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.