are you serving me tea or malice?

The weather is increasingly hot and almost unbearable; however, I have learned to avoid anymore serious run-ins with the mosquitoes. THANK GOD! I have been busy at times, and not so busy at other times, so I apologize for slacking on my blog. Life is crazy like that, some of the most reliable people do the most unreliable things…Let me give you all a brief update as to my experiences here in India…Things have been difficult for me the past couple of days….I would say, I have learned more about the Indian culture in the past three weeks, than my entire stay here in India. A good example of this would be at lunch yesterday at Winnie’s house. Winnie’s youngest sister, Tinu, came to visit her and Ninnie, (Winnie’s eldest sister who is a doctor) as well as their 86 year old father. For the past couple of days, when I am not working at the centre, I have been tagging along with them to different places in Delhi. Yesterday, after a long day helping Tinu find gifts for her family back home and trudging along the sidewalks of the dozens of stores in the smoldering heat, we headed back to Winnie’s for lunch. As usual, Winnie always has a beautiful spread of what we simple Americans would call ‘lavish’. The General, Ninnie, Tinu, and Winnie, along with myself sat down to eat our lunch. Something I have always noticed is that when serving around the table the servants always skip me, and serve me close to last or last. Now, I wouldn’t mind this, as I don’t usually care about these things, (unless I am at home and mom serves Jessica before me), but it always seems as if they (the servants) go out of their way to do this, as I have noticed this happen on many occasions. I don’t know if it was the heat that had gotten to my head, or the frustration at not understanding why Shumshear (that is the head servant) skipped me when it would seem the only reasonable thing to do but to set the cup of tea next to my plate, but I was not having it this time, so very politely I asked the table: “I have always tried to be extra nice to the staff here, but I feel that, specifically, Shumshear doesn’t like me, I know this sounds petty, but I always notice that he skips me and serves me last.” There was silence at the table, and then Winnie and Ninnie started laughing. I immediately wanted to take back what I said, my mouth has always been my biggest downfall…(why did I have to ask, I thought to myself) After they stopped laughing they explained to me that everytime tea, in particular, is served, they serve mine the way I like it best, extra sweet and creamy, where as everyone else has their’s not sweet and much stronger.

My mind was expecting the worst out of someone, when in actuality; this individual was going out of their way to please me. There have been many moments in my life where I want to insert my foot into my mouth, but never have I had the urge to really bend down and bite all five toes! In my country were someone to do as Shumshear, we would think to ourselves, ‘why did he do that’. But in India, it is common knowledge that everyone’s tea is served a specific way, as the General says, in India, "we specialize in specialization"…. Perhaps in certain places back home this too is the case, but most of the time, if someone is serving tea, the host serves the same thing to everyone. Of course the elders are served first, this is par for the course at my home as well, but usually, we serve in the order of who is next to the person we just last served. Well, if that doesn’t beat all, then I don’t know what else does. I must say that being away from my home and my way of life has been an eye-opener as to how others live their lives. I know that the subject of being served first as opposed to last merely seems petty and not worth mentioning, but to me, this was the best and shortest way to explain that simple things like the order in which tea is served, can cause an individual, such as myself, to become confused and even a little offended. It is not always a very pleasant experience, that is, learning to understand other people's way of life, but it definitely is something that everyone must experience. There have been so many of these “experiences” that I can’t write them all down, and most would probably bore you, for most of the time we barely notice our mannerisms until we experience something that doesn’t resemble what we are most familiar with.

We all want to believe that the way we live our lives is the best way in which we know to do it, so many times when we encounter others that live their lives differently from ours, we are either tempted to make suggested improvements, or we shy away from those that do not resemble what is most familiar to us. Perhaps it is because we fear what we don't know, or maybe it is because it is more comfortable to be ignorant than to be enlightened to life's infinite possibilities. It can be too overwhelming for some to even imagine all life's possibilities. It is never easy to evaluate our inner-selves, and even less easy to admit to our imperfections. For the first time, I am starting to understand the importance of my own individuality and my willingness to question uniformity. Yet, I am also learning to address my own fears and prejudices, for we all have them.

"Our deepest fears and prejudices hide in the remote depths of our souls, only to be seen at the most opportune moment."-K

I am who I am~K

When He gives us gifts, we sometimes forget to notice them....

The temperatures here in Delhi us like that of a furnace. Every time I step outside, the heat attempts to bake me into a crisp brownie; while mosquitoes think I AM a chocolate brownie!!!! Both sets of arms, legs, and feet have borne the brunt of their feast. The bug spray I purchased from the states happens to be their favorite flavor, so I have opted to trash the “OFF” and purchase the heavy duty “Odomos” that is the mosquito repellant of choice for local Indians, but if I may be perfectly honest, I fear that Indian mosquitoes just like the taste of American blood. As the long dark brown arms of summer close in on India, so to does the increase of inversion, power outages, traffic, and new species of bugs…. especially the mosquito!

I have finally cranked the AC up to full blast at Som Vihar, and run all fans in every room to keep some air circulating throughout the house. I have always thought that Texas and Arizona were the hottest places on Earth, yet India has decided to set me straight for the record, it seems now, India is the hottest place! I have grown used to sweat sliding down my back, arms, and forehead, and one grows thankful for that small bit of moisture. In India, as I have mentioned before, one grows thankful for the small gifts in life, such the ability to sweat, as we so many times forget the small gifts God gave us. He really did think of everything!

Work at the centre in Ekta Vihar has been a little slow since, I made an unexpected trip down to the South of India in a state called Goa. (please take a look at all my pictures on the far right) I did A LOT of ngo networking for Maitri as well as A LOT of sightseeing, swimming, and writing. Goa is a place unbeknownst to many, yet, once one has entered into its’ magical realm, one can’t understand why…. As my plane began its’ entrance from the thick sheet of clouds that cloaked the capital city of Goa, Panaji, I was struck by the magnificence of the jungle and the sparkling jewels that seemed to float on the top of the Arabian Sea that lines the coast of the state. Once I exited the plane and took the bus to the airport, I was met by the driver that would be taking me to all my destinations throughout my stay. One of the first things I noticed about Panaji, and Goa for that matter is the rich history that the Portuguese left behind after nearly 4 ½ centuries of rule. Mixed with the local culture of Goa is a rich Portuguese Catholic culture that is seen in the architecture, religion, and food. Small sanctuaries honoring the Blessed Virgin and the Crusifix lined the roads, city streets, and were present in the lone spice fields that scattered the country side and in between cities. In most sections and corners of this world, religion continues to be the source of many wars, fights, deaths, and evil, yet in this secluded, almost mysterious place, the Hindus, Sikhs, Catholics, Muslims, and any other faith present honored eachother. Whether I visited someone’s home, business, school, or just a public area there was communion of cultures and spirituality. Where one would see the Blessed Virgin and Her Son, one too would see Ganesh, Shiva, Guru Nanak, and the local Gods and Goddesses of the Goan people sitting side by side as if they where family members hanging on the wall at home. While I am a devout Christian, and at that, a Catholic, I was so proud to see such unity and acceptance in this mystical place. Catholic churches, cathedrals, monuments, and art crowed every available space in Goa as if they too had grown naturally like the coconut trees, lilies, and bunion trees, but it wasn’t the manmade structures that demanded one look with wonder, or the sacred places throughout the island, but the life in which carried on around these brilliant structures. People from every walk of life cluttered the streets, while cars, horses, monkeys, bikes, and small school children moved with a purpose to their perspective location. In the early mornings I would watch the mothers in their traditional dress walking their young girls and boys dressed smartly in crisp pinafore dresses or nicely creased trousers and ties. Nuns carefully guarded their flocks of girls and boys to their morning masses and classes, as fishermen loaded their early morning catch into large buckets of ice. In the air, coconuts, fish, fresh flowers, sea water, and sweat scented the air with a unique and yet familiar smell…life! While every place has its’ own distinct smell, the scent of Goa will forever be in my memory….While God blesses us everyday with small gifts, that many times we forget to notice, it never ceases to amaze me at the large gifts, such as Goa, that we also fail to miss as well.

~with love, there are infinite possibilites~

The General took Winnie and I to his ancestral home in Neriit yesterday. I woke up at 6:30 a.m. to make sure that I was ready for our 7:00 a.m. departure. Neriit is two hours outside of the city in the country. Having heard many stories of the General’s childhood, and even more about his home, I was eager to make the trip. The General and his older brother own the house, and the estate is split equally by both brothers. His mother, who is 86 lives there as well, and is taken care of by her daughter-in-law. We passed through many little shanty towns on our way to Neriit; the countryside is a refreshing change from the trash heaps that claim much of the streets and sidewalks of Delhi. We passed by men, women, and children riding in horse drawn carts filled to the brim with fresh produce and on one occasion, even a couple of children racing on horses along the roadside. Ancient ruins were scattered throughout the trip, and at times, I felt as if I were in a moving time machine only stopping at points to slowly maneuver over bumps in the road. When we entered the town, the first thing I noticed was the lushness that surrounded the town. Though people moved hurriedly in a hustle bustle kind of way, the blaring of car horns and rickshaws was absent. After a couple more turns and passing the old railroad tracks, we entered a small private road that stopped at the end with a large iron black gate. The driver honked twice and the gates slowly opened….I didn’t know what to expect, for the gate itself was impressive, but nothing prepared me for the feast my eyes had for the General’s home. There was a neatly trimmed yard that was encased on all four sides with seas of roses, lilies, and palm trees. Every leaf had a specific place, and every flower was at full attention, almost as if they knew the General was coming to inspect. We drove up to the terrace which was completely encased in green and gold marble. A long porch was lined with large white stone pillars, and the house itself was a pristine white. Just one look could not do the General’s house justice, I spent the rest of the day roaming the gardens and peeking at the cows. I later learned, the General’s mother has a passion for roses, as she stated many times throughout my visit, “roses are my friends, they never leave you.” At one time in her life, she had a commercial business in which she exported roses all over the world, but now, as the General later explained to me, the roses are just for his mother, as her mind as departed from our world and vacationed to earlier times. Later on that day, I slowly walked with her to her favorite place in the rose garden in which many years ago, she used to sit and watch the workers packing her roses to be shipped. I had a lovely time meeting and talking with Winnie, the General, his brother, sister-in-law, and younger sister. Their company was most entertaining. So after a hearty meal and as much adventuring throughout the property I could take, we packed up the car, said our goodbyes, and headed home with a trunk full of fresh vegetables and plants form the gardens.

For the last couple of days rain has visited Delhi in sporadic sheets of rain and hail, but just as quickly as it arrives, it departs in the same manner. With the increase of moisture and ‘pani’ (hindi for water) mud is everywhere. So when we arrived at Ekta Vihar today, my jutties immediately became caked with a dark sludgy colored mud, which eventually made its’ way through the soles and onto my clean feet….Having stepped out of Sonal’s little compact black car, I felt the heat great me with the dancing of sweat drops sliding down my back and neck. With soggy feet and a sweaty body, I hopped along the dry stones to our center. Donna, a doctor/photographer took some more pictures of the slum for us to use in our presentations and funding proposals for the UN and US Aid. As usual, the children swarmed around us like “a hive of honey bees.” As we progressed deeper into Ekta Vihar, again, more attention was drawn to us, and children pulled on my shawl and hands happily begging me to take their picture. But…a sense of guilt squeezed my heart when I thought about bringing a camera, I felt in some way I was betraying their innocent trust and perhaps, in a way, using them for my own benefit. While I want to document the life of the slums, I also want to respect the privacy and sacredness that is life here in Ekta Vihar. It is my belief that while it is important for us to document the struggle, so that people can’t block this from their minds, it is also vital to preserve these individual’s dignity. After all, we were intruding on their territory, taking pictures of their life. It can be unnerving to have foreign people with no know real understanding of their situation in poverty happily shoot photographs, in many ways oblivious to what is being captured. Something about sharing some of my moments seems wrong, as if I am committing a sin. I feel so protective of these people and their dignity that I can’t bare to see someone who doesn’t understand their beauty to turn their nose up at them or worse, to judge. So, it is my decision that many of my experiences at the slums will not be documented in pictures, due in part to establish a trust with the community, but also in respect for their dignity and their privacy. I am here in India to help promote empowerment, not to make myself look good by posing with the people I am supposedly “saving”…..If I must be brutally honest, they have “saved” me in a sense, for while I probably will never experience their particular situation, I have come to realize love is in so many forms of life, and material items are truly not the signs of love…. Love is the smiles on the children’s faces, perhaps a warm bed, or even clean water….maybe a cool breeze or the sounds of a mother singing to her child. With love, there are infinite possibilities…… I have been saved by love and with that, I bid you all a goodnight. ~K

~A city within a city~

The weather in Delhi is becoming increasingly muggy and hot. By the end of each day, I must peel my salwar from my sweaty skin. When I first arrived to India, I noticed that in any business or house that I entered fans were located in each room, sometimes more than one fan per room. I was curious to this, as the weather was quite pleasant, even chilly at times, it was difficult for me to understand what was coming. Yet, now, it makes perfect sense as to the number of fans throughout the buildings of Delhi. Regardless of air-conditioning, if one steps out of the cool path of manmade air, instantly the heat snakes around one’s body and forces the sweat to run freely from everywhere.

Work at Ekta Vihar is picking up; I have organized a professional seamstress to come during the week for four hours daily. We are purchasing eight more sewing machines because we realized after putting the two sewing machines we bought from Nehru Centre market that more women would want to learn. So, the two top rooms at Ekta Vihar will be converted into sewing rooms, and we will provide our training services free of charge to the women. At the end of the training course, we will make available a test for them to take in which they can become professionally certified seamstresses.

Last week I spent a substantial amount of time walking through the narrow pathways of Ekta Vihar. I had never traveled so deep into this slum before, and with the assistance of a guide I was able to get a better understanding of my working environment and the situations that many of this community experience. The slums of Delhi are a city within a city. Once one passes the little corner store off the main road across from Som Vihar, they have entered into the pulsing heart of the slum itself. People, horses, dogs, monkeys, and cows liter the walkways, all seeming to be going somewhere important. It makes one wonder where they all come from, as the slum is so small, yet so populated with people. Children occupy their time by shooting marbles, rolling old flat tires with sticks, or using old pieces of trash to play make-believe. On almost every side walk way I turned down, there were at least three to four handmade cots situated underneath the eaves of the teetering buildings. Old women and men slept or observed the ceremony of life from their sagging beds in which they shared with the flies. On one occasion, I saw an older women with about five brand new baby chicks nestled in an old woolen blanket clutched to her side. As I walked deeper into the community, I saw women sitting on straw woven mats smoking the hookah or casting die, and mothers vigorously scrubbing their naked children with soap using buckets full of water to dump unceremoniously over the child’s head. Each narrow pathway is cobbled in uneven stone with a gutter on both sides. On the right side, clear waters runs quickly through the curvy channels carved out, pooling at select locations in a small stone trough in which the women, young girls, and children gather their bathing and drinking water. On the left side, a murky brown water bubbles and gurgles its way out onto the street or simply stands stagnant until it either evaporates or finds its’ way onto the street or nearby river. I have asked Sonal how this water system works, however, she herself, was confused as to its’ mechanisms. I do know that both forms of water are extremely toxic and unsafe for anyone to drink or use. When I walked through these areas, I brought unwanted attention to myself, as it was clear I was foreign to this environment. My crisply clean and ironed pink salwar kameez and sweetly smelling duparta brought curious glances and children pulling on the ends of my shawl. If I was not stared at directly, I was followed by the local troupe of children. They continuously asked for me to take their picture, and wanted me to shoot marbles with them. It is hard to say no to such sweet children, but it definitely made my task of gathering information about the area much more difficult. By the end of the day, I was sweaty, hot, and extremely exhausted. My eyes ached with all the things I saw, my head ached from inhaling pure pollution and filth, my feet hurt from walking in sandals, and my head itched from phantom itches. Ekta Vihar and other slums like it are the only places in Delhi, were one can see death, illness, birth, marriage, and starvation on one street. It leaves the individual experiencing such a place empty and exhausted. While these people may not have much in the material sense, they lack nothing in the soulful sense. They are full of life, and very few look bitter, yet their faces show the telltale signs of an extremely hard life. Their hand to mouth existence is a situation in which many know nothing about, and also in which many know something about. It is not enough to give money to an open hand that begs for it, or to feed a hungry belly, but more importantly to teach a person to earn their own money and harvest their own food. Sustainability is success, looking for quick fixes is ineffective and causes more harm than damage. ~K

~the sky has high tea with life~

As I drove to Ekta Vihar (slum area) today we passed two men diligently cleaning two large tall glass window doors. They stood on one teetering bamboo ladder as they skillfully wiped the windows to nonexistence. The sky met the glass and both faded into eachother. It was such an amazing illusion, as if the sky were stepping in for high tea. I lost myself in the clear blue reflection of the glass and the sky, the sky and the glass, mind began to rewind to about seventeen or eighteen years ago. Michaela and I couldn’t have been more than five or six. Her and Tesse were moving away, and I was so sad….Uncle Joel and my dad were moving boxes down the stairs of the house to the moving van while Michaela, Tesse, and I raced up and down the stairs. “Hey, you guys, stop that!” uncle Joel yelled, but we were too busy competing to beat eachother that we weren’t paying attention. Tesse, stayed back while Michaela and I raced at a dead speed to the doors below. A large tall door at the east of us was clear ahead, and on the last three steps we both vaulted towards it….As we sailed for the open air outside to claim our rightful first place, we both collided with a solid unforgiving surface…The glass on the large tall window we so hastily mistook for a door threw both of us to a crumpled ball of legs, arms, and aching bottoms. The pain and surprise from the contact of unrelenting glass made my head spin, I think I saw stars. I can remember us both looking at eachother and without words communicating, “we shouldn’t have run down the stairs.” We both sat there contemplating if we were going to cry about our injury, but instead, we joined our hands and pulled eachother up. Perhaps it was fear of retribution from our parents for acting wild, or perhaps we didn’t want to hear “I told you so,” but regardless of the reason, Michaela and I never told anyone. She squeezed my hand as we slowly walked back up the stairs to where Tesse stood. I allowed the aching pain of the accident to course through my body without allowing it to voice my body’s aggravation…. Yet, I wanted to cry so bad because it hurt, but Michaela, always the brave one, shook her head and pulled me unceremoniously past our parents. It is now almost eighteen years later that our simple folly has some great learning potential, even if it is a little later on in life. As in all my experiences, this one has just another marker on my life’s journey. At five, the concept of pain is something associated with bandaids, warm arms to comfort you, or a spoonful of the yummy pink syrup kept on the top shelf in the frige. Now at the ripe age of 22, pain has taught me that sometimes the wounds are too large for a bandaid, or worse not able to be seen by the eye, warm arms aren’t always close by, and the pinky syrup was more sugar than medicine. Yet, as I held a three month old baby today in the slums of Ekta Vihar, I realized that pain as so many other things in life, is relative, for when God has made the miracle of life, no matter how bad something hurts, one can’t deny the beauty of life, it has high tea with us everyday regardless if there is any tea to be had….Life can’t be perfect, it was never meant to be, but it certainly can be amazing, painful, fun, boring, happy, and sad, all at once, and frankly, I wouldn’t have it any other way. I am thankful that I wake up everyday, and I am even more thankful that the most obscure things remind me of my childhood, of family, and of love. If ever lonely, I have those small treasures to hold close, it is what keeps me going and allows me to never feel too alone….May all us find the doorway that meets the sky~K

rugs, saris, and more rugs!!!!!!!

Today we went to the president of India’s mansion. I can not construct an appropriate sentence to explain the beauty of the building and the gardens surrounding it. It is extremely difficult to get tours through these buildings, but Winnie, my ongoing and ever present hero was able to convince the secretary of the president that we MUST see this… Much like we have the white house in the states, I call this the red house, for the president’s mansion is one huge red rock home. It is three to four times as big as the white house, and with so much character. Unfortunately due to increased security, we were unable to take any for of camera or cell phone on the premises. I have been told that if one were to break the rules, the penalty would be deportation….enough said on this matter. After leaving the group to shop Delhi more, I left with Sonal, Winnie, Ted, Tom, to purchase medicine for the trip to Kotwara which will then be distributed to the three hundred children that live in the remote village town. Winnie was able to arrange for a pharmacist to visit her home to make the purchasing process easier for Ted and Tom, (who is a family practitioner from Connecticut). We then trekked across the city to an local grassroots NGO to get some information on HIV/AIDS prevention. I was so glad to go because there were so many resources that I could use for research. I was so motivated there, it is doing things such as this that make me realize that my future lies somewhere in the social sector….Today, the weather as continued to reflect that of Monsoon season, however, I can’t complain, I am always suffering from being too hot, so the cool rain fresh air was a treat.

Later on that night….Winnie took us to the most wonderful shop in which one of her close friends has the finest cashmere and silk rugs. The owner’s name is Wikki and he is one of the kindest men I have met here in India. (of course not as kind as the General, wink wink) He took almost fifty percent off all of his goods for us. I have taken pictures of some of the rugs in hopes that I can tempt my mother to purchase one for our home in Texas. Then, after an amazing time, in which, I was taught to weave a rug with cashmere, Wikki prepared a feast of food fit for a king. He not only fed Winnie, Sonal and the rest of our Maitri gang, but also all twenty six of the University of Utah students as well. Tonight was definitely one of the most amazing experiences I have had shopping wise since arriving to Delhi. Too bad I don’t have any money. Yet, even though I was only able to look, I was still able to have such a good time. I am of the belief that a goodtime is what one makes of it. With that said, I bid you goodnight~K

from yesterday....soaking feet but happy as a lark!

My feet are rain soaked and covered in pasty mud from the city’s dirty streets. I have happily spent the day trekking through the old shopping centre of Delhi with the new arrivals from the University of Utah. They are a group of students traveling to Kotwara (which is a small village in the jungle, they will be building a school). I must admit that at first I was apprehensive to share my India with them. India does that to you, it makes you possessive and protective as a mother with her child. Once the city’s breathe has been inhaled, a piece of it is stuck in your soul, you are a part of it, and it is a part of you….India is not just a shape on a map with political lines stating what belongs to whom and whom belongs to what. It is a country of faces, stories, tears, laughter, sadness, happiness, dirt, silk, and grim….India is mine, and like all things that belong to me, I am careful with whom I share it with. Yet, my apprehension was for the most part unnecessary. The group is down to earth and eager to learn all there is to know about Delhi and the surrounding Indian states. I must tell you, it was actually quite refreshing to be able to show them everything that I have written about. I took them to Ekta Vihar, Lodi Gardens, and lastly Vasant Vihar. By the time that we were finished, the time was past 11:00 p.m. and we were soaked from the surprise rain storm that chose to gift us with wet clothes, muddy feet, and a chill. However, the experiences we had that evening will be something that I feel all of us will never forget. 17 additional students, five rickshaws, two local buses, and a cold walk in the dark is close to an Indian wedding welcome. ~K