The power's out, and so I write. As I sweat, left arm sticking to the page I pen, I can still smell the faint revenue of my morning perfume, its oils mingling with my own. My cotton handkerchief is damp with moisture as I wipe my upper lip and chin, always the first to go. And no wonder-- for this is India. We've just had a much-needed rainstorm, palm trees streaming like hair under a dryer, top-heavy trees lifting and lowering their massive branches, impressively reminding us they are no still-life.
I always manage to forget how plugged-in I am, how unwittingly I've become part of the wired and wireless generation. It's all been under duress, I swear, even as I recount my dogged attempts to master the iPad for my school's technological advances. If it were only me, there'd be pen, paper, penmanship, stamps; the distinct taste of glue on the tongue after licking the envelope sealed; the feeling of satisfaction, palming the fat packet before slipping it down its mysterious route...
It never ceases to amaze me how life springs up again here so suddenly. Not an hour past the rain, power still out, through my open window the distinct odour of cabbage and curry assails my nostrils, mixed with the acrid tinge of gas. Dogs yap when no one's there; a rattle of cooking tins, the children's shrill yells and squeals as playtime continues in the dark; an indistinct babble of unconcerned voices chatting up the night. One rickshaw after the last has putted loudly past, muffler long since spent (if ever existent), buzzing away two floors down, its lone lamp throwing unexpected brightness my direction. No longer surprising, firecrackers burst just one street away. Maybe it's a puja celebration, a housewarming undeterred by darkness. The noisy, joy-coloured strafing lasts only a minute, but I am fully aware.
What does it take to truly rest? Will I allow myself to claim "Not Guilty" only when gentled by a lack of light? A bird will shriek inside its cage till covered with a blanket, becoming silent witness that the world has finally gone asleep...
and I will stay, a chrysalis, suspended in action, waiting for the light to come.
Wednesday, May 8, 2013
Wednesday, December 5, 2012
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.
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.
Tuesday, November 13, 2012
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...
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...
Friday, July 20, 2012
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.
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.
Thursday, June 28, 2012
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.
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.
Tuesday, June 19, 2012
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.
Wednesday, May 30, 2012
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. :)
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. :)
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| Me and my friend Scott--no, not all those drinks are ours! |
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| Such a lovely, formal graduation. (Note the other gorgeous sari worn behind me.) |
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| Cinderella's Accessories |
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| If the shoe fits... |
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| I adore this citron yellow. |
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| I love the back shoulder drape. |
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| Side view |
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| I feel as though I'm wearing a painting. |
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| The hand beadwork on this tulle is wonderful. |
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| White shoulders |
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