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!

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.

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. 

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!

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.

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.

Lunch in the BC Mess

I sat down for lunch at the Bishop's College Mess Hall, prepared for my obligatory food conversation with every Indian before any meal. It goes a little something like this:

Indian: Oh... you are eating our food?
Me: Yes.
Indian: Are you certain that you can eat the food?
Me: Yes. I love Indian food.
Indian: So you enjoy Indian food. It is very spicy. You do not have stomach problems from the spices?
Me: No. I eat a lot of Indian food in the States, plus I grew up near Mexico and am used to spicy food.
Indian: Oh. So you are accustomed to spicy foods. Do you like our rice, then?
Me: Yes...

and so the conversation continues... usually we turn to the fact that I should not drink the water here... Yes, I have become quite good at brushing my teeth with bottled water! It is very impressive to watch!

Right, so I sit down to eat lunch, have the food conversation with two different people who sat down at the table at different times, then start talking Church with my friend Maggie (a first year ministry student and an oldest-child minister's daughter... no wonder we're friends!). Maggie began to complain that there are no 'lady priests' in the Kolkata diocese of CNI. There were a few in other regions, but none in Kolkata and certainly no female bishops! I asked what she thought the reason for that was (since there is no official policy against ordaining women), and another student answered. "In India," he explained, "women stay in the home mostly, and it is very difficult for them to leave the household. Also, in most countries, the churches are controlled by men (ain't that the truth! ... Bethany's inner monologue), so it is difficult for the women to become priests. They are scared to try..." Maggie responded with, "It is so stupid!" She is going to become a priest, no doubt.

I told them about my own seminary experience, where there are many more men than women at UC (I even had a class last quarter in which I was the only female in the classroom!). It is still not easy to be a 'lady priest', but it is possible. In fact, women are 'bishops' in my denomination, and we have even elected a woman as the GMP (General Minister & President, for those of you non-Disciples reading)! They all thought that was really cool, but I looked at Maggie and found myself in complete awe of her. She is so full of gumption and completely willing to take on the church to answer a calling to ordained ministry. I am not sure what I would do if I were in her position, and I am very grateful that I do not have the fight ahead of me for ordination that she does. The Disciples women pastors have fought that battle for me, several decades ago. Certainly, it is not perfect, but I feel really blessed to have so many amazing Disciples women as role models for ministry in my family (I include both grandmothers, my aunts, and my mother in that). I was even dedicated in the morning of my mother's afternoon ordination in 1984!

I won't have the struggle that Maggie has in store to answer my calling to ministry... I have such respect for her and for all the women who have gone before me to make my load slightly easier to bear. Thank you.

CPI (M)

I am currently living in the communist stronghold of India: West Bengal. The Communist Party of India (Marxist) has been in power here for many years. After Indian independence from British rule, it makes sense that land redistribution and fair wages would be an attractive political option for Indians left impoverished by colonialism. Yet, from the conversations I have had with many Bengalis, the Communist government has not done much for the broad citizenry since its move to power decades ago. There are so many living in horrific poverty, and the communist government does no more for them than any capitalist one would. In fact, I was just told yesterday that the city government of Kolkata has destroyed a huge slum community in the past five years for the 'beautification of the city.' 300,000 people were displaced and then moved outside the city to where there was no water or infrastructure to sustain life.

There are seriously problems in the US, I will admit that willingly, but I cannot help but find the hypocrisy of this communist government particularly frustrating. The poor, the proletariat if you will, is still lost to corruption and capitalist-looking financial policies of the government. The distribution of wealth is even worse here than the gaps in the US, and the government continues to pretend that it represents the impoverished (everybody knows in the States that government and big business often go hand in hand). Poor Karl, his legacy is one of corruption in the name of Marxism. But I suppose in a nation of caste, a true socialist structure would be difficult...

The Working Poor of Kolkata

This morning I went with 'the Christians' to this workshop in one of Kolkata's slums. it was founded by a Swiss couple seven years ago and is a place where women form the slum come to be educated in English and the trade of sewing. The org -- called Connections -- takes used cotton saris and makes blankets, scarves and handbags. they also make greeting cards. It was so cool! This is a place where women can learn how to create an income for their families, while still staying close to their homes, chores, and children. There are approximately 30 women who come to the shop everyday, plus another 50 women who sew blankets from home (so they can care for small children as well). For a blanket, a woman receives 180 rupee in wages, which is roughly a day's hard labor for a man's day. Even two of the five managers are women who entered the program to learn sewing and have now advanced to management careers! One still lives on the outskirts of the slum even. We bought some of the beautiful creations; I got a blanket, three bags, two scarves, and 28 cards... all for approx. $52... I was really pleased to support such a cause, plus visiting the workshop was totally RAD!

Oh! We took a bicycle rickshaw from the Metro to the workshop.... a first time, and quite cool! The others found it rather terrifying, but I was loving it! It is the way of life here; and while it is a little like Cleopatra to be hanging out in a 'modern-day' chariot, being pulled by a man on a bicycle, it is better to put rupees in the hands of a struggling rickshaw diver than to fit the Western comfort-stereotype and take an "expensive" taxi.

It is rather funny, though, to realize that I am ready to fight with a cab driver over 20 or 30 rupee now. It is absolutely absurd to pay 50 rupee for a trip that with the meter should only cost 20. Just to give you a sense of what the exchange rate is here: 42 rupee equals one US dollar. 75 cents is not a lot, but the cabbies try to take advantage of people with white skin. You know you're adjusting to India when $1.25 is TOO MUCH for a taxi!

Lots of Random, but good, Stuff

Well, today was an interesting day. I woke up at 7:15 am (yay!) and rushed to get to breakfast at BMS. They say that it takes 2 weeks to adjust to the jet lag, and its two weeks exactly! I then went to Bishop's College and didn't really get any work done... but I did have some good conversations about CNI and its structure with several of the theological students over chai tea. I really do think that I will be okay once I move into the college guest house. Right now, it is hard to be alone every night. The culture shock has manifested itself in loneliness. It is hard to not have anyone to talk to at the end of the day, so I usually just read or go to bed by 9 pm.

At 4 pm, I went to St. James Church (formerly Anglican, now CNI) for a book release ceremony. Three volumes of the new Dalit Bible Commentary were released in West Bengal. I am such a nerd, I got super-excited because I thought a man whose book on ecumenism I'm currently reading was there, but I had simply misheard the name (I'm still adjusting to Indian English). Anyway, it was a big deal, because this is (if I understood correctly) the first Bible commentary written for the Dalit perspective (Dalits are the 'untouchables' in the caste system). Of the 250-million Dalit in India, approximately 20-million are Christian (this is a HUGE difference in percentage within a single community than the roughly 1% of Indians, overall, who are Christians). The publication of this commentary series is not only a move forward in Indian religious scholarship and academia, it is incredibly important to the Dalit community in general. Time and time again, speakers acknowledged the liberating message of the Gospel for the Dalit... ours certainly is a religion for the oppressed peoples of the world, and I was present at a really ground-breaking moment in the history of the Gospel at work.

After dinner, Cecile and I went to Park Street to meet a few of her friends (2 French women and a Moroccan man). Youssef looks frighteningly like my cousin Spencer, so that kept throwing me off, but I had a lot of fun with them. They spoke a lot of French (that I could roughly follow some of the time), but they all speak English well too... there was a lot of translating for me (I know, after 7 years of French, it is absolutely pathetic that I was so rotten at understanding basic chatter... ah well, that's why I'm taking French again next year). We went to the Park Hotel (think the W or Hard Rock Hotels in the States) to listen to a cover band (they were singing "Black Velvet" when we walked in... I ABSOLUTELY LOVE American music cover bands in foreign countries!). Cecile and I both thought that the lead singer was cute, but then I've always secretly wanted to be a rock band's groupie (I guess it's not so secret anymore). Youssef asked if I like Metalica and I said 'they're okay.' He then tried to tell me that I was not a real American because Metalica 'represents America'. I informed him that Lynard Skynard represents America, and I loved THEM. He was not convinced, and I reminded him that the American (i.e. ME) would know better than the Moroccan (i.e. him) what constitutes 'America'. That's right cultural snobbery! I later met a British Indian who is in Kolkata to visit his Indian relatives for a month. He name is Ronnie and he asked me if I would 'fancy some tea sometime'. I told him to ring me, so we'll see if tea ever happens. He's not exactly a 'Barrister-type' like I predicted, but I totally told Vince that were I to get engaged in India, it would be to a Brit who was here visiting his Indian relatives! I'm soooo good at calling this stuff! Anywho... he's got a great accent, and it's a hilarious story to tell!

Lastly, they moved me to a new room at SCEPTRE today (my temp housing until the guest house clears out at Bishop's College). This one is much smaller, but I got a sheet to cover myself with at nite!!!! So, I'm moving up in the world! Of course, the mattress in this room still has a plastic cover, so I feel like I'm sleeping in a 1960s 'nuclear' home each time I move! I'm not sure which is worse: no blanket, or plastic mattress wrap? I think that no blanket is much more pathetic, but the plastic mattress is down right annoying! Alas, such is my life in India!

Reflections on a Great Day

Today is a monsoon day. Usually, there are little showers that leave the streets wet, but that clears up after 15 or 20 minutes. Today will not be one of those days. Unfortunately, I do not yet have an umbrella (because I've been lazy and am paying for it now...) Good news is that I will only to to walk the 2 km distance between my lodgings and Bishop's College twice before I receive the lovely gift of an umbrella at lunch from Margaret (the mother half of 'Ann Margaret'). Maybe today is a taxi day as well...

Yesterday was wonderful all around, though, so I can deal with the dreariness of today. At breakfast, Sissy -- or Cecile -- mentioned that she wanted to go to the cinema, but not alone. I volunteered to go with her after church and we tried to exchange mobile numbers. Unfortunately (or perhaps fortunately), I discovered that my cell was not working (I'll continue with that thread later). We asked Margaret if Ann wanted to come, and we all agreed to meet at noon to decide on a film.

I then walked up to the college to meet the Caleb family for church. We went to St. Andrew's Church, a former Church of Scotland congregation, now CNI. It's a beautiful building (with A/C!!!!), but membership is dwindling. People no longer live in the area and only the truly faithful (to the congregation... no questions of Christian faithfulness implied here...) make the commute. A funny story about St. Andrew's:

The Scottish founder of St. Andrew's came to Kolkata on the same boat as the Kolkata bishop of the Church of England. The Anglican bishop told the Scot that he could build a Presbyterian church in Kolkata, as long as its steeple was not taller than that of the Church of England's. The Presbyterian minister agreed, then went on to build a taller steeple... but he did not finish with that insult. No. He placed a giant rooster at the top of the steeple to 'crow' at the Anglican church below. Now St. Andrew's is locally known as the 'Cock Church of Kolkata'.

Ah... I do love me a good Church of England vs. Church of Scotland story! Especially when the Scots get the last word! The best part of the story in my opinion, though, is the fact that the two churches are now united in CNI over 100 years later! Seriously, this denomination is sooooo cool!

So, worship itself was heavily Church of Scotland. We even used the Church of Scotland worship book rather than the CNI Book of Worship. Dr. Caleb told me that each congregation of CNI retains its own worship autonomy pretty much, while the property is all owned by the denomination (which is sort of the opposite from the Disciples way of doing things, insofar as there are certain pieces that are commonly found among DOC worship services, but the congregation ALWAYS owns its own land).

After church, Dr. Caleb's oldest daughter Ruth (just starting grade 11) took me to the imported food store (peanut butter, pasta, and Pringles!! YAY!!!) and then by the mobile shop. THIS was a hoot! We walk in and have to identify my mobile number and problem on a central computer. I am then given a number on a printed out sheet of paper (my number was 'ONE') and we were ushered to the waiting area. There was no other customer in the store... and there were at least six open counters... and I was given a number and asked to wait. Ruth and I were cracking up at how totally absurd the whole thing was! After about a 3-minute wait, my number -- 'ONE' -- was called. It turns out that my phone store did not process all the necessary documents and my service was suspended until they went through. Now, just to give you an idea of what we need as documentation to purchase a cell phone in India: a copy of one's passport, a copy of the American address page, a copy of the Indian visa page, a passport photo, and a letter from one's place of Indian residence affirming the length of stay in India. Seriously, I felt like I was being processed by the Department of Homeland Security to get a mobile! So, hopefully by the end of today, my phone will be back on...

I returned to BMS to meet Cecile and Anne for the film. We decided to see Get Smart at 2:55 (I was soooo bummed to be missing it over the summer, but I am STOKED to have a decent number of 'English' films to choose from in Kolkata) at the Forum Mall. We had lunch at the food court, did a little bit of window shopping, and then went to the movies (I won't get started on the concessions area, because I'll talk on this for HOURS... its soooooo cool!). I highly recommend Get Smart to everyone! I loved the TV show as a kid, so I had VERY high expectations going into the film. It lived up! And my love of the movie had very little to do with the fact that I've found a place in Kolkata where I can sit in an air conditioned room for multiple hours and be entertained.

After the movie, I went back to Bishop's College for evening chapel. It was the first chapel service of the academic term (they're just starting today, I think), so different groups from the various languages represented at the College sang special music. It was a really cool experience, because each had its own flavor, and I was able to get a sense of the vast diversity here on campus. The service itself was very Anglican (though we sang from the old Methodist hymnal) overall, which was an odd sensory reality as we all removed our shoes and most of the congregation was seated on the floor... they insisted that I, of course, sit in one of the few chairs reserved for the elderly, faculty, and special guests (I insisted, today, that I should sit on the floor with the students).

After chapel, I went to Dr. Caleb's home for dinner. We had hot dogs, a goolash-y dish, green beans, and potatoes. They usually have a simple 'Western' meal on Sunday evenings. I loved it! We talked about the city and a lot about the foreigners who come to 'Mother's House' to do charity work. Ruth explained the Indian (private Christian) school system to me, and I told her about the American system. I really enjoyed myself. It was dark by the time we were finished, so Dr. Caleb insisted that two male students take me home. I feel bad for the poor students who just happen to be walking around campus when its time for me to leave, because Dr. Caleb just calls their name and asks if they can escort me home. They always say 'of course', of course, but I do wonder what is being put on hold for the 30 minutes it takes to deliver the American package safely home. It will be nice to be living on campus by the end of the week. This won't have to continue... I feel so badly about it (though I am grateful for the kindness they are showing me).

I had them deliver me to BMS where folks were gathering for Domino's pizza. GLORIOUS! I only had half a slice, because I had already eaten dinner with the Calebs, but it was totally worth being stuffed! I think the pizza is better here than in the States... it was at least the PERFECT end to the day!

Meals at the BMS

Meals at the Baptist Missionary Society of Kolkata are experiences unlike any others I expect to have in India this summer...

Mary, the cook, is a silent Muslim woman who cooks the most glorious beef (we had a real British dinner of beef, mashed potatoes, and boiled cabbage the other evening, which was utterly divine!). She doesn't speak much, but always smiles radiantly when we express how much we enjoyed the meal.

Margarete is like the knowledgeable old squaw of BMS (to use an Oklahoma illusion). She is a retired school teacher who spends six months here and six months in the UK each year. Margarete creates the ere of an old colonial missionary (simply by her accent, not her theology). She is my favorite part of the day.

"Leslie's Group" (names have been changed to protect the faithful) consists of five Americans (2 women, one man, and a mother/13-year old daughter duo) who are of no denominational tie: they are 'Children of God'. I call them 'the Christians'. They are here for a month to help the poor in whichever way "God puts it on [their] hearts to do". At first, I found their wide-eyed Christianity annoying; I sensed their judgment as I proudly proclaimed "I am a Disciple of Christ!" and then passed on their offer to join 'nightly devotionals and praise' (disclaimer: the two clauses of this last part have nothing to do with one another... many Disciples love devotionals and praising... I just happened to decline their invitation shortly after affirming my happy denominationalism). But, as my mother suggested last night: the Red River only divides when we're in Oklahoma and Texas; everywhere else, we are happily known as cow and oil-folk (of Texahoma, as my Texan native friend Kaylon and I love to joke). I now look forward to dining with 'the Christians' each morning and night (plus, I don't know that they were ever actually judging me). Margaret is always the 'Mommy', concerned about whether Ann feels well (yes, they are 'Ann Margaret'... well, they are a cool combo of another Hollywood movie star, but the names have been changed, remember). Dennis, who should be a serious thug with his heavy Boston accent, has already befriended a community of recovering after stumbling across an AA meeting on the group's first night in Kolkata. Leslie chats with any new person at each meal, and Abbey confided in me that she stopped her intense nightmares by reading Scripture before bed (this was after I explained about my recurring zombie dreams and thus not taking the psychotic malaria meds). They are very kind, and somewhat humbling in their earnest awe of God.

Sissy is a quiet, 20-year old French woman from Lyons. She is in Kolkata for four months doing an internship with an Indian NGO as part of her higher education... talk about a serious sweet heart! This woman is so nice, a little uncertain about the Godliness of 'the Christians', and is as beautifully French as anyone could imagine.

Then there is me, Bethany, the 24-year old theology student... here to do research on the Church of North India. We are all white, Western, and long for the occasional non-curried meal; but we are, beyond that, a motley crew indeed.

Touch at 3 am

I woke up at 3:30 again this morning. It is difficult, once awake to coax myself back to sleep. The beds are little more than a wooden frame with a thin mattress on top. Forget box springs or anything else that could increase snoozing comfort! Now, lets keep in mind that I am the girl who sleeps atop a feather mattress liner with no less than four luscious pillows meticulously placed for optimum sleeping comfort (yes, I am the Princess and the Pea). In my current lodging, there is one sheet covering the mattress and one pillow. I have no sheet or blanket with which to cover myself. My bones ache from hours of lying on the slightly padded wooden bed... no wonder I am awake around 4 am most mornings! I wonder if the Missionaries of Charity (Mother Teresa's order) have blankets next door... still, my coverless bed is not the street outside.

I pass so many people lying on ragged blankets along the sidewalks. As I approach, I pray that they are sleeping: partly so that unconsciousness may ease whatever physical pain they are experiencing, and partly so that I do not have to go to extremes to 'ignore' their plea for a rupee (which is roughly 2.5 cents US).

I noticed yesterday that I had not been touched (besides a greeting handshake) in days... since Dan and I greeted one another 'hello' with a hug inside the Western-catering Imperial Hotel in Delhi. I came to this realization as I brushed by a woman sitting on the street. I felt a tingle run through my arm as she lightly touched it. My body was shocked my the gentle graze, and I found myself wishing that the contact had been longer. Funny, that. Depressing, that.

I then thought of Margarete, the retired UK teacher and Baptist missionary who spends 6 months a year in Kolkata working in the infant room of a daycare for street children. She spends her days holding small children while their mothers attend classes on home economics and basic hygiene. I am both envious and frightened of the affection she must receive there; I find myself desiring it more than fearing it today.

As I continued walked, I saw to Sisters walking together, in their familiar blue and white sari uniforms. I thought of 'Mother' (Mother Teresa is simply 'Mother' here) and a story came to mind that I heard a couple of years ago. She came across a man covered in infection and maggots. The volunteer with her asked if he should find a doctor, and Mother said 'no', a doctor would be of no help. She then leaned down, next to the man, and took his hand for a moment before beginning to suck the maggots and infection from his wounds. This man was going to die -- no matter what -- but Mother was going to do the one thing she could do to ease his pain in the mean time. She took his hand first. She touched him before getting to her work. I wonder how many lives have been affected by the kindness of her touch...

Kolkata, Day One

pre-script note: For those of you who know me somewhat well (ok, who am I kidding, for those of you who have met me for like five minutes), you will not be surprised to learn that traveling alone through India is socially difficult for me. While I do have minor-interactions with English speaking persons throughout each day (the folks at Bishop's College are absolutely WONDERFUL in making me feel welcomed here), I retire to my lonesome room around 8 pm and have only my books and my journal to keep me company. Therefore, I am obsessively writing blog posts in my notebook as a way of externally processing this experience. Please forgive (or enjoy!) the occasional multi-post days. Sometimes it'll get a little bit crazy (like today's three posts). Cheers! ~B

I arrived in Kolkata (formerly known by the British as Calcutta) this morning. After an enchanting 6 am flight (see 'An Ode to Jet Airways' below), I exited the plane to an intense wall of heat and humidity. I have air conditioning for the next few nights, but after that, I'll be showering about four times a day! Speaking of showers, I am still unclear as to how exactly one showers easily without a big old American bathtub... This is why I don't camp. Here there is a faucet (sometimes a 'geyser' above-head) sticking out of the wall and a large bucket with a smaller measuring cup-like thing. The drain can be anywhere along the bathroom floor or wall, and that's pretty much it. Right, so the showers... hopefully they'll make sense to me by the time I leave.

West Bengal, or at least Kolkata, has a very different feel from Delhi. The former capital of British India, the city is overcrowded and indescribably impoverished. Still, it gives off a more manageable vibe than did Delhi; its character is charming, rather than overwhelming. Perhaps the differences between Delhi and Kolkata is similar to New York City vs. Boston or Philly. All the cars are older and more abused in Kolkata, but the colors are more vibrant. The taxis are bright yellow, creating a fiesta for the eyes against a backdrop of rainbowed saris hanging from windows along every building.

Everywhere I looked (on the bright yellow taxi-ride to Bishop's College, my place of residence for the next month and a half) men and children were stooped next to overflowing water geysers. They were brushing teeth, bathing, or perhaps simply enjoying the short-lived relief from the mid-morning heat. The streets are lined with fresh fruits, flowers, goats and the random city cow (enjoying every minute of their sacred status within the country). Even the dogs seem more like the lovable pets from home than the nightmarish animals of Delhi.

Of course the poverty is just-as (if not more) consuming in Kolkata. We drove along street after street of shack communities. Even the standing buildings are in such a state of disrepair that I cannot imagine that they were ever clean and new. Men sleep in the shade of their (foot-drawn) rickshaws. Adolescent boys take on back-breaking labor that grown men would find difficult to bear. I wonder to myself how it is that anyone can stand living such a life of 'sweat-street' labor, garbage-constructed shelters and overwhelming heat each day. There isn't even the luxury of escaping into a romance novel to ease the realities of life. But, even within the desperation, I watched little boys playing in the water, teenage girls gossiping on their way home from school, and aging men arguing the way only old friends do. Perhaps I'm idealizing the streets of Kolkata because I am so pleased to be away from Delhi, but I really did sense that the poor of this city seem more willing to smile despite their given lot.

p.s. Patti, as per your request, I will soon post a little piece on what brought me to India in the first place. As I am now in Kolkata (and near my library), I will be writing more about the Church of North India as my research can really begin to take form.