANG! and we're off.
Standing on the bottom step leaning out into the traffic with his body against the open door of the bus, the conductor shouts directions to drivers of other vehicles, not just cars, but cycles and rickshaws, and using his free hand tells drivers to move over or to come on by.
The driver of the bus is totally dependent on the the conductor. For one thing, he cannot see who's getting on or off. He's in a spot pretty much by himself, separated from the rest of us by a metal divider which is right behind his back. He cannot be watching for passengers and he certainly isn't taking the fare or even directing the traffic, so the conductor's position is prime.
Since the buses are on a schedule, they waste no time at stops, especially in Calcutta. The conductor wants you off quickly and on quickly. He does help the elderly (not me) and mothers with young children lifting the children onto the bus or off the bus, but the rest of us have to have a bit of leapping ability to get a foot on the bottom step, and this step is way up off the ground, and grab the railing as the bus is already moving out.
When I am able to actually see this guy in action, that is when I am not flattened against the throng of people standing on the bus, I love watching him go through his routine.
Agile, athletic, and alert, the conductor keeps India on the go.
My Dog
I've already introduced you to My Dog, but now I want to tell you more about her.
She's still on the skinny side, but not like she was in the beginning when I first met her.
She still doesn't have much hair, and she is still scratching but less feverishly. There are not as many open, raw patches on her as before.
In spite of all this, she's got a spirit about her that's endearing, not a lot unlike the people who live in the slums. They are survivors, at least for the moment, and they are spirited ones.
I think My Dog is clever, smart, and loyal. She can also be stubborn or maybe it's just a language barrier.
To illustrate: One evening I was riding my bike back to my flat from the Center when My Dog decided to follow me. I shooed her back and thought I had succeeded, but when I came to the intersection I have to cross, there was quite a lot of traffic, all kinds of wheeled things with no lights, so I had to stop and wait. When I stopped, My Dog pulled up beside me, sat down and waited with me. What to do? I'm too tired to turn around and take her back, and besides, it is dark. I do nothing. When the road is clear, I take off on my bike with My Dog running along beside me, but not too close so I don't have to worry about hitting her.
As we approach my block, the dogs who hang out at the chemist shop spotted her and came charging after her barking and snarling as they are prone to do. I didn't stop, but I did slow down to listen for the usual yelping and squealing that accompanies a dog attack. There was none. Okay good. Now maybe she's learned a lesson and will not try to follow me again.
The next day I couldn't find My Dog. I asked everyone if they had seen her and no one had. I began to feel very guilty about not returning her to the Center or checking to make sure she had escaped the ferociously territorial dogs in my block.
I started cruising up and down the lanes in between my flat and the Center looking for her body, but I found nothing.
Then on the third day, there she was in her usual spot. "Where have you been?" I asked. A young seminarian doing a short internship at the Center told me he had spotted her on the roof, which is where a lot of the dogs like to sleep.
Soon she started trying to follow me again, and I asked the guard to please keep her behind the gate and not let her out. This lasted only a short time, however, and one evening she managed to slip past the guard and took up her post alongside my bike.
When we got to the chemist canines, nothing happened. I rode right past them and My Dog stayed right with me. We got to my gate and My Dog wanted in, of course. While I was wrestling my bike through the gate, she slipped in. Oh well. My landlord was out doing his nightly laps so there was no way to sneak her in. I parked my bike and began the task of coaxing her back out the gate. The landlord helped a bit knowing Bengali dog talk. On the other side of the gate, she lingered awhile and then left.
This became a routine, and I must admit it was kind of fun having My Dog trotting along beside me, especially one night when it was very late.
Another evening, Mrs. K. and I were walking together toward our homes and My Dog was along as well. When we reached the chemist, two of the canines came tearing across the street in their usual obnoxious, teeth baring way. Mrs. K. and I stopped to see what would happen. Well, My Dog held her ground. She hissed a couple of words at them, her nose twitching and her mouth moving up and down, and those two fat and sassy dogs slinked back across the street without another word.
Mrs. K. and I looked at each other in wonder. When My Dog joined us, we asked her, "What in the world did you say to them?" I'd like to have those words tucked away for emergencies. We got to my flat, and Mrs. K. went on her way and My Dog slipped in through the gate as usual. I got her out, closed the latch, and proceeded to the doors which provide me access to the stairs. I hoisted my bike up the steps to the landing and headed up to my flat. About half way up, I heard something behind me. When I turned to see who or what it was, yes, you guessed it, My Dog! Someone must have come in or left and My Dog seized the opportunity. She knew exactly where the doors were and she boldly came through them and began the climb up. What now? I had my arms full as usual so I went on up to my flat. My Dog followed me in like she owned the place, took a self-guided tour and sat down in my dining area. She wasn't loud, no barking or running. For one brief moment, I was tempted to keep her overnight. Bad idea since we get locked in for the night and there would be no way to get her out should the need arise. Besides, I like my landlord and wouldn't want him to think Americans were a sneaky lot. "Okay, My Dog, let's go." Back down the stairs we went. My landlord, again lapping, just laughed when he saw her.
One morning as I was leaving to go to the Center, My Dog came bounding out of the bushes next door. Together we went to school.
Now that I am spending more time at the Center since I am shifting my stuff here for the last month and a half of my stay, My Dog is a constant companion. If I am painting in a classroom, she is there. If I am working at the computer, she is there. I have even let her in my little one room flat here at the Center. One day when I let her in and then wanted her out, she wouldn't go. Round and round we went My Dog dodging me every which way. Finally I got one of the men to help me. "Heh, Heh" he said, and My Dog got up and left. I've been working on my "Heh, hehs" and sometimes My Dog understands.
It is certain My Dog will never win any beauty pageants, but it is also certain that she's won my heart.
Soon he's back at his post announcing the next stop. Some folks are trying to get off at the stop, pretty challenging since everyone's body has become entangled with someone else's, and to create as much havoc as possible, folks are scrambling to get on the bus. The conductor is a master at mob control and soon, believe it or not, people who want off, are off and people who want on, are on. If the stop is an actual stop which lasts a minute or two, the conductor is off the bus hawking the destination, "Durgapur, Durgapur!" so fast that to a foreigner's ears it's indistinguishable.
The conductor can pack a bus. He has his orders to transport a certain number of people during the day, and if he wants to keep his job, he will meet the demand, forgetting all safety precautions. So with people back to back and belly to belly and who knows what else, the conductor urges more people on. "Chalo, Go!" BANG! and we're off.
Standing on the bottom step leaning out into the traffic with his body against the open door of the bus, the conductor shouts directions to drivers of other vehicles, not just cars, but cycles and rickshaws, and using his free hand tells drivers to move over or to come on by.
The driver of the bus is totally dependent on the the conductor. For one thing, he cannot see who's getting on or off. He's in a spot pretty much by himself, separated from the rest of us by a metal divider which is right behind his back. He cannot be watching for passengers and he certainly isn't taking the fare or even directing the traffic, so the conductor's position is prime.
Since the buses are on a schedule, they waste no time at stops, especially in Calcutta. The conductor wants you off quickly and on quickly. He does help the elderly (not me) and mothers with young children lifting the children onto the bus or off the bus, but the rest of us have to have a bit of leapping ability to get a foot on the bottom step, and this step is way up off the ground, and grab the railing as the bus is already moving out.
When I am able to actually see this guy in action, that is when I am not flattened against the throng of people standing on the bus, I love watching him go through his routine.
Agile, athletic, and alert, the conductor keeps India on the go.
My Dog
I've already introduced you to My Dog, but now I want to tell you more about her.
She's still on the skinny side, but not like she was in the beginning when I first met her.
She still doesn't have much hair, and she is still scratching but less feverishly. There are not as many open, raw patches on her as before.
In spite of all this, she's got a spirit about her that's endearing, not a lot unlike the people who live in the slums. They are survivors, at least for the moment, and they are spirited ones.
I think My Dog is clever, smart, and loyal. She can also be stubborn or maybe it's just a language barrier.
To illustrate: One evening I was riding my bike back to my flat from the Center when My Dog decided to follow me. I shooed her back and thought I had succeeded, but when I came to the intersection I have to cross, there was quite a lot of traffic, all kinds of wheeled things with no lights, so I had to stop and wait. When I stopped, My Dog pulled up beside me, sat down and waited with me. What to do? I'm too tired to turn around and take her back, and besides, it is dark. I do nothing. When the road is clear, I take off on my bike with My Dog running along beside me, but not too close so I don't have to worry about hitting her.
As we approach my block, the dogs who hang out at the chemist shop spotted her and came charging after her barking and snarling as they are prone to do. I didn't stop, but I did slow down to listen for the usual yelping and squealing that accompanies a dog attack. There was none. Okay good. Now maybe she's learned a lesson and will not try to follow me again.
The next day I couldn't find My Dog. I asked everyone if they had seen her and no one had. I began to feel very guilty about not returning her to the Center or checking to make sure she had escaped the ferociously territorial dogs in my block.
I started cruising up and down the lanes in between my flat and the Center looking for her body, but I found nothing.
Then on the third day, there she was in her usual spot. "Where have you been?" I asked. A young seminarian doing a short internship at the Center told me he had spotted her on the roof, which is where a lot of the dogs like to sleep.
Soon she started trying to follow me again, and I asked the guard to please keep her behind the gate and not let her out. This lasted only a short time, however, and one evening she managed to slip past the guard and took up her post alongside my bike.
When we got to the chemist canines, nothing happened. I rode right past them and My Dog stayed right with me. We got to my gate and My Dog wanted in, of course. While I was wrestling my bike through the gate, she slipped in. Oh well. My landlord was out doing his nightly laps so there was no way to sneak her in. I parked my bike and began the task of coaxing her back out the gate. The landlord helped a bit knowing Bengali dog talk. On the other side of the gate, she lingered awhile and then left.
This became a routine, and I must admit it was kind of fun having My Dog trotting along beside me, especially one night when it was very late.
Another evening, Mrs. K. and I were walking together toward our homes and My Dog was along as well. When we reached the chemist, two of the canines came tearing across the street in their usual obnoxious, teeth baring way. Mrs. K. and I stopped to see what would happen. Well, My Dog held her ground. She hissed a couple of words at them, her nose twitching and her mouth moving up and down, and those two fat and sassy dogs slinked back across the street without another word.
Mrs. K. and I looked at each other in wonder. When My Dog joined us, we asked her, "What in the world did you say to them?" I'd like to have those words tucked away for emergencies. We got to my flat, and Mrs. K. went on her way and My Dog slipped in through the gate as usual. I got her out, closed the latch, and proceeded to the doors which provide me access to the stairs. I hoisted my bike up the steps to the landing and headed up to my flat. About half way up, I heard something behind me. When I turned to see who or what it was, yes, you guessed it, My Dog! Someone must have come in or left and My Dog seized the opportunity. She knew exactly where the doors were and she boldly came through them and began the climb up. What now? I had my arms full as usual so I went on up to my flat. My Dog followed me in like she owned the place, took a self-guided tour and sat down in my dining area. She wasn't loud, no barking or running. For one brief moment, I was tempted to keep her overnight. Bad idea since we get locked in for the night and there would be no way to get her out should the need arise. Besides, I like my landlord and wouldn't want him to think Americans were a sneaky lot. "Okay, My Dog, let's go." Back down the stairs we went. My landlord, again lapping, just laughed when he saw her.
One morning as I was leaving to go to the Center, My Dog came bounding out of the bushes next door. Together we went to school.
Now that I am spending more time at the Center since I am shifting my stuff here for the last month and a half of my stay, My Dog is a constant companion. If I am painting in a classroom, she is there. If I am working at the computer, she is there. I have even let her in my little one room flat here at the Center. One day when I let her in and then wanted her out, she wouldn't go. Round and round we went My Dog dodging me every which way. Finally I got one of the men to help me. "Heh, Heh" he said, and My Dog got up and left. I've been working on my "Heh, hehs" and sometimes My Dog understands.
It is certain My Dog will never win any beauty pageants, but it is also certain that she's won my heart.
Thursday, May 22, 2008
Summer Camp 2008
Summer Camp 2008 is over, and guess what? I survived!
On Friday evening, May 16th, about 170 children, ages 4-17, from all four project descended on St. Michael's School, the venue for the camp.
The came running, jumping, squealing, and laughing ready to celebrate being out of their villages for a couple of days.
The introduction session began simply enough with Presbyter Amiya Das leading the singing. Now Amiya knows how to work a crowd, especially a young one, so it wasn't long before all the kids and lots of us older folks were in full swing singing who knows what in Bengali and Hindi complete with motions.
Then a ferocious storm blew in, unusual for May, giving Day 1 a new twist. There was heavy rain, high winds, thunder and lightning; trees were toppled and blocked the road in front of the school, lines were downed, knocking out the power, and the water pipe was broken.
Like most big things around India, St. Michael's has a generator, so we weren't in the dark for too long, although the rain did cool things off a bit.
Everywhere else, however, was dark, very dark.
The lack of water proved to be a real problem for those folks staying at the school and those responsible for feeding the masses. The next day a water tank was brought in so at least there was water for drinking and cooking. Day 2 found us still hampered with no electricity and no water, but by noon, things were returning to normal. Thank goodness!
Camp included Bible study, singing and dancing, crafts, and a smallish (smaller groups but still big numbers) group discussion, also Bible centered. I had some problems with this as Muslim and Hindu children made up the majority of those attending the camp, and it made the camp seem more like Vacation Bible School than Summer Camp. I have some ideas for next year regarding camp activities. Surprised?
We also held a special "Body Talk" session for the adolescent girls. Girls, and women too, do not know how their bodies work or why things happen when they happen.
They don't know how to manage the menstrual cycle; they stay home and stay hidden which means they are not attending school, thus falling behind.
I can't believe I'm sharing this with you since I practically had to cover my face with my scarf when I was asking the Indian gentleman working with UNICEF, via e-mail, for the booklet on Menstrual Hygiene Management. But like I told the girls, it's a natural, necessary, and normal bodily function. After all, where would we be without it?
This was a tricky session because this subject is culturally taboo, but having the booklet, which was put together by adolescent girls and young women from rural villages in India, made it easier to broach the subject.
We were in the middle of showing the girls how to make a sanitary napkin using old saris and washcloths when another storm blew in bringing lots of hail. Well, forget the SN; let's watch the hail bounce around on the ground and even into our room.
We forged ahead talking about cleanliness, aches and pains, moods, and nutrition during this "time of the month."
The girls had no idea why this thing was happening to them. Rita, the bishop's wife is a nurse and now teaches biology, so she told the girls about the male flower and the female flower. whatever works, right?
The girls went back to their leader with high praise for the session.
My hope is to gather these girls together once a month at Shanti Griha to have more "learning conversations." The learning conversations model comes from Freedom From Hunger which works in the poorest Indian states, West Bengal being one of them.
Camp ended on Sunday evening. The maracas, rock bugs, jewelry and rainbow fish were all on display in front of the stage, the parents from the Durgapur project were all in attendance, and the teachers were cleaned up and decked out in nice saris, except for me who still had on camp clothes complete with paint and glue stains. As usual, I had to "say a few words."
The Cultural Program is always the highlight of any event in India. It gives the kids a chance to strut their stuff and they do this very well. I love watching these kids perform.
Then it was time to leave. There were hugs and there were tears, lots of tears as new friends and old said their good-byes.
Summer Camp-a great idea and a wonderful opportunity to plant new seeds, nurture young plants and tender seedlings.
I'm already planning for Summer Camp, 09.
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
miracles
Do you believe in miracles?
If you know anything about the Gospels, youknow they are full of the miracles of Jesus; the blind seeing, the lame walking, demons disappearing into swine, but the miracle I get to witness here in India is the wedding feast in Cana, changing water into wine.
You're probably thinking, what's a missionary doing going to so many weddings and drinking so much wine? Not to worry, only tea and coffee are served at the weddings I attend.
Changing water into wine, fine wine-
Today, I was visiting my friend, Jhorna and her little girl, whom the sisters at MT's Ashram have named Dibya, which means coming from the light, when I became fully aware of what was happening in this place. Actually, I was cycling back from the ashram when it hit me.
Usually, I am the one spoon-feeding juice to Jhorna, but today, one of the older children, maybe 10, took over that task. Gently she put the spoon to Jhorna's lips and said, "open." No shouting, no slapping.
It's getting easier to get Dibya to smile, giggle, and really laugh. She's now strong enough to stand up and holding onto your hands, she's taking steps. And today, Jhorna smiled! Oh my, I cannot describe the rush of emotions that swept over me. Water into wine, fine wine.
The children at the center have been working on lots of crafts to display in an exhibition to be held, I hope, before I leave in August.
Watching them engaged in this creative experience is an experience itself. We're sitting outside on the grass and they are painting the masks they've made from papier mache. Their creative juices are flowing, and these masks are wonderful, intricate details too small for a brush, so they are using broom straws.
Some of them are painting flower pots. Again, they disappear into their work. Every pot is different, every pot, beautiful. They are very quiet when they are doing this work. Occassionally, they will hold the pot up, inspect it and smile their approval.
Water into wine, fine wine.
A slum eviction crisis, a request, a generous response from our friends in Western North Carolina making the building of a hostel possible, so our children from this village can stay in Durgapur and continue their education.
Water into wine, fine wine.
And I get to be part of it.
Do you believe in miracles?
I do!-
If you know anything about the Gospels, youknow they are full of the miracles of Jesus; the blind seeing, the lame walking, demons disappearing into swine, but the miracle I get to witness here in India is the wedding feast in Cana, changing water into wine.
You're probably thinking, what's a missionary doing going to so many weddings and drinking so much wine? Not to worry, only tea and coffee are served at the weddings I attend.
Changing water into wine, fine wine-
Today, I was visiting my friend, Jhorna and her little girl, whom the sisters at MT's Ashram have named Dibya, which means coming from the light, when I became fully aware of what was happening in this place. Actually, I was cycling back from the ashram when it hit me.
Usually, I am the one spoon-feeding juice to Jhorna, but today, one of the older children, maybe 10, took over that task. Gently she put the spoon to Jhorna's lips and said, "open." No shouting, no slapping.
It's getting easier to get Dibya to smile, giggle, and really laugh. She's now strong enough to stand up and holding onto your hands, she's taking steps. And today, Jhorna smiled! Oh my, I cannot describe the rush of emotions that swept over me. Water into wine, fine wine.
The children at the center have been working on lots of crafts to display in an exhibition to be held, I hope, before I leave in August.
Watching them engaged in this creative experience is an experience itself. We're sitting outside on the grass and they are painting the masks they've made from papier mache. Their creative juices are flowing, and these masks are wonderful, intricate details too small for a brush, so they are using broom straws.
Some of them are painting flower pots. Again, they disappear into their work. Every pot is different, every pot, beautiful. They are very quiet when they are doing this work. Occassionally, they will hold the pot up, inspect it and smile their approval.
Water into wine, fine wine.
A slum eviction crisis, a request, a generous response from our friends in Western North Carolina making the building of a hostel possible, so our children from this village can stay in Durgapur and continue their education.
Water into wine, fine wine.
And I get to be part of it.
Do you believe in miracles?
I do!-
Saturday, April 26, 2008
On Being a Missionary
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.
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.
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.
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