We were recently guests in a village outside Coimbatore of a Tamil Nadu (the geographic state we live in) Hindu festival called Pongal. It is a harvest festival to thank God for the sun and the rain. Central to the festival is rice with milk and sugar cane that is boiled so that the froth flows over the clay pot. (hmmm….”you anoint my head with oil; my cup overflows.” psm 23) The final night of the festival we were the dog and pony paraded out. Part of this is the amazing hospitality that overflows from the people here through gifts, handshakes and the utmost care taken to guests. Part also is the introduction that goes before us; Americans Mr. Eric and Dr. Andrea. This celebration and promotion of being Americans is uncomfortable to us; attention that we struggle to be in the center of. This experience I am sure is not unique to us, but to many who have traveled abroad to developing nations.
But hey! I am just an artist wanting to stand in a corner and draw the beautiful colors. An American here is Tom n Jerry Coca Cola Jay Leno Brad Pitt Billy Graham Bill Clinton The Dollar Barrack Obama McDonalds Michael Jordan Happiness. Which, I bring with me every time someone says American. The speaker at the festival said Americans were second happiest in the world, behind the Australians (would that make Americans happy to know that they are happy ?:) According to the speaker, our visit to the festival as Americans brought happiness to the festival. Is there an anthropological label to the cultural identity we unknowingly embody as we enter a new culture? For instance, an Op-Ed piece in The Hindu discussed America’s current economic status and finished with saying that he hopes America may soon again be exporters of hope to the world, that the world is in fact relying upon it; hope. At the festival, the bright bronze eyes of the children follow us and I can see that, though it baffles me.
In the airport in Delhi, Andrea and I talked awhile with a British couple who talked a lot about the global village, our world. As semi-isolationist Americans we use that term infrequently at best and so the global village term stuck in my head for a number of days. This point hit home when Andrea and I were discussing our colds we brought with us and she mentioned that US researchers study the flu strains in Japan to know what strain of flu will be coming to the US in 6 months time. The global village seems small to me then, and this particular village seems closer.
Thursday, January 17, 2008
Law vs. Reality
“Whoever is least among you should be the greatest”—Luke 22:26
Nearly every societal group has a way of establishing a pecking order, but never have I seen it as vividly as yesterday. When one looks to the books, the caste system in India has been abolished, but if one looks to the villages, where nearly 75% of the one billion Indians reside, one will be surrounded by the desperate reality of the caste system. The caste system is essential to the social structure of Hinduism. The four castes arise from the four body parts of lord Brahma in creation. The Brahmin caste is the teachers and priests which arose from the mouth; the Kshatriya are the warriers and arose from the arms; the Vaishyas are the merchants and traders and arose from the thighs; the Shudras are the laborers and arose from the feet. Below all of these castes are the Dalits, the Untouchables, which Mahatma Gandhi renamed, “children of God.” The Dalits have lowly jobs such as latrine cleaners. Within many castes, there are subcastes. One is born into a particular caste, one marries (usually arranged by parents) within the caste, and one behaves according to the caste’s expectations. If one lives an upright life, one has the hope of being reincarnated into a higher caste.
My tour of the caste system took place in a village outside of Coimbatore where we spent the last several days. Alongside us was Anish, a former PhD student of computer science who felt called to study social work at the college Eric is teaching at. Since Anish and his family currently live in the village and Anish speaks fluent English and Tamil, he served as the “ideal” guide. We first met a middle class woman, or rather several women. One can never tell how many men, women, and children live in one home. After an adorable 10 month old baby with a colorful jeweled mark separating her eyes and jasmine flowers decorating her hair came willingly into my arms, all the women joined forces in trying unsuccessfully to get the child to kiss me on the cheek. We were soon invited past the festival colored rice powder chalk decorations called “rangoli” on the green cow-dung ground up the stairs to the living room of their home. Here we were greeted with more smiles, tea, Pongal festival treats, and simple conversations translated through our guide. We sat in white plastic lawn chairs--the lazy boys of India. We met the grandfather lying sick on a bed in the living room and were told that there was no need for nursing homes in India, since sons live with the parents and daughters move to the in-laws families after their arranged marriage. After we had our last sip of tea, one woman emerged from the kitchen with a small bag to take the remaining festival Jalebis (orange colored whorls of deep-fried batter) for a snack later.
We said our goodbyes and continued our stroll through the winding roads bordered by gutters of stale urine and plastic bags and came across the family that was the head of the village. Again we were invited inside their home for tea, conversation, and Pongal festival treats. Their daughter was privileged enough to be one of the 50% of children to attend school rather than the 50% who took part in child labor, a practice that is banned in India but continues to exist especially in villages like this one, which is located near a brick-making factory. I was anointed with two roses that were weaved in my hair, and when we were outside by the temple adjacent to their home, the woman showed me the leaves of the henna plant that were used to dye and decorate the skin. She tore off numerous leaves, ground them to a paste, and then applied the wet green paste to the tips of my fingers and the center of my palm. As she meticulously applied it, she spoke in a soothing voice with broken English, “good for the blood pressure”, “good for hair color” and “hot weather too.” I’ve been continuously amazed at how every village person knows the numerous uses, both medical and non, for the roots, stems, leaves, and flowers of every local plant. When I joined the women for a village version of musical chairs during the Pongal festivities later that evening (everything is segregated between men and women) they were all pleased to see my dyed, decorated hand and eagerly showed me their designs as well.
Our village tour concluded by crossing the deep ditch to the homes of the Dalits. Here, we experienced the Pongal tradition of painting the horns of bulls. We were introduced to one of the women who very graciously included us in her families’ festivities. We learned that this woman was living back with her daughter and her father, who was a drunk, after being abandoned by her husband who ran off with another woman. This family was in the process of carefully bathing their goats and bulls (which they do annually during Pongal). At our arrival, they pulled out their paintbrushes: one was manufactured, and one was made before our eyes out of grass and twine. They invited us to join in the painting of the bull-horns. I graciously declined being the less-gifted artist of the two of us, and being a bit hesitant to step near the bulls, even though they had ropes tied around their necks and through their nostrils. Eric took up the challenge while I painted the goats’ horns. Eric received many congratulations from the family who observed his brush-strokes, and eventually a crowd had gathered. This was a crowd of only dalits, since they were not allowed to attend the main village festival just hundreds of meters away. But the dalit children proudly showed us their own “festival” as they joyously gathered their traditional drums hidden away in their own temple, cracked some sticks in half from the brush-pile nearby for drum-sticks, and began to sing and dance. These were the same children that, if lucky enough to attend school, had to sit separately and not interact with the “normal” village children. We continued our walk down the main narrow road, which doubled for sleeping grounds by all the dalits at night, since their small one-room grass thatched homes could not accommodate sleeping quarters. During our goodbyes, we were graciously given a whole liter of cows’ milk from the family that had invited us to their bull painting. They insisted on an entire liter saying “good milk, good milk” even though we said a cup for each of us would have been wonderful.
“Hospitality” is the word that comes closest to what we experienced by all of the castes of this village; at the same time, the word “hospitality” doesn’t do justice to what we experienced. I am reminded again of Jesus words’ to the poor woman who gave her last pennies as an offering, “This poor widow has put in more than all the others. All these people gave their gifts out of their wealth, but she out of her poverty put in all she had to live on.”
Nearly every societal group has a way of establishing a pecking order, but never have I seen it as vividly as yesterday. When one looks to the books, the caste system in India has been abolished, but if one looks to the villages, where nearly 75% of the one billion Indians reside, one will be surrounded by the desperate reality of the caste system. The caste system is essential to the social structure of Hinduism. The four castes arise from the four body parts of lord Brahma in creation. The Brahmin caste is the teachers and priests which arose from the mouth; the Kshatriya are the warriers and arose from the arms; the Vaishyas are the merchants and traders and arose from the thighs; the Shudras are the laborers and arose from the feet. Below all of these castes are the Dalits, the Untouchables, which Mahatma Gandhi renamed, “children of God.” The Dalits have lowly jobs such as latrine cleaners. Within many castes, there are subcastes. One is born into a particular caste, one marries (usually arranged by parents) within the caste, and one behaves according to the caste’s expectations. If one lives an upright life, one has the hope of being reincarnated into a higher caste.
My tour of the caste system took place in a village outside of Coimbatore where we spent the last several days. Alongside us was Anish, a former PhD student of computer science who felt called to study social work at the college Eric is teaching at. Since Anish and his family currently live in the village and Anish speaks fluent English and Tamil, he served as the “ideal” guide. We first met a middle class woman, or rather several women. One can never tell how many men, women, and children live in one home. After an adorable 10 month old baby with a colorful jeweled mark separating her eyes and jasmine flowers decorating her hair came willingly into my arms, all the women joined forces in trying unsuccessfully to get the child to kiss me on the cheek. We were soon invited past the festival colored rice powder chalk decorations called “rangoli” on the green cow-dung ground up the stairs to the living room of their home. Here we were greeted with more smiles, tea, Pongal festival treats, and simple conversations translated through our guide. We sat in white plastic lawn chairs--the lazy boys of India. We met the grandfather lying sick on a bed in the living room and were told that there was no need for nursing homes in India, since sons live with the parents and daughters move to the in-laws families after their arranged marriage. After we had our last sip of tea, one woman emerged from the kitchen with a small bag to take the remaining festival Jalebis (orange colored whorls of deep-fried batter) for a snack later.
We said our goodbyes and continued our stroll through the winding roads bordered by gutters of stale urine and plastic bags and came across the family that was the head of the village. Again we were invited inside their home for tea, conversation, and Pongal festival treats. Their daughter was privileged enough to be one of the 50% of children to attend school rather than the 50% who took part in child labor, a practice that is banned in India but continues to exist especially in villages like this one, which is located near a brick-making factory. I was anointed with two roses that were weaved in my hair, and when we were outside by the temple adjacent to their home, the woman showed me the leaves of the henna plant that were used to dye and decorate the skin. She tore off numerous leaves, ground them to a paste, and then applied the wet green paste to the tips of my fingers and the center of my palm. As she meticulously applied it, she spoke in a soothing voice with broken English, “good for the blood pressure”, “good for hair color” and “hot weather too.” I’ve been continuously amazed at how every village person knows the numerous uses, both medical and non, for the roots, stems, leaves, and flowers of every local plant. When I joined the women for a village version of musical chairs during the Pongal festivities later that evening (everything is segregated between men and women) they were all pleased to see my dyed, decorated hand and eagerly showed me their designs as well.
Our village tour concluded by crossing the deep ditch to the homes of the Dalits. Here, we experienced the Pongal tradition of painting the horns of bulls. We were introduced to one of the women who very graciously included us in her families’ festivities. We learned that this woman was living back with her daughter and her father, who was a drunk, after being abandoned by her husband who ran off with another woman. This family was in the process of carefully bathing their goats and bulls (which they do annually during Pongal). At our arrival, they pulled out their paintbrushes: one was manufactured, and one was made before our eyes out of grass and twine. They invited us to join in the painting of the bull-horns. I graciously declined being the less-gifted artist of the two of us, and being a bit hesitant to step near the bulls, even though they had ropes tied around their necks and through their nostrils. Eric took up the challenge while I painted the goats’ horns. Eric received many congratulations from the family who observed his brush-strokes, and eventually a crowd had gathered. This was a crowd of only dalits, since they were not allowed to attend the main village festival just hundreds of meters away. But the dalit children proudly showed us their own “festival” as they joyously gathered their traditional drums hidden away in their own temple, cracked some sticks in half from the brush-pile nearby for drum-sticks, and began to sing and dance. These were the same children that, if lucky enough to attend school, had to sit separately and not interact with the “normal” village children. We continued our walk down the main narrow road, which doubled for sleeping grounds by all the dalits at night, since their small one-room grass thatched homes could not accommodate sleeping quarters. During our goodbyes, we were graciously given a whole liter of cows’ milk from the family that had invited us to their bull painting. They insisted on an entire liter saying “good milk, good milk” even though we said a cup for each of us would have been wonderful.
“Hospitality” is the word that comes closest to what we experienced by all of the castes of this village; at the same time, the word “hospitality” doesn’t do justice to what we experienced. I am reminded again of Jesus words’ to the poor woman who gave her last pennies as an offering, “This poor widow has put in more than all the others. All these people gave their gifts out of their wealth, but she out of her poverty put in all she had to live on.”
An Ode to Raymond Carver
Why should the devil get the blues, the hot jazz Saturday nite?
Why does American pork, beef and chicken get the spice?
the pepper, jerk, chilles, salty gravy and the garnish?
Why not the cucumber, onion, carrot and the rutabaga
get the tang, whizz, the lip-smack flavah?
Why should the devil get the blues, the hot jazz Saturday nite?
Why not like in India where the cucumber, cocunut, and celery
get the masala, curry, tumeric, cardamon and the briyani?
Why here the vegeterian sensually dances with heaven and earth
the smooth cheese masala spice on tongue, needs no forth?
Wednesday, January 9, 2008
Arrival
Bleary eyed, two nights spent on a plane, sitting in a Starbucks in Amman with women in Burkas walking through, they like Popeyes here? Flew over Israel with the land seeming to be like bronze... The air is the first thing we notice in India...essence of diesel, fruity, fresh cut grass mixed with something burning. The mist lay thick around the plane, smog actually. People coming up close to you, as bright as the colors they wear, pushing us gently on the backs to get into the quieu, just being polite. Big smiles greet us, hands close on ours, rush to show us that we know you through others, through grace.
Controlled chaos on the roads. Little three-wheeled auto-rickshaws, buzzing like chainsaws weave between cars that weave between eachother and all weave between relaxed rusty bicycles and trance like pedestrians carrying bundles. The cacophony is mesmerizing.
The silence of a bed interspersed with the cackle of a dot matrix printer nearby and a dog in the alley. Sleep with the punctuation of a mosquito.
Controlled chaos on the roads. Little three-wheeled auto-rickshaws, buzzing like chainsaws weave between cars that weave between eachother and all weave between relaxed rusty bicycles and trance like pedestrians carrying bundles. The cacophony is mesmerizing.
The silence of a bed interspersed with the cackle of a dot matrix printer nearby and a dog in the alley. Sleep with the punctuation of a mosquito.
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