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.

a new language

I was remiss in assuming that I had one language to learn when I came to India.  Yes, there is the obvious - the mixture of Urdu and Hindi that is spoken here in the northern plains.  And were I to ever live in a different region, I'd need to learn what is spoken there.  But I discovered quickly there are languages other than spoken ones.  Each culture has so many languages of body and society, whole sets of movements and noises that communicate meaning.

As I was walking on the street yesterday, I realized that in the past months I've been living and driving here in Delhi, I've been learning a new language - the language of motorized vehicle horns.  Here is my attempt at creating a simple working dictionary (organized by level of amusement).

The Light Tap - This is the most subtle and most rarely used technique.  Seldom is the driver relaxed enough to employ it.  But every now and then it will be used to say something such as, "I'm here, just at your back right corner", or perhaps "I'm pulling into the parking spot you're standing in - kindly step aside".

Several Light Taps - This is a more common form of what is written above.  As a guide, it's often better to use repetition in communication.

The Long Frightened Blow - The one I myself use the most often, it's effective at communicating that what the driver of an oversized SUV near you is about to attempt could endanger your life.

The Long Angry Blow - The one I use secondly most often (after the above is ignored), it allows that aforementioned driver of oversized SUV to know that yes, I see him trying to throw his weight around and no, it's not okay.

The Long Aggressive Blow - This is employed by our SUV driver to respond that "yes, I know you don't like it, but, well, I'm doing it anyway".  This one I rarely use because, let's face it, it's rather foolish to be aggressive when you're the smallest vehicle on the road.  

Multiple Long Frightened/Angry/Aggressive Blows - The most amusing piece of all horn language, it is most often used in conjunction with actions of premeditated madness.  For example, a small, sputtering scooter driver may use this when he decides to run a stop-light to cross a huge intersection in front of trucks the size of small mountains.  A rough translation into the English language may be something like the following: "I'm betting my entire life and yours on the hope that you will hear me, see me, and stop.  For heaven's sake, save yourself - and me."

rash

I awoke early, at a time which I think would more be appropriately labeled as night than morning, to loud music and fireworks.  After a less than satisfactory night sleep, my brain in that foggy between-realities state, the thoughts came, the ones that still come after several years of living here…

Where AM I?  In what world, on which planet, would this noise, at this hour, possibly be considered okay?

I laid for a while, my body still while my mind traveled, looking for possible answers to my questions, trying to understand the words of the songs, mulling over thoughts of the day before.  I rose eventually, knowing returning to sleep was hopeless.

How rash this culture is, I think to myself later, sitting in a lit room now, trying to pray in the foreground of the cacophony.  Rash, impulsive…and as the words come into my grumpy conscience, I remember another time I used them recently.

I visited a friend a few weeks ago, an old neighbor I hadn't seen for a while.  She greeted me warmly, led me back to her bedroom, and pointed to a bassinet along the wall.  "Look who's come," she said.  I peeked into the cradle, and looked on a beautiful baby girl.

I was stunned - I had seen my friend 6 months before, how had I not known she was expecting?  After a few minutes of my gushing over her new daughter, she looked into my eyes and asked, "Can I tell you a story?"

Five years ago, my friend had almost died giving birth to her firstborn.  She had told me about this before…about how she woke up after nine days living in a dreamworld and had a son in her lap.  Now just 4 months ago, in the wake of a strange comment made by the fertility doctor she went to, the awful truth was finally revealed to her by her mother - due to a decision the family and doctor had made in the moment of crisis, she would never be able to carry a baby again.  My friend was devastated, having been hanging on the hope that had been given to her after her son's birth - that in 5 years, she'd be able to have another child.

Enter her post-adolescent, impetuous, unmarried brother.  About 3 months ago, he took a relative to the hospital for some testing, and upon arriving found an anxious crowd gathering around a tiny, freshly born baby girl.  The mother had just died in delivery, and the father, utterly stricken and already having several other children now motherless, was leaving her at the hospital.  My friend's brother thought quickly - or perhaps didn't think at all - and asked for the baby.  He signed a few papers, and took her home.

He called his big sister, who lives several hours away.  She rose from her just completed afternoon prayers to answer the phone.  On the other end of the line was her brother, asking if she wanted a daughter.  And she said yes. The next morning she and her husband and their son hopped on a train and went to welcome their new family member.

She finished telling the story, and we looked at each other with teary eyes, silent in response to the sacredness of it all.  Then she leaned over the cradle and I watched as her daughter looked up into her face, up to her life-source, her countenance all joyful cooing and light.  And one thought kept running through my mind…

How rash…how beautifully rash.