Night Light

Tonight it's not just been a flicker--it's lasted for hours.  For the first hour or so I had an emergency lamp, but that died.  I pulled out my trusty candle in its improvised cardboard holder and lit it with matches that smelled like my birthday. As I pen my blog thoughts cross-legged on the couch bathed in the ambiance of candle glow, I am struck by the irony--I am resting my lit candle on my dead laptop.  How amazing!  When all our power fails we rely on the simplest and most beautiful of lights.

Here in Bangalore with its multiple frustrations and surprising colors it is nevertheless sometimes easy to forget I am in a still-developing country.  It is only when the utter darkness hits that I am reminded again of how tenuous a hold modernity has taken here.  Sans other stimuli, as my ears attune to the ever-present night sounds, the Hindu temple and Moslem mosque criers call the faithful to prayer on back-up generators.

Isn't that all there is, in the end?  There may be an absence of technology, power and efficiency for the time being, but my candle flame warms as a reminder of all that's beautiful, honest and true.  In the end, there is only faith; that simplicity of the soul facing God, palms upturned in expectation and surrender.

In the necessity of the present moment, I recall when all other lights are gone, I must know who to turn to; God becomes so much more apparent in darkness when there is no other light pollution to mar the view. 

I feel an urgency tonight to adjust my sights.  The scripture has strongly come to mind: 

The lamp of the body is the eye.  If therefore your eye is good your whole body will be full of light.  But if your eye is bad, your whole body will be full of darkness.  If therefore the light that is in you is darkness, how great is that darkness!  
Matthew 6:  22-23

I want to view God with my "good eye," unclouded with irrelevancies and distractions.  Our eye makes the choice.  When all is dark without, we had better gaze on God within, so our whole self becomes full of light.

I Must've Seen a Thousand Stars...

...so all my wishes will come true.

Tonight is Diwali night, as I sit perched on the terrace of the Goldfinch Hotel Bangalore.  Around me are fireworks shooting all through the night sky, punctuated bursts of warmth and vivacity.  It is chilly, but no matter...an aperitif will fix that for now...

One beautiful drink of mint, vodka tonic, brown sugar and lemon later, I am basking in the view with no self-consciousness at being single.  True, none of my friends could join, and my boyfriend is back in the U.S., but alone with God and my own sense of enjoyment is good.

The dinner is not a la carte--it is full-on kababs and buffet, so I prepare to be buffeted.  The attentive wait staff, as I, being the early American, am their first customer, remove a board in the middle of my table and set in a hot coal grill to warm my kebabs (that is literal, not figurative!)  On comes the meat, and hordes of it, which I have no objection to, having eaten like a rabbit during the preceding day's meals.  I eat shrimp, tandoori chicken, mutton, then the veg kabobs of grilled mushrooms, then mustard cauliflower and spicy potato patties, all dipped in a cooling green cilantro sauce.

An Indian trio joins the table behind me, and as they sit the wait staff begin piping in that nasally famous Indian female vocal music; this time, they are singing "Ring Around the Rosies" in nasal tones while the fireworks poof and the conversation burbles around me.  Suddenly...Whoof--BOOM!!--a firecracker explodes in a huge epiphany right over our heads!  My table is right by the terrace edge, so I instinctively recoil and back my chair up into the table of the trio behind me, smiling and exclaiming.  This is only the start--a whole barrage of flaming crackers burst at random intervals right over our heads, just feet from where we are sitting!--I keep scraping my chair back and back, till finally I have backed myself into a ficus tree, napkin in lap and fork in hand with the remains of my tandoori chicken still globuled to it.  It is awesome, in the truest sense of the word--you know those huge starburst firecrackers that cover the entire night sky?  Well, imagine that over, above and around you, praying that no stray pieces singe your hair or re-light your kababs!  The wait staff, who stand watching, gesture me to pull back to my table and eat my meat.  I give the universal head shake sign of "Ungh-ugh!" and am backed by the Indian lady next to me, who exclaims that it is not safe.  I ask to sit at a table further back so that the rest of my meal might be a little less sensational.

Following, a classic Frenchman in button down, slacks and curling grey hair enters, heralding his requests on behalf of his wife and young son, who cannot handle "spaisy food."  His wife and son enter inconsequentially, which he more than makes up for in pompous faux nonchalance.  With an all-encompassing gathering of his hands he manages to snare the attention of five wait staff, procure white wine and kabobs, while his child properly ooh's and aaah's at the fireworks (which have since retreated to a safe distance).

I begin to feel happily relaxed after my first drink and the satiety of meat, which I only eat a few times a week in the school cafeteria, having no impetus or time to cook raw flesh for just myself amidst school planning in the evenings.  I mosy forward to sample the buffet, surprised by the dizzy sensation of a bit of libations.  I remember, tuck your stomach and move from your core--this helps me gain my sea legs again.  I disdain the traditional glut of good but saucy Indian curries, rice and salad dishes in favor of a crispy onion-flavored cracker shaped like a funnel, which is oh, so delicious.  I properly give myself some breathing room, then make for the desserts.

The Indians like their colors bright and their desserts decorative.  The dessert table is too, too cute, with fresh fruit, then mini caramel custard squares topped with kiwi slices, followed by chocolate mousse with white chocolate freestyle decorations, and finally a whole ice cream bar with chocolate, vanilla and butterscotch ice cream.  The manager himself, a dapper man with a large cheek mole, sidles over and asks me if I want butterscotch bits topping my ice cream; he proceeds to ladle them on himself, following up with a generous dose of chocolate chips, which I assure him I like.  Tucking in my stomach to re-steady my legs, I nonchalantly balance my dessert tray and two scoops of ice cream back to my table like I do this every evening.

I have been craving a good champagne or white wine, though only the wine is by the glass, so I order a chilled dessert wine with a flowery bouquet.  It is not too sweet, slightly crisp and acidic, though it could be closer to room temperature.  Then, everything slows down... in the distance the fireworks continue their graceful bursts in turn, with the occasional close-up explosion lit by the couple down the street.  A bit of something like semi-sweet potato followed by butterscotch, a sip of wine, repeat...let the colors imprint themselves inside my head.  Crackle like the sizzle on a hot grill, strings of poppers fill the air with smoke...I delicately cover my nose like a proper Indian woman.  Contrary to my guarded custom, I smile indulgently at the all-male wait staff (is that intentional hiring practice?), and assure them that the dinner has been lovely...

A live trio has taken up residence in the kabab studio's interior, with keyboard, hand drums and vocals.  The sound system is awfully sweet, as the singer is sitting slightly hunched over and still able to carry a melismatic tune while smiling at me as I await my final bill...

Back in the comforting sameness of my room the staccato sound of poppers continues to tattoo the air with unceasing punctuality.  I smile, comforted by good food, libations and the knowledge that, if I'd wished it, tonight I could have gained the whole world...

Pieces of Me

It is sometimes easy to think of myself as a rock-solid, laser-focused uber-teacher who has all her ducks in a row (how's that for mixed metaphors?) when life has a way of revealing to me that at heart I can be a real space cadet.  As my genius plan for the day has completely imploded, I write.

I was to drive in for an overnight in Austin early with two hours to spare before getting a cavity filled by my dentist.  I would drop off my bags at my friend's house and head to the Starbucks closest to my dentist to work on a boring school curriculum course I am woefully behind in.

What really happened was this:  I slept fitfully the night before, delaying my wake-up time by two hours.  After dreaming of a school cafeteria-turned wedding reception and an obese man with a dark past who had the hots for me, I woke with the refrain of some silly song called "Big Brother."  That's my excuse.  In reality, I've become unused to getting up on time.  In my natural state, 10 hours of sleep is ideal.

I realized I'd have to hurry if I was going to get a workout in and get on the road to reach Austin before lunch traffic hit.  To my credit, I rocked a strength training workout, hitting all major muscle groups in half an hour and returned to my Grandpa's, where I'm staying, to pack.  I was nearly ready to go when my Grandpa needed my help to scan a couple documents.  Sounds simple enough--except that I am a classic gal in a techno world who gets through most computer stuff by playing the odds and praying.  After both of us fuddled around with the scanner for some time I asked him to let me have a crack at it.  By sheer fluke or God's mercy I found a scan wizard and scanned two measly pages, 15 minutes later. 

Finally out the door, I sped off, only to reach a stop sign, jog my brain, and drive back from whence I came to grab forgotten medication.  On the way back out the door my grandpa jokingly asked me if I had my license handy.  "Yes sir," I replied, irritated at myself that I afforded amusement.

Following the medication incident, I hit the highway, impatient and irritated that I was now an hour behind schedule.  I aggressively (but carefully) whisked around incredibly slow drivers creeping ten miles under the speed limit (usually mini-vans).  Eventually reaching my friend's house, I dropped off all but my laptop to bring with me to the Starbucks near my dentist for some serious work.  Upon reaching the Starbucks after first driving past it and backtracking, I realized I had left my laptop charger at my friend's house; my ancient pc only lasts 5 minutes without a charger.  So, scratch the idea of useful work.  I asked for rudimentary pen and paper, and wrote (people say my cursive is beautiful).

I reached my dentist at exactly 2:30pm, the allotted time for my cavity filling.  Except that I had gotten the time wrong and they had been trying to call me since 2:00 when I should have been there!  I profusely apologized and chalked it up to the comedy of errors that had been my day.  They couldn't have been nicer.  With a numbed lip I headed back to my friend's house to put some makeup on my unresponsive face before heading to dinner at my friends' house. 

Backing out of the parking lot, dutifully checking behind me for cars, Wham!  I crunched into two squatty white poles guarding a fire hydrant (also squatty).  I glanced at a passer-by who winced when she saw the impact.  I figured her face portended no good and rushed out to face the damage.  My back bumper was off its rocker with a huge corner covered in white paint complemented by a jagged tear running up the side.  This will make bumper #4 when I get it replaced.  At this point I do not even berate myself, as I have become completely inured to fender-benders. 

I reached my friends' house, a husband-wife artist duo who, between them, specialize in music, sculpture, painting, jewelry design, cooking and the forgotten magic art of conversation.  The wife asked me what was wrong and, smiling out of the functioning part of my face, I explained my car snafu.  When my lip regained feeling they fed me hearty homemade food and, after an entire evening spent together, the healing balm of their lightheartedness and authenticity set me straight again.  All was once again right with my world.

 I find that this interstitial between-time of summer with my frequent travel and routine disruption has brought out my weaknesses and exposed my need.  As in my tale of woe, I frequently leave little pieces of myself in odd places and have to backtrack to find them.  As simple as meds or the silver bumper paint left on a pair of irritatingly squatty poles or as soul-stirring as the friends I'd left behind, I'm learning life as a fractile is still beautiful.  Though I've had to remember that my good pillow is still in Bangalore and have felt my heart's in little pieces scattered around the globe, I trust that my God who made me will make all the pieces fit.

We. Must. Have. Chai.

I have many posts simmering in the back pot of my mind, but this is one that must be written.

 It's time to talk food--Indian food, that is.
There is nothing that tells more about a society than its food and the way its people relate to it.

In Bangalore, the standard greeting from early morning to mid-afternoon is, "Have you had your breakfast?"--not, "How are you today?"  When I first encountered this, I thought everyone had a more than healthy concern for the state of my stomach and thought it so kind that they would want to know.  "What if I hadn't had any breakfast?" I wondered.  "Would they try to feed me?" I found that on this surmise I would be entirely right.

In India, it's a "Food 'a Love" thing, as Emerill says.  Good food=I love you.  If there is a visit, there is food; not just a snack, but a full sambar (meat) meal with biriyani (rice with meat and/or veggies and plenty of fire) with at least some type of curry and at least one type of flatbread (naan, roti, apam, idli, or others).  There's usually even some funky but surprisingly good dessert like vermicelli noodles with sweetened curd and raisins--(looks disgusting, tastes great.)

I found that I couldn't go anywhere without encountering food.  I happened to see my neighbor from her balcony.  She called me up and proceeded to feed me a whole meal while the family sat around watching me since they'd already eaten.  Awkward, but one gets used to these expressions of love.

Food permeates every aspect of life.  I went on a road trip with some of my church friends to do some hiking in Nandi Hills, just an hour out of Bangalore.  While waiting for the group to assemble at a friend's house, her mother fed me chai and the most amazing pistachio baklava I've ever had.  When my friend entered the door, he shared a chunk of his chocolate bar with all of us.  Finally, we were on our way, me on the back of my friend's motorbike, which broke down a block past the house.  After flinging his hands to the heavens and exclaiming, "Whooyy, Gohdd?" he found a repair shop down the road to do a quick cut-and-splice on his wiring.
  Meanwhile, as a precaution, we went to pick up another vehicle in case his motorcycle was really dead.  I hopped a ride with one of the cars.  Another friend inside offered me--I kid you not--steamed broccoli.  She had cooked it 'cause she didn't want it to go bad.  Then she remembered that steamed broccoli smells like farts and wisely left it in the container.  After picking up the extra car, we got a call from my guy friend that his motorcycle had roared back to life at the shop.  We met up with him and then sat with the carpool by the side of the road while someone returned the extra car.  Two guys whipped out these awesome crispy snacks that resembled fried pork lard laden with fire.  Another one broke out some great potato chips, also covered in spice heat.  Our friend returned and, moved by compassion for our wait, broke out an entire tub of corn-on-the-cob!  I had to laugh.  This progressive dinner, starting backwards with dessert first, was so absurd!  
Finally back on the road, we aimed to meet up with a couple further down the road who'd been waiting for us on their motorbikes for an hour-and-a-half, at least.  When me and my friend on the motorbike reached them in the lead, the husband, an Indian national back from England who'd married an English lass, exclaimed, "We've ben' waitin' for two hours and me' bum's sore!  We must have chai!"  So, motorbikes first, we veered off the highway to a dubious roadside chai shack to the chagrin of those caravaning behind us who were sick of being on the road at this point.  All assembled, we toasted each other in the moonlight with  espresso shot-sized glasses of hot chai and took an awesome group pic under the blare of the neon sign.  The Indian/English bloke gave me an after-dinner apertif known as a "breath-freshener."  It's a combination of eucalyptus bits, mint, and sugar-coated anise seeds.  His wife said it tasted like soap.  I quite agreed.  I smelled mountainy-fresh. 
Three hours late to our one-hour destination, we joined up with our other friends already at the lodge at Nandi Hills' base.  Exhausted, but blissfully loopy, we all stumbled into the main hall where the matriarch had prepared all of us--a full sambar dinner at 9:30 pm! 

 Along with all the food, my aforementioned chai stop is a completely natural occurrence in Indian society.  My school provides everyone a tea break at 10:15 a.m. every day.  Indian chai (tea) is made quite differently than the dunk-and-brew variety.  They mix half milk, half water with loose tea leaves and boil vigorously for three minutes.  After straining the tea leaves, they mix raw sugar in with the brew for pure deliciousness.  Chai is usually served in metal shot glasses with a wide metal lip which, I think, adds to the flavor.  It's the juxtaposition of hardware and sweetness that highlights how good the chai is.  Mind you, lukewarm milky chai is disgusting.  It must be served piping hot whilst you gingerly grasp the cup by the metal lip, the only non-scalding part of the vessel.  Danger is as enervating as caffeine.
The first chai I had was at my neighbor's downstairs flat.  At her insistence, though she didn't even have furniture yet, she made me the most amazing glass of masala chai for our visit.  Masala chai combines ginger, cardamom, and something else that's complete magic.  I was drinking comfort and joy.  
The last chai I recall having before I left was actually at the bank.  I'd gotten there right before opening to do my monthly wire transfer when they let me in ten minutes early while they prepped and set up.  All major businesses have housekeepers who also function as chai wallahs, our version of baristas.  While the bankers did their thing, a small young man darted about handing out steaming chai in the most delicate English china glasses on a little tray.  Busy texting, I was surprised when he bent over me and offered me the last glass.  Pinky up, I waited as the English and Indians do--drinking chai. 
Funny how, in our American time-driven society, we forget these simple niceties of food and tea.  True, I often get steamed over how slow Indian society functions, but at least I know I can have my wait and eat it too.  May I always be so lucky.

Mahatma Gumby

I'm up in the air at 30,000 feet, or whatever altitude we are, and I've just finished watching "The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel," a new release about a group of seniors who head to India to retire without any idea of what they're getting in for.  Although funny, it was painfully familiar, having just left a few hours ago for summer break.

The "narrator" character, played by Judi Dench, blogged every day about her experiences.  She had some profound things to say about India and life that have left me feeling wistful that I haven't yet reached her state of humble enlightenment.  

She said life in India is like a huge ocean wave--fight it and you'll be crushed; jump in, swim with it and you'll come out the other side in one piece.  It's so the truth; I have fought with so many different situations and people there that at times I've felt exhausted.  It's literally only when I breathe and, in some situations, realize...something--how good I've got it, how temporary the situation is, how I'm not ultimately in control, that I'm able to have peace.  

I liken her wave analogy to other things I've experienced, the most visceral of which was as a young teen getting my braces off.  For those of you who have not had the privilege of braces, let me just say that orthodontics deviates only slightly from medieval torture.  The only difference is the size of the rack.  Anyway, at the end of your three-to-five-year turning of the screw, you give what are called "impressions"--no, these are not a record of your thoughts and feelings for posterity's sake.  They are clay moulds of your newly-fitted teeth to fit you for yet another humiliating stint with headgear and mouth retainers.  

To create these impressions, they fill two tooth guard-sized moulds with wet clay and shove it in your mouth all the way to the back of your throat, triggering your gag reflex.  They tell you, "Just breathe" as you dry heave with wild eyes, unable to speak.  After more attempts at retching, you finally realize your nose still functions and you can, indeed, breathe.  

This is how I liken my experience of India at this stage of my progress.  No, it's not nearly as pretty as Judi Dench's ocean wave, but just as true.  I have realized that, like it at times and hate it at others, I can, indeed, thrive in a country that often goes against my natural instincts of self-preservation.  

This week I had another chance to relearn this profound truth in another context.  I was the head makeup coordinator/artist for our school play, Willy Wonka Jr.  Mind you, I am a planner-I get that from my retired army officer dad and my detail-oriented mom. I planned-- I sent out a multitude of emails, I recruited volunteers, I fought for essential makeup supplies, I planned two involved instruction/practice sessions since many volunteers had never applied makeup, and assigned volunteers all over the school.  On paper, it was seamless.

What actually happened was this: 

 My practice session times and locations were moved with a half hour's notice, causing me to sprint around posting signs on the old locations.  When the teacher who was supposed to bring the makeup for the first session didn't have it there when the class was due to start, I had a slight tantrum and begged another teacher I happened to tag to bring me her makeup.  Teachers and volunteers who had at least two weeks' notice didn't come all at once but in odd shifts, causing me to teach the same demo about five times.  

Opening night the snack time for the kids involved was set to happen right in the middle of makeup application times.  I had fought to get it before makeup application for the obvious reason of not having kindergarteners smearing and eating off their makeup.  The powers that be didn't see it my way and snack time stood.  Actually, it took one huge step to the right and, due to pure incompetence, was delayed 45 minutes.  This meant that teachers, who couldn't imagine not feeding their children on-site food at scheduled times, delayed makeup application a whole hour to accommodate this.  On top of which, the classroom I was slotted to help in was empty--guess where the kids were?--In the pool!  Yep, that's right--the teacher had seen fit to let them work out their energy by getting soaking wet when they were supposed to be in costumes lifting up their cherubic little faces for lipstick.  On top of which, the teacher didn't tell me they were going to apply makeup in another classroom.  On top of which, when I finally found the class, two teachers were dyeing their hair blue!  They simply took it on themselves to buck the system and make their lone class be "special".  All this aside, I had two volunteers cancel last-minute (thankfully God gave me two more to replace them, also last-minute!)

Closing night, having reached a point of near exhaustion, I simply surrendered. The scripture came to mind--"Whoever wants to be great in My kingdom must be the servant of all.”  I realized some of my irritations really resulted from not being flexible and worrying more about my own inconvenience than how I could minister and help.  I told the Lord I would be a servant and just help where I was needed.  

It went so smoothly!  It was like nothing could faze me anymore.  Another volunteer canceled last-minute because she was "too depressed" that hour to put makeup on kids, or so I heard.  I simply shifted someone else to her spot and God gave me another last-minute "chance" volunteer!  While I was applying wrinkles to an "old man" one of my students came and literally knelt in front of me strongly urging me to please, see if I could find her another grade point somewhere so she could bump to the next grade bracket, even though grades were already completed and she'd had her score for a week.  I said, "Sure" and went and found her another legitimate point while the play was in session.  Why not?   Surprisingly, there was just enough time to review her essays and clean up a huge makeup mess before the play was done and busses left.  Whew.

My dad sent me a wry pseudo-scripture right before I left for India.  It said, "Blessed are the flexible for they shall not be broken." Oh, how true that is! So for now, just call me "Gumby"--in training.

Sari Night

Hello, My Beloved Post-ees,

Here is a little series of pics featuring the sari I wore to the senior class' graduation.  Apparently the way to win the hearts of the Indians here is to wear their dress, as they all loved it.  I must say, there's nothing like a sari for feeling feminine.  I refuse to put any disclaimer on these pics by saying they're not good, I shouldn't be vain, I'm too fat, I'm too this, I'm too that...  Putting all things aside, I had fun, I felt beautiful, and I want to share. :)

Me and my friend Scott--no, not all those drinks are ours!

Such a lovely, formal graduation.  (Note the other gorgeous sari worn behind me.)

Cinderella's Accessories

If the shoe fits...

I adore this citron yellow.

I love the back shoulder drape.

Side view

I feel as though I'm wearing a painting.

The hand beadwork on this tulle is wonderful.

White shoulders

Helpful Household Hints from "The Hard Way":

1.  If one does not want to clean caked-on oatmeal off a porcelain bowl, simply let full contents of said bowl slip through one’s fingers causing porcelain to shatter with oatmeal; scoop shards and oatmeal into plastic bag; repeat as needed.

2.  If one runs out of face powder in humid climate, one can try any number of substitutes—corn starch, for instance.  Baking soda, however, is not advisable.  While useful for deodorizing, teeth brushing, baking, cleaning, and acid indigestion, baking soda, when used as facial powder, has an exfoliating effect akin to sandpaper. 

3.  Strong “dust tea” does not simply require brewing, as indicated on nondescript instructions.  Contrary to popular folk wisdom, tea dust does not dissolve in hot water.  To drink contents in absence of sieve, simply purse one’s lips and strain said contents through teeth.  Resulting grit is useful for teeth brushing.

4.  When using taper candles to see by during power outage, it is useful to craft stand for candle resulting in stable base.  One can fashion origami-like stand in the dark using stiff cardstock by folding notecard-sized stationary up at each corner resulting in “legs” for candle base, then shoving candle through middle and lighting.  It is best, however, to approximate middle of holder by feel to keep candle upright so that candle, when lit, does not tip hot wax onto graded papers.

5.  When one has an emergency light for power outages it is useful to charge it.

6.  When one does not want to attempt killing flying cockroach during power outage, simply pray, wait for cockroach to settle, and set overturned tea cup on top.  Wait for cleaning man to dispose of.  (Hint—it is useful to learn the word “bug” in Hindi before allowing man to lift cup.)

7.  If one makes oft-repeated mistake of opening an unscreened window at night with fluorescent room light on, it is useful to remember all flying insects are attracted to light.  In event large wasp flies through open window and settles in one’s wardrobe, simply close wardrobe doors, trapping wasp inside.  Write sticky note with words “Mind the wasp” and affix on wardrobe door.  Leave on holiday for three days, giving wasp sufficient time to asphyxiate.  On return, remove sticky note and pry clinging wasp corpse off favorite blouse.

7.  When drying one’s laundry on roof, it is best to rescue clothing as soon as possible before impending storm.  However, some may prefer aromatic scent of mildew on knickers; in this case, rinse and repeat.

8.  When hanging pictures in absence of hammer, a sturdy mug works better than a sneaker. 

9.  When climbing multiple apartment staircases in the dark it is useful to insert house key in one’s own door instead of one’s neighbor’s.  This adds credibility and detracts from notion that one is a hooligan when said neighbor pokes startled head out of front door.

10.  In absence of Clorox Ready Wipes, spit is a natural solvent.

Bring It.

It's time I wrote this blog.  High time.  It's been brewing in my head the past month at least.

I want to tell you all that I have been giving you only one side of my story.  The side I've presented is dessert; the side I'm about to present is a tough piece of steak that requires persistent chewing. 

I have had a relatively easy, cushy existence most of my life--true, not without its emotional difficulties and heartaches, but otherwise, pretty cushy.  I've lived in--let's face it--an insulated, homogenized culture that's really required nothing more than sameness and the usual admonition to "follow your dreams."  Who knew that following your dreams could be so hard?  I know now that it is. 

I've wanted to live overseas for many years now and always yearn to go to the next country, experience the next new thing.  I have dramatic desires to "immerse myself in culture" and get to know the "real (fill-in-the-blank) people" of wherever I am.  This is all still true.  It's just that I now know what that's like.  It's darn hard. 

An introvert by nature, I find I'm constantly having to "put myself out there" when it comes to living and working in India.  There is no real system or structure here.  All things coexist, from beggars to businessmen to cabs and cows, mom-and-pop one-room stores to multinational IT companies.  As a result, I find that when I walk into a business situation, I do not have a neat little "slot" to fill as the customer.  I have to assert myself to get what I want done, and how!  The Indian style of thinking and doing business is not linear, but circular (or, more like a tangled ball of yarn).  As a result, there is no clear process in business, speech or otherwise to get from beginning A to end result B.  Enter, me.  Unlike my younger days, I have become much more straightforward in my thought processes and speech.  I can parse apart the steps that I need to take or say to get things done.  Simple--at least, simple in America. 

Imagine my frustration when I try to have a conversation with a coworker about a straightforward lesson plan for teaching and end up hearing about their pet dog, what they'll have for dinner, and about a student I've never heard of, all interspersed by five interruptions by various people who do not view themselves as interruptions.  Multitasking is an art form here which encompasses conversations, leaving me struggling to hold onto my original thread of thought in what has become a snarled bundle of nothingness.  But I digress--back to the assertive bit.

I have had to get up nearly in people's faces and hound them just to get anything done business-wise here.  As example, I had to get new cell service because the one I started with went bogus and shut off my phone (long story), so I switched to another provider that I had heard good things about.  The important detail the salesman didn't think worth explaining to me was that they had to physically come to my house to establish my residency (for cell service).  Hence, I waited for days before going physically back to the sales office to see why I didn't have service yet.  I found out that a lone man had simply shown up at my door one morning to verify my place while I was at work.  He shrugged his shoulders and told his uppers that oh well, she wasn't there.  Had I known he was coming we could have arranged a time to meet.  I'd had to give my friend as a reference for me, so the cell provider took to calling her since they couldn't communicate with me on the phone; they said they'd send someone out again, and didn't.  I called back through my friend.  They said they'd send someone again.  They didn't.  This went on for several more days.


 I finally went back to the sales office for the last time and gave my salesman what for.  I said, "Can you guarantee me that someone will come down to my house today and that I will have cell service tonight?"  He said, "No, we don't guarantee anything."  I pounded my hand on the table and said, "Then what good is your word?"  He said, "No ma'am, it's not my word."  I said, "I mean, the word of your company and your business reputation!"  I went on, "This is basic customer service, sir!  Make it happen!"  He went on and hem-hawed about waiting for a report, and I said, "Make it happen!" a few more times till he finally said, "Ok, ma'am."  I huffed off and left my only sunglasses at his counter.  Dang.  I charged outside to hail a rickshaw, and the man wanted to charge me way more than the ride was worth.  I was in no mood.  I snapped, "Don't waste my time!" and went on to the next driver and then another before one agreed to take me home for the fair price.  Several more days later when I'd completely given up hope of ever having cell service, a lone man with a backpack and a clipboard showed up at my doorstep.  I said, "I've been waiting a week and a half for you!  This is very bad customer service."  All he said was, "Sorry, Madam."  He spoke only broken English, so I reiterated "very bad!"  another time and gave up.  After he left, I finally got cell service at about 11:00pm that night, a week and a half after it was promised. 

I do not tell you that story to say I was right or good.  I was really a ticked off expat who couldn't understand why it was so dang hard to tell someone all of what their new service entailed for setup, have someone show up when they promised, and follow through! 

Many if not all of my multiple needs to be strong and assertive revolve around this idea of time.  Like the circular thinking and relating style, time is a very circular thing here.  Getting to places on time, saying you'll be somewhere at x time and then showing five hours later, and just simple follow through are really mere guidelines than the way life runs here.  The Southern Indians I've encountered are so laid back (mostly the men) about time that it's maddening.  Just today I had to call a repairman about 10 times for my new AC unit that's already broken twice to send his technician when he said he would to get it fixed.  Thus, I waited at home all day, being promised every time I called that the repairman was "in my area", would "be there in an hour", etc.  I finally had to say, "I've been waiting for your repairman all day.  He needs to come now!" 

It is really challenging for me to be Christlike in this environment.  I want to get angry at everything right now because it all runs counter-clockwise to the way I've lived life up till now. 

Aside from being assertive and struggling with anger, I've had to fill a role at work that I've never done before.  Though I have the schooling, I've never formally taught.  Now, I'm teaching advanced-level English language and literature to kids from all over the world and doing my best to live up to the standards of my employer.  All the other teachers have been doing this for years, and I am ever-conscious that though many things do go right, there are many things I simply don't know how to do.  It's a new curriculum this year on top of which, and so we're all trying to figure it out.  I know how to teach a lesson and get my point across, but boy am I struggling to deal with all the processes involved in teaching--paperwork, interpersonal communication, meetings, incorporating holistic teaching methods, thinking both inside and outside the box, dealing with discipline issues and parents, and planning and grading for hours on end every night.  It's really the same intensity level as being in college in a demanding degree program.  Thus, I tend to not even be able to keep up with personal email. 

As of a few weeks ago I was required (along with most teachers) to add on two extra-curricular activities to my teaching docket.  They are fun ones--creative writing and a singer/songwriter workshop.  I haven't sung since I left Austin, and now I am teaching kids how to sing and compose along with a fellow co-teacher.  Most if not all of these kids have never composed and don't know how to go about it.  So, that means I have had to begin modeling it for them.  I still have a tendency to be shy about singing even after doing it these many years, but I can't be shy in this case.  These kids need me. I just need to bring it. 

In all of these things and many more I'm realizing the power of that phrase--Bring it!  Heretofore I've hidden in a lot of ways--tucked away my talents, covered up under the guise of professionalism, and put on a poker face. Not so anymore.  I can't.  I'm learning that I have to bring all I have to bear to the table and hold nothing back.  This is life.  It is happening.  I can't walk forward in this new, bewildering environment and handicap myself by only giving a little bit of me.  I have to bring all of me and trust that God will be happy and honored by my efforts and fill in all my gaps and support my weaknesses with his strength.  I have to learn, also, to lean on him and let my strong efforts be tempered with gentleness and kindness.  On top of all that, or, rather, supporting it all, I have to learn how to trust.  Sometimes I wonder why I tend to choose the hard way, but it seems I'm reaching for something that needs all this effort to come forth.  The Lord has also told me he's building something in me and preparing me for something, and that patience has to have her perfect work...

I want to leave you with a quote I've grappled with for many years that I still love.  In these recent hard days I've had echoes of it in my mind:

“Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, 'Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous?' Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine, as children do. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It's not just in some of us; it's in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.”
― Marianne Williamson, Return to Love

If I do nothing else in all this venture, I hope to learn this and truly become all of the child of God I was made to be. 

Pix

This was at the Lalbah Gardens in Bangalore.  Birds of Paradise are like daisies here--they're everywhere!

 Rooster on the balcony!  I named him "Angus."

 Artwork at the Gate--you see this chalk artwork laid down every day at the gateposts of homes, then washed away the next day for new artwork...

 Architecture in my neighborhood--this is my favorite home.

 Indians love their flowers...and their temples!  This was also at Lalbah Gardens.

 Flowers Among the Trash--Beauty and decay mix every day.

 My phrasebook--Which I lost!  Help!

 The Indian "flag"-- (I didn't take this one, but this is what it looks like!)  The door decorations are marigold garlands.

The daycare right down the road from my house.  Wonder what "Pre-nursery" is-- the womb?

 Chalk work at a "ritzy" gate.

Geetha, my neighbor.

Rickshaw!

One word sums it up--

If you want to experience the real India, hop inside an auto rickshaw (as opposed to the man-powered variety.)  These tiny, death-defying, mind-numbing, advertisement-tattooed vehicles with maverick drivers from old to young will test your mettle and your fortitude. 

Say you played the game of "chicken" when you were younger--here's your chance to relive your glory days!  One youngish driver I hopped a ride with seemed heck-bent on speeding up within ramming distance of vehicles, old men, and goats, then passing them within centimeters of their finite lives.  At one point he and an oncoming motorbike sailed towards each other at mach speed!  I squeezed my eyes, arm rail, and water bottle tight, internally yelled "Chicken!", and blinked to find myself still in this world.  Away sped the motorbike while my driver drummed his fingers on the wheel and mindlessly hummed the Indian version of "Dixie."

When riding rickshaws you not only get to defy death, but also test your bargaining and anger management skills.  Every driver worth his salt will attempt to charge you double to triple the going rate just for being foreign; in my case, foreign, female, and white--a triple strike to up the ante.  Mind you, every rickshaw is equipped with a working meter which functions as a nice decoration.  When I ask to turn on "meter" and pat it for good measure, many drivers want to charge me the equivalent of my entire ride as a "service fee" just to turn it on!  Never mind, I'll bargain!  So begins the dance of the lie.

In America the customer is always right.  In India, the customer is an ignorant nuisance with money.  I, as an ignorant, foreign, white female customer, must convince the nice man in front of me with five teeth that I will not be cheated.  In some cases I can work the driver down by a third; in other cases, by a fourth; in many cases, not at all.  My bargaining skills stand or fail based on how much energy I have after carrying a purse, water bottle, and three massive bags of groceries while pretending I don't see the men turning to stare at me through the sweaty streets.  If I am still cheerful, it's cool out, and I am well-rested, I get a decent deal.  If I am hot, tired, and thirsty, the driver might as well just take my rupees and cheat me. 

Still, God works in mysterious ways.  Until a few weeks ago I had visited a new church every weekend without finding one that felt like "home."  The fourth weekend here I had researched two more churches and opted for the one that started at 10:00 a.m.  I found a driver who would take me there for only a small "service" fee to turn on the meter.  Oh joy!  I was on my way to church...or so I thought.

The church, which met in a hotel, was only about 30 minutes away, the standard length of time to get anywhere.  The driver did not know whether the old or the new road led to the hotel, so I called the hotel lobby and had their agent speak directly to my driver to give him directions in Hindi.  My driver confidently took off and eventually spit us into what seemed like the general area for the hotel.  However, he did not know more than that.  He stopped and asked for directions from a man on the side of the road, drove 50 feet, stopped again and did the same thing.   He varied his approach, though.  He drove up next to a moving rickshaw and yelled for directions--the driver next to us gestured for us to follow him.  My driver did not give chase, but rumbled along at a snail's pace, determined to stay lost.  He wound us down alleys and byways, randomly pointing at any ramshackle building that contained the word "hotel."  About this time I really began to wonder if I wasn't literally and figuratively being "taken for a ride."  Just as I felt myself beginning to get ferklempt I looked up and directly in front of us was a rickshaw whose slogan read, "God is watching--Have patience."  So, I took a deep cleansing breath and said, "Okay, Lord, I'm trying."  The driver continued winding us down alleys and random roads until finally, during one of his stops to "ask for directions," I told him I'd had enough and was getting out.  That young man smirked and had the audacity to demand "Hundred thirty rupees!" though he'd taken me nowhere.  I paid that unscrupulous rickshaw driver his money, grimly shouldered my Bible and marched into the nearest building.

As I thought about it, I realized the church service I'd wanted to go to was half over by now, but the other church I'd researched started at 10:45--I could still just make it!  "Darn it, I didn't go through all this not to go to church," I thought to myself.  I asked the man at the counter the location of the other small church, which also met in a hotel.  It was only 3 kilometers away.  I hailed yet another rickshaw driver, bargained again, and off I went to the Lemontree Hotel which housed the small congregation of Ashraya.

"Ashraya" means "Refuge" in the local language.  Immediately on entering the hotel elevator I met another expat woman who, it "turns out," was the one who had relayed to my other friend the info. on Ashraya that my friend relayed to me in the first place!  As we walked in together, the place held such a welcoming spirit and the presence of the Lord.  I truly felt like I could rest and breathe.  The same lady and her family as well as another couple and their kids took me out to lunch right after service.  Mind you, feeling lonely, I had just prayed before leaving my flat that morning that someone would take me out to lunch after church. 

I've been attending Ashraya ever since and have been growing in the hothouse of love and worship I experience there.  Every week I go out to lunch with a different group of folks my age and still pray with my expat friend from the first week.  God knew.

For every rickshaw wheeling around in circles coughing noxious gas fumes there could be an unseen finger steering that little game piece home.  There certainly was for me.

Colours

I've had so many experiences of late that I've been looking for little gems I could polish up for you to add to your "jewelry box" of India.  I thought of colour.

In America we have the saying about our flag that "these colors don't run," meaning that our patriotism, our country's values, and our freedom will not fade away. I like that saying, though here in India, I've had a paradigm shift with colour.

My first week here I went shopping with some colleagues who took me to Commercial Street, a shopping district that makes Times Square, Chinatown and a Turkish bazaar look like nothing more than a daydream.  If you want shopping, ladies, come to Commercial Street!  Not so much a "street" as an intricate labyrinth of alleys, side roads, and shops selling everything imaginable in spaces so small you wonder how anyone breathes.  Every square inch of street space is utilized, lit up, assaulting your ears and eyes with sounds and colour--a teen hawking little whirling things, a scarf man flirting with the crowds and capturing you in fabric folds, and salespeople that hover, hover, hover, over every kurta (tunic) you try and every shoe you touch.

We enter one slightly nicer store with beautiful fabrics so I can try on some kurtis, shorter hip-length versions of the kurta tunics, which tend to hit my calves as I'm not very tall.  (It's all about proportion in fashion, ladies--dress for your body type!)  Anyway, I tried on a gorgeous deep turquoise kurti with gold rick-rack trim at the neck and sleeves.  It fit perfectly, so I took it.  The first day I wore it I felt beautiful, dressing like the locals.  Come bedtime when I pulled it off I discovered it had dyed my armpits a gorgeous shade of bright turquoise.  That took about two days of serious loofah. 

Colour is everywhere.  As you bump along through traffic your eyes dart to houses painted striking hues of terra cotta, red, cerulean blue, deep sage,--even purple.  In the Hindu religion the entrances to homes (be they gates or doorsteps) are decorated with garlands of marigolds and tropical flowers, while in front of the entrance intricate chalk designs are traced in white and filled in with a brighter shade or even fresh blossoms.  Every morning the front entrances are washed, sweeping away yesterday's beauty with the promise of more to come.

I cannot escape colour even while eating.  Many dishes are eaten with your hands by wrapping the sauce in naan, or other flatbread.  After any curry dish my nails are stained a bright shade of turmeric, a hue somewhere between mustard and chartreuse.  It lends some gypsy to my look.

Enter my home--the painter who ended up coming to paint over the mess the contractors had left asked me to help him choose the paint shade.  Being American, I immediately thought to match the existing wall colour, a light beige, to preserve the apartment's retail value.  After deliberating I chose what appeared to resemble beige.  When I returned home to see the painting progress I was surprised and delighted to find the colour I had chosen was actually palest pink, the inside of a sea shell.  As each room was completed I found a smile creeping up my face as the rooms took on a warm, rosy glow.  When I told a colleague about it, she said that it was a good thing because I needed a little romance in my life and that colour was one way of adding it.  Maybe I do need a little romance.  While I pity the gent that gets this place after me, I don't even care because it's just so darn pretty.

Fabrics run.  Towels shed.  I bought this soft new set of cobalt blue towels for my bathroom and discovered that the more I wash them the more they coat everything they touch in deep blue fuzz.  My floor is fuzzy.  I am fuzzy.  I pick the lint off my face and use an old t-shirt to dry my hands.  Maybe on wash number three I'll achieve a state of colourfast.

Speaking of washing, there are no dryers in India.  I have a clothesline on the roof terrace which commands a view of all the neighborhood's rooftops adorned in brightly-coloured, drying clothing.  I clothespin on my pieces of  rooftop decoration and smile, thinking that the true flag of India is really a patchwork of coloured laundry.

"Queue-less"

Oh boy, have I had some adventure doozies this week!  They are too numerous to write, but I'll just highlight one:

The FRRO--This should be written in scary monster script if I had access to it.  This is the Foreigners' Visa Registration Office where every immigrant, employment, student, and extended tourist visa holder must register to do anything in India besides buy milk.

Picture a hole in the wall with an armed guard toting an old-school rifle and sporting a safari hat.  As you enter, you imagine hearing distorted strains of "It's a Small World After All" as burka-clad women, raastas, businessmen, Africans, and worried-looking anglo's funnel in like ants.  My companion, the HR lady, is ordered to leave because only foreigners are allowed inside; after much polite protest, Rifleman tells her to go sit in the furthest corner and wait.  Apparently, the fun is turning a bunch of foreigners loose with everyone speaking different versions of English and seeing what ensues.


Visit One:  I get in the queue and get my mugshot taken.  I look drunk.  I get to the first lady who tells me I have the wrong checklist form, which changes every 6 months.  There are several new documents that I need.  We leave.
Post-visit:  The HR lady drafts more forms while a driver is sent to procure one piece of 100 rupee "special" paper to draft one of them; It's sold by the sheet under protest.

Visit Two:  I get back in queue and get equally bad mugshot #2 taken.  I make it past desk one and am ushered upstairs to The First Floor after a 3rd review of my passport/visa 20 yards from the main entrance where I've already been checked.

The First Floor:  Picture Noah's Ark as a 60 ft. square box containing, not animals, but people.  Every tongue on earth is being spoken at once and queues occupy every square inch while strays languidly slouch in queue-less chairs.  I sit in the middle like a good little doobie and wait my turn.  Nothing happens.  I gather my bearings.  I am sitting in the reject pile when I should be in the queue for the Scrutiny Desk--silly foreigner.

The Scrutiny Desk:  There are about 5 people from all over the world in front of me who have no concept of line progression.  Normally, someone leaves, you inch your butt forward, and gain the illusion of progress.  No dice.  I make hand gestures and motions for the jumpy guy in front of me to move forward, and he finally understands.  We begin to move.  Two men from Ghana sit next to me and one of them hits on me.  Finally, it's my turn to be inspected.

I take deep breaths and try to look nonchalant as the Indian man behind the desk scans through my papers.  Because of the slow progression of most things here (affectionately known as "India Time"), the owner of my new apartment has not provided a rental contract which proves my residency.  The HR lady, waiting dutifully back in her corner downstairs, has instructed me to smilingly plead for a permit anyway with the promise of submitting it later.  This is the grand plan.  The man does not buy my smile, my carefully articulated English, or my pleading.  I am sent back downstairs with a stamp on my mugshot telling me to come back with a contract later that day or, at the latest, by noon the next day, or I start the process all over again.

The Director:  Back in her corner, the HR lady and I talk strategy.   She says the school "knows" the Director, and to go do the smiling/pleading bit with him upstairs and see what happens.  I am a stooge.  Still, anything's worth a try.  I stand in another queue and finally am admitted behind The Director's glass doors.  The man barely glances at me as I again explain my situation, namedrop my school, and ask for a permit with the promise of a rental contract later.  He points his finger and blurts, "Go to that lady over there!"   He has apparently overestimated my powers of telepathy--The room is filled with ladies.  Determined to risk being stupid, I ask him several times to be more specific about which direction his finger is pointing and am rewarded by yet another queue.

The Lady:  There is no real line around this placid woman who is the unspoken matriarch of the FRRO.  Everyone simply swarms her desk as she smiles like the Mona Lisa and keeps on typing.  Jumpy Guy from the Scrutiny queue cuts in front of me in broken English and I let him because he looks scary and I don't really care at this point.  The Lady doesn't even speak--she has two oracles next to her who do all the talking and slip her our papers.  I explain to Oracle #1 my situation again, who explains in her language what I am about.  If I get something in writing between the apartment owner and the school they will issue me a short, three-month residential permit.  I thank him for the crumbs, and leave.

Back downstairs, the HR lady tells me from her corner that this will not do, as three months later I'd only have to go back through purgatory.  We leave.

Day 3:  Next morning, I wait with the HR lady while the facilities manager physically brings in the apartment owner, who's flown in from the country of Bahrain, to the business office back at the school to sign the contract.  He does not even live in India.  I must have the contract at the FRRO with my decrepit mugshot by noon or I am toast.   The two men leisurely discuss the contract over tea while I try to distract myself with  some new tricks on the computer.  It is now 10:30 am. 

The Ride:  I try to remain calm as we walk to the school van set to take me to the FRRO office yet again.  The facilities manager and the apartment owner, who's along for the ride, saunter languidly to the car.  I do a double-take internally:  "Am I missing something?  Don't we have a deadline here?? Chop-chop, people!"

All week, mind you, I've had a good combat driver who fights through Bangalore traffic like a guerrilla, dodging and weaving at every turn.   Previously he'd squeezed our tiny van in between two rickshaws and grazed both their sides unfazed.  This morning, however, he has decided to come clean, be a good citizen, and drive like Grandma.   What a morning to develop a civic conscience.  The next surprise, according to a third man who's joined us, is that we still have to stop and get the dang contract notarized on the way.  Yup.  At this point it's almost noon and I know I'm doomed apart from the grace and mercy of God.

I reach the Scrutiny Desk at 12:10 pm and wait for four very excited African men who apparently cannot each get their permit without the communal conversation and effort of the others, to move.   Thankfully, the man behind the desk is not aware of the time and says I now have all my necessary papers.  But wait--there's more!

Now I must go back to the Mona Lisa Matriarch to get her approval signature. (If Momma ain't happy, ain't nobody happy.)  She gracefully makes her swishy signature and I think I'm finally free.  But no, I must stand in one more queue for the person who now actually enters all your papers into the big computer and takes, guess what?--another mugshot.  I reach the desk and smile hopefully at the girl behind the counter.  She stares back with glazed eyes over a shifting pile of paperwork and says, "Come back at 4:00."

3:30pm:  Apparently everyone has to come back at 4:00.  The facilities manager has said to come back early so I have a running start for the final dash.  Once inside, the man who guards the staircase to the 1st Floor will not let me in early.  I sit.  Ten minutes later I see the staircase guard bobbling his head and letting foreigners in early.  After he lets in a skater dude with bedhead and a friend who looks like Rizzo, I stop being good and head for the staircase. 

I reach the final desk, am handed The Permit, and I swear the heavens open and angels sing.  I vow to get it laminated and hang it on my wall.