June 2005 Archives

You've been waiting for it. I know, you've mentioned it, asked about it, secretly saying prayers for me with it in mind.

It's Wednesday night and Kevin and I are at the beach with Srini, his wife and his brother-in-law. We walk, have raw mango with salty spice topping, and I buy a soda. Srini, as usual, lectures, talks, and tells stories. Interrupting him, I hear the screeches of a pet monkey, which Srini warns his wife to avoid. Although I can hear it clearly, it takes effort for me to see the animal. The same was true for the ocean. The beach's parking lot is well-lit, and the beach itself is dark. When we got out of the car, even though I could only see headlights and ice cream stands, I could taste salt and hear waves rolling whenever traffic would allow. Although, now, I can see the white crests of the waves as they break, forming an irreuglar line which separates us from the sea. The breeze feels wonderful. With the humidity, we're kept warm. I've adjusted to the weather enough that sometimes the fan will make me cold in the mornings. The air conditioner barely comes on anymore. We walk down the beach, in a line, kicking sand and feeling it flipped up onto the backs of our legs. Talking. Thinking. Srini tells us about the Ice House. About how the British, for their whiskey, wanted ice and had none here. When it came from England, they used the House, filled it was sawdust and kept it there until it could be redistributed. Chase, the brother-in-law, when conversation is quiet and thinking takes over, asks about it. "So, did the tsunami hit here?" In a Texas accent from a dark man. Yes. Yes, it did. It came over the soccer-field long stretch of beach, took all of the cars from the parking lot, and rolled them past the Ice House. Imagine 30 feet. Feel 30 feet. Feel its weight above you. Srini talks about it like one talks about dead relatives. Boldly, without reservation, and then, upon hearing one's self, quietly, hushed. He starts talking about the destruction. About how he felt the tsunami hit from back at his flat. Wondered how on earth an earthquake had found Chennai. He talks about relief. How He and Susan went to eat with those who were displaced when Rahman fed them. Tuesdays and Thursdays. He talks about how all of the buildings up the beach were ruined. He reminded me of when we had walked past the huts made of palm branches. Those used to be houses. He talks about the dirt and the muck that the tsunami dredged up from the bottom of the ocean, and in it's fury left it smothering the beach. He talks about how black the beach was. We walk down into one of the drains. Easily 50 feet wide, the drain is actually a place where water stagnated for months. The ocean slowly sucked the sand and the water back from here, leaving the surface beneath my feet hard and wet. I look toward the ocean and then in the direction that the wave moved, back towards the Ice House. I imagine it swelling behind my back, shudder, and keep walking. I climb back out of the drain on the other side. Srini had paused and he's starting again to talk about superstition. Softly, he talks about the fishermen, as if their grounded boats which we're surrounded by have ears. He says that they don't like to go out anymore. That if the tsunami came a few hours ealier, they would have all been sacrificed to the sea. He says that they're afraid now, as well, because there are more sharks in the bay than there were before. The fishermen don't trust the sea anymore. He goes on to say that the homeless, in the slums, don't come down to the beach to sleep at night either. Afraid. More afraid of what the ocean will do to their bodies than the damage that has already been done by their strenuous lives. He starts into the part of his story that always stops him; I realize that this is all I'll hear of the tsunami for the night. He tells us, pointing to the left of the Ice House, that that was a cricket field. When the wave took them, there were two teams of girls playing. The visitors were from Singapore, he thinks. They were washed out to sea, all of them. The only proof of their existence is a Singaporian's necklace that was pulled from the sand by a clean up crew. Just girls, he says. He scolds himself for talking carelessly about lives and pain. His silence slowly unfolds and envelops the rest of the beach.

But I plan to go some other time. Oh well.

You should read the last, ugly post that I wrote.

But, if you'd rather not, here's this one:

So is this entry. Proceed with caution; you've been warned.

Also for prayers.

Our maid, thanks to her culture, has some different standards for the kitchen. Now, she's in there, the kitchen, cutting up vegetables that, by American standards, would be called rotten and thrown out. The inside of the onions are not solid. The tomatoes, discolored. But, it will all get fried or boiled or cooked into one big, ricey mush, so I just try not to think about it. I made pancakes this morning. I was in the middle of it when she walked in trying to make sense of what I was doing. I told her that we were making American chipattis. That was a bad idea because she immediately cranked the stove up to its highest and reached into my smal bowl of batter and kneaded it in her unwashed, just-touched-a-collection-of-door-knob hands. But, that's ok. It's all going to get cooked off. Yesterday, I saw her washing dishes. I've tried to stay out of her way when she's working and I would be happier if I'd continued to do so. She stops the sink, fills it with water, and just gets the food off. No soap, no clean water. The oil stays on, and the tea leaves fresh crescents of brown on the plates daily. Indians don't embrace soap the way Americans do, which leaves everything covered in oily films. After eating with their hands, they rinse them. They go on with their day, touching the telephone and leaving their breakfast, lunch, and dinner oil on it and everything with which they come in contact. They touch the walls and, at waist level in many houses, there is a wide band of oil that is a discolored brown. Of course, the refridgerator handle is covered, as are all of the faucet knobs and handles. The cupboards have a supply of oil, as well, on the outside, not the inside of them. Indians also don't wash their hands after going to the bathroom. And if they do, it's without soap. Walking outside leaves a film on a person as well. Air pollution accumulates on hair, on skin; it burns my eyes and lungs. It is disgusting.
But, that's enough for now. Love and cleanliness to you all.

I want to have a beautiful entry for today. A grand thought which is worthy of your reading. I don't. I'm completely scattered, exhausted. A little broken. I'm in a place that is the story book setting. I'm reading a novel about The Other Side of the World, but I'm here. I walked through the town in which the story takes place. I ate in the bakery. I met the Syrian Christians that, according to the novel, have a large incidence of insanity due to inbreeding. The Other Side of the World. In my book I read about things that I cannot imagine and write off as creative flexibility. A few days later, these things are walking in my kitchen. It blows my mind. And I'm in a big city place. Where hungry people spot me and perk up, assuming that I am a free lunch for them. They follow me. Occassionally, they will grab my arms, hold me from walking. I don't have to be carrying anything on me, and they sense that my whiteness has bills hidden in it somewhere. A woman with glasses, casually talking to an auto driver spotted me today, abruptly ended her conversation and sprinted to me to beg. It is the most frustrating and saddening of situations. When I give to them, they are never contented, they will only run faster, cry louder, more, more, more. A man was talking today about how this is just a part of big city life. That the homeless are a part of every city of this size. That they're something that one just has to get used to.

I saw little boys today who are training to become monks. They were young and curious about their unusual visitors. I love the children here for the way they unreservedly make friends with a person. On the train to Kottayam, Kerala, I found a little boy that loved to make faces back and forth with me. His mother would pace with him, and he got to the point where he would cry if he wouldn't see me and where he was climbing over his mother to try to have me hold him. It was the most unusual and slightly embarrassing situation. It reminded me of my mother because of the way the she interacts with children. It used to embarrass me when I was younger, because I was always trying to be more mature and thought that maturity involved rejecting those who are younger than me (I was stupid, what can I say?). Now, I wish she were here to play with all of the babies. She would love it and love them. I fear that children, out of necessity, are neglected.

These are two quotes that make me think so much of my experience here:

"She has to stay indoors. She's very delicate. If she gets dirty, she'll die." This was said contemptuously by a child who thought her white guest was getting too much attention.

"On the wall behind him there was a benign, mouse-haired calendar-Jesus with lipstick and rouge, and a lurid, jewelled heart glowing through his clothes. The bottom quarter of the calendar (the part with the dates on it) frilled out like a skirt. Jesus in a mini. Twelve layers of petticoats of the twelve months of the year."

I'm going to get a picture of a Jesus that is painted on a wall near the entrance to Venus colony. That is a perfect description. Jesus with highlights. Jesus with mascara and eyeliner. I don't know what the Indians are doing with their visualization of Jesus, but it's really unusual. And sad. I've see so many images of Jesus that are kitschy, and he's just the beginning. It seems to be part of Hindu dogma as well.

The quotes (I almost forgot) are from Arundhati Roy's The God of Small Things. It's good thus far, but I don't want to comment until I'm finished. It was from before or around p 220.

Two more quick things: First, I bought my train ticket for Delhi yesterday. I'm leaving for the Lotus Temple et. al. on July 12th and will return on the 19th. The train ride will be around 33 hours, I think. Two nights, one day. LONG.

Second, I know that there are people reading my blog that are not commenting. This is the official invite: all are welcome to comment. All are encouraged, actually. And, props to my mom, who has left a comment along the way. But, don't feel like you're obliged to do so. That's it. Have a lovely day.

There is a tiny old Baha'i woman at the Baha'i Center whom I adore. The first night I went to Feast here, she claimed me. Had me sit by her, asked me questions and gave me a few answers. She mostly smiled a faintly bird-like smile, peering up at me with her dark eyes through her thick glasses. Her hair is short and white, slicked and bobby pinned back. She doesn't move well, as she probably suffers from the most severe of arthritis. Her toes cross over each other and her fingers bend in unusual ways. Tiny and old, she says a prayer every Feast that makes my spirit soar. Her English is slow and deliberate, purposeful, and she takes care of the Healing Prayer like it is as delicate as she. She cradles the prayer in her hands, like a still-fluffy chick. Lovingly reciting it, in English, for me.

For the few, brief visits in which I've been able to spend time with Grandmother B., I've collected images, smells, and kind words. I love to think of her and the eagerness with which she stuffed her grandchildren full of her amazing oatmeal cookies. I remember her neat array of antique silver mirrors and brushes. Every morning, she does her hair and make-up and will always be a Proper Lady. I remember a book of poems about Mississippi. It's out of print. I've looked for it. I remember her trying to serve me peaches and cream right after we arrived. I had never had it or seen it and was stuck in a moment of confusion. I remember her calling me Sugar and Darling in a beautiful Southern drawl. I played a few Irish fiddle tunes for her, very poorly, which she loved. I like that she calls my dad Charles, and I like the way she says it. She is an amazing woman, and I'm sorry that I've let it be difficult for me to get out to see her and to even to pick up the phone and call her. I love her. A lot.

Srini's grandmother-in-law's husband died 11 months ago. Thanks to a palm reader fortune teller, she's been living on her own for those 11 months. She was told that if she did not live independently for the year, that she would die before it was through. She has had to learn everything of the world outside of her apartment. Paying the bills, buying the groceries, buying clothes, everything but socializing, are things that were all done solely by her husband. She had to learn everything, except for how to cook. She took us in for the morning, fed us, talked with us, gave us coffee and let us take her picture. She's moving in with Srini next month, but she's been alone, isolated, probably intensely depressed, and our company was a noticeable relief. Her loneliness betrayed her, and she cried as we left. Serene tears wandered listlessly down her face as she said goodbye to the only visitors that she's had in a long time. She seems to accept the tears as if they are he usual companions, unashamed.

Thy name is my Healing, O my God, and remembrance of Thee is my remedy. Nearness to Thee is my hope, and love for Thee is my companion. Thy mercy to me is my healing and my succor in both this world and the world to come. Thou, verily, art the All-Bountiful, the All-Knowing, the All-Wise. - Baha'u'llah.

There are Indians that claim that India has no homeless. As if they're a rare species,
homo erectus worthlis.
Seeing the man on the street,
dirty bones matted hair glassy eyes,
they tell me that he isn't homeless. They say that no one goes hungry. No one dies from it, (at least).
They don't Give when asked by the homeless, the hungry. Contemptuous looks given to untouchable people. People who beg for money abandoned their pride, the one thing to which humans cling more tenaciously than life. Liar and Lazy, the ones that live at the busstop, have a child.
The baby's rented. She's not
really
starving,
heard from the same People, who give generously to
Others,
Whose maids bring guests coffee
and tea
on shiny trays in shiny cups with regally engraved initials. Who drive past the hungry in their shiny, regally engraved cars, with their coffees in Insulated mugs, buying bananas for elephants. Generous though they may be, a wall has been erected
to keep us in our place.
Can't give to the hungry, naive you are,
or else you'll be
Unworthy
of all that you've
Earned.

Even though I'm a violinist, music isn't the field in which I'm getting my degree. I'm actually getting a BPS, a Bachelor of Pseudo-Science.
-or-
Well, I'm majoring in witchcraft and voodoo.

This is what I want to say. I might as well. Every student here who hears that I'm a Psychology student has the same reaction:
"Oh, that's so fascinating/interesting/insert adj. here, I love to read Psychology. I read it all the time/when I'm waiting at the Consulate for my Visa/whenever I'm bored. So, you can read my mind; what am I thinking now? Do you know?"
I say that I'm studying Psychology, again.
"Oh, so, you must be studying all about what my mannerisms mean. Like eye contact."
I say, no. . .
"Ok, hypnotize me. You surely know how to do that. Or, you've not learned yet."
Again, no. . . I shake my head.
Once the students give me enough of a second to interrupt I'll mention social work. I want to work with women and children. I want to tell them what I really think of Freud (but no one appreciates that sort of language here, not if it's sincere at least. Feminists here are a bit like Christians in the States. The acceptable majority say that they are, but only a few are faithful to their beliefs).

Here on out, I'm just going to be an aspiring violinist. I don't care whether or not they know about my studies.

It's cool enough today that I wanted some tea. Some hot, green tea with cinnamon etc. It is a cloudy 85* and it rained yesterday. Oh, bliss.

The picture was taken in front of the infirmary (how wonderfully appropriate) of the school that Arundhati Roy's mother founded. It was amazing. I've noticed, while going through my pictures today, that my shoulders have been slouching in. This means that I'm exhausted. Lonely. Tired of India. If anyone has any good abroad-advice, I would appreciate it. As of now, I'm just planning on a night this week for pizza and a rented movie, if I can find a good one. And I'm drinking tea. (Not chai).

The maid, holding the trash can, points to a nearby pile of Belongings. Water bottle. Crinkled paper and plastic bags. Balls of tissue, neatly arranged in the same bags. Sweets. A toothbrush in its purple protector. A notebook. Headphones. Price tags from their trip to the mall that have been pulled from the clothes. Plastic utensils sealed in their plastic bag. Napkin included. She wants to know if she should throw it out, if it's garbage. I want to say yes.

Laundry is done so that my clothes can get dirty again. Last night, in the rain, my autonomous pants jumped from the line into a puddle. They were cleaned, and that is sufficient.

I have a reputation here. I'm not sure exactly what it is. It has to do with being liberal enough to think that men and women are equal. Uh-huh. With it comes a certain amount of freedom and a certain amount of respect. I mean that the men respect (= fear) me enough to not make chauvinist comments while I'm around. Frustratingly enough, I enjoy the comments because I can use those as an opportunity. I get a certain amount of freedom as well. Freedom from stilettos, make-up, and coordinating my wardrobe.

I have this reputation thanks (rather sincerely, to an extent), to my flat mates. They have been the ones telling students that "she actively shuns the role of a woman," (which isn't fair; I talked with him about that). There have been a few "it's a good thing you didn't say that in front of Kristen"s. Yes, really. I'm not quite sure why this is, because to my face, they embrace feminism. Oh, well.

Along the bigoted lines, "I just can't tell the difference between you. You all look the same!" Said with a laugh. Rather than create a lengthy and personal response to it, I just want to bring attention to it. I had not heard that for many years, as I try to avoid it, and it left me pensive for the day. The woman that said it was not calloused to me, rather, she was quite kind and generous. Do not write her off as heartless.

Is the next state over and I'll be there for a few days. I'm leaving this evening (on another stinkin' over night train) and I'll be back early Monday morning, I think. As gifts for our hosts (which is very Indian of us), we're bringing a can of crushed pringles, a crushed Hershey's Symphony bar (it's huge), and a small box of chocolate buckeyes. This is Srini's decision. I think this is funny. Gina and Kevin are, to the best of my knowledge, embarrassed. We'll be there for some sightseeing and a wedding, yet again. The good news is that it's cool there! It's only 85 and raining. Here, today, it was over 100. No more whining from ANYONE about weather in the US. Got it? : )

By the way, thanks for the concern and love related to my health.

I called Tim. This is good.

.. is the woman, not the picture. I wish you could have seen her.

Mendon has mentioned it on his blog. Malaria. Kristen has been feeling ill for a few days now, symptoms including migraines, dizziness, exhaustion, body/joint aches, and fever/chills, and these symptoms have elicited the word in hushed tones from those who don't have the ability to do blood tests. To remedy it all, I asked Srini to take me to a doctor today.

There are more images within for those who have fast connections or enough interest to tolerate waiting.

Clay pots which are filled with snakes of the lethal, posionous types.

Apologies, to begin. I will have much to post in India, but for some reason, I have this sneaking feeling that Miami will not provide the same inspiration for experience and comment. I hope that you are not disappointed if and when I cease to be prolific.

Test post for Kristen in India.

Beautiful