roti

I decided to make an Indian-style meal for my mom on Sunday (Mother's Day).  I made a meat dish, and where I live in India, meat dishes are eaten not with rice, but with roti, a flatbread composed quite simply of 3 ingredients - flour, water, and a bit of salt.

Simply composed, but not easily made.

It had been a while since I made it.  During the months before I left India in March for an extended time in the states, my roommate and I had hired a friend to make it for us a few times a week.  So when I began the process on Sunday morning, I realized I had forgotten what a mess it was.

Into a bowl of flour (with the bit of salt mixed in) I slowly added small amounts of water, all the while trying to mix it together with my hand.  You can imagine the stickiness.  There is always a point when I wonder if I'm getting anywhere, as it feels that most of the flour is glued to my fingers.  But I persevere, always remembering the countless times I've watched my friends do it effortlessly and free of anxiety.  Eventually, after the right amount of water is added, and the right amount of kneading is accomplished, the dough reaches the right consistency, my hand is relatively clean, and even the bowl is mostly paste-free.

On Sunday, the roti making struck me as metaphor.  The reason I almost give up in that moment of stickiness is because of the chaos.  It does not feel like something good is going to come out of these ingredients trying to mix together.  Sometimes I wish my life could be compartmentalized, the different parts of me kept separate.  It doesn't seem like they'll mix very well.  It feels chaotic to attempt it, and, quite frankly, that stresses me out.

As I enter my home culture for a season and familiarize myself with current events in my home community, I see evidence that I'm not alone in wanting to avoid times of confusion.  That is actually not meant to be a critique, but a compassionate observation.  We don't know what will be on the other side of chaos, and it's scary to get started on a journey that is sure to lead us through it.

If my roti on Sunday was less then wonderful, it was only because of my lack of practice.  I've been amazed at how amazing flour and water taste once they've been skillfully baked into roti.  It's definitely worth the mess.

Surely getting to the other side of chaos is always worth the mess.

at an afternoon party

In the beginning of the afternoon, at my friend's house several weeks ago, I had to swallow my pride and words of irritation, while all the middle aged women around me took turns disparaging all non-Indian food.  Why does such a little thing irk me so greatly?  Perhaps it's because I always see little things as representing bigger things, and thus unwittingly compound all difficulties in my life.

"Understand", I stumbled in Urdu, as I always do when my throat is constricted in offense.  "Understand that everyone feels about their own food the way you do about yours."

Seeing that in this group of 5 or 6, not one was moved by my sage words, I decided to go with a different technique - grumpy silence.

I couldn't stay that way for long though.  As the women (meeting together for the first time) got to know one another, let their own defenses and formalities soften up, I also couldn't help but be drawn in.  It was so interesting to observe and listen also, as they brainstormed ideas of what they could do as a group, a little society with a purpose to help their community in small ways.

As the afternoon went on, defenses dropped even more - and then the real conversation began.  For the next hour, there were tears of all emotions, as husband stories were told that tempt a single woman to swear off marriage forever, alongside hilarious teasing that forced delightfully comical personalities out of purdah.  

I would bless anyone who desires it with these moments.  What a gift, to sit surrounded by women whose lives are so different from mine I may as well be from another planet, and see evidence of the One I love.  Who else could've made humans in such a way that in the midst of a tragic life they could still laugh like a bunch of school girls?

Every woman in that group had a ready answer to explain the suffering we had been given witness to.  As for me, in such moments I find I have no answers, and the ones I hear often offend me in all honesty.  I've never been subjected to severe suffering.  But that which I've observed or heard about compels me to prepare myself, to be in a position to bend rather than break under trial.

Perhaps in the preparation, remembering the raucous laughter of these woman would be a good place to start.

updates in pictures

Here are some pictures of out of the ordinary things that have been going on in my life, from before Christmas until now.

Friends in our host culture are always so gracious to treat us to delicious food during their festivals.  This year we decided to provide a dinner for the children who live in a slum in our neighborhood, in honor of Christ's birth.  We served the traditional festival dish of biryani, made in huge vats.

listening to the Christmas story

waiting patiently for some biryani

our apartment at Christmas

a little evening tea for our neighbors

This is random, but I just thought this woman walking through my neighborhood was amazing…in case you can't tell, that's a child perched on her left hip.

A trip to the southern part of the country allowed me a short stop in a city where some former Delhi friends now live…such fun ladies!

 My cousin visited for a week!  Here we are on a day-trip to the Taj Mahal.

A trip to Chiang Mai afforded me the opportunity to eat at "Love at First Bite" cafe.  After nearly demolishing this rhubarb pie and homemade ice cream (I declared to my companions that a mennonite grandma HAD to have come and taught the Thai owners her recipes) I thought to take a picture of it.  For those concerned, I did finish every last bite, and the love lasted the whole way through!

I visited some friends in a city out in the state I used to live in…a place I'm considering moving when I return to India in September after an extended time at home.

view from their roof

general class

It was not by intent that my cousin and I ended up in what is termed “general class” seating on the train going to and from Agra a few weeks ago.  She had already made some courageous moves – flying alone halfway across the world for the first time out of the country…to India – and I wanted to make this train journey as stress-free as possible. 

But alas, slippery details slipped from my mind, and having forgotten to tell her to bring her passport along to the tourist ticket office, I was only allowed to purchase those tickets that I try hard not to – in the cars where tickets are not checked, anyone from beggar to eunuch is allowed to get on to do what they can to make some money, and climate control is non-existent.  I enjoy my relatively sparsely seated “Three-tiered AC” car, and look forward to train rides as a time to read and relax.  Well, I thought to myself, she’ll get the real experience now…and I will too.

Yet again, India blessed me that day, in spite of my hesitancy.  I loved how when we got on the train, early in the morning, the lights were not yet turned on, and undaunted passengers filed in, using their mobile phone flashlights to find their seats.  The persistence of the people I live among is as inspiring as it is exasperating.

I loved how the man who was sitting next to me got up from the seat he had paid for and gave it for a short while to a mother holding her child who had not, and then made sure we got off at the correct Agra stop, just because when faced with the choice of whether to help or not, it’s always better to help.

But the highlight of my day – on par with the Taj Mahal itself – was the ride home that night, as a microcosm of the country formed around us in our compartment.  There was the older-younger duo of businessmen, Delhi-ites working on their phones and laptops, chatting back and forth about whatever project they were working on while a chai seller sang buy every 5 minutes, and a hot, noxious smell drifted through the windows whenever the brakes were employed.

There was a gypsy-ish woman, who shamelessly demanded a spot to sit while she unpacked her wares – handkerchiefs and socks of the best quality, we were assured – draping them over her knee and that of the young father sitting beside her as she prepared and counted.   A man came on board at one point who looked as though he wouldn’t have been able to scrape together the fee for a ticket.  She invited him to sit as well, making sure he was comfortable.  After a bit she pulled out her wad of earnings – an impressive bundle.  “I know you think this is from the past week…but no!” she admonished.  “It’s all from today!”  We, the microcosm, watched as she counted and arranged her bills.  We asked questions of her, playfully interested in her quirkiness. After a while she rose and, calling out in a loud voice, started her rounds.  “Handkerchiefs, socks!  Good price!  Good quality!...”

And so, as my interest in the businessmen’s chatter waned, and as the gypsies made there way to other cars, I was left with the young father and his family to observe. 

A week earlier, another horrible account of the unspeakable abuse of a woman at the mercy of a group of men had hit the press.  These stories hit more than just the press – they hit my soul, and probably those of many women, as the awful statistics and descriptions are thrown into the air by the mouths of the concerned and outraged.  This last one rocked me, as I had just the week before finally addressed the fact that I was dealing with an immobilizing anger towards a nebulous idea of “violent men in India”.   My heart was hardening, and it was time to open it to healing. 

That case came to mind in its hideous juxtaposition as I watched this gentle man before me.  He looked at his two daughters with delight, and interacted with his wife in what seemed to me to be deep and respectful love.  I watched as he looked into her eyes when she spoke, wanting to understand what she said.  She snuggled close to him to ward off the chill – safe and secure.  His attention broke off her only when it was grabbed by his adorable girls, or to respectfully engage with my cousin and I, or others who happened by. 

As I watched this young father, I felt my heart expand, and as it expanded, another layer of cold anger-fear melted, and I understood that it had been intended for me to be in general class after all.  How typical – I had been so worried about this journey, when all the while it was exactly what I had needed. 

Sometimes the closeness and chaos of “general class” – whether it’s on the train, or in any other segment of life – feels like suffocation to this western individualist.  The endless interest and involvement feels like meddling. 

And sometimes, it all feels like some strange kind of love – comforting, if overwhelming.  Like the sun when it’s a little too warm, but you turn your face to it in welcome nonetheless. 

Beloved Nepal

I remember the first time I went to that little country surrounded by giants, but still her own place.  That's what was so refreshing about Nepal, 3 1/2 years ago.  She is similar to India in many ways, yet somehow unique and so winsome in that gentle uniqueness.  And she's home to some giants of her own - the breathtaking Himalayas.  These seem to give greater shape to her than the political entities on all sides.

I saw those mountains again a few weeks ago, closer than ever.  Two of my friends and I hopped over there for a 4-day trek in foothills of the Annapurna range.  What a strange mixture of life-giving awe and paralyzing dread I experience whenever I look up to the snowy peaks.  In the end, I always surrender - I am small, a little ant in the face of such unmoving strength - and thank God for the reminder of all that is, and all that will be.

amazing view - many thanks to one of my traveling buddies for most of these photos (the good ones!)

Trekking as a non-athlete is a spiritual experience for me.  It starts rough and I need to settle into the hardness of it.

the journey begins - just above the clouds, the peak known as "fishtail"

stop looking at me like I'm crazy

At first, I can't imagine carrying that bag on my shoulders for the next four days. The weight pulls on my shoulders and lungs as I climb, and teases my precarious sense of balance as I descend.  But at some point, my perspective changes.  I can do this - me, the klutz who has, let's face it, never seriously ran more than a few miles at a time and that with great reluctance.  I am strong and healthy by design and grace, and parasites and tumors and defeatism are not what I was made for.

The air is like magic, we say to one another, observing that there's so much oxygen, we haven't yawned since we started.  I picture it penetrating to my core, pushing out the toxicity of the big city.

We fall into our simple, comfortable beds at night, asleep by 8:00 - and then strangely, all wake up around midnight, ready to go as if we'd had a full 9-hour sleep.

one of the many tea houses along the way for lodging trekkers…we stayed at this one the first night

a view from the tea house

the lovely little dining room of our second one

By day three, I feel as if I could go like this for weeks, and regret the fact that the trip is so short. It's painful at times, yes, but that's okay.  Why am I always so afraid of pain?  How would my life be different if I was free from that fear?  Pushing through the fear of what I think I can't do - that's what trekking trains a non-athlete in.

That third day we hiked at our own paces for much of morning.  In the solitude - interrupted only periodically by the friendly Israelis, Europeans and Australians sharing the trail - I sensed God reminding me who I was.  And I found myself saying those things out loud, back to Him - and to the trees and birds, I suppose.

At one point we ran into a bunch of shepherds, desperately trying to manage a flock of sheep.  Observing the unruly creatures for only a few minutes gives new insight to some imagery Jesus used in His teaching - and in that light, humbles the observer.

What a gift, being able to go to Nepal again.  Thanks to my lovely companions for arranging it all.  Though I'm still working out the kinks in my shoulders...Annapurna Circuit, here we come?

a woman's story

As Molly and I walked onto her property, through the curtain that gives privacy from the rest of the shantytown that is her neighborhood, I was wondering what we would talk about this afternoon.  She is a powerful women - made of sheer grit, and also grace that she may or may not have yet acknowledged.  It's not always clear why we visit her.  Only that if we want to do any type of service or English class in the slum, we'd better have her as our front woman.  And also, there is the rhythm of life that I cling to here - if I'm not in the lives of the people I live among, I'll start to wilt.

So we go out, late mornings or afternoons, and visit those we know, and pray for grace to connect, to allow ourselves to be tied in some meaningful way to the neighborhood.  I needed that connection, yesterday afternoon.  When the conversation led somewhat naturally into her past, I asked for the story of it.

It would be overly sentimental to say her story was completely unique…I've now heard versions of it from many different mouths.  Still it rarely fails to intrigue.  It begins with the marriage to a stranger, arranged at a young age, and a young man and wife migrating to the big city in search of something to build up and leave for their children.  They rented a room for a little while, and then when she was three months pregnant with their first daughter, they staked a claim in an undeveloped plot of jungle, built a little hut out of wood and brick and spent their nights sleeping on a mat on the floor.  He hired himself out as a day laborer, while she cut down wood to sell to restaurants to use in their ovens.

His family was not pleased that the ambitious daughter-in-law had convinced their son to leave the village.  A few months after her daughter was born - in the hut - they came, and took their son, and their granddaughter, and returned to the village, leaving the young wife and mother to come to her senses and eventually follow them back.

But she didn't.  She stayed, with her mama's milk running down her stomach and legs, and her heart breaking.  Her brothers came to check on her every now and then, help her out here and there, brought a nephew for her to nurse.  When it was clear she was not leaving, her mother-in-law brought her husband and daughter back to her.

Every year or so a new baby came - always born in the hut - until there were five.  They added to their house bit by bit, and slowly the land around them was settled by other village immigrants, becoming what it is today - a strange, stewing mix of languages and cultures, sometimes blending, sometimes exploding.

A few months before I moved to Delhi, the government came and bulldozed the slum in the middle of winter.  The residents did what they could to collect their bricks and wood and curtains, and rebuild.  As she told her story, I looked around at her newly reconstructed house, the tired bricks having been mortared together quickly while officials' heads were turned.

Several women drifted into the house.  One needed to borrow a knife, two needed advice on how to settle a boundary dispute.  Their conversation rose above my level of comprehension as they communicated in the mixture of at least 3 languages that they've developed over the years of living, talking, and fighting together.

In the end, Molly and I had to awkwardly stand up in the middle of their chatter, our presence having been forgotten.  They looked at us and as they realized that we had been left behind, we all had a good laugh.

As we walked home, I looked down and saw some mud splattered on my trousers.  I had to smile to myself.  It's always good to hear stories like those we had just heard - helps me to remember that a little bit of mud is not such a big deal.

a poignant celebration

While I walked through the main neighborhood bazaar last month, relatively early in the day, I couldn't help but think of Christmas or Thanksgiving.  That feeling I still get at age 31, the morning of special holiday - a sense of urgency and excitement that I usually overeat my way out of just a few hours later! - I could recognize it in the air.  I felt it as I edged around crowds of men and watched them walk that funny bow-legged gate we use when we're trying to discourage our sandals from kicking up street sludge onto our clean clothes.  I felt it as I stepped out of the way of bands of youth running to catch the last of the special festival prayers at a mosque that was still offering them, or perhaps to make it to a certain house in time to watch a sacrifice.

This holiday is special for me.  It was the first one I celebrated after moving here 4 years ago.  I remember walking through the market in that city on chand raat ("moon night" - the nights before festivals, whose dates are determined by the moon), following my scurrying host sister as she weaved through the alleys to make it home by dark.  And everyone was out and bustling, and to sing "Silver Bells" would have felt both strangely appropriate and absolutely hilarious.

Yes, a special holiday...but a difficult one.  The first morning after chand raat, 4 years ago, our host brothers came running into the house and beckoned us come quickly to the neighbors' place across the alley.  We scampered over to their door and up the stairs.  We gathered with a bunch of women and children around an opening in the floor that looked down to the ground level, and saw what was probably a dozen men and boys gathering around a large, black water buffalo.  There was nervous excitement...I caught a glimpse of the large knife in the hand of one of the sons of the house, a guy right around my age.  The buffalo seemed uneasy, but still fairly clueless.

And then it was time, and it all happened so fast, yet painfully slow.  My own heart pounded as the crowd of men worked together to bring the beast to the ground...not an easy feat, and it took every one of them standing there. Then there were the adrenalized, urgent prayers of blessing, the flash of the knife as it was positioned, and finally, the cut.

I've watched several sacrifices, but have never actually seen that cut. I always have to look away at the end.  It's no simple thing, the giving of one life for others.  And it's good for me to remember that.