Today, I can fly.
Our host- Ms. Bueller J.C. and her mother
Andrea rockin the Saree
Eucalyptus leaves make your hands smell like cough drops.
Sunday, February 24, 2008
Kodaikanal- the "Alps of India"
Today, I can fly.
Our host- Ms. Bueller J.C. and her mother
Andrea rockin the Saree
Eucalyptus leaves make your hands smell like cough drops.
Hating and Loving India
My sister recently asked me-Do you love India or do you hate it? My impulse immediately was “both.” But the more I reflected on my reasons for both I realized that the reasons I dislike it are perhaps because I feel insignificant—insignificant in a land of over a billion, insignificant in a hospital that has a pretty good doctor:patient ratio without me. The drive to be significant—is it me? Is it American? Human?
It seems like the lesson of “be” not “do” is a lesson that I have to relearn yet another time here in India. Maybe significance is just being, or listening to stories of peoples’ lives, or guessing how many rupees a women made for her daily labors selling coconuts, or quietly reflecting on the best way deal with the problems of prostitution, or HIV, or female infanticide.
Here are a couple significant people that have given me much to think about—and maybe you too.
1) Sueha-a 20-year-old female who came to gynecology clinic with complaints of missing her period for the last 3 months. She had been married just 6 months ago in an arranged marriage. As the story unfolded, we discovered that her husband had left her because he believed she wouldn’t be able to bear him any children. Sueha most likely could never marry again because her parents would not be able to afford a 2nd dowry and she now had the reputation of being barren, even though this most likely was not the cause for her missed periods.
2) Hannah-a 2-year-old female who I met in an orphanage for children who are victims of infanticide. When a family has a 2nd or 3rd baby girl (or a handicapped child), it is not uncommon for them to poison her, suffocate her, or leave her in sewage gutters because they cannot afford another dowry for their daughter’s marriage.
3) Sarang-a 65-year-old male with beautiful snow-white hair that came to surgery clinic for a dressing change of a chronic ulcer on his foot. He had leprosy. As I bent down to examine his foot which already had 2 missing toes, I noticed a stream of tears traveling down his left cheek, disappearing quickly into his unkempt beard. These were not tears of physical pain, since clearly he had no sensation in his foot. Perhaps these were tears of loneliness, rejection, or embarrassment; I’m not sure. It was the first time I had seen tears in India.
India—a land of a billion. Slowly I am realizing that each woman I see carrying a pile of 5 foot sticks gracefully on her head, 10 year olds shoveling piles of gravel on the roadside (even though child labor is outlawed), and a man shepherding 15 goats in the middle of the road all have a beautiful story with some mixture of joy and sorrow in their life.
And I realize I love India.
It seems like the lesson of “be” not “do” is a lesson that I have to relearn yet another time here in India. Maybe significance is just being, or listening to stories of peoples’ lives, or guessing how many rupees a women made for her daily labors selling coconuts, or quietly reflecting on the best way deal with the problems of prostitution, or HIV, or female infanticide.
Here are a couple significant people that have given me much to think about—and maybe you too.
1) Sueha-a 20-year-old female who came to gynecology clinic with complaints of missing her period for the last 3 months. She had been married just 6 months ago in an arranged marriage. As the story unfolded, we discovered that her husband had left her because he believed she wouldn’t be able to bear him any children. Sueha most likely could never marry again because her parents would not be able to afford a 2nd dowry and she now had the reputation of being barren, even though this most likely was not the cause for her missed periods.
2) Hannah-a 2-year-old female who I met in an orphanage for children who are victims of infanticide. When a family has a 2nd or 3rd baby girl (or a handicapped child), it is not uncommon for them to poison her, suffocate her, or leave her in sewage gutters because they cannot afford another dowry for their daughter’s marriage.
3) Sarang-a 65-year-old male with beautiful snow-white hair that came to surgery clinic for a dressing change of a chronic ulcer on his foot. He had leprosy. As I bent down to examine his foot which already had 2 missing toes, I noticed a stream of tears traveling down his left cheek, disappearing quickly into his unkempt beard. These were not tears of physical pain, since clearly he had no sensation in his foot. Perhaps these were tears of loneliness, rejection, or embarrassment; I’m not sure. It was the first time I had seen tears in India.
India—a land of a billion. Slowly I am realizing that each woman I see carrying a pile of 5 foot sticks gracefully on her head, 10 year olds shoveling piles of gravel on the roadside (even though child labor is outlawed), and a man shepherding 15 goats in the middle of the road all have a beautiful story with some mixture of joy and sorrow in their life.
And I realize I love India.
On being naked and listening to birds
I met a man today who has been walking for 18 years straight. He started in Goa (on the western edge of India) and made his way north on one side of the country to Kashmir and then back south all the way to Tamil Nadu (the state we live in). His goal is to visit every tribe in India, which he will accomplish in three months. He has spend roughly 10 weeks with each tribe, and by walking with people he got to know them and their patterns of life. He spoke of a tribe in Bihar who state that they work very hard, in that they very forcefully relieve people of their valuables. There is a tribe in Andhar Pradesh who is very devout and holy to the hindu god Shiva, bathes once every 12 years and feeds on the dead bodies of a nearby tribe. Another tribe prizes the meat of dogs, with the meat of a black dog going as much as 2,000 rupee per kilogram, roughly $5 a pound.
One of the most interesting stories was a primitive tribe in the Andaman/Nicobar Island chain, which is situated west of India in the Arabian Sea. This tribe believed in wearing no clothing and would shoot arrows at clothed people who approached. The government deemed that they must be clothed, what an outrage! So once a month, for three days, they would visit the tribe and present them with clothes. In order to get them to wear the clothes, they would bribe them with bananas and cocunut, which they would get for free only if they had the clothes on. As soon as the gov’t workers would leave, the clothes would come off. So this chirade continued for some months. I imagined how funny this scene began to look on the beach; a bunch of naked people, a stack of disregarded clothing surrounded by stacks of coconut shells and banana peels, and arrows flying in the air chasing a government car.
In 2004 the tsunami struck here and about 100 people died on the Andaman/Nicobar Islands, but not one of them was from this naked primitive tribe. Apparently, the day the tsunami struck, this tribe noticed that all of the birds were flying away, inland, up into the hills. So this tribe followed the birds- they knew something was wrong, these birds normally never fly inland. The tsunami struck. This tribe was safe because they listened to the birds. The man confirmed my thought, which is if this tribe is civilized and clothed, would they still listen to the birds? Would they understand them in such a thorough way?
One of the most interesting stories was a primitive tribe in the Andaman/Nicobar Island chain, which is situated west of India in the Arabian Sea. This tribe believed in wearing no clothing and would shoot arrows at clothed people who approached. The government deemed that they must be clothed, what an outrage! So once a month, for three days, they would visit the tribe and present them with clothes. In order to get them to wear the clothes, they would bribe them with bananas and cocunut, which they would get for free only if they had the clothes on. As soon as the gov’t workers would leave, the clothes would come off. So this chirade continued for some months. I imagined how funny this scene began to look on the beach; a bunch of naked people, a stack of disregarded clothing surrounded by stacks of coconut shells and banana peels, and arrows flying in the air chasing a government car.
In 2004 the tsunami struck here and about 100 people died on the Andaman/Nicobar Islands, but not one of them was from this naked primitive tribe. Apparently, the day the tsunami struck, this tribe noticed that all of the birds were flying away, inland, up into the hills. So this tribe followed the birds- they knew something was wrong, these birds normally never fly inland. The tsunami struck. This tribe was safe because they listened to the birds. The man confirmed my thought, which is if this tribe is civilized and clothed, would they still listen to the birds? Would they understand them in such a thorough way?
Thursday, February 7, 2008
Waking Up
As I wake, my ears are touched lightly by the roosting lovebirds, the crow of the rooster and the chareeeeeep! of something blue with wings outside of our window. I roll over to the epic sounding call of the mosque trumpeting into my ear, followed soon by the organ swaying praising church voices.
I get up and itch an abhorredly sneaky mosquito bite. Cool waters soothe the heat from the night. My nose warms to the distant smell of spicy vegetables being cooked and the ever lingering smell of wood burning stoves. Milky strong chai (tea) rolls over my tongue, speaking of earthiness and distant hills.
I step outside, my eyes nodding to the gecko guarding our door and to the doorman at the gate, who salutes me like a soldier going to war, not merely going to the bus. My nose first swings at the stands of fresh flowers, fresh fried dosa and then to the upturning smell of garbage, urine and stale water in the drain near the street. My nose then embraces the harmonious smells of squashed lemons, burning incense and strewn flowers that bedeck the local temple.
My eyes take control, feasting on more suculent flowers tied into garlands and then swept away by bicycles rolling by mounded with multi-colored buckets, young cocunuts and stacks of colorful hand woven towels. My eyes settle on a silver whisped bronze woman robed in tattered purple silk. Her cracked, weathered hands arrange small monuments of baby eggplants, towers of tomatoes and crowns of yellow green bananas as tenderly as if they were newborn chicks. She places this martydom of vegetables upon a checkered cloth, lovingly smoothed down at the edges. This delicate still life repeats all over on the roads to Coimbatore, my view from the bus the perfect visage.
The bus stand assaults all senses with waves of exhaust, urine, incense, sweat, fresh garlic, orange stacks, floating tobacco clouds, suspended bananas, blaring horns, torn sandals, sleeping dirty figures, smiles, elegant sarees of silk that float, beeps of mopeds, strong coffee with chicory and chiming cell phones.
My hand and foot barely find a place on my final bus ride, with packed bodies filling the insides of the bus, the occasional arm or leg protubing from its metal block frame. One half of my body is immersed in the bodies of the bus grabbing a pole, the other hanging free, drinking in the cool breeze slowly brushing past. The figure entwined next to me reeks of bryllcreme, moth balls and cough drops. He turns and gives me a toothy grin, says hello. I say hello back. Now I realize, I am fully awake.
I get up and itch an abhorredly sneaky mosquito bite. Cool waters soothe the heat from the night. My nose warms to the distant smell of spicy vegetables being cooked and the ever lingering smell of wood burning stoves. Milky strong chai (tea) rolls over my tongue, speaking of earthiness and distant hills.
I step outside, my eyes nodding to the gecko guarding our door and to the doorman at the gate, who salutes me like a soldier going to war, not merely going to the bus. My nose first swings at the stands of fresh flowers, fresh fried dosa and then to the upturning smell of garbage, urine and stale water in the drain near the street. My nose then embraces the harmonious smells of squashed lemons, burning incense and strewn flowers that bedeck the local temple.
My eyes take control, feasting on more suculent flowers tied into garlands and then swept away by bicycles rolling by mounded with multi-colored buckets, young cocunuts and stacks of colorful hand woven towels. My eyes settle on a silver whisped bronze woman robed in tattered purple silk. Her cracked, weathered hands arrange small monuments of baby eggplants, towers of tomatoes and crowns of yellow green bananas as tenderly as if they were newborn chicks. She places this martydom of vegetables upon a checkered cloth, lovingly smoothed down at the edges. This delicate still life repeats all over on the roads to Coimbatore, my view from the bus the perfect visage.
The bus stand assaults all senses with waves of exhaust, urine, incense, sweat, fresh garlic, orange stacks, floating tobacco clouds, suspended bananas, blaring horns, torn sandals, sleeping dirty figures, smiles, elegant sarees of silk that float, beeps of mopeds, strong coffee with chicory and chiming cell phones.
My hand and foot barely find a place on my final bus ride, with packed bodies filling the insides of the bus, the occasional arm or leg protubing from its metal block frame. One half of my body is immersed in the bodies of the bus grabbing a pole, the other hanging free, drinking in the cool breeze slowly brushing past. The figure entwined next to me reeks of bryllcreme, moth balls and cough drops. He turns and gives me a toothy grin, says hello. I say hello back. Now I realize, I am fully awake.
Wednesday, February 6, 2008
Thurachengadu Temple
Walking barefoot up the 1000 granite steps to the temple.
A stone Cobra carved into the mountain.
Carrying one of the gods around the temple,
presenting to all corners of the earth.
The Temple
A 3 armed monkey.
Being taught how to make Chipatis
A typical bike vendor on the street
The Kodiveri dam- circular reed boats.
Us enjoying the boat ride.
A pilgrim.
Old and New
Tuesday, February 5, 2008
Our abode and work places.
CSI Bishop Appasamy Our Apartment compound
(Eric's college) (2nd floor is ours)
The apartment- cozy and airy.
The CSI Hospital in Erode- 100 years old,
where Andrea works.
A family on the compound.
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