Thursday, February 25, 2010
Annie Dillard
"I am a frayed and nibbled survivor in a fallen world, and I am getting along. I am aged and eaten and have done my share of eating too. I am not washed and beautiful, in control of a shining world in which everything fits, but instead am wondering awed about on a splintered wreck I have come to care for, whose gnawed trees breathe a delicate air, whose bloodied and scarred creatures are my dearest companions, and whose beauty bats and shines not in its imperfections but overwhelmingly in spite of them..."
The New Church
Krista and I visited Sari Bari yesterday, a four year old organization operating out of the Kalighat red light district and at work to change the lives of women being exploited by prostitution. The vision for this business is restoration, pure and simple. They foster relationships with women "working the line", they visit brothels and over the years have created a blossoming community in the midst of a very dark and hopeless place. Similar to the work of Freeset, this smaller community offers an alternative to prostitution through learning a trade and creating handmade products which are sold through the website. The name "Sari" (a word often strongly associated with women) and "Bari" (meaning home) is a beautiful description of the work that takes place here- old saris are torn apart and given new life and purpose.
The temperature here is climbing rapidly-even in the last two days we have noticed. The dusty grime of the sidewalks and streets mingles with sweat and by mid-morning you feel like you have a second layer of skin. We boarded the 45B bus and walked down the street to the entrance of the Kali district and waited for Brent and his wife, friends of Krista's who have been living here for a year now and working with S.B. They appeared out of the crowd and ushered us through a series of small alleys and into the four white washed rooms of this non-profit.
The women sat on the clean concrete floor in a room with happy red trim and a fan spinning high over head- a calm, clean respite out of place in this district. They were strong and kind, ranging in age from late twenties to fifties. I cant explain the gravity that they have, a self posession that changes the way they walk and move. You feel like they are your mother- or your aunt- and it is clear that they are all your superior. Brent led a brief Bible study in bengali followed by an English lesson and then their work day began. The women are not only trained in their craft but educated- all of them learn basic math skills and are taught to read.
Krista and I and two other visitors sat outside and talked with a girl my age named Beth who is originally from the states and has been living here for four years to be a part of this organization. She gave us the background story and explained in detail how Sari Bari works, what they provide for women who are brave enough to step out of the line (401k, retirement plans,health insurance and education funding for their children!), and how relationships are forged and sustained within the community. It is a delicate process made possible only through the tears and sacrifices and courage of the small staff here. She said if she had known ahead of time what horrors she would encounter in the brothels here she may well have chosen another direction in life. Beth just signed another three year contract largely in part due to "the beating heart" of the operation- the Indian women I met yesterday who have undergone this "metaporphosis" and make all of the agony worth it, who outweigh the bad with the goodness and light they bring to this work.
The poor understand limitations. The women here have no option, they are forced by whips of desperation and poverty into the shackles of this trade. Living in little more than cells inside the brothels-some of them never being permitted to leave their rooms, they are well acquainted with surrender. This is why, when given the hope of a new life through the hands of an organization like Sari Bari, the process of restoration is realized.
I don't think I fully connected the experience today until hours later I listened to a discussion called "Breathing Under Water", by Richard Rohr. He said,"The poor hold the seed of the gospel and in every age in so far as the church incorporates the outcast, those that it pushes to the edge, those that it hates and rejects-the church rediscovers Christ just where he said he would be- in the least of the brothers, in the little no-bodies of the world."
"The real spirituality of the church is surfacing in the third world, not through the intellectualism of our society," said Rohr. The work of the preoccupied church is being executed and accomplished by other hands who are reaching out to broken women, to the elderly, to the abused, to the mentally handicapped, to the unlovely and the diseased."We always say there are no prostitutes who work at Sari Bari, only our sisters," Beth said. Unlike in my life and in many congregations, shame is never a part of the equation. Any one of those women in their apparent devastation have found a greater sensitivity for spiritual things than I have in all of my successes, and Beth who has chosen to give up three more years of her life to the hidden work in these narrow alleys will leave a richer mark on humanity than many who have acquired both wealth and power.
-Ev
The temperature here is climbing rapidly-even in the last two days we have noticed. The dusty grime of the sidewalks and streets mingles with sweat and by mid-morning you feel like you have a second layer of skin. We boarded the 45B bus and walked down the street to the entrance of the Kali district and waited for Brent and his wife, friends of Krista's who have been living here for a year now and working with S.B. They appeared out of the crowd and ushered us through a series of small alleys and into the four white washed rooms of this non-profit.
The women sat on the clean concrete floor in a room with happy red trim and a fan spinning high over head- a calm, clean respite out of place in this district. They were strong and kind, ranging in age from late twenties to fifties. I cant explain the gravity that they have, a self posession that changes the way they walk and move. You feel like they are your mother- or your aunt- and it is clear that they are all your superior. Brent led a brief Bible study in bengali followed by an English lesson and then their work day began. The women are not only trained in their craft but educated- all of them learn basic math skills and are taught to read.
Krista and I and two other visitors sat outside and talked with a girl my age named Beth who is originally from the states and has been living here for four years to be a part of this organization. She gave us the background story and explained in detail how Sari Bari works, what they provide for women who are brave enough to step out of the line (401k, retirement plans,health insurance and education funding for their children!), and how relationships are forged and sustained within the community. It is a delicate process made possible only through the tears and sacrifices and courage of the small staff here. She said if she had known ahead of time what horrors she would encounter in the brothels here she may well have chosen another direction in life. Beth just signed another three year contract largely in part due to "the beating heart" of the operation- the Indian women I met yesterday who have undergone this "metaporphosis" and make all of the agony worth it, who outweigh the bad with the goodness and light they bring to this work.
The poor understand limitations. The women here have no option, they are forced by whips of desperation and poverty into the shackles of this trade. Living in little more than cells inside the brothels-some of them never being permitted to leave their rooms, they are well acquainted with surrender. This is why, when given the hope of a new life through the hands of an organization like Sari Bari, the process of restoration is realized.
I don't think I fully connected the experience today until hours later I listened to a discussion called "Breathing Under Water", by Richard Rohr. He said,"The poor hold the seed of the gospel and in every age in so far as the church incorporates the outcast, those that it pushes to the edge, those that it hates and rejects-the church rediscovers Christ just where he said he would be- in the least of the brothers, in the little no-bodies of the world."
"The real spirituality of the church is surfacing in the third world, not through the intellectualism of our society," said Rohr. The work of the preoccupied church is being executed and accomplished by other hands who are reaching out to broken women, to the elderly, to the abused, to the mentally handicapped, to the unlovely and the diseased."We always say there are no prostitutes who work at Sari Bari, only our sisters," Beth said. Unlike in my life and in many congregations, shame is never a part of the equation. Any one of those women in their apparent devastation have found a greater sensitivity for spiritual things than I have in all of my successes, and Beth who has chosen to give up three more years of her life to the hidden work in these narrow alleys will leave a richer mark on humanity than many who have acquired both wealth and power.
-Ev
Thursday, February 18, 2010
Next to the Skin
Yesterday Krista and I boarded a bus at 7 am and were driven an hour outside of the city to a village along the tracks of the local train. We had signed up to visit Titagar, the leper's colony established by the missionaries of charity.
I have never seen a person who wore this disease on their body-in my limited knowledge it must be one of the most tragic and disfiguring. As I understand, medical professionals are still unsure of how the disease is spread. I read in "Shantaram", the book I keep picking up and putting down, that in one of the Indian dialects the word for this disease translates to "the living dead," a term we would associate with zombies in a horror film. Truly, it is horrific. The human body decays and the human soul inside becomes trapped in an ever-constricting cage. You lose sensation in your limbs, you lose soft tissue, you lose digits and then limbs, your eyes scar white until you lose your vision, you lose your family, your community, you lose, you lose, you lose.....Leprosy is treatable. Unfortunately, as in most cases at Titagar, help came too late and their bodies had already begun to revolt. Though perhaps the deterioration was halted or at the very least slowed, many were without hands or feet or sight.
The community as a whole is contained and self-sustaining. There is a ward for men, one for women, for children and family apartments all on site. There is a school for the children and a small chapel. The most amazing and impressive thing there was the weavers factory. All the sheets, blankets and clothes Krista and I have washed in the laundrey line at Prem Dan, all the textiles for every center were hand woven on the looms of Titagar. Even the famous blue and white saris of the sisters of charity are produced by seventy five leprosy patients at the colony. The residents who are able to work sit at stations against the walls of a long, narrow building. The process is complicated, the patterns are intricate, the work is repetitive and exhausting- apparently one elderly man has been in charge for years, he accounts for every thread of the tens of thousands, he keeps up maintenace on every primitive loom and his work is flawless.
The members of this society have the use of a huge, lavish garden of vegetables and flowers which is well kept and planted not only out of necessity but also for beauty. Goats and hogs are kept on site and produce milk and meat. The buildings themselves are stucco and painted in the soft, clean, cool tones of a hospital in the early 1900's. The property is surrounded by horizontal strings of barbed wire stacked about 12 feet high. The grounds behind the property have been sectioned off in a giant quilt of crops like mustard and rice. It is one of the most beautiful places we have seen since we have been in the city, and life inside those walls must be far more calm and pleasant than life outside them.
It was good to walk through and be confronted with something I was admittedly nervous to experience. To look into deformed faces and see beyond the disease to the person who smiled and greeted us kindly with "Namaste, good morning." It has also been on my mind that Mother Teresa chose to have the garments she wore produced here, with these hands that carry the title "unclean", by people who have been cast out of society for thousands of years. The most recognizable symbol, the "flag" of Mother Teresa's work was created by the gnarled hands of the leper. In a sense, she put on that disease every day and wore it right next to the skin.
Again, I am gaining a better sense each day for what bravery looks like. A month before the possibility of this trip was even realized, a friend asked me what I would change about myself if I could. "I wish I were more brave", I had answered without the slightest idea of where to begin. I feel like I have an idea, at least, of where it begins.
Thankful again today for the experience of this place.
-Ev
I have never seen a person who wore this disease on their body-in my limited knowledge it must be one of the most tragic and disfiguring. As I understand, medical professionals are still unsure of how the disease is spread. I read in "Shantaram", the book I keep picking up and putting down, that in one of the Indian dialects the word for this disease translates to "the living dead," a term we would associate with zombies in a horror film. Truly, it is horrific. The human body decays and the human soul inside becomes trapped in an ever-constricting cage. You lose sensation in your limbs, you lose soft tissue, you lose digits and then limbs, your eyes scar white until you lose your vision, you lose your family, your community, you lose, you lose, you lose.....Leprosy is treatable. Unfortunately, as in most cases at Titagar, help came too late and their bodies had already begun to revolt. Though perhaps the deterioration was halted or at the very least slowed, many were without hands or feet or sight.
The community as a whole is contained and self-sustaining. There is a ward for men, one for women, for children and family apartments all on site. There is a school for the children and a small chapel. The most amazing and impressive thing there was the weavers factory. All the sheets, blankets and clothes Krista and I have washed in the laundrey line at Prem Dan, all the textiles for every center were hand woven on the looms of Titagar. Even the famous blue and white saris of the sisters of charity are produced by seventy five leprosy patients at the colony. The residents who are able to work sit at stations against the walls of a long, narrow building. The process is complicated, the patterns are intricate, the work is repetitive and exhausting- apparently one elderly man has been in charge for years, he accounts for every thread of the tens of thousands, he keeps up maintenace on every primitive loom and his work is flawless.
The members of this society have the use of a huge, lavish garden of vegetables and flowers which is well kept and planted not only out of necessity but also for beauty. Goats and hogs are kept on site and produce milk and meat. The buildings themselves are stucco and painted in the soft, clean, cool tones of a hospital in the early 1900's. The property is surrounded by horizontal strings of barbed wire stacked about 12 feet high. The grounds behind the property have been sectioned off in a giant quilt of crops like mustard and rice. It is one of the most beautiful places we have seen since we have been in the city, and life inside those walls must be far more calm and pleasant than life outside them.
It was good to walk through and be confronted with something I was admittedly nervous to experience. To look into deformed faces and see beyond the disease to the person who smiled and greeted us kindly with "Namaste, good morning." It has also been on my mind that Mother Teresa chose to have the garments she wore produced here, with these hands that carry the title "unclean", by people who have been cast out of society for thousands of years. The most recognizable symbol, the "flag" of Mother Teresa's work was created by the gnarled hands of the leper. In a sense, she put on that disease every day and wore it right next to the skin.
Again, I am gaining a better sense each day for what bravery looks like. A month before the possibility of this trip was even realized, a friend asked me what I would change about myself if I could. "I wish I were more brave", I had answered without the slightest idea of where to begin. I feel like I have an idea, at least, of where it begins.
Thankful again today for the experience of this place.
-Ev
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Small Heavy Things
Regarding "Little Songhita" post:
Had photos developed a few days ago and this morning Krista and I felt well enough to go to work at Prem Dan. Gave Ghita the photos we took of her six month old baby who is in another facility. Have a video of her looking through them with wide eyes and it will make you weep. I cannot wait to show you!
A ten minute walk to Sishu Bhaven, a five minute search for the nursery, ten questions leading us to the right child and a fifteen minute wait to have the photos developed were well worth the minute amount of effort it took to lift Ghita's spirit today.
Small effort on our part may exact huge change in the lives around us. It is worth it just to try, I promise.
-Ev
"Dear Lord, the great healer, I kneel before you. Since every perfect gift must come from you. I pray, give skill to my hands, clear vision to my mind, kindness and meekness to my heart. Give me singleness of purpose, strength to lift up a part of the burden of my suffering fellow man, and a true realization of the privilege that is mine. Take from my heart all guile and worldliness, that with the simple faith of a child, I may rely on you."
-Mother Teresa
Had photos developed a few days ago and this morning Krista and I felt well enough to go to work at Prem Dan. Gave Ghita the photos we took of her six month old baby who is in another facility. Have a video of her looking through them with wide eyes and it will make you weep. I cannot wait to show you!
A ten minute walk to Sishu Bhaven, a five minute search for the nursery, ten questions leading us to the right child and a fifteen minute wait to have the photos developed were well worth the minute amount of effort it took to lift Ghita's spirit today.
Small effort on our part may exact huge change in the lives around us. It is worth it just to try, I promise.
-Ev
"Dear Lord, the great healer, I kneel before you. Since every perfect gift must come from you. I pray, give skill to my hands, clear vision to my mind, kindness and meekness to my heart. Give me singleness of purpose, strength to lift up a part of the burden of my suffering fellow man, and a true realization of the privilege that is mine. Take from my heart all guile and worldliness, that with the simple faith of a child, I may rely on you."
-Mother Teresa
Monday, February 15, 2010
Pinned
When you are sick in a foreign country, when your body is too tired to get out of bed and your mind is too bored to quiet itself, when you have stared at the ceiling for all of the hours that compose several days time- then, sometimes, you begin to learn a few things. You are made to sit like a child and you wait to be taught. You become a student of your own history.
When all of the comforts of home lay on the other side of the world, when all of the distractions you crave are unavailable to your grasping hands, when you suddenly realize that you are the pendulum swinging at once to worry about the future and then to grief over the past-then, you become aware of the present. You wonder how many hours you have spent turning in that process which yeilds no harvest of wisdom or growth. You, in a fog of resentment have recounted the years that seemingly shortened and evaporated and then realize that the fault lies with you-it was you who drifted through them numbly like a ghost. You have a change of heart-you wish you could have them back-you wish you could be present for each of those unrecognized moments.
When you feel like the butterfly pinned to the velvet wall and the truth about yourself is inescapable. When you start wondering for the first time in a long time what stands behind your reasoning, what drives your motivation, when you consider that "rock you would be willing to die on"...it becomes increasingly more clear. Sometimes you were unselfish and loved people easily and most of the time you weren't and didn't. Sometimes you acted out of the goodness of your heart, most of the time out of the calculating machine of your head.
Friends, I have lived only a few days in this place. Already I see a great many things I could have done differently, I knew to do better, and still I chose my comfort over your blessing. Forgive me, please.
I am not desparing nor am I wallowing in depression, so don't assume wrongly that I am in a destructive place- I am in a dark place actually, but my heart is widening, my eyes are finding the light and my feet feel weightless with the hope of change. Looking forward to coming home and living differently,
Love you all,
Ev
When you feel like the butterfly pinned to the velvet wall and the truth about yourself is inescapable. When you start wondering for the first time in a long time what stands behind your reasoning, what drives your motivation, when you consider that "rock you would be willing to die on"...it becomes increasingly more clear. Sometimes you were unselfish and loved people easily and most of the time you weren't and didn't. Sometimes you acted out of the goodness of your heart, most of the time out of the calculating machine of your head.
Friends, I have lived only a few days in this place. Already I see a great many things I could have done differently, I knew to do better, and still I chose my comfort over your blessing. Forgive me, please.
I am not desparing nor am I wallowing in depression, so don't assume wrongly that I am in a destructive place- I am in a dark place actually, but my heart is widening, my eyes are finding the light and my feet feel weightless with the hope of change. Looking forward to coming home and living differently,
Love you all,
Ev
Saturday, February 13, 2010
Songbirds of Kolkata
taVillage dispensary again today in the little parish of Oaurapur. Sister Margherite was happy to see us again- although we are not able to help a great deal due to the language barrier- I think she appreciates the effort or at least the companionship. It is getting HOT here. Standing in the white of the sun will leave your skin red in less than ten minutes. I have to be careful.
We worked in topical medicine dispensary until noon and made the bumpy bus ride back to the Mother house. On the way back the sisters spirits were high and they literally erupted into song. Two of the younger sisters sang traditional bengali songs and when they forced Krista and I to sing an american song all we could think of was the Sound of Music sountrack- they drowned us out- must be a favorite.
We are exhausted but at ease today. Going to stay in this evening and make a dinner of mashed potatoes, carrots and cabbage. Got the photos of Songhita developed- cant wait to give them to Ghita tomorrow.
Tomorrow is Valentine's day and we are planning on celebrating with friends on the rooftop of the Modern Lodge- which is a hotel on Sutter Street. Nothing about the Modern Lodge is modern, mind you. But it has a great roof-which alot of good people live under and I have promised to bring the one luxery I am glad I didn't leave at home- portable speakers for my ipod.
A dance party is in order. Wish Nashville could attend. Love you guys,
Ev
We worked in topical medicine dispensary until noon and made the bumpy bus ride back to the Mother house. On the way back the sisters spirits were high and they literally erupted into song. Two of the younger sisters sang traditional bengali songs and when they forced Krista and I to sing an american song all we could think of was the Sound of Music sountrack- they drowned us out- must be a favorite.
We are exhausted but at ease today. Going to stay in this evening and make a dinner of mashed potatoes, carrots and cabbage. Got the photos of Songhita developed- cant wait to give them to Ghita tomorrow.
Tomorrow is Valentine's day and we are planning on celebrating with friends on the rooftop of the Modern Lodge- which is a hotel on Sutter Street. Nothing about the Modern Lodge is modern, mind you. But it has a great roof-which alot of good people live under and I have promised to bring the one luxery I am glad I didn't leave at home- portable speakers for my ipod.
A dance party is in order. Wish Nashville could attend. Love you guys,
Ev
Friday, February 12, 2010
Bagbazar and the Idol Makers
Yesterday was an experience. Krista and I agreed to cross the river and explore Bagbazar, a small village up the banks of the Hooghly entirely devoted to the art of sculpture. Our guide was Doe Doe- a smart little french woman in her seventies with a snow white bob and round frame glasses-she stands at 5'1'' on a tall day. She speaks French, English, and Spanish and usually all three at the same time. She is a force of nature. The self-proclaimed "warden" of our guest house, she likes the kitchen to be left spotless and has been known to drag guests out of bed if they have left dishes in the sink. She lives on the bottom floor and she knows everything.
Doe Doe has been returning to Kolkata every year for 12 years running. She has amazing stories and I have plagued her with questions from the minute we met-which I think is why she likes me so much. She forgets our names every morning-they are difficult for her to pronounce-so she refers to us as "My Dear Americans" as though she were making a formal address to the whole of the United States. So, anyway, she offered to lead us across the river yesterday and we took her up on it. She knows her way around, and watching her handle the locals is like watching a little white rabbit push around a wolf pack-men here know better than to hassle a french woman.
We rode a crowded bus for twenty minutes, boarded the first boat, stopped fifteen minutes later to exchange at the Howrah Railway station, then boarded the second boat bound for the Bagbazar dock. The water of the Hooghly is pea green. Along it's banks the locals still bathe, wash dishes and cremate the dead in the ghats, or stairs of stone-some of them dating back to the British colonial period of India. A cremation was taking place on the right side, only men attend-the women left to weep at home. Below the ceremony a little boy ran naked and laughing through the shallows and just to the left carnival rides were in full swing- there is no fine line here between the reverential and the commonplace. Wilted flower garlands dotted the water's, surface and caught in the fishermen's nets, the perimeter of which was marked by small broken pieces of white styrofoam. Most unusual were the great mounds of garbage that covered the stairs of every ghat, making them impossible to access and forcing the locals to cut through the brush of the bank instead.
We walked up the old planks of the dock and into the little tired village of Bagbazar where everyone, literally everyone does one thing- they make idols. All of the buildings in this village are small-people don't require much space and are content to eat,work and sleep all under the roof of a 12 x 12 shed. Numerous tiled shrines smelling of urine and incense and painted chalky pink and safety orange lined the right side of the dirt path. We walked through the main street at 3 oclock and most residents seemed to be asleep, stretched out in the beds of trucks and slouching in doorways. We turned right into the fourth alley and found a man painting the face a plaster effigy. He freehanded the detailed eyes and curved red lips, his work was perfect. He had probably drawn those lines thousands of times. The rest of the town are stalls, enclosed on three sides and facing in to little dirt alleys.
Each stall housed a different stage of the process. Hay in huge bails is collefted and shaped into the cores of bodies, limbs and heads creating scare-crow like figures- hundreds of them in uniform size. Next, clay is made from the bed of the Hooghly-sifted and worked until is becomes malleable. It dries like plaster. Then an artist begins the painting process by first coating the form in white then adding shadows in lichen green and burnt orange. Walking through those stalls with pale limbs reaching out was eerie! Another artist added the detail-elaborate decorative paintings in jewel and primary colors. Faces emerged. Hair also was made at that step- black seaweed is pulled like cotton and rapped into ropes around sticks to dry forming perfect spiral curls which hung down to the waists of both the gods and goddesses. A tailor dressed them in rich fabric. And finally decorations of thin metal headpieces,gold bangles, and plastic spears radiating from the shoulders were added. The result was impressive and unsettling. Kali was wheeled by on a wooden cart, her tounge dripping with blood, her black body stood on top of her decapitated victim. We moved out of the way to let her pass by.The idols will be used all over the city in temples, ceremonies, and festivals. They will be worshipped. The will be offered sacrifices. Mud and straw is suddenly elevated to an exalted position and the line between the holy and the familiar is blurred. Fascinating process.
Other side notes-Krista was followed down the alley by a snarling street dog -we are paranoid about rabies here and Krista pulled out her mase. We came well prepared. A drunk man hassled us for a bit but Doe-Doe handled it with the help of a local woman. Took us two hours to get home but quite an adventure!
Work was great today. Ghita cant wait to see the photos we took of Songhita, which we will develop tomorrow. Our errand earned us an uprgrade in title, from "friend" to "sister" in Bengali. She will be difficult to leave.
Miss you all,
Ev
Doe Doe has been returning to Kolkata every year for 12 years running. She has amazing stories and I have plagued her with questions from the minute we met-which I think is why she likes me so much. She forgets our names every morning-they are difficult for her to pronounce-so she refers to us as "My Dear Americans" as though she were making a formal address to the whole of the United States. So, anyway, she offered to lead us across the river yesterday and we took her up on it. She knows her way around, and watching her handle the locals is like watching a little white rabbit push around a wolf pack-men here know better than to hassle a french woman.
We rode a crowded bus for twenty minutes, boarded the first boat, stopped fifteen minutes later to exchange at the Howrah Railway station, then boarded the second boat bound for the Bagbazar dock. The water of the Hooghly is pea green. Along it's banks the locals still bathe, wash dishes and cremate the dead in the ghats, or stairs of stone-some of them dating back to the British colonial period of India. A cremation was taking place on the right side, only men attend-the women left to weep at home. Below the ceremony a little boy ran naked and laughing through the shallows and just to the left carnival rides were in full swing- there is no fine line here between the reverential and the commonplace. Wilted flower garlands dotted the water's, surface and caught in the fishermen's nets, the perimeter of which was marked by small broken pieces of white styrofoam. Most unusual were the great mounds of garbage that covered the stairs of every ghat, making them impossible to access and forcing the locals to cut through the brush of the bank instead.
We walked up the old planks of the dock and into the little tired village of Bagbazar where everyone, literally everyone does one thing- they make idols. All of the buildings in this village are small-people don't require much space and are content to eat,work and sleep all under the roof of a 12 x 12 shed. Numerous tiled shrines smelling of urine and incense and painted chalky pink and safety orange lined the right side of the dirt path. We walked through the main street at 3 oclock and most residents seemed to be asleep, stretched out in the beds of trucks and slouching in doorways. We turned right into the fourth alley and found a man painting the face a plaster effigy. He freehanded the detailed eyes and curved red lips, his work was perfect. He had probably drawn those lines thousands of times. The rest of the town are stalls, enclosed on three sides and facing in to little dirt alleys.
Each stall housed a different stage of the process. Hay in huge bails is collefted and shaped into the cores of bodies, limbs and heads creating scare-crow like figures- hundreds of them in uniform size. Next, clay is made from the bed of the Hooghly-sifted and worked until is becomes malleable. It dries like plaster. Then an artist begins the painting process by first coating the form in white then adding shadows in lichen green and burnt orange. Walking through those stalls with pale limbs reaching out was eerie! Another artist added the detail-elaborate decorative paintings in jewel and primary colors. Faces emerged. Hair also was made at that step- black seaweed is pulled like cotton and rapped into ropes around sticks to dry forming perfect spiral curls which hung down to the waists of both the gods and goddesses. A tailor dressed them in rich fabric. And finally decorations of thin metal headpieces,gold bangles, and plastic spears radiating from the shoulders were added. The result was impressive and unsettling. Kali was wheeled by on a wooden cart, her tounge dripping with blood, her black body stood on top of her decapitated victim. We moved out of the way to let her pass by.The idols will be used all over the city in temples, ceremonies, and festivals. They will be worshipped. The will be offered sacrifices. Mud and straw is suddenly elevated to an exalted position and the line between the holy and the familiar is blurred. Fascinating process.
Other side notes-Krista was followed down the alley by a snarling street dog -we are paranoid about rabies here and Krista pulled out her mase. We came well prepared. A drunk man hassled us for a bit but Doe-Doe handled it with the help of a local woman. Took us two hours to get home but quite an adventure!
Work was great today. Ghita cant wait to see the photos we took of Songhita, which we will develop tomorrow. Our errand earned us an uprgrade in title, from "friend" to "sister" in Bengali. She will be difficult to leave.
Miss you all,
Ev
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Little Songhita
What have we got? Who knows? Krista and I were laid up in bed again this morning-missing a second day of work. Boo. Seems like we have traded symptoms. My breath is shallow and I am now coughing up a lung and Krista's throat is incredibly sore. I want my sore throat back.
We rested until 8 am- I boiled water for coffee on the burner downstairs. Orange for breakfast. Laundrey. Got dressed quickly and we walked the four blocks to Shishu Bhaven to keep a promise we made three days ago. Ghita, our lovely little friend at Prem Dan who told us she had TB and that her baby was at Shishu Bhaven, has sent us on an errand. We were to find Songhita-her six month old baby girl and take pictures, have them developed and bring them back to Prem Dan. "You will recognize her smile- that's how you will know her", she said. That is what every volunteer has said-Ghita and Songhita smile the same.
We arrived at Shishu Bhaven already exhausted from the heat and the dry air. Ducked through the tall grey steel gate and into the main courtyard. The sisters pointed us in three incorrect directions before we found the toddlers nursery ourselves- this is the way business is done here. We slipped our shoes off and quietly let ourselves into the nursery on the second story of the right wing of the building. A mashi nodded her head as we entered. She sat cross-legged on the floor and 12 little bright-eyed kids crawled up her arms and pulled at her clothes. We asked where Songhita was- she didn't speak English, but a little chubby girl dressed all in red with a ponytail sprout at the top of her head- 5 years old maybe, tugged at our pants and pointed to a crib against the far wall. We peeked over and a beautiful little girl was sleep inside. She looked like a little flower. "That is who you want", said another mashi approaching from the opposite aisle. She confirmed that Songhita's mother had been taken to Prem Dan-not only with TB but with a heart condition.The attempted operation to repair Ghita's heart had failed and at the age of sixteen it is unlikely that she will leave Prem Dan.
Krista reached over and snapped the first picture of Songhita-the flash woke her up and she grinned with her eyes still closed. Peeking one eye open and then the other- she is the loveliest thing I have seen here and my heart breathed for the first time in three weeks. Ghita was right- they have the same smile. We probably could have picked her out of the line of cribs. She continued to grin at us with her big dark eyes. The children in that room were products of a situation like Ghita's-or, they were simply unwanted. Their mother's moved into the adjoining rooms for 8 months waiting to give birth. The sisters and mashis fed them, washed their clothes and encouraged them through their pregnancy. They brought a child into the world and immediately afterward, they disappeared-leaving this little flower garden of beautiful children behind them, and leaving their own son or daughter to the orphanage at Shishu Bhaven. Their is a frail, pale skinned little girl who was born too early lying in a crib with a feeding tube-she has aids, as did her mother who disappeared a week ago. Another child was next to Songhita, her mother is also at Prem Dan, though we don't know who she is-we took a few photos and will have them developed as well.
It was good for my heart to spend twenty minutes in there today. To have kids pull at my clothes and hug my knees with their chubby little arms. Immediately restored something that the last three weeks had worn down. Hoping at some point we can come back and spend a few days here.
I have seen a distinct and deep-rooted disregard for human life. That is why so many children are abandoned routinely- left at the mother house, or worse, left on the street. That is also why women are abused in the most criminal and horrific ways.And it has something to do with the fact that a man, two weeks ago could be hit by a bus as he stood waiting to cross the street and no one paused. Not a moment of thought was given-traffic did not break. The bus continued down the street. Finally a few men dragged his body to the edge of the sidewalk and left him there, eventually someone called an ambulance. Our friend Sophie witnessed the whole thing and her nineteen year old mind could not make sense of it. It makes sense to me- I have seen stages of disintegration flash before my face like bolts of hot white from a strobe light and it is all connected. There is a mass deadening of human souls taking place here. It is possible to take everything away from a person- even to deny them their own humanity. There are a few things that I have difficulty in dismissing as cultural differences because it offends something in the recesses of who I am-something that was placed there- not something I can accredit to myself-not something of my own making but something I was created to hold and to honor. The distortion makes me shudder and causes life around us to literally fall apart at the seams.
Little mother Ghita with her weak heart, who proudly loves Songhita from a fixed distance is as reassuring to me now as it will be to her daughter in the retelling, when she is gone. There are a handful of little flowers making their way through the cement.
Ev
We rested until 8 am- I boiled water for coffee on the burner downstairs. Orange for breakfast. Laundrey. Got dressed quickly and we walked the four blocks to Shishu Bhaven to keep a promise we made three days ago. Ghita, our lovely little friend at Prem Dan who told us she had TB and that her baby was at Shishu Bhaven, has sent us on an errand. We were to find Songhita-her six month old baby girl and take pictures, have them developed and bring them back to Prem Dan. "You will recognize her smile- that's how you will know her", she said. That is what every volunteer has said-Ghita and Songhita smile the same.
We arrived at Shishu Bhaven already exhausted from the heat and the dry air. Ducked through the tall grey steel gate and into the main courtyard. The sisters pointed us in three incorrect directions before we found the toddlers nursery ourselves- this is the way business is done here. We slipped our shoes off and quietly let ourselves into the nursery on the second story of the right wing of the building. A mashi nodded her head as we entered. She sat cross-legged on the floor and 12 little bright-eyed kids crawled up her arms and pulled at her clothes. We asked where Songhita was- she didn't speak English, but a little chubby girl dressed all in red with a ponytail sprout at the top of her head- 5 years old maybe, tugged at our pants and pointed to a crib against the far wall. We peeked over and a beautiful little girl was sleep inside. She looked like a little flower. "That is who you want", said another mashi approaching from the opposite aisle. She confirmed that Songhita's mother had been taken to Prem Dan-not only with TB but with a heart condition.The attempted operation to repair Ghita's heart had failed and at the age of sixteen it is unlikely that she will leave Prem Dan.
Krista reached over and snapped the first picture of Songhita-the flash woke her up and she grinned with her eyes still closed. Peeking one eye open and then the other- she is the loveliest thing I have seen here and my heart breathed for the first time in three weeks. Ghita was right- they have the same smile. We probably could have picked her out of the line of cribs. She continued to grin at us with her big dark eyes. The children in that room were products of a situation like Ghita's-or, they were simply unwanted. Their mother's moved into the adjoining rooms for 8 months waiting to give birth. The sisters and mashis fed them, washed their clothes and encouraged them through their pregnancy. They brought a child into the world and immediately afterward, they disappeared-leaving this little flower garden of beautiful children behind them, and leaving their own son or daughter to the orphanage at Shishu Bhaven. Their is a frail, pale skinned little girl who was born too early lying in a crib with a feeding tube-she has aids, as did her mother who disappeared a week ago. Another child was next to Songhita, her mother is also at Prem Dan, though we don't know who she is-we took a few photos and will have them developed as well.
It was good for my heart to spend twenty minutes in there today. To have kids pull at my clothes and hug my knees with their chubby little arms. Immediately restored something that the last three weeks had worn down. Hoping at some point we can come back and spend a few days here.
I have seen a distinct and deep-rooted disregard for human life. That is why so many children are abandoned routinely- left at the mother house, or worse, left on the street. That is also why women are abused in the most criminal and horrific ways.And it has something to do with the fact that a man, two weeks ago could be hit by a bus as he stood waiting to cross the street and no one paused. Not a moment of thought was given-traffic did not break. The bus continued down the street. Finally a few men dragged his body to the edge of the sidewalk and left him there, eventually someone called an ambulance. Our friend Sophie witnessed the whole thing and her nineteen year old mind could not make sense of it. It makes sense to me- I have seen stages of disintegration flash before my face like bolts of hot white from a strobe light and it is all connected. There is a mass deadening of human souls taking place here. It is possible to take everything away from a person- even to deny them their own humanity. There are a few things that I have difficulty in dismissing as cultural differences because it offends something in the recesses of who I am-something that was placed there- not something I can accredit to myself-not something of my own making but something I was created to hold and to honor. The distortion makes me shudder and causes life around us to literally fall apart at the seams.
Little mother Ghita with her weak heart, who proudly loves Songhita from a fixed distance is as reassuring to me now as it will be to her daughter in the retelling, when she is gone. There are a handful of little flowers making their way through the cement.
Ev
Monday, February 8, 2010
Laying Awake
The shadows began to take shape, the lines of them hardening into the bodies of men, beggars and the street children who haunt our alley at night. A little girl riding a bike in circles chased by two little boys- they were just around the corner and I could hear their games- games I can participate in only from this rooftop, and only in this way.
The nights are cool - though the temperature increases everyday.When the patio light is out I am hidden and can watch our narrow alley in peace. When the patio light is on- I attract an unwanted audience of curious men from the higher roof line of the building next door. But when the light is off, it is wonderful to sit alone up here and become invisible for a few hours. Not a foreigner, only a pair of eyes.
Yesterday was a half day at work. I became tired very quickly and we came home early-I spent the rest of the day in bed. I am feverish, more I think from exhaustion than from the cold that has finally caught up with me. We ate dinner early and spent the evening indoors. I talked and laughed with Krista and we stayed up later than usual. It is good to laugh here. I am thankful everyday that Krista is my companion!
I laid down to sleep and stared at the cieling for a long time listening to the night sounds of A.J.C. Bose Rd. The crows rasp of a birdcall is more reptillian than I would have supposed. The horns of every car, bus, autorickshaw and bicycle are like a chorus of a foreign song I have heard a thousand times and still don't understand. It must be a familiar, comforting sound to the locals. (I try to imagine being homesick for this place, but I can't.) At 2 am a man vomitted out the second story window of the building behind ours. Wild dogs fought hungrily in the alley. It weighed on my mind that the children might be down there and I worried. I stayed awake longer and thought about alot of things. I thought about several of you. The street went quiet. At 4 am the Muslim call to prayer wailed through the speakers of the mosque a block away. I fell asleep and had a vivid nightmare not worth repeating. Our alarm went off at 6 am.
Laundrey today with heavy limbs. I decided not to work directly with the patients because I wasn't feeling well. Washed dishes in bare feet after lunch. Soshanna, the beautiful 80 year old woman I mentioned at the beginning , waved me over to her. She blessed me- kissing both sides of my face, drawing a cross on my forehead with her thumb and folding my hands into praying hands-she bowed down and touched her forehead to them. She is wonderful.
I fell asleep in our apartment two hours later and woke to find that Krista had gone back to work and left me sleeping. She was excited about today- we finally have permission to visit Khaligat, the smallest and most well-known of Mother's houses. We will work there in the afternoons, Krista as nurse, and I as her assistant.
(Krista is feeling better by the way and has been busy all day trying to anticipate my needs-which she excells in doing.) I am anxious to hear her report of Khaligat this evening!
I will read a few chapters of Shantaram, a book Kat Shelley told me to buy- which I didn't, and then happily found a discarded copy of in my room! Tired and going back to bed for a little while.
Goodnight friends,
Ev
Saturday, February 6, 2010
New Vocation
Good work today! Krista and I volunteered for wound care! Sister Mary was respectful and obviously now trusts Krista to execute the procedures (finally!) so, under Kole's guidance I had my first taste of medicine. Just the smallest dose. And it went great.
We cleaned and bandaged wounds and dressed burns and sterilized bed sores and even watched Joan, the paramedic from London, set an arm and build a cast. For the next month we will be working together and tonight I will fall asleep excited about tomorrow.
I have to tell you, the thing that hits me hardest is the way women in Prem Dan in excruciating pain just clench their teeth and take it- these are the strongest women I have ever seen. I helped dress the burns on a beautiful little girl who couldnt have been older than 11. She had big innocent eyes and a small frame and sat patiently while we peeled gauze bandages away from her blistered skin. She has deep burns on both shins, her torso, her back and her upper arms-where more than likely boiling liquid had been thrown on her. She closed her eyes, turned her head to the side and did not utter a sound as we sterilized the area- her body gave her away though and she shivered uncontrollably.
The broken arm was a young patient-22 years old who had a long history with Prem Dan. She was gorgeous- the most gorgeous girl I have seen here, tall and slender with graceful limbs and a shaved head (all patients are shaved because lice is such a problem)-she carried herself defiantly, though. Joan scolded her in Bengali and then explained to us that she was a drug addict who would show up at hospitals with wounds or burns and as soon as she had medication would disappear- breaking out at night from any institution that tried to keep her. I nodded to the hand of her broken arm- the index finger was curled and claw like- I wondered if it was a birth defect or an injury. "Oh, you want to see?" she said firmly but not angrily in perfect English, and turned her palm over revealing two missing middle fingers and the shortened pinky. "Train", she said flatly. I asked her if she had broken her arm by hopping trains as well. "Yes." Joan wrapped her arm in wet plaster bandages and told her to leave the cast for six weeks- the girl laughed at her. Joan thinks she will tire of it and eventually try to cut it off herself.
So many cases-each one of them unique- some injuries are granted at birth, others are given by husbands, some self -inflicted. To burn yourself and disfigure yourself horribly is a practiced form of public shame or a cruel tactic used by "big brothers" to get more money out of their begging slaves, playing on the pity of tourists. There is a couple in the slums outside the gate of Prem Dan who pitifully plead with us for medicine for their child- an infant who has deep gashes along the side of her ribs that extend under her arm. The injury is infected- terribly infected- and the little girl is always crying and exhausted with pain. The sisters have refused care-which seems cruel except that apparently the mother and father keep the child in pain, irritate the wound to keep it from healing and more than likely even created the problem for the strong pain pills they assumed they could get. This is a savage world.
Today I loved being here and my hands have found plenty to do. Out of the laundrey line and into surgical gloves.
Goodnight from me and good morning to you,
Ev
We cleaned and bandaged wounds and dressed burns and sterilized bed sores and even watched Joan, the paramedic from London, set an arm and build a cast. For the next month we will be working together and tonight I will fall asleep excited about tomorrow.
I have to tell you, the thing that hits me hardest is the way women in Prem Dan in excruciating pain just clench their teeth and take it- these are the strongest women I have ever seen. I helped dress the burns on a beautiful little girl who couldnt have been older than 11. She had big innocent eyes and a small frame and sat patiently while we peeled gauze bandages away from her blistered skin. She has deep burns on both shins, her torso, her back and her upper arms-where more than likely boiling liquid had been thrown on her. She closed her eyes, turned her head to the side and did not utter a sound as we sterilized the area- her body gave her away though and she shivered uncontrollably.
The broken arm was a young patient-22 years old who had a long history with Prem Dan. She was gorgeous- the most gorgeous girl I have seen here, tall and slender with graceful limbs and a shaved head (all patients are shaved because lice is such a problem)-she carried herself defiantly, though. Joan scolded her in Bengali and then explained to us that she was a drug addict who would show up at hospitals with wounds or burns and as soon as she had medication would disappear- breaking out at night from any institution that tried to keep her. I nodded to the hand of her broken arm- the index finger was curled and claw like- I wondered if it was a birth defect or an injury. "Oh, you want to see?" she said firmly but not angrily in perfect English, and turned her palm over revealing two missing middle fingers and the shortened pinky. "Train", she said flatly. I asked her if she had broken her arm by hopping trains as well. "Yes." Joan wrapped her arm in wet plaster bandages and told her to leave the cast for six weeks- the girl laughed at her. Joan thinks she will tire of it and eventually try to cut it off herself.
So many cases-each one of them unique- some injuries are granted at birth, others are given by husbands, some self -inflicted. To burn yourself and disfigure yourself horribly is a practiced form of public shame or a cruel tactic used by "big brothers" to get more money out of their begging slaves, playing on the pity of tourists. There is a couple in the slums outside the gate of Prem Dan who pitifully plead with us for medicine for their child- an infant who has deep gashes along the side of her ribs that extend under her arm. The injury is infected- terribly infected- and the little girl is always crying and exhausted with pain. The sisters have refused care-which seems cruel except that apparently the mother and father keep the child in pain, irritate the wound to keep it from healing and more than likely even created the problem for the strong pain pills they assumed they could get. This is a savage world.
Today I loved being here and my hands have found plenty to do. Out of the laundrey line and into surgical gloves.
Goodnight from me and good morning to you,
Ev
Friday, February 5, 2010
Looking for Gold
Krista and I were pleasantly surprised at Prem Dan this morning. The sister who Krista nicknamed "Nurse Ratchett" has been on our cases from the beginning. She has elbowed Krista out of opportunities to use her degree and help a patient and she has on many occasions made me feel like I was in the way of her work. Both of us have had this experience so both of us were shocked when today- Nurse Ratchett pulled Krista out of the laundrey line and asked her professional opinion on a case with a patient. She smiled and introduced herself as Sister Mary- this woman NEVER smiles. Then, she pulled me out of a crowd of willing volunteers to help her and another sister serve lunch- and that NEVER happens. Doesn't sound like a big deal- but I am telling you...it was a big deal to us.
We had lunch today with an Anglican priest from Cape Cod named Steven and our friend Jason, who is a writer from Texas and has been living in Hong Kong for four years. The four of us sat in a restaurant off of Rippon Street with roaches running across the oily glass tabletop- the food was decent- the conversation was excellent. It was a huge comfort that both of these guys were sympathetic to the difficulty of being a woman in this place. It was the first time that Krista and I felt we were among friends here and it reminds us of our amazing guy friends back home- What good men you are! The way you live is in sharp contrast to this culture and sometimes,as my pal Johnny so simply stated, "You gotta thank people for what they don't do." So thank you guys, for being stand up men. Believe me- I feel so so blessed to have men in my life that protect me, encourage me and show me respect.
Steven is on a plane to Bangkok in the morning. He waved goodbye over his shoulder and said "I will pray for you in this journey." Then he was gone. Such a unique experience to meet people only for an afternoon and then watch them disintegrate into the crowded streets of this city knowing that more than likely our paths will never cross again. But that they had for a few hours, crossed in one of the most unlikely places in the world. Reminds me of C.S. Lewis's oft repeated urging to value these small intersection points with strangers. Find meaning in the triviality of a shared lunch break- there may be gold in the conversation you have. There is no coincidence here- everyone I meet has a message for me.
Goodnight. Love you,
Ev
We had lunch today with an Anglican priest from Cape Cod named Steven and our friend Jason, who is a writer from Texas and has been living in Hong Kong for four years. The four of us sat in a restaurant off of Rippon Street with roaches running across the oily glass tabletop- the food was decent- the conversation was excellent. It was a huge comfort that both of these guys were sympathetic to the difficulty of being a woman in this place. It was the first time that Krista and I felt we were among friends here and it reminds us of our amazing guy friends back home- What good men you are! The way you live is in sharp contrast to this culture and sometimes,as my pal Johnny so simply stated, "You gotta thank people for what they don't do." So thank you guys, for being stand up men. Believe me- I feel so so blessed to have men in my life that protect me, encourage me and show me respect.
Steven is on a plane to Bangkok in the morning. He waved goodbye over his shoulder and said "I will pray for you in this journey." Then he was gone. Such a unique experience to meet people only for an afternoon and then watch them disintegrate into the crowded streets of this city knowing that more than likely our paths will never cross again. But that they had for a few hours, crossed in one of the most unlikely places in the world. Reminds me of C.S. Lewis's oft repeated urging to value these small intersection points with strangers. Find meaning in the triviality of a shared lunch break- there may be gold in the conversation you have. There is no coincidence here- everyone I meet has a message for me.
Goodnight. Love you,
Ev
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
I Concede the Point
Krista is running a temperature. I only know that because I felt her forehead. She doesn't complain- I am telling you. This woman is a gem! I wandered around dumbly last night in the throws of a migraine and slept the only way I could- in a fevered coma. Woke up late and groggy- both of us slept a little longer. Krista can't work in her condition and I won't leave her so we stayed upstairs all morning in our nest.
I boiled water for coffee. We ate an orange and listened to a Tim Keller message called "My Servant Job". If you have the time today and can download that message-DO IT. That will explain so much of the way I feel today.
Keller cited a line from an Elizabeth Elliott book called "No Graven Image" about a speech pathologist who poured her life into working with a South American tribe, learning their language and then translating the Bible into their native toungue. Through a tragic turn of events, her life's work was lost and her trust with the tribe was destroyed. On the other side of her grief she writes "If God was my accomplice, He had betrayed me. If God was God, He had set me free."
I just read over my post from yesterday and I feel that some of the frustration with this place has dissipated a bit. I knew I would change here- I didn't know I would need to change so much. Their is purpose behind every set-back and divine appointments that we cant help but meet. This is a holy direction, I think. The sense of justice I have worn proudly like a badge-the contempt I have felt for injustice that short-circuited my compassion- the glory of my young ideals are all crumbling. The dust is being swept away to reveal clean, solid earth. That place is called humility and I mean to build something here.
Ev
I boiled water for coffee. We ate an orange and listened to a Tim Keller message called "My Servant Job". If you have the time today and can download that message-DO IT. That will explain so much of the way I feel today.
Keller cited a line from an Elizabeth Elliott book called "No Graven Image" about a speech pathologist who poured her life into working with a South American tribe, learning their language and then translating the Bible into their native toungue. Through a tragic turn of events, her life's work was lost and her trust with the tribe was destroyed. On the other side of her grief she writes "If God was my accomplice, He had betrayed me. If God was God, He had set me free."
I just read over my post from yesterday and I feel that some of the frustration with this place has dissipated a bit. I knew I would change here- I didn't know I would need to change so much. Their is purpose behind every set-back and divine appointments that we cant help but meet. This is a holy direction, I think. The sense of justice I have worn proudly like a badge-the contempt I have felt for injustice that short-circuited my compassion- the glory of my young ideals are all crumbling. The dust is being swept away to reveal clean, solid earth. That place is called humility and I mean to build something here.
Ev
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
Mother City
I have been trying to remember all afternoon a conversation I had with a new aquaintance so that I could record it here this evening- but my brain is foggy. Helmut- I am guessing at the spelling here- is a German grandfather who devotes six months a year to this place. Through the hustle of winter when all the international volunteers arrive and crime and drug trafficking skyrockets- all through the spring and summer when the rain begins, bringing with it the heat and an influx of disease and not a pair of willing hands are in sight. He has done so for 8 years. He has finished his life- left his home-left his retirement to come here and be a grandfather,to the best of his ability, in what even he described as hell on earth.
Helmut explained to Krista and I in unpracticed English that people who make it to Prem Dan don't have a story. They don't have a legacy- they didn't have the advantage of a career or education- they haven't accomplished anything. They have no mother or father- no relative who would take them in- maybe spouses who discarded them or disabled them. They have only the absence of everything we have. This made my face flush hot with shame- because this was one reason I had traveled here. I had believed that maybe at the end of life people have a moment of clarity- words rich with wisdom- life experience worth its weight in gold-stories worth remembering and recounting. Helmut buried that notion in such a matter of fact way- he had been here 8 years trying to accomplish what I had allotted only 6 weeks for and he knows that we will both come up short. He has said only that people here are survivors- they kept breathing when they weren't supposed to, they recovered from fatal injuries, they scavenged like the many crows of Kolkata and they lived. Barely. And those little thread-bare successes had not mattered to anyone. For every old person that dies in these beds-there is a very long queue of children living towards the same end.
Helmut has tried to rescue, tried to rehabilitate, tried to mend, tried to comfort-little by little he has become a friend to some of them but father to none. "They will not be fathered here", he said, "Their mother is Kolkata. Sometimes they will fight like animals to get back to her. They will only live a very little while. They cannot comprehend anything beyond Her."
At lunch today a dirty little 8 year old boy carried a dirty 3 year old boy to the sidewalk restaurant that we frequent. The 3 yr old was naked except for half of a t shirt. Both were without shoes. A young french tourist bought them a meal.The little boys ate it on the ground like little wolf pups. Stuffing handfuls of food into their mouths- nearly choking on it. The baby would not leave a scrap of food on the plate-when his older brother tried to pull him away he writhed and screamed. This was the beginning. If they live, if they survive their mothering they will become the men I met the other night in the dark streets of this place,they will abuse the women I met in Sonagachi and die in the same condition of those in Prem Dan.
I met Khali today, I think. The celebrated goddess of death and destruction is killing nearly 17 million people. All of them. In some way or another. And she is nothing more than an overwhelming and seemingly inescapable lie.
Sorry my thoughts are heavy tonight. Pray for the many hands, like Helmut's, that are working here to do good things. There is a small harvest that to them, I am sure, is a great reward.
Goodnight,
Ev
Monday, February 1, 2010
Bad Day, Good Day
Yesterday was rough all the way around. Didn't sleep the night before. Felt nauseated all morning. Volunteering at Prem Dan made Krista and I want to hitch hike home. Krista began with wound care and was solemn when I found her after I finished laundry. I watched as she treated the last two women with bed sores the size of tea saucers and nearly 1/2 an inch deep. Patients were vomiting and urinating all over themselves and the volunteers, lice has swept through the house and the Mashis- the hired female workers of the house- were straight razoring heads in the courtyard as patients cried and screamed. Some had been knicked by the gruff shave job and blood trickled down their faces, mixed with tears and stained their clothes. It felt just a bit like a concentration camp. Krista and I helped patients to the bathroom and tried to manuever crippled little legs through a cramped stall on a slippery floor. The sisters were a wreck. Actually- so were we.
The one highlight was the last five minutes of work when we dragged ourselves upstairs and said goodbye to Soshanna. Soshanna is one of the most beautiful women I have ever seen. At her full height she is a little taller than my elbow. Slender and regal with high cheekbones, perfectly symmetrical features and a mop of snow white hair that hangs down below her waist, which she usually pins in a bun on top of her head. She is eighty years old- and the deep lines of age that crease her face have only made her more beautiful. All women should love to age as she does. Soshanna insisted that both of us sit with her on her cot and listen to her as she sang along to the music piped through the speakers along the cieling line. She is absolutely immaculate- even keeps her own set of dishes under her tidy little bed. She calls all of us "bondu" which means friend in bengali. She kisses all of us on the head and the hands and presses our hands to her heart. She is so like my own grandmother who passed away years ago. I can hardly look at her and not feel as though she is mine. Wandering up silently beside us was Loki, a strange little person- a child with an old persons face. She looked almost elvish and had a tiny little smile and deep set eyes. Loki's face had been cut deeply at the corners of the mouth and under the chin- somehow it had changed the whole shape of her face, making it appear flattened with protruding ears.Krista hugged her and she buried her face in Krista's waist and froze their. She responded in such a strong way to the slightest gesture of love or kindness. Krista looked up at me with eyes full of tears. My turn. I grabbed Loki's little hand and smiled at her, said "Come here, Bondu" and gave her a big hug. she buried her face in my shoulder and breathed in deeply, as though she was making a mental note of what that hug felt like. Amazing, how quickly our hearts have become maleable here.
Yesterday evening was "Volunteer night"- which happens once a month. Krista and I made the mistake of following a long trail of volunteers to a chapel about a twenty minute walk from the mother house. We were exhausted and after an hour and a half of mass, then a lecture about mother teresa, then a movie about mother theresa and then a dinner of chicken and raw vegetables, which we could not eat- we were almost panicked to get home to our quiet little nest of an apartment. Instead of waiting for everyone, we followed a tough little woman named Joan who has lived here for 15 years. Joan is in her late 60's, a medic from London and she has probably seen it all- when we asked her if she felt safe walking alone at night she said in a curt british accent "Well yes, as long as you dont look anyone in the eyes. I witnessed a murder once and you just can't respond. They just can't know that you saw anything, otherwise you might disappear, as well. And also- there are the dogs. They hunt in packs, you know, at night- such an awful thing if you are caught in one. Yes, you musn't look anyone in the eyes." She threw her hand to her right and said "This is your lane just follow it until you see the lights and take a left." The she disappeared . Krista and I spent the next twenty minutes in the scariest place I maybe have ever been. Men were nearly running us down on motorbikes and laughing- it must be a game they play with eachother- the whole road would be open and one would come up right beside us and nearly take our feet out from under us. At one point a man leaned out of an autorickshaw and tried to bite Krista on the shoulder. Men were shouting at us and coming out of buildings to watch.People were animalistic. There were only men on the street. As a woman, I have never been made to cower like that and it made me absolutely hate this place. This city is like Jekyll and Hyde. Not even so very lovely in the day time but absolutely hellish at night. I was plagued by anxiety dreams last night so I didn't sleep much- and besides that the Muslim call to prayer went all night and blared like a brass section from speakers all over town. I was glad when our alarm went off at 4:30.
I was happy to wash our clothes and hang them on the line in the dark. I was glad that the kitchen was unlocked and Krista and I could make our instant coffee this morning. We ran into our friend Jason- who is also American, a pal of Johnny's- on the bus today and chatted a bit. We washed clothes in the sunshine. We drank chai on break and Johnny wandered over. We served lunch and washed dishes and got kisses on the forehead from Soshanna. We had fun in the rythem of simple labor today. Sat in the back of a crowded bus with Anna and the Spainiards who refused to take an autorickshaw for 10 rupees today when it ony cost 8 yesterday. Spainiards will not be cheated and will wave their hands in the face of anyone away who tries. I love that about them. So we paid six rupees, rode the bus- were stuck in traffic for an hour and a half (instead of the 10 minute ride it would have been) and then walked twenty minutes to our restaurant. It was great.
Ate at Tirupathi on the street- Vegetable and egg lo mein is our favorite. And we walked home again- I bought water and Krista bought a pineapple and here I am, writing to you from the internet cafe downstairs.
I am thinking about each one of you- I know it must feel like I have only been gone a few days- it is a weird phenomenon- I feel like it has already been a month. And only five and a half more weeks to go.
This is bootcamp. And I have double push-ups waiting on the roof.
Namaste,
Ev
The one highlight was the last five minutes of work when we dragged ourselves upstairs and said goodbye to Soshanna. Soshanna is one of the most beautiful women I have ever seen. At her full height she is a little taller than my elbow. Slender and regal with high cheekbones, perfectly symmetrical features and a mop of snow white hair that hangs down below her waist, which she usually pins in a bun on top of her head. She is eighty years old- and the deep lines of age that crease her face have only made her more beautiful. All women should love to age as she does. Soshanna insisted that both of us sit with her on her cot and listen to her as she sang along to the music piped through the speakers along the cieling line. She is absolutely immaculate- even keeps her own set of dishes under her tidy little bed. She calls all of us "bondu" which means friend in bengali. She kisses all of us on the head and the hands and presses our hands to her heart. She is so like my own grandmother who passed away years ago. I can hardly look at her and not feel as though she is mine. Wandering up silently beside us was Loki, a strange little person- a child with an old persons face. She looked almost elvish and had a tiny little smile and deep set eyes. Loki's face had been cut deeply at the corners of the mouth and under the chin- somehow it had changed the whole shape of her face, making it appear flattened with protruding ears.Krista hugged her and she buried her face in Krista's waist and froze their. She responded in such a strong way to the slightest gesture of love or kindness. Krista looked up at me with eyes full of tears. My turn. I grabbed Loki's little hand and smiled at her, said "Come here, Bondu" and gave her a big hug. she buried her face in my shoulder and breathed in deeply, as though she was making a mental note of what that hug felt like. Amazing, how quickly our hearts have become maleable here.
Yesterday evening was "Volunteer night"- which happens once a month. Krista and I made the mistake of following a long trail of volunteers to a chapel about a twenty minute walk from the mother house. We were exhausted and after an hour and a half of mass, then a lecture about mother teresa, then a movie about mother theresa and then a dinner of chicken and raw vegetables, which we could not eat- we were almost panicked to get home to our quiet little nest of an apartment. Instead of waiting for everyone, we followed a tough little woman named Joan who has lived here for 15 years. Joan is in her late 60's, a medic from London and she has probably seen it all- when we asked her if she felt safe walking alone at night she said in a curt british accent "Well yes, as long as you dont look anyone in the eyes. I witnessed a murder once and you just can't respond. They just can't know that you saw anything, otherwise you might disappear, as well. And also- there are the dogs. They hunt in packs, you know, at night- such an awful thing if you are caught in one. Yes, you musn't look anyone in the eyes." She threw her hand to her right and said "This is your lane just follow it until you see the lights and take a left." The she disappeared . Krista and I spent the next twenty minutes in the scariest place I maybe have ever been. Men were nearly running us down on motorbikes and laughing- it must be a game they play with eachother- the whole road would be open and one would come up right beside us and nearly take our feet out from under us. At one point a man leaned out of an autorickshaw and tried to bite Krista on the shoulder. Men were shouting at us and coming out of buildings to watch.People were animalistic. There were only men on the street. As a woman, I have never been made to cower like that and it made me absolutely hate this place. This city is like Jekyll and Hyde. Not even so very lovely in the day time but absolutely hellish at night. I was plagued by anxiety dreams last night so I didn't sleep much- and besides that the Muslim call to prayer went all night and blared like a brass section from speakers all over town. I was glad when our alarm went off at 4:30.
I was happy to wash our clothes and hang them on the line in the dark. I was glad that the kitchen was unlocked and Krista and I could make our instant coffee this morning. We ran into our friend Jason- who is also American, a pal of Johnny's- on the bus today and chatted a bit. We washed clothes in the sunshine. We drank chai on break and Johnny wandered over. We served lunch and washed dishes and got kisses on the forehead from Soshanna. We had fun in the rythem of simple labor today. Sat in the back of a crowded bus with Anna and the Spainiards who refused to take an autorickshaw for 10 rupees today when it ony cost 8 yesterday. Spainiards will not be cheated and will wave their hands in the face of anyone away who tries. I love that about them. So we paid six rupees, rode the bus- were stuck in traffic for an hour and a half (instead of the 10 minute ride it would have been) and then walked twenty minutes to our restaurant. It was great.
Ate at Tirupathi on the street- Vegetable and egg lo mein is our favorite. And we walked home again- I bought water and Krista bought a pineapple and here I am, writing to you from the internet cafe downstairs.
I am thinking about each one of you- I know it must feel like I have only been gone a few days- it is a weird phenomenon- I feel like it has already been a month. And only five and a half more weeks to go.
This is bootcamp. And I have double push-ups waiting on the roof.
Namaste,
Ev
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