Mungeli

I slept my first afternoon in Mungeli. I didn't get much sleep on the overnight train (thank you creepy staring guy!), so I crashed as soon as I arrived at the Henrys'. Anil was returning from a court case deposition in Delhi, so Terry and I had a late dinner around 10 pm (turns out that 10 pm is quite early for dinner in the Henry household. Several nights we sat down for dinner at midnight).

It became clear the following morning that my cough was more than my lungs purging Kolkata's pollution... I was sick... again! I stared an antibiotic straight away. I REFUSED to spend my last week in India ill!

I went to morning prayers (in Hindi) and noticed that the men and women were sitting in different sides of the chapel (apparently that's how it's done in that region of the country... Alexander Campbell would be so proud!). After prayers, I took a tour of the hospital with Anil. I went into the ICU, the recovery ward, the women's ward, and the private rooms. I essentially followed Anil on his morning rounds and he explained all the cases to me. The thing about this hospital is that hardly anyone comes to the proper doctor unless it's dire (as the local medicine 'quacks', as Anil lovingly calls them, are the first, yet usually insufficient, treatment choice). Many of the cases could have been an easy five day antibiotic treatment, but rather, is now at the stage where a major surgery is the only option. There are also cases like the couple, who are currently healing in the hospital. They got into a fight, so the wife doused herself in kerosene and set herself on fire over the same of the argument. At some point, the husband decided to help and also got severely burned. There are certain cultural practices, whether it be superstitious magic medicine or extreme acts of martyrdom or anything in between that make proper medical practice in this place very difficult at times. People respect the doctors, that is abundantly clear, but it is often only when their loved-one is near death that the respect motivates action.

Also, entire families stay with the ill in the hospital. The looks of concern on their faces is heartbreaking. Especially now, during the harvesting season, it is a great sacrifice to leave back-breaking and meagerly paying jobs to stay at the bedside of a loved-one. Faces, prematurely aged by poverty, are etched with deep creases and tired expressions. Now their eyes are also filled with concern as well as exhaustion. This is not a full service hospital like in the States. Nurses are not available to bathe you or bring you water. A cooking staff does not prepare a tray of food to be delivered to your bed. It is necessary that a family member remain to give a patient basic care. There is no such thing as visiting hours' here.

After rounds, I headed to the CNI school that is run by the hospital. The principal gave me a tour and the children were incredible! Every time I walked into a room, they all stood and said, 'Hello Ma'am' or 'Good morning Ma'am'. The following day was Independence Day and they were all preparing for a special show (I returned for the actual performance the following day and was the 'guest of honor'). I watched practice and snapped a few photos before heading back to the hospital.

I napped much of the afternoon (stupid cough!) and accepted Anil's offer to stand in on a surgery in the OT. I watched a hysterectomy that afternoon and three more surgeries the following day. The surgeons were always very good about calling me over to see exactly what they were doing and why ('See the tear in his stomach here? We are stitching it up.' or 'Notice the fluid around the kidney? We've got to stop the oozing.'). They also included me in the pre-examinations ('see this blotch here on the sonogram? She is probably in the late stages of cancer. We'll take a biopsy to be sure.')

I have zero desire to become a surgeon, but I was fairly surprised that I only had to leave the room once during my entire four days at the hospital. I really am more capable than I thought!

There are three young doctors here as well: 2 surgeons and a dentist. The dentist is 24 and was very excited to hear that I was his age (the other two are in their late twenties, so he feels like a baby in comparison). Every night I was there, the younger doctors came over to the Henrys' to watch movies, eat dinner and hang out. We all had such a blast, and by the end of it I was beginning to get some of the medical jokes they told!

I wish I could have stayed longer -- as it was, I extended my stay by an extra day -- but I had to head to Delhi as I'm leaving in three days. Thing's didn't work out to meet up with Julien and Youssef (they went AWOL in Nepal for a few weeks), but I want to see the Taj Mahal before leaving India and it's near Delhi. I booked a stupid-expensive hotel for the last four nights. Its near some really cool Delhi sites, so I will be able to keep myself entertained. Right... not Mungeli...

It was interesting while in Mungeli. Anil laughed a lot at my fondness for Kolkata, because everyone from the country finds it over crowded and generally disgusting with pollution and waste; however, those who live in the city love it. I am one of them! I welcomed the trip to the countryside -- they are doing incredible work in Mungeli (Global Ministries should be honored to have a connection with Anil and Teresa Henry) -- but my heart is in the City of Joy. I adore Kolkata (as you all know by now). I cannot believe that I am gone from Kolkata and will leave India on Friday. I am not ready for that. I am certain that saying goodbye to my life in Kolkata was the most difficult part of this process, but I am no sure that it has actually registered that I am going to be in the States on Saturday... I am soooo not ready for that!

The Trek from Kolkata to Mungeli

I arrived in Mungeli on Wednesday morning of last week after an absolutely absurd overnight train from Kolkata to Bilaspur. I suppose I will begin from my last day in Kolkata, since it's been a while...

I decided to pack the night before so that I could spend most of my time going through my normal daily Kolkata ritual (it seemed very important to squeeze every ounce out of my life there). I even set my alarm for a very early 8 am as to get the basic 'I'm leaving' errands out of the way. Well, I woke up at 9:30, needed to shower DESPERATELY, and finally hailed a cab for the DHL couriers office around 10:30. Kolkata streets are all one way, but change directions midday (so, for example, in the morning a traffic flow will be northward and in the afternoon the same street will flow southward). I passed the DHL office everyday on my way to Park Street, so I knew I'd see the office. Except, I always catch an afternoon cab... my 22 rupee ride turned into a 100 rupee fair and I still had to call Phillip Peacock to give the cabbie directions (my Bengali was not sufficient to direct him to an unknown location). I still had to walk about 15 minutes, even then, before I found a different DHL office to mail my box home.

It was pouring rain by this point (I decided both Kolkata and I were tearful on my last day in the city). I went to chapel to say goodbye. I thanked the student body, and everyone came to speak with me after the service. I started to cry when a few of my closer friends walked up. It was combination of sleep-deprivation and the emotional realization that I was actually leaving. Of course, all the men were appalled, but awkwardly tried to comfort me by respectfully shaking my hand and complimenting me on my Hindi singing from a few weeks back. Their 1970s pro-football player mustaches (all the rage among young Indian men) cheered me up, as well as their kinds words.

I headed to Park Street finally around 2 pm. I had a final lunch at Flurry's (a restaurant where I ate often) and then I went to meet Cecile for a coffee at Barista (the place of faintage). Saying goodbye to Cecile was AWFUL!!! I'm still not quite sure that it has all sunk in. She was undoubtedly my first and best friend in Kolkata. We hit it off immediately and were able to break our way through the language barriers to stay close for my entire time there. I will see Cecile again (I'll travel to Lyon soon, I hope), but days aren't the same without her. I wore the earrings that she picked out for me as a gift form all the French kids. She knew that I always wore earrings (an Indian development for me) and chose a pair to particularly compliment my face shape and coloring. J'aime bien Cecile!

Now it was really time to leave. Maggie, Teresa, Amos and Sandeep all took me to the train and I hugged the last of my Kolkata life goodbye as I wrapped my arms around them in a final farewell. If I hadn't been so freaked out by the creepy guy staring at me, I would have bawled the entire 12-hour train ride to Bilaspur. As it was, I merely tried to best the man by reading (as though his stares were no big deal). He won the staring contest, when around 2 am I couldn't see the words on my pages anymore. I finally gave in to sleep.

I arrived in Bilaspur only one hour late and a driver patiently waited for me from Mungeli. We had to stop in town to pick up some tables and chairs for the CNI school before heading to Mungeli about 40 km away. as I sat on the bench outside the table shop, entire families came outside to stare for long periods at the white woman in their town. Toto, I don't think we're in Kolkata anymore!

And It Begins... CRAP!

I kissed Mani on the cheek and promised to be in touch via Facebook (hurrah for the world wide web!). Then I stepped out of the back seat to hug the beautiful man in pink who was standing beside the car.

'It's been a pleasure,' I told him, and Manu kissed my cheek.

He blew me another kiss with a faint smile and said, 'Je tu verrai en France!' ('I will see you in France!')

I turned towards the gate and walked into the Bishop's College campus. I managed to make it past the security guard and nearly half way to my room before bursting into tears. I like Mani (he's a proper Bengali man and very nice), but I adore Manu. I cannot believe that we just said 'good-bye' and how real (and how thoroughly devastating) it actually was. Oh man! This is no joke! I am leaving Kolkata in less than 36 hours!

Manu was traveling when I first met the French crew. He appeared for the first time (for me) on the night of his 24th birthday party in Youssef's Jadavpur flat. He immediately overtook the room with good cheer (despite the fact that we had all been slightly annoyed that he was running over 2 hours late for his own party and then arrived with three quite interesting men... Manu makes friends with everyone he meets and refuses to think anything but the best about people). He insisted that I, a total stranger who just happened to be at his birthday party, sit next to him and join in the card game that they were playing. This is the way Manu works, and it is impossible to not be enveloped by his positive attitude.

One night (as I, myself, was in a monstrous mood), I told Manu how I appreciate that he always wears a giant smile.

He responded, 'I smile always because life is always good. There is no reason not to smile!'

Have I said that I absolutely adore Manu?

I realize, as I am writing this and fighting back more tears, that I have come to think of Manu as a big brother-type (despite his being a solid six months younger than I). I think I will miss him the most of all the guys in our French-speaking group. He has an amazing heart, and I really respect him for that.

Saying good-bye to Manu makes the reality of my departure all-consuming for me. If tonight (and my hysterical tears) is any indication of how this whole leaving thing is going to work, I'm doomed! The next 36 hours are going to be unimaginably dreadful!

An Interesting Development

About half way through last week I realized that I have begun to smell like India. The fiery curries from the foods and sweet spices from the chai have seeped into my body so that my skin exudes the exotic aroma of this place. Each morning I awake to the now-familiar scent of a night's sleep under the gentle breeze of the ceiling fan. As I groggily lather myself in jasmine soap, I wonder how long it will be before my body reclaims the light "country linens" and fresh misty perfumes so popular in America. There is nothing soft about this Indian fragrance; it is rich and robust. It smells of complicated plurality and colorful mystery. For me it is both foreign and familiar. This is yet another sign of how India has claimed me... my mind, my heart, and now my body as well.

Bomb Blasts in Kolkata

A blast shook the Kolkata neighborhood of Chitpore's Jyotinagar colony yesterday afternoon, killing four. There was an immediate concern that this was indeed the fulfillment of terrorist bomb threats released earlier last week that had caused an increase in security throughout the city. Last night police were everywhere, carrying large military riffles and setting up check points at busy intersections throughout the city. Park Street (my usual hang out) still welcomed families out for a Sunday evening stroll and ice cream cone, but the city was much quieter than most weekends I have experienced here. There had been a bomb scare at the airport earlier in the weekend as well when three unclaimed bags were found sitting in an airport terminal. Upon further inspection of both instances, Kolkata police have ruled out terrorist activity... this time. The airport bags were not bombs, and the deadly blast was caused by an abandoned military shell on the road. Here is the link to the Times of India article for those who are interested: http://timesofindia.indiatimes.com/Bomb_explosion_kills_four_in_Kolkata/rssarticleshow/3321890.cms

After the bombings in Bangalore and Amedabad, all of India is on a heightened sense of alert when it comes to terrorist threats. Things are tense here, and street conversations often include phrases such as 'what is this world we now find ourselves in?'. India is such a beautiful country in so many ways; the kindness of Indians can be rivaled by none. Still, tensions run high, particularly when religion comes into the mix. While this time it was not terrorist activity that produced the deadly explosion, there is still a sense that the City of Joy is merely biding its time before something unspeakable happens at the hands of extremists. What is this world we now find ourselves in, indeed.

Become Indian, Just a Little Bit

I sang in chapel today at Bishop's College, a song in Hindi. Everyone in the group has been quite impressed by how well I picked up the pronunciation of the Hindi words ('No one will believe that this is your first time in India, you're Hindi is so sweet!'). I even learned the chorus from memory, which is something that astonished many of the students and professors here. It makes me all the more excited to attempt actually learning Hindi when I return to Chicago. There is something quite satisfying in mastering a simple traditional Indian hymn. It makes me feel like a piece of me is legitimately becoming Indian, which is something that pleases me greatly... my heart is already there.

Never a Fun Thing

It is always difficult to say goodbye, but the experience becomes particularly significant when a farewell carries with it the knowledge that you will probably never set eyes on a person again. Today I wished 'Bon Voyage' to two of my favorite people in Kolkata. Julien and Youssef left for a month of traveling through India before returning to France and Morocco, as their internships are now complete. My time in this city has been marked by countless nights of cooking dinners at Youssef's apartment in Jadavpur, going to listen to Latin music at our favorite Kolkata pub, and dancing until the early morning hours with my French speaking friends. Julien is the garbage disposal of our group. His 21-year old male metabolism allows him to consume not only his own absurdly large meal, but also every morsel left on the five or six other plates at the table and still remain unfairly thin. Youssef always provides the perfect combination of utter hilarity and intense philosophical musings, and I will miss our numerous evenings of genuine laughter and meaningful conversations. The city will not be the same for me in their absence, and it makes more poignant the point that this Kolkata life of mine is only temporary.

I am thinking even more about my own departure from this city in a week and a half. While I am very sad to contemplate leaving, somehow it seems less depressing as I have another few weeks of research and exciting adventures waiting for me (not to mention the triumphant return to my family, friends, and Diet Dr. Pepper... yes, I am seriously addicted to the sweet sweet American carbonated nectar). I long for the 25 hours of airline travel that will carry me across the Atlantic to my home, but I am beginning to really mourn the loss of the life I have created in this place. Youssef and Julien leaving today brings a realness to that prospect. It is our hope to meet again in a few weeks in Amritsar; but if India has taught me anything, it is to never hold too closely to your expectations.

As I sprinted out of the taxi into a sudden downpour and the quickly forming puddles in front of Bishop's College, I took a short glance at my two dear friends. In that split second, I held the full knowledge that it just may be the last time that I would take in their faces from anything but a photograph. The rain felt eerily appropriate, as in that moment an overwhelming sadness flooded my heart.

Some Thoughts on Christianity in N. India

It seems as though ecumenism in India (Northern India in particular) is rooted in a necessity, more than simply a theological ideal. I have already discussed in various posts the extreme religiosity that permeates the Indian culture, and in a country where Christianity is such an extreme religious minority, those who profess a faith based in the Gospel of Jesus Christ must come together rather than remain disconnected due to denominational boundaries. I do not intend to make the claim that a theology of Christian unity does not play a significant role in the identity of Indian Christians, however. The ecumenical ideal is as vibrant as the women's sarees here, and many of the leaders in the North Indian unity movement were Indians, rather than their Western counterparts.

T.K. Thomas spent much of his career working in the Geneva offices of the World Council of Churches and was considered one of the finest advocates of the world Christian unity movement. His numerous writings championed the most cutting edge ideas of ecumenical theology (particularly in India). "The Christian ideal, then, has nothing exclusive about it," Thomas writes. "It invites people of all religious persuasions and people of no religious persuasion to work together for human development", largely because Christianity recognizes its Christ as the fullest embodiment of authentic humanity. Still, according to Thomas, such emptying and blurring of any religious identity is a necessity of the Christian faith. "We cannot follow the Christ who emptied himself without emptying ourselves of all things -- including our identities."

Furthermore, Thomas was a leading name in cause of inclusive language and women's rights in the Indian Church. In a country of extreme class-ism, caste-ism, and sexism, he argued that it was simply inappropriate to discriminate against 'the least of these' (in this case, women) in words and deeds if we are to hold Jesus's Gospel message true. God is ever present and aware of all that occurs. God is everywhere and all things. Thus, "everything must of course include woman, but she is not seen, she is, for the most part, excluded." As a result, women (who make up the majority of practicing Christians in India) are followers of the male monopolized God. In the current Indian culture, such claims are quite revolutionary, but so is our Christian faith, he argued. Christ came to give good news to the oppressed, thus requiring the Church, both male and female, to become more "daringly eclectic" with our language for God.

Still, nothing about such claims are simple in a society where one's location in the cultural hierarchy makes all the difference. Many of the Hindus that I have met talk to me about their appreciation for the man Jesus of Nazareth. They recognize the value in his teachings of love and care for others, and they even speak of him as a respected Guru. Christians are esteemed for their work with the poor and the excellent private education that they provide India. Still, Christianity has a message that is not particularly appealing to those in the higher echelons of Indian society, as it advocates for a breaking down of exclusionary social and political structures. Hinduism often welcomes elitism (though I do not pretend to be naive of the same potential in prosperity gospel or predestination theologies within Christianity), thus the majority of Christian converts from Hinduism are those in the lower castes. And so we return to the cultural necessity of uniting in a common cause, or faith. Dhanji Bhai Nauroji said in 1881: "[Indian Christians] belong, it is true, to various denominations, but seldom if ever do they make anything of denominational differences. The fact is, they do not know and are not eager to know, what these difference exactly are. They are Christians, and they glory in that name."

Yet, the colonized Indian Christians still remained dependent on their missionaries and thus held tightly to the ties of their mission churches. As a result, the conversations surrounding church union in North India brought with it unique tensions concerning dual identities: the traditions of their Western evangelists and the realities of their indigenous faith. They required approval from the Western powers, since the movement was one for unity (rather than further separation in the name of denominational preferences) and often struggled to find an acceptable road map for union in the eyes of their Western founding churches.

Eventually there was success after four official drafts of a unity plan. The powers that be in the West were satisfied with the proposal, and in 1970, the Church of North India was inaugurated. Some have said that the greatest and last significant success of CNI was the day it unified. They argue that few know of the continued work of the Church of North India and that (particularly here in Kolkata) the Catholic and Assemblies of God presence is the Christianity of which most Indians are aware. Perhaps that is largely caused by the tensions that have always existed in CNI between its historical ties with the colonizing religion of the West and its desire to be an indigenous Indian Church. Both the Roman Catholics and AGs are still controlled by their Western heads and can be more publicly present due to their outsider status. It is much more difficult for an Indian church to decipher its mixed identity in the public square. It again becomes the struggle that Mainline Protestantism in America grapples with : how do we both profess loudly our unique Christian faith and still be active and respected participants in a pluralistic society that does not necessarily share our faith commitments? How do we be revolutionary prophets for the peace and justice of Jesus Christ without disrespecting those who believe differently (and thus negating our own purpose of sharing the Good News)?

I think the beginning of the answer must be unity. Holding onto fights over history and polity, of schisms and excommunications does not seem appropriate any longer (I am not certain, personally, that it ever was, but that's a conversation for another day). CNI is on the right path, they are Christians in Northern India first and products of certain mission fields second. The next stage of their work will be to discern what their future holds as a faith communion. It has been nearly 40 years since the 40-year unity conversation culminated in the inauguration of the Church of North India. If the seminarians I have met at Bishop's College are any indication of the forthcoming church (and I like to think that seminarians always are!), I am very excited to see what CNI has in store for Northern India.

Two Weeks Left... Sad Face!

Yesterday was my two week marker for leaving Kolkata. I have ridiculously mixed emotions about it. Even now, as I write the words 'leaving Kolkata', I am getting choked up at the thought, while simultaneously longing to be on a plane over the Atlantic towards home. My friend Danny Mac was absolutely correct when he told me during our tea date in Delhi "India will challenge you and change you, it always does, but it will never be in the ways that you expected." India has its own plans, that is certainly true.

In some ways, I expected to be overcome by the extremeness of this country. It is so very different from any place I have been before (ah, Cynthia Lindner's point from the beginning of this whole grant process). The poverty is overwhelming; the language(s) is so insanely complicated for me (due to how very different it is from any of those I have studied); the culture treats women in a bizarrely privileged and simultaneously repressed fashion; I, as a Westerner, am both a welcomed profit margin and a mistrusted imperial representative.

Still, the stares don't bother me anymore; I happily wear my jeans on the street and a salwar kameez to church; I give directions to the cabbies (in Bengali!) and fight for the metered rate when they try to double the fare; I wash my clothes in a bucket, then use it for my bath; I am singing in a Hindi ensemble. I love Kolkata and feel in many ways like it has become another home to me. Perhaps my American homestead-trio (Bville, where I grew up; Indy, where my parents own a house; and Chicago, where I live now) has made "home" a less concrete concept. Still, I feel like the woman that I will be for the rest of my life will be intensely linked with my time in this place. I feel like I need to come home (to the States) in order to even begin to process this summer. In many ways, my scholarly research on CNI has been simple: library books and articles are familiar... it has been reading, interviewing, and attending worship services. And while very little about the Church is easy (particularly one based in Christian unity with diversity as a founding principle, hear that my Disciples family?), everything about being a 24-year old woman traveling alone in India is VERY difficult.

It seems fitting that I would be in India for the Monsoon season; I often feel like there is an internal monsoon brewing as well. On any given day, it is sunny and bright, humid and cloudy, raining and cool. 30 seconds are enough to turn the previous sunshine into a desperate downpour. A monsoon in the city means flooding of ancient and unequipped sewage infrastructure, more common power-outages, the redistribution of waste by newly formed street-side streams, not to mention the increased hardships a season of rain and flooding has on the urban street dwelling community. Yet, the monsoon brings with it the promise of water for a year of crop production (which means food!) and a cleansing of debris left from the previous months. When the first bursts of the monsoon occur all buildings suddenly empty as everyone gathers in the streets to celebrate the coming of the rains. Children splash in the puddles on their way to school, women in vibrantly colored sarees of cotton and even silk dance in the downpour, and men laughingly hug one another as their suits become drenched by the waters falling from the sky. The monsoon means that life will continue; and despite how frightening that may be, everyone in India knows what a blessing it is to live.

Safe

First, let me reassure everyone who may have heard the news of terrorists threats aimed at Kolkata. I am 100% safe at this moment in time. I was just paying the taxi who had brought Cecile, Carole and me to Jadavpur (the Kolkata suburb where Youssef has an apartment) when my phone began to ring. Dr. Caleb was calling to ask me to come back to Bishop's College immediately, as there had been a series of emails sent indicating that a terrorist organization would be targeting popular Kolkata locations in a series of bomb attacks. Unfortunately by the time he had explained the situation, our cab had left and there was not another taxi to be found. He said that it would be okay for me to stay at Jadavpur for the night as long as we avoided public places. To be honest, I felt more comfortable sequestered away in their suburban flat than in a taxi that would necessarily be crossing major overpasses on the return trip to the city proper. I explained the situation to my four French friends (plus the Moroccan Youssef), and I was a little shocked that they were not particularly concerned. Sunil was certain that these threats were to be taken seriously, but no one in the apartment, besides Youssef and myself, seemed at the least bit worried. Then I realized these friends are residents of the country that openly objected to the American 'War on Terror'. They have not had an open attack on their national soil; it was not the Eiffel Tour seen crumbling to the ground on September 11th. I do not say this as a critique, but rather as an observation. It makes sense that the American would be freaked out, while the French in the flat would be discussing whether to use butter or oil to fry the chicken samosas.

Cecile noticed that I was uneasy, and I explained that Americans are particularly jumpy these days when the word 'terrorism' comes up. I also told them about being in elementary school when my home state was attacked by one of our own (the 1995 Murrah Building bombing in Oklahoma City). This stuff encourages particular paranoia as far as my own memories are involved, so I was going to be a bit edgy for the evening.

By 11:30 pm, all was still well in Kolkata, so we decided to head back to the city. I arrived at Bishop's College safe and sound (the police force was increased in number and in firearms, so the city is clearly on alert), and I will stay in less public locations until we know that the risks have passed. Just to give you a sense of the time difference, India is 9.5 hours ahead of EST in the US. So, when the time punch at the bottom of my post says 4:30 am, it is actually 2 pm in Kolkata. I am safe, so no need to worry about me. Do keep the city of Kolkata, the state of India, and all who reside here (both those targeted by terrorists and those who feel that terrorism is appropriate) in your thoughts and prayers. 

What's In a Name?

My name in India is essentially 'Bettany' or 'Bet'. No one can come close to pronouncing it with the 'th'. Even Miriam, my Irish friend could only call me 'Betny' (something I became accustomed to while living in Galway), though she could at least understand what I was saying when I told her my name (Just FYI, there is an INSANELY huge worm crawling across my floor right now, and I'm not the least freaked out!). Imagine my utter glee when I met Kelli from Ohio tonight. Not only did she have a beautiful midwestern accent, but my name made perfect sense to her. The 'th' sound was music to my ears!

Wait for It...!!!!!

Anne, one of my French friends, brought home a DVD from the Bastille Day celebration we attended two weeks ago (I can't believe that it has only been two weeks -- especially since I was bed-ridden for five of those days -- but the time passes differently here). The Indian version of 'Entertainment Tonight' (or ET) television was at the party, since it was one of the major social events in the Kolkata year. We all laughed as they talked about 'all the celebrities and famous people of Kolkata' in attendance at the party... and then... wait for it... the video cut to a shot of MOI!!!!! There I was, chatting with someone I had met that night. There had been a camera man around me for several minutes at the party, but there were actually two shots of me, one of Anne's back, and a full face shot of Cecile! My friend Santanu was interviewed (since he's a famous Bengali photographer, something I didn't know until seeing the video), and they kept talking about what a "totally happening event" it was on the Kolkata scene. Talk about a total hoot! Cecile talks about life in Kolkata as a 'very strange fairytale'. This considering, I think she may well be right.

Can't Get Away From It

So, I am singing in the choir at Bishop's College. I know, I know, big surprise that I would discover a way to sing, but its still fantastic to have music in my life here. We have a performance on Sunday at St. James Church (CNI, formerly Anglican) and I am very excited. Both songs are in English (one is 'Let Us Break Bread Together', one of my personal favorites), but they all have a very unique southasian sound. At first, it was difficult to remember the Indian pronunciation of words, yet those eventually stuck (though I still want to say the 'th' sound, rather than a simple 't'). Also, I am singing contralto (most of the 10 women are sopranos) and have to sing with a very nasally quality. Still, despite having to relearn technique, I am loving it. Today at lunch, one of the 3rd years asked if I would sing with the Hindi group as long as they were able to write out the lyrics in 'English letters'. I forget that everyone here considers the Western alphabet 'English'. Yet, it makes sense considering British colonization. I have been thinking about trying to learn Hindi or Bengali when I return to UC in the fall. It will be ridiculously difficult, but worth it, since I absolutely plan to come back. Have I mentioned that I LOVE IT HERE!?!?! I hope that Maggie's ordination as one of the first CNI female priests in Kolkata will give me an excuse to return. Maybe I'll even sing in the choir at her ordination service!

Thoughts on India

I burst into tears yesterday when I realized that I how soon I am leaving... again (you'd think that I would have gotten used to it by now... but no!) I have taken to reading travel journals of Westerners' journeys throughout India and was in the middle of one woman's account of finally boarding a plane home to Sydney after two years here. At first I thought, "I want to go home!" and then I realized, "Ten weeks is not possibly enough!" At that moment I found myself desperately homesick, for both America and for this place that I have grown to love as a second home.


A few nights before I left, Mom and I had dinner with a couple who have spent a number of holidays traveling throughout India. I was in solid freak-out mode, but the Grant's stories calmed my immediate nerves and made me more excited about my trip than afraid. Mrs. Grant told me about witnessing Mr. Grant after he returned from his first trip to India. 'He simply stayed in bed for hours, then would suddenly bolt up and begin speaking rapidly about his trip. I had never seen him in such a state.' Eventually she joined him on a trip to India and began to understand.


India is a land of extremes, particularly when it comes to love. Bollywood movies portray ridiculous heroes who pine for the beautiful heroine of their desires; music mournfully longs for passionate affairs; restaurants are lit by candles and dim torches to encourage romantic rendezvous... all of this in a culture of carefully negotiated arranged marriages. Perhaps it is because reality so rarely allows for such fantasies to consume life and as a result India demands to dream. If one cannot spend eternity with a soul mate, then you spend this incarnation in love with India. I know I am.

Midnight Philosopher

Youssef is about everything one might expect a Moroccan to be: his is charming, smooth talking, hot tempered, and devastatingly handsome. He has become one of my more constant of Kolkata friends -- insofar as I am constantly certain that every ounce of time with him can only be measured by the frequency that I am forced to roll my eyes at his hilariously cliche antics (it has not been a successful night with Youssef until he has instigated utter absurdity .. in that Moroccan way of his). As soon as the night falls and the mosquitoes rise, however, Youssef becomes a philosopher. Surrounded by a cloud of his chain-smoking, he insists that his conversation partners discuss the meaning of life, the significance of travel (which he terms 'your pilgrimage'), and 'this thing we call relationship with humans'.

A few nights ago he told me that his word for life is 'God'. I grinned and told him that he stole my word ("You jerk!") and then specified that I would have chosen the exact phrase 'the Divine'. I never talk God or divinity with my French-speaking friends (most of them are properly French and lapsed Catholics who are politely freaked out by any religious conversations), so it was a bit starling to be discussing faith journeys in Youssef and Manu's Jadavpur flat.

My Moroccan friend is Muslim, though he isn't practicing right now. "It is very bad, Bettany," he said, "I am not practicing." He told me about his trip to Darjeeling (a city that sits on the base of the Himalayas). One day while there, he felt compelled to stop for one of the daily prayers to Mecca. As he rose, he saw the mountains ("What is the word for strange feeling on my arms?" "Goosebumps.") "Yes, I felt goosebumps along my arms and I knew for the first time in my 26 years that God is real." Now India has become for him a pilgrimage to find the truth of Islam. He said, "I do not know if Islam makes sense, but now I ask questions about it, and maybe one day I will practice again."

I smiled at the honesty and simplicity of his statement. I told him of the night I spent standing on a volcano in Hawaii under an indescribable dome of stars and sang an 'Alleluia' to God. As the song reached its crescendo, the volcano began to erupt and small streams of flowing lava bubbled into the sea. "I felt the Divine in that moment, standing in the peaceful, yet terrifying glory of God's creation."

"So you practice, non?" Youssef asked.
"Yes, I practice."
"And you are Christian, oui?"
"Yes, I am Christian."
"That is good for you."

I looked at my friend and remembered the Hindi greeting 'Namaste', which means 'I see the divine in you.' The Divine is deep within you, Youssef, I thought. I am certain of that.

The Land of Religion

I had been sitting in a taxi, on my way to my favorite coffee shop on Park Street (yes, the one in which I fainted), when I saw familiar faces from the Baptist Missionary Society. 'The Christians' were standing on the corner of the road, and I began to yell 'Oyje! Oyje! Daane! Baz!' ('There! There! To the Right! Stop!') while waving frantically in the direction of my friends. I tossed a 50 rupee note at the driver for a 30 rupee ride and sprinted across the street. We all exchanged hugs and they began telling me of their many adventures over the past two weeks. Their stories were mostly about praying over Hindu converts to Christianity, and I realized that I wasn't merely pretending to be interested in their adventures, I was actually moved! I remembered how freaked out I was (but obligated to allow it) when they asked to lay hands on me and pray during our first weeks in Kolkata. By the end of the 30 minutes of Bethany-focused prayer (which included chanting, singing, and what I believe may have been speaking in tongues), I have to admit that I felt more willing to let go (partially) of my obsessive compulsive tendencies and to trust God during this time in India. If there is one thing that India is teaching me, it is a new kind of pluralism and religious tolerance. So they like to pray over people, does that really threaten my more pristine (and less charismatic) version of Protestant Christianity? Maybe a little bit at home, but not in this place. In India, religion is everywhere.

This is not a land of the cherry/B.O. scented rearview mirror air freshener; rather, each taxi and autorickshaw is decorated with various pictures of Ganesh, Mahadevi (the great goddess), or Shiva and Vishnu, whoever is the driver's Hindu god of choice. Some even sport freshly burning incense and recently purchased garlands of flowers along the dashboards. For the terrifying 20-minute drive, you find yourself praying that there may just be something in their makeshift, dashboard temple that will guarantee your safe arrival at your specified destination.

The Hindu religion, if one can every really claim there is ONE Hinduism, is a religion of tolerance. There are so many choices of divine manifestations of the One Divine Absolute, how could Hinduism then claim a single Truth to God? Instead, Hindu ritual takes this opportunity to get personal, to mold itself to the worshiper while that person is also following a long-standing religious tradition. Shiva, often known as the god of outsiders, may find a strong following with those excluded from the Brahmanical mainstream, whereas a popular myth associated with Vishnu depicts the moment when Brahma gains the ability to create (both very important stories for the caste system). Each of these deities have multiple incarnations -- to increase the divine buffet -- with additional wives and offspring as well. The options are endless, and the faith is devout... all for this trinity -- Shiva, Vishnu, and Brahma -- the divine Absolute. (Plus, there are numerous forms of Yoga, countless ashrams associated with Gurus, and a plethora of religions which derive from Hinduism... Buddhism and Sikhism, for example.)

I wonder if the Roman Catholic Saints provide some of the same relationship of intimacy with the divine as the Hindu gods seem to. I think, perhaps, Saint Joan d'Arc could be a helpful ally as I make my way through the male-dominated Div School. Maybe I should have spent an evening in conversation with Saint Christopher before leaving on this ten-week journey (I don't care if he's been officially ousted by the Vatican or not! Woot for the Saint of travelers!) Certainly the gentle face of Mother Teresa (okay, not a Saint yet, but I'm sure its only a matter of time) reassures me as I walk through the impoverished streets of Kolkata.

It must be difficult at times to be a Christian in India. Everywhere you go, you are bombarded by religious relics and rituals that (according to the European missionaries who brought you Reformed Protestantism) are no more than superstition or dark magic. The Hindu religion and Hindi culture are so often intertwined. That must be more exasperating than being a Democrat in Washington County, Oklahoma (and that ain't easy, my friends!). Still, it often seems that perhaps the Hindi culture is exactly the kind of place that a Christian minority could thrive. A divine creator known through the life and message of the Messiah and the works of the Holy Spirit is not incredibly far fetched in comparison. Our Absolute is also known by a plethora of names: YHWH, Jahova, Lord, Emmanuel, Jesus, the Christ, the Dove, Tongues of Fire, the Holy Spirit... maybe it's not that different than Vishnu, Shiva, and Brahma.

Next time I am nearing death by taxi ride, as the driver lays on his horn and thanks Nandi (Shiva's vehicle, the white bull), I'll grasp my Jerusalem rosary and pray to my (Christian) God.

Back from the MIA... Sorta

I wish I had a story of an old withered fortune-teller whispering into my ear "Miiiizzz. India goood forr miiiizzz. In India Miiiz finds frrriends, finds looove, finds herrrself. Buuuuttt, Miiizz gets big clunck on the heeeead in India too!" If a fortune-teller had explained my Indian destiny to me as such, then perhaps the past three days would have been easier to bear. But, alas, no fortune, no warning, just a humiliating collapse at my favorite Kolkata coffee shop as I dropped to the floor in a dead faint while waiting for my daily lemon ginger tea. (Note: I'm okay now, typing and all!)

Needless to say, everyone I know here has been in a minor degree of panic because the Westerner blacked out on Saturday. I will admit that I have probably been the person displaying one of the highest levels of anxiety, which has probably not helped the situation much at all. One minute I was wishing my tea would come already so I could sit down (!), the next thing I knew I was being shaken awake from the most lovely dream. Unfortunately, my bed was the coffee-shop floor and there was a crowd of terrified folks trying to assist me to my feet.

"It was a seizure!" One man exclaimed.

"No. No." A woman told him, "It was a heat stroke! Westerners can't handle the Kolkata heat!" (I remember being mildly annoyed by her comment. I had zero clue what was happening, but let me tell you about August in Oklahoma, lady!)

"Can I call someone for you?" A youngish-looking man in a white shirt asked me.

"Aaaaaar..." I groaned as they placed me at the table. "I thhhhink I'mmmm okaaaay. Just neeeeed waterrrrrr...."

They slowly dispersed. I then called Caleb.

"Hiiiieeeee, Callllleeeeeeb," I slurred. My voice and limbs hadn't yet discovered that I was no longer unconscious. "Uuuuuuummmm..... I fainted aaaat Barrrreeestaas aaannnd I need someonnnne to come get meee heeerrrre."

"You're at Barista's? We're coming straight away, Bethany. We'll be there soon." Poor Caleb, he was totally freaked.

I spent the next 25 minutes trying to convince my fingers to grasp the water bottle, contemplating another faint so I could at least lie down again, and praying "Please God let Caleb get here soon. Please God!!!" I finally decided to brave the spiral staircase that led to the second floor bathroom (this is an utterly unfortunate layout for Barista's more sickly clientele) and returned to see Professor Peacock standing at the counter.

"We have a taxi," he told me while taking my pulse. "We're taking you straight away to the hospital to be checked out by a doctor!"

The five minute cab ride was more terrifying than normal. I had zero clue what was happening on the road, but I was certain that my head was about to explode all over the lovely Vishnu sticker on the dashboard.

The hospital was gloriously air conditioned and much cleaner than any American hospital I had seen. I was immediately ushered into a private examination room (take that three-hour long UC emergency room wait because the Student Health Care Center can't see me for three days!). The doctor arrived by the time I had climbed onto the examination table. He was accompanied by a young nurse wearing a crisp blue nurse's dress and starched white cap.

The doctor was very concerned that no one could tell him the exact circumstances of my episode. No, I am not having stomach problems. Yes, I had a good night's sleep the previous night. No, I am not having stomach problems. Yes, I can eat the food. Yes, I am drinking lots of water. No, I have had zero issues with my stomach since arriving one month ago today (note to self: the 20th seems to be a day of bad luck for me in India. June= lost wallet; July= public fainting spell; August= perhaps best not to leave my room that day).

So, we've established that my stomach is handling India quite nicely. Now, we must consider what is actually going on! Turns out my cold is more than an annoying cough and runny nose. I have some viral infection that is quite common among Bengalis during this time of year. The constantly changing weather, mixed with the heat, mixed with the pollution wreaks havoc on the human nasal passages (Kolkata makes Gary, IN, seem like a fresh air lake resort). Mine has spread to my ears, which are now infected, thus causing me to become dizzy and pass out. Good news is: I have already been sick for one week, so I only have another two weeks to go until I am once again clear headed. Bad new is: I cannot travel on an overnight train to Mungeli alone this week (my trip to the Disciples hospital will have to be rescheduled, not canceled). So, with bag full of various drugs and a 500 rupee ER bill (roughly $13 US), I headed back to Bishop's College to sleep.

Sleep is a very optimistic word for my lying down activities over the first two days. The bump on my head made it impossible for me to sleep on my back, but each time I tried to lay on my stomach, the sinus pressure would cause my eyeballs to pop out of their sockets (I write this figuratively, but was in such a massive drug-induced state, I cannot be certain that my eyes actually remained in my head either). For the first time in India, I had stomach problems (go figure!) and could not keep my antibiotics down. I could only bring myself to eat small bites of toast, and I welcomed Maggie's ointment-laden skull massages as I tried vainly to fall asleep.

I began to feel better the following day, and I even welcomed a visit from Teresa (Maggie's younger sister) and Maggie that evening. I was sad to see them go, but it was time for me to get some sleep. Maybe tomorrow, my head would only feel a dull ache instead of the sharp wrenching pain of today.

No such luck. I could not sleep at all. Each time I would finally doze into slumber, an angry stiletto-heeled woman would chase me around a snow-covered forest with an extremely sharp icepick. Seriously terrifying stuff! So, my pain meds don't actually work and my sleeping meds now encourage strangely psychotic dreams. I much prefer the final-induced zombie dreams of Chicago, because at least I know how to defeat them by answering questions with absolute certainty (it has been two years now, so I can beat the grad school zombies no problem!). I didn't sleep at all until about 5 am, but I had a doctor's appointment at the hospital at 10:30 for a checkup.

I was in a dreadful state when Phillip and Maggie came to fetch me for yet another taxi ride (not again!). I was still sick to my stomach and thus refused to eat, my head was being chain-sawed from the inside, and I wanted my Mommy! I burst into tears when I saw the doctor arrive (on his day off) and tried desperately to reassure him that I always cried when I'm tired. Turns out, I needed four more medications (bringing my count now to eleven) and he used a nasal drop to clear my passages. Within five minutes, my head hurt noticeably less. He told me that I was never alone, because God was always with me (I wonder which God he meant, but I got the feeling it was the one I pray to). He promised that I would be well this time and wants to see me on Saturday. He's quite incredible, my doctor.

So Phillip and Maggie took me to the little coffee bar beside the hospital (no, I didn't faint this time!) and forced me to eat a sandwich and drink a chai. By the end of our 30 minutes there, I was laughing with the two of them over stodgy old professor jokes (Phillip being a stodgy old professor himself).

I slept last night. No ice-pick dreams (though I did put my stilettos in my bag as I got ready for bed). I don't feel 100%, but its a lot better than the maybe 25% I felt 48 hours ago. Everyone here has been absolutely lovely and caring. I think that if I'm going to have an episode, this was absolutely the place to have it... even if I hadn't been warned by the fortune-teller....

Going Home with Maggie

Yesterday I was feeling very ill. I am yet to have a stomach issue here, but I think I have come down with bronchitis or something of the like in my lungs. Its difficult, the weather is always shifting between hot and rainy/damp. For those not used to such back-and-forth, the results are colds. This cough, however, sits in the lungs, so I can't help but wonder if it is more than a mere cold (stupid weak immune-system!). Right, so, I skipped church in order to sleep and hopefully overcome this attack on my poor body. But Maggie had invited me to her home for her father's birthday party, so I really couldn't bail on that.

It was lovely! Her father is the pastor of a large CNI congregation in Kolkata and was on a hospital call when we arrived at their house. As soon as he came home, we cut the cake and he started telling us stories of when he was a student at Bishop's College before the union of CNI ("It was a very strict Anglican seminary, and my friends and I used to sneak out at night to go to the cinema. In those days, not even female family members were allowed on campus!") I wanted to ask him how he felt about Maggie being a ministry student at Bishop's College now, but just as an opportunity came, Maggie's aunt arrived.

Maggie's aunt is basically the definition of fabulous! She is a teacher at a Christian school in Kolkata, was educated abroad, and knows more about the Bible than most minsters that I have known. She is witty and intelligent and utterly charming. We talked theories about how the John's account of the Gospel and the Epistle attributed to John could be penned by the same author (or not, as the scholars currently claim): "If I were writing the Gospel of the Lord, I would make sure that my Greek was fantastic! If I were merely writing a letter to myself, I would not care about the quality of my Greek prose..." We laughed a lot. I really enjoyed the conversation with Maggie's aunt. She is a hilarious and incredibly sincere woman. It is always lovely to spend some time with women who are the type of woman that I hope to be someday.

Monsoon Storming

Last night there was a huge thunderstorm. It was the monsoon season in full glory. At several points, the lightening struck and thunder sounded simultaneously, right outside of my window. The electricity was out for the entire morning all over campus, and from the sounds of the honking outside the College's walls, I would guess that the traffic lights were also out.

By no means did I sleep through the pyrotechnics of last night, but I did find the sounds of rain pounding against my windows and thunder crashing across the sky comforting. It reminded me of home -- Oklahoma home -- during tornado season (my favorite time of the year). Once I had gone to college in Massachusetts, I began missing the more spectacular weeks in tornado alley due to pesky spring semester exams; and while Chicago and Indianapolis boast their fair share of storms, they hardly compare to the magnificence of Oklahoma's tornado season. Last night, however, was totally terrifying and thoroughly thrilling, just as a storm should be.

A night that would usually force small children into the comforting warmth of their parents' bed was one of the most relaxing of my nights here. The sounds were familiar, the power-outage expected. A monsoon storm is something about India that I am fully capable of dealing with!

Finally! Lodging!

Well, I have moved onto the Bishop's College campus -- finally! It is really lovely having a more permanent place (I will be living here until mid-August, when I will return to the Delhi area for my last 10 days). My bed is beautifully comfortable, by comparison, because I have stacked two mattresses onto the wooden frame (I don't wake up desperately sore anymore!). It is one large room with a small dining table and four chairs, two big comfy chairs, a coffee table, a bureau, and a beautifully old standing mirror. The floor is bright red, the walks sky blue, the shudders crayola-crayon green, and the ceiling is white with yellow accents. The ceiling is incredibly high, and the floor space large, giving the room a feeling of airiness and space. The kitchen is small, but I have a gas stove (the kind where the two burners sit on a table and are linked by a hose to a tank of the floor... I'm seriously 'roughing' it here, folks!). This all means that I can now boil my own water for brushing my teeth! My favorite part of the room, however, is my bright pink floral mosquito net! I finally have the princess canape bed that I always wanted as a little girl!

Nothing about the guest house is shiny and new, but it is my exotic home for the next five weeks. I even washed three loads of laundry in a bucket in the bathroom yesterday and have utilized my mosquito-net line as my clothes dryer during the day. I still find the shower situation odd, but I simply appreciate my day dreams about showering at the Hilton near the airport on my final night in India all the more (only 7 more weeks until I get hot water!)...

Honestly, sometimes I wish I were sitting in my parents' air-conditioned living room drinking a cold Diet Dr. Pepper (with ICE!!!!!) and watching 'So You Think You Can Dance' on Fox, but then I smell the intoxicating aroma of curries drifting form the Mess Hall and wander outside to watch the seminary men play cricket. I remember that I am in Kolkata, India, and am so utterly blessed to be having this experience... I wouldn't trade it for a lifetime supply of Diet Dr. Pepper and lovely, lovely air-conditioning!