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!

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!

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...

Shout out to the Rs!

Rosie called last night and it was lovely! I do admit that while I am really enjoying myself here, I get extremely lonely for my friends and family at home. Two weeks should not be enough to be so homesick (I've taken vacations longer than that!), but the extremity of this experience magnifies everything. I long to simply hear that about the mundane details of my loved ones' days (thanks Rob, again for your fantastic email the other day)... and yes, this is a not so subtle hint to say that I welcome emails! But I really do appreciate the little notes and messages that folks have sent along over the past few weeks. It make my day a little less monsoon-y to hear from the States. Traveling alone is difficult, even with new friends along the way. Steph, I have serious respect for what you've been doing for the past couple of years!

An Ode to Jet Airways

Oh, Jet Airways --
You cheap-fared lady of the Indian skies,
You offer isle seats and cool towels on an early-morning flight.
You serve breakfast (veg or non-veg) in REAL dishes, with non-plastic forks, knives and spoons!
Even the linens (yes! ACTUAL CLOTH LINENS!) are tied with a delightful blue satin chord!
The orange juice is freshly squeezed from citrus, ripened and luscious fruit of the monsoon...
Oh, Jet Airways,
my beloved,
I am so happy to share begin my day with you!