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The culture that articulated the most thoroughgoing philosophy of carefulness with life (Ahimsa, non-injury) is a land of ecological degradation and human difficulty...I honor India for many things: those neolithic cattle breeders who sang daily songs of love to God and Cow...exhaustive meditations on mind and evocation of all the archetypes and images...But most, the spectacle of a high civilization that accomplished art, literature, and ceremony without imposing a narrow version of itself on every tribe and village. Civilization without centralization or monoculture.The caste system as a mode of social organization probably made this possible--with some very unattractive side effects. But those who study the nature of the rise of the centralized state will find India full of surprises. India has had superb times--now fallen a while on hard times. And, beginning to end, irreducible pride. The sharp-tongued, sharp-eyed village men and women, skinny with hard work and never a big fat meal to eat a whole lifetime, life under an eternal sky of stars, and on a beginningless earth.
-From Passage Through India by Gary Snyder

I found this book on a bookshelf, something I picked up a while ago at a used bookstore somewhere and never read. I began reading late one night, and was interested to find that I couldn't put it down. I referred to the beat poets earlier in my blog. My reverence isn't quite the same as it was in my early twenties, but I still love them. (I also have Allen Ginsberg's Indian Journals...but as much as I appreciate him, it's quite difficult to understand...)

Because I left "ready to go" and have been happy to be home, I wonder if I've deserted my long-beloved India. But as I read Gary Snyder's accounts of eating chapatis and curd, encountering ascetics and adivasis (tribal people), the difficulties of long journeys on second class sleeper trains, and the agony of being surrounded by a throng of desperate but demanding rickshaw drivers...as well as his critiques of guru devotion and the caste system, I felt myself a part of something larger. I remembered that I learned so much, that I love that complex and complicated place, and I truly began to miss it. We traversed similar paths at times...Dharamsala, Triund, Delhi, the Sivananda ashram, Mumbai...and many of his reflections were similar to ours.

Gary Synder traveled to India in 1962, and I was quite taken by how much was similar: the railway system, ashram culture, thalis, chai, the temples...India is changing rapidly. McDonald's is not an uncommon sight in the big cities, and every urban dweller seems to have a mobile phone. Yet, I really believe that so much will remain: women in saris, turban-clad Sikhs, cows roaming the streets, cyle-rickshaws, rice and dal...along with arranged marriage, the sideways head nod, and wacky slap-stick humor.

There were times during our travels, when we couldn't get honesty from anyone, while being stared at by groups of men, when strange, screaming babies where thrust into our arms so they could be photographed with us, when we were laughed at...that I didn't know if I'd ever want to go back. But it's only been a few weeks, and I'm reminded of watching India roll by from an open train window, and the palm-lined beaches of the South, the possibilities of a meal in a stranger's home, and the awe of a place that at times feel so different, yet functions so well. I miss it. I hope to return.

It's not a surprise to me that reading this book, now that I'm home, would have such an effect on me. Throughout our travels, reading served as a necessary way for me to process what I was experiencing, and even begin to theorize a little about it. Some of my suggested reading about India: A Fine Balance by Rohinton Mistry, The God of Small Things by Arundhati Roy, May You Be the Mother of a Hundred Sons by Susan Bumiller, Holy Cow by Sarah McDonald, and Life of Pi by Yann Martel. This is a very small list, but if you're interested in reading about India, it's a place to start.

Thank you for reading my blog.

Monsoon Departure

We are home. The last days of our trip turned out a little differently than we had expected. We did see some more sights in Delhi, including the Indira Gandhi museum (where we saw her blood-stained sari). We did make it the Taj Mahal and successfully avoided being poisoned (unfortunately poisoning is a scam in the budget accommodation area in Agra), endured the worst night of sleep of my entire life (unbearable heat, mosquitoes, illness, and the budgetest of hotels yet) and spent a lovely morning in the opulent presence of the Taj. It was stunning. However, when we thought we were finally leaving Delhi, our overnight train to Udaipur was canceled. Rajasthan (the state that Jaipur, Jodhpur, Udaipur and many other popular tourist destinations are in) had been experiencing some unrest with a tribal group demanding more rights. There had been riots and train tracks had been dismantled. We considered not going to Rajasthan at all, but after seeking the advice of many wise people, decided on Udaipur, which is a significant distance from the disruptions in Jaipur, the capitol. However, destiny intervened. We took it as a sign. After asking the railway officials, "What do we do?" to which they had no response, we stood in various queues in various buildings to refund our tickets. It was only after doing all this we learned we couldn't purchase new tickets at this station, and would have to go the New Delhi station across town, the following morning. So, we entered the fray of the Delhi rickshaw scene once again, and pleaded with the Indian Social Institute to take us in, without reservations. Now that I'm safely home, I can say that that twenty-four hour period was definitely a low.

However, the following afternoon we found ourselves on a two-tier AC car (by far the fanciest class of travel we'd been on yet, the only seats available...again, I think it was destiny) and were astounded by the comfort we had been denying ourselves (which we couldn't have afforded to take all over the country anyway). But, as luck would have it, an extra family had been let on board and they found refuge in our berth, so we didn't get any of the extra space anyway. Since it was the last train we would be on in India, hardly anything could bother us. We enjoyed the delicious curd in little earthen jars, had interesting conversations with the wise and witty legal consultant across from us, Shoeb, who shared a cab with us in Mumbai, and read the morning papers cover to cover. I may have had my best night of sleep in four months.

We arrived in Mumbai three days into the monsoon. The headline on the paper read, "It has begun." We immediately loved Mumai...the familiar green feel of South India, the mango carts, friendly people, less general desperation than in the North, and the curious mix of a cosmopolitan "Western" feel with sardine-packed India. Our last days were easy, and very wet. I ate caramel popcorn and Ambryn, gelatto, in Mumbai's infamous movie houses, we drank plenty of fresh lime soda, and we explored the beautiful city by foot, monsoon and all. And then one very early morning (after hardly sleeping...convinced during the absolute thundering downpour that the streets would be flooded and our plane couldn't take off...and we would never leave India) we boarded a Finnair flight to Helsinki.

When I stepped off the plane in Helsinki, and simultaneously breathed the fresh Nordic air and saw the pines and the birch on the other side of the tarmac, I literally said aloud, "Oh my God!" We marveled at the simple, elegant Scandinavian design of the airport, the cordial and efficient staff, and the comfortable furniture before boarding our plane for Paris.

In France we ate incredible food, drank delicious wine, enjoyed the hospitality of good, kind people and were fortunate enough to attend the marriage of Joy and Beranger. I even signed official French documents as a witness. Good friends, late night wedding dancing, dogs we could pet, and showers, eased our transition back home.

And after time in Chicago, another wedding weekend in Madison, and four and a half hours in Chicago's Union station due to flooded train tracks in Wisconsin, I'm home.

I think I'll write one more blog entry, and then that will be all. Tat sat, as they say in India. Because I wasn't able to post photos for so long, I've included quite a few here as a sort of "review" of the last half of our trip, in no particular order. I've also added lots of photos to my flickr site, which is a link from this page.

"B" as in Bombay

When I give people my name here, they always ask, "B as in Bombay?" and I confirm. When spelling my name (the next step) I've found myself saying things like, "T as in tabla," and I've realized I'm prepared to say things like "H as in Hanuman" (the monkey god) and "N as in Nehru." This corresponds with the fact that I'm feeling quite settled here in India (though I'll never accept widespread public urination), so much that I think some of the shine has worn off a little. I think this is a good thing, all a part of the process. There is less wonderment and awe, and I think that when we arrive in Bombay in nine short days I'll be ready to leave. I think.

We arrived back in Delhi this morning, after a twelve hour bus journey from Dharamsala. We payed more money for a "sleeper" but were unsure what that would look like, and prepared ourselves (as we always do) for the worst. It turns out that this bus has two levels. There are the usual two seats on each side of the aisle, but where there is usually a space for luggage, there are "bunks." Ambryn and I had a double which was considerably smaller than a twin bed. We were very thankful that we were sharing that imtimate space with each other and not a stranger. But this sort of intimacy is one of India's charms.

Rather than bringing us into the center of the city where we boarded, the bus dropped us off at a Tibetan refugee colony on the outskirts of town. As one fellow passenger said with a stone face, "Why would we expect that the bus would bring us where we want to go?" So we selected a dreaded rickshaw after being mobbed by about twelve of them and got in after we brought the price down by a third. Only a few meters down the road our ride was flagged down by "police" and after much scrambling for papers, much harrassment by the officers, about twenty minutes, and our driver looking quite depressed, we were off again. This feels like classic Delhi. We got to the NGO where we are staying but learned we can't check in for several hours. After washing our faces in the handwashing sinks in the cafeteria, applying deoderant in the stairwell, and trying to make ourselves presentable for the morning hours in this cosmopolitan city (in bus clothes we've been wearing for 24 hours) we realized that all of these factors combined with the fact that the place in which we are staying is a "social institute," has a chapel, involves coupons to eat, and has strict check-in and check-out times looks a lot like what "homelessness" looks like to many of the folks we've worked with in Chicago and Tacoma. We realized this with a lot of laughter. This is where we're at. A little ragged, but happy. Enjoying the adventure of it all, soaking it all up because the days go so quickly.

Parts of our off-season Goa travel (largely being a spectacle to North Indian men) and most of our Delhi travel kicked us around a little (but we've stayed level-headed through it all...I think we've managed to stay sane sometimes becuase of our ability to find the humor in ridiculous situations). We didn't really know where that Himachel Tours bus would bring us, but we knew it was out of the city and that felt good. Dharamsala, the home of the Tibetan goverment in Exile, was a true respite. We weren't able to have an audience with the Dalai Llama, but we did see his temple, tour the Tibetan museum, and tried to soak up as much of the place as we could. If and when we return to India, we both would really like to return and do some volunteer work to get a deeper sense of the community. The most refreshing part for us was that even though we were just passing through, we definitely sensed the community, something we've been seeking ever since we left Bangalore (so many travelers say this same thing...interesting). It is so exhausting to be a consumer at every turn...for every meal, every night's stay, every snack, every journey further than walking distance. In Dharamsala we met our neighbors, smiled at people, were able to strike up conversations with strangers, made some friends (including a woman from Belgium who has been traveling in Asia for the last two and a half years and was visiting Dharmsala for the ninth time, and a contemporary modern dancer from London), breathed fresh air, walked everywhere we needed to go, ate healthy food, hiked in the Himalayas, took courses in Reiki I and Reiki II, and received Tibetan massages. We learned about the invasion of Tibet by China in 1949 and the subsequent trauma the Tibetan people have endured since. The city is such an interesting mix of Indian locals, the Tibetan community (which I believe makes up the majority of the population) and all of the foreigners who make that place "home" for varying lenghts of time.

So now we're back in Delhi, and despire the overnight bus journey, some tummy issues, and our inabiltity to check into our room for a few hours, I think we're doing well. The combination of our experience in Delhi with the restorative properties of the mountains is pushing us through these days. We're hoping to see a friend here in Delhi, visit the National Museum, and then we're on another train to Agra, home of the Taj Mahal. We'll find ourselves back in Delhi to make a connection, then on to Udaipur in Rajasthan (apparently the most romantic place in India and where Jame Bond's "Octopussy" was filmed), a connection in Gujarat and then Mumbai (Bombay).

Thoughts on People

Throughout our two months at Visthar, Ambryn and had moments here and there when we grew a little anxious to get on the road. Some of our days felt a little 9-5 monotonous when we knew (unexplored) India was just out there, beyond the Visthar gate. However, we've continually been affirmed that our time there provided us with such a good foundation for our travels. We acclimated to India, reminded ourselves how the bus systems work, and had so many people on hand to process, or theorize, with about what we were encountering. We've met some really great people on the road (and here in Dharamsala, the home of the Dalai Llama, there are a lot of good people), as you always do, but we still certainly miss our friends in South India.

I could go on and on about all of them, but I thought I’d write about some of the other characters we met during our time in Bangalore. Our friend Lyola’s husband, Edison, just left his job as the chief correspondent at the Bangalore branch of the Times of India to become the editor of the Chennai (Madras) branch. This expansion makes it the biggest newspaper in the world! Edison has lived almost his entire life in Bangalore and is so knowledgeable about the city. Bangalore was largely a British city, the reason it has so many good private schools, beautiful colonial houses, etc. It was known as “the garden city” and as a “pensioner’s paradise” up until the information technology boom that happened after India began privatizing the economy (and Bangalore ended up as the hub because of it's good climate). Now, the city is drowning under its’ own expansion and uncontrolled growth. (Though the South side, which is mostly upper caste Hindu families, is quite posh. When we visited for the first time and I was awed. Oddly, it reminded me of some of the neighborhoods in South Minneaoplis, except tropical and with lots of cows in the street.) Not that many years ago the climate was ideal, but so many trees have been cut down and it has become much warmer. It’s sad. Edison has told us stories about streets his father was forbade to walk on (as an Indian) before independence. He’s also pointed out the pub in which Winston Churchill has an outstanding tab.

Edison’s grandfather was the chief in his village in Tamil Nadu, and they owned the biggest house in the area. When Gandhi (known here as Gandhiji, a term of respect and affection) stayed in their home when he traveled through during the salt march. Edison’s father was born in that same house.

We were fortunate enough to attend the 65^th wedding anniversary party of Visthar’s director, David’s, in-laws. His father-in-law was a general in the Indian Army, and began his career before independence. He has lived all over India, and seen a lot. He was a friend of India’s last viceroy. He tells the story of when Mahatma Gandhi was shot. Apparently, when the viceroy heard the news, he took a drink, and went on the radio to make an announcement. He said, “Mohandas Gandhi, the father of the nation, has been shot. By a Hindu.” He said if he had not said the second part, blood would have flowed through every street in India.

David’s in-laws are very classy people. They own a beautiful home in what was once the outskirts of the city. There is a huge, sprawling mango tree in their front yard. There are vegetable gardens, flowers, and a wide, green lawn. Their house is one of the last left, as most have been leveled and replaced with apartment buildings. Though you can still sense the peace that the British must have felt when they built the tree-lined street. One of the guests we spoke with is the father of an ambassador living in the U.S. During the course of the evening we drank beer, chatted, ate good food, and sang old songs from the 1930s. The evening ended with us singing “Amazing Grace” for the octogenarian couple, as a blessing.

Creepy Crawlies

I thought some of you may appreciate hearing about the "wildlife" I've encountered since arriving in India. The last time I was here I had the great fortune of seeing wild elephants, buffalo, several species of deer, bears.... This time, I'll share my trials and tribulations with the more household variety.

In my home: lizards, copious amounts of jumping spiders, mice (suspended above my body scampering across my thin and fragile bed net!!!), mosquitoes, beetles, moths, frogs (and possibly bed bugs?), a scorpion, and enormous spiders that I'd like to call tarantulas but I don't think they are.

In my workplace:rats, bats, mosquitoes

Outside:aggressive monkeys, snakes, bats, mosquitoes, frogs, toads, squirrels, wild mangey dogs (though I still think they're cute), feral cats, goats, sheep, camels, elephants, yaks, mongoose, hundreds of cows

p.s. I'd love to include some photos of a few of these animals but I've sworn off trying to transfer my photos onto computers in internet cafes after I lost all of my photos from Cochin and Goa...

Cochin, Goa, Delhi...Oh...

I'm writing from Delhi, where every tout seems to think we'll gladly follow him into his non-existent official tourist office and hand over large sums of American currency. And thus, we've arrived here in one point of the "Golden Triangle" of India...a big tourist hub. We've only been here for two days and have only seen a fraction of this massive city, but all at once it feels sophisticated, vulgar, spacious, crowded, dirty, and stunning. It's India. The mustaches are also HUGE here in the North, which is very exciting.

We arrived via a 28+ hour train trip from Goa aboard the Radjhani Express. We were lucky to share a berth with some friendly college students. There was a loud, boisterous Punjabi man sitting across the aisle from us. While we were reading he would stare at us, and if we put our book down for even a minute he would strike up a conversation which resulted in displaying how knowledgeable he was. It's the kind of scene that is often replayed over and over around here. He stood out from the archetypical Indian man in that his clothes were not pressed and did not (even remotely) match, his buttons were unbuttoned almost down to his navel, and his oiled gray hair was long and shaggy. A character. Throughout the long night he loudly cleared his throat (this is putting it SO politely) and would alternately moan, sing, cough, and talk. I was feeling very unfriendly thoughts toward him as I tried to sleep and then I remembered, "You're on an overnight train to Delhi."

We only have a handful of weeks left in India...and I was reminded that this slight inconvenience is a small price to pay for this adventure.

Cochin was cozy, warm, hospitable, interesting. If I hadn't suffered a camera memory card debauchle (and lost all my photos from Cochin and Goa) at the last shoddy internet cafe I would include photos of the Star of David alongside a statue of Ganesha in "Jewtown" in Cochin. Cochin was colonized by the Portugese, Dutch, and British, and a small Jewish population remains (a fraction of a once substantial community). We visited the synogogue amongst many other interesting historic places, including the first Christian church in India, where Vasco De Gama was buried. The architecture and culture are quite unique, and so interesting. We also spent a day on Kerala's luscious backwaters. We glided along the narrow canals in our little wooden boats, past small villages of women doing their washing, men rhythmically swaying their bodies while fishing for mussels, and children splashing each other in the heat of the day. Kerala is the "land of the coconuts" and I'll spare the dramatic story and just tell you that I was the victim of one of the branches (thankfully not the fruit) falling from the sky and hitting me! (I'm fine.) Kerala also boasts a 99% literacy rate and continually democratically elects a Communist government. As the result of a land reform act of 1967 most everyone owns a small tract of land, as it was taken back from the landlords. It's a fascinating (and unbelievably beautiful) place. I'm so thankful we were able to be there for a while.

From there we moved on to Goa, to see for ourselves what all the hype is about. We thankfully arrived post tourist season which meant that we had days of almost private beaches and as long as we were shaded (and could ignore throngs of men staring at us when they came to the beach around sunset) we were quite comfortable. We ate most of our (delicious) meals right on the beach and soaked up as much of the sound of crashing waves, hot sand, and beautiful sunsets as we could. On our last night I spent a few hours engrossed in conversation with an octogenarian named Mani. An Indian (Brahmin) born man who "escaped" India in his twenties and has only been back to visit a few times since. We talked about food, books, India...all over gin and tonics, under the stars, and listening to the waves.

The Ashram and Me

I am in quiet, lovely, adorable seaside Cochin after a week at the Sivananda Ashram in the foothills of the Ghats in Southern Kerala. It was a trip.

The Sivananda Ashrams and Centers were founded by a yogi named (aptly) Sivananda, and his apostle Vishnu Devananda. These men are respected for reviving the yogic way of life, as well as recognizing the West was "ready" for yoga and spreading it all over the world. Vishnu Devananda came to Canada in 1957...he is also known as "the flying guru" because he flew an ultra-light plane over conflict zones in the world, such as the Berlin Wall, and dropped peace pamphlets and flower petals. From what I learned, I think I can really respect these men. They stressed the importance of the full spectrum of yoga (of which asanas, the postures, are just one of five parts) and of yoga's connection to spirituality, and as it were, Hinduism. What I was not prepared for was being one of many white people chanting "Hare Krishna" (and MANY others) and venerating different Hindu gods and goddesses for hours every day, in the middle of India. Sometimes I felt foolish. Sometimes I felt like I was in a Saturday Night Live sketch.

I'm happy to have had an ashram experience in India. It is so much apart of the culture here. The traditional (pre-colonial) education was that of studying with a guru (which translates to bringing light into the cave, or darkness). The effects of this are everywhere. It seems so easy for people to be elevated to a god-like status: yogis, Bollywood stars like Shah Rukh Khan, NGO directors, cricketers, prime ministers, spiritual leaders. I learned so much about the incredibly complicated, beautiful, inspiring world of yoga, and consequently, Hinduism. I met interesting people from all over the world: Investment brokers/traders who left their jobs from Ireland and Switzerland, two American girls our age who were on their way to a pancha karma (3-4 week intensive Ayruvedic cleanse) in the Tamil Nadu jungle, an Indian family with their 8 year-old daughter, and lots of other backpackers from all over the world. I also feel quite good after a week of four hours of asanas and pranayama(postures/exercises and breathing) a day, sparse, healthy vegetarian food, and hours of meditation. Also, the alarm bell went off at 5:20 and it wasn't even that hard to get up.

Both the high and low point of the week was a silent night walk we took on our last evening during satsung (like Vespers). We ended up walking right past a LARGE and brightly lit Christian revival. We walked behind the stage, then right alongside it, then all along the vast crowd of Indians listening intently while their leader shouted, "Halelujah! Thank you Jesus! Praise the Lord!" through LOUD speakers. (I often marvel that not everyone is deaf in this country.) There we were, a bunch of white people, carrying yoga mats and meditation cushions, preparing to chant "Jaya Ganesha" in the dark in India, interrupting their tent revival. They stared and I don't blame them. I think we were quite a sight. It was one of the odder moments of my life.

There is so much I appreciate about the incredibly diverse, aesthetically rich, Hindu spirituality. The religion of Ghandiji. Still, I was interested to realize how uncomfortable I was with certain beliefs. One is that of the need for humans to recognize our ability to merge with the gods (This is my simple understanding of something incredibly complicated...something that needs to be translated by teachers, another thing that is hard for me to digest, though I think it is present in all spiritualities...a struggle for me.)...involving the yogic belief of freedom: that you are able to do what you don't want to do, and that you don't have to do what you want to do. In so many ways, this makes much sense to me. I can understand how this is freeing, and I think to a certain extent, I try to push myself in these ways to be more happy. Still, I think some of life's purest, simplest joys are God-given and are to be LIVED fully, and humanly. Love, music, natural beauty, good food...this is it. For me. Like my Grandma making cinnamon rolls every Friday. I'm happy for people who find freedom in this more Hindu life, who find happiness, fulfillment. My God has to allow me to simply be human. It has to forgive, it has to involve grace. And, as it turns out, the one I was born with provides this. What a phenomenon.

It reminds me of a conversation I had with Shafi, the driver, at Visthar. (Consequently, Ambryn has said that if she were going to follow any guru, it would be Shafi. Though I don't think he would allow it.) He asked me, "Are you Christian?" (It's taken me a while to realize people aren't asking me if my name is "Christine" when they ask this.) I explained that this is my culture and tradition, my family, how I was raised, but that my beliefs are actually probably more agnostic right now. Shafi (a muslim) replied, "Not Good." He said (in broken English) that it was okay for individuals, but that it is so central to have an identity, especially for children. That you needed to know where you come from, wherever that is. He then explained that he thinks God is like a tree. There are many branches, different ways of expressing God, but all the same God. I told I thought he was right.

So, this week did actually leave me with some clearer ideas of where I come from, and where I'm at now. Interestingly enough, Ambryn and met an incredibly sweet young Catholic priest named Nadhil on the train, who chatted us up almost the whole trip to Cochin. We both felt better about the future of the church knowing he will be a priest (after he completes his 11 years of study). We talked about our families, about our personal relationships and friendships, about translation of scripture, and about the ordination of women.

I realized I'm really an "all or nothing" kind of girl. I found that if I couldn't accept the whole schbang hook, line and sinker, (and if I couldn't decide to live the rest of my days in that ashram wearing only yellow) that it was hard for me to be a part of any of it. Though, slowly I think I was able to accept what was beautiful...the RICH worship involving flames, flowers, sweets, conch blowing, chants, the centuries old wisdom, the health of the yogic way of life, the emphasis on peace...and leave what didn't jive with me. Hopefully I can continue to learn to do this with my own spirituality of origin.

I'm also hoping that this experience will give me a greater understanding of the Beat poets whom I appropriately fell in love with around the age of 20. We'll see.

We Left Visthar

As Shafi escorted us out of Visthar, very afraid for us that we'd be late for our train, we shouted out the windows, "Bye Visthar!" "Bye School of Peace!" "Bye Bandhavi!" and we were returned with one, "Bye Aunty!" and then we drove out of the gates. It was hard to leave Visthar a second time. It was hard to leave the first time, but this time it was on our own terms, which makes it both easier, and harder

Before I left Visthar in 2001 I hugged a coconut tree, because Raj, our reiki teacher, told us they are an especially good source of energy. It was also one of the last things I did this time. However, unlike in 2001, we didn't have a few days to gravely walk the campus, feeling our loss. This time we were immersed in work, in friendships...in laundry, packing cleaning. We had a little good-bye ceremony at tea break, and both Ambryn and I started to cry. We have been so graciously welcomed, immediately invited into circles of family and friends, and it's hard to just walk away. But this is what we do. Rhati translated for us as we said good-bye to the Bandhavi girls, just minutes before we left. They looked at us sadly, saying, "Aunty, no." I held open my freshly mendhied palm and the held it in their hands, stroked it, and kissed it. It was hard to say good-bye.

We also were able to spend a last night on the town with our friends Robi, Vinay and Giddeon, and of course Edison, our friend and co-worker Lyola's husband. (See motorcyle photos.) We've connected with these guys so easily, they are an absolute riot, and we've already missed them so much!

So, after a long train ride to Trivandrum (in which a mouse crawled across my foot in the first few minutes and shortly before we got off we shared our berth with three police officers and two men handcuffed together) and about 24 hours in Trivandrum in which we bathed about 6 times each due to the heat, we boarded a few different local buses for the beach town of Varkala.

It's quite easy to be happy here, as the Indian ocean is absolutely stunning, and most of the services here are on these breath-taking coconut-lined cliff tops. We're also staying at a state run (and incredibly cheap) guest house (Kerala continually democratically elects a socialist government...it's so interesting to see Hammer and Sicle flags every where...and to take note of the communist/socialist influences...Sometimes I fee like I'm in Moscow again.) in a former maharaja's palace! I'm sure my mother is saying, "Two girls from rural Minnesota..."

So, we're transitioning from having a home, having a community, having work...in Bangalore, and being on the open road. This seems like a pretty good place to do it. I've purchased a pair of green "Ali Baba" pants, so here we are, touring. And, it's interesting to grapple with this role of the tourist. After the Bandhavi girls repeatedly pointed at other white people saying, "Aunty! Same!" Ambryn and I have come to refer to all other white tourists as "Sames." It's easier. It is kind of hard to be inVarkala, where, as white tourists, we're regarded first as consumers, and second as people (or at least, at its worst, this is how it feels). At the same time, I love soaking up the warm sun, and then cooling off in powerful waves of the Indian ocean. I don't love that large groups of men spend all afternoon staring at the white tourists, motorcyle helmets under their arms. Though, according to our guidebook, swimming is considered eccentric. Growing up with Minnesota lakes everywhere (and swimming my way through childhood), that's hard for me to understand, but here, I'm always trying to understand.

Soon, we will board an early morning bus for Neyyar Dam, and begin our weeklong "yoga vacation" at the Sivananda Ashram. I am currently experiencing some mild "ashram anxiety" as I've come to call it. On the beach we met a middle-aged European man (he asked us to watch his things while he swam) who had just returned from two and a half months at Amma's Ashram. (Amma is the "hugging mother." She visited Tacoma when I lived there. Her ashram is nearby. Her ministrying is hugging people, all day, every day. The yogi who founded the Sivananda centers is known as "the flying guru.") He was an odd man. He seemed somewhat unstable, and he looked me in the eye, pulling on his cigarette, and said, "Ashram life is hard." Ambryn and I have maintained a good sense of humor about our upcoming ashram visit, so I quickly turned to her with mock fright. I have a hard time with any philosophy that is touted as "the way" for everyone. I also have some serious questions as to why garlic and onions are forbidden from the menu. But, I like yoga. And, this place has a very good, international, reputation. When in Rome...

So, we'll join the ranks of The Beatles and other spiritual nourishment seekers and be Westerners spending time at an Ashram in India. I have to admit that the part of me that seeks order and discipline is quite excited. There is also the possibility that I'll come out a little healthier. Mostly, I don't know what to expect, and I'm excited for the adventure.

Then and Now...

Ambryn and I spent a few hours last week listening to a retired general of the Indian army (turned social justice activist and PhD) speak to us (and specifically, the School of Peace) about the role of police and military in a democracy, and the Military Industrial Complex. The facts were very interesting, but the concepts were not new. We know corporations are greedy, that the WTO has a significant role in the demise of the world, and that the United State’s military spending can be described as nothing less than sinful (especially in comparison to the rest of the world…absolutely atrocious). We may know these facts, but the other people here don’t necessarily know that we know that. We were two of three Americans in the room (the third being Max, a Mennonite peace activist who hasn’t lived in the U.S. for decades) and even though I have never been directly asked by a legislator for budget advice, write to my legislators sporadically, have never voted Republican, try to educate myself, and try to consume ethically…I still benefit. During the discussion section of the last session a question was raised as to who was supporting various tyrannical regimes around the world (the home countries of several of the School of Peace students) and the answer was a resounding, “U.S.!” while several people stood up and pointed at us. And then the sessions ended because our presenter needed to catch a train.

When we were students in 2001 we soaked all this knowledge up, nodding all the while and leaving the classroom with our heads hung low. But now, six and a half years later, we don’t feel as culpable. I know Father Gary Smith and the dozens of people who have poured their heart and soul into the work at Nativity House over the last almost-thirty years, and the Catholic workers at Guadalupe House, and the good people of Holden Village, and Paul Wellstone, and my friends, and people who are good parents...I also firmly believe that living in poverty is not compulsory for being a “good person.” I’ve been thinking a lot about something Mother Theresa is credited with saying, “You cannot do great things, only small things with great love.” What else is there to aspire to than to treat people in your life…your closest family and friends or the person who scans your groceries…with kindness? I believe that is enough.

We know that our country has done and continues to do horrible things all over the world (and at home). But we also know that we as human being are not representatives of George W. Bush only. Good things happen in the United States every day, just like good things happen every where every day. It’s easier to be traveling in India now, at the dawn of a presidential election, with clear hopes for change. (It was not as easy to be traveling here in 2001 after W. was “elected” the first time and then began to bomb Afghanistan while spewing nationalistic rhetoric.) It’s also easier because we’re not earnest college students willing to grovel for our nation’s faults. We’re still young, but we’ve been around the block enough to know that it’s not that simple.

I was intending to pass along some of the sobering (and some of the inspiring) information that I learned in that session, but most of the people who are reading this probably know all that: problems cannot be solved by force, the James Madison quotation, “If tyranny and oppression come to this land it will be in the guise of fighting a foreign enemy.” U.S. corporations (Coke, IBM) supplied the Nazis during World War II. So, Ambryn and I are trying to take ourselves less seriously. We can’t take on the world, but we (and the various identities we carry with us) can work to be good human beings in the relationships we’re forming here and now. I hope we’re not pointed at with accusatory fingers throughout our travels, but in the end all we can do is try to be as kind, and be as easy on ourselves as we'd like other people to be on us.

Happy Ugadi!

Over the course of the last week we've been learning about the holiday, Ugadi. Ugadi is a Hindu holiday, but it also seems to be a cultural Indian holiday, because our Christian and Muslim friends honor it. It is essentially a new year's celebration. One tradition on Ugadi is the consumption of neem and jaggery. Neems trees are medicinal and considered auspicious; their taste is very bitter. Jaggery is raw sugar. The symbolism is quite beautiful: In life the struggle, the sadness, the despair, is intrinsically connected to the joy, the sweet, the happiness. In honoring the passing of one year and ushering in the next, we pause to celebrate both what is difficult, and what is pleasurable, and their connection to one another.

Ambryn and I took the day off of work and went into the city. It seems that most trips into Bangalore present jaggery and neem. Just when we've had it with gaping men and endless questions of whether we want to buy a map of India or take a ridiculously priced auto-rickshaw, the man who sells us our pineapple juice will exude quiet kindness, or trustworthy strangers will emerge from the crowds at the bus terminal informing us how the 295 differs from the 295B, and will in fact tell us exactly which stop is closest to our destination. These moments of sweetness usually happen when I'm at my most sour. You have to take it all together.

We also celebrated the new year with the School of Peace students. The same day is celebrated in Nepal, Cambodia, Laos, Burma, Thailand and Indonesia. At breakfast we were met with a plate of rice, flowers, and sweets, and we were given a blessing from the Nepalese women. Near dusk we all gathered around a a floral creation and a big bucket of "green water", water with flowers. One by one, the young people honored the elder, who happened to be Max, their teacher. They all bowed before him, some prostrated themselves, and they thanked him. They presented him with money (symbolically) and poured the green water on him, until he was drenched. It was very moving. Then, one by one, we all came back to Max and this time he tied a bracelet on our wrist and blessed us. There were laughter and tears, while tinny music played and cameras snapped. Then, the seriousness abruplty ended as the remaining water was poured onto everyone in reachable distance. The festivities did not end until every person was doused, and even then it continued a little longer.

Work

If anyone is wondering more about what we’re actually doing here, I thought I’d write a little about work.

After the International Women’s Day celebration in Koppal, the girls returned home with their families for a couple of weeks for a summer vacation. (This time is always a little tense because there is always the possibility that some of the girls will be dedicated to the goddess and become devadasis while they are home. The teachers spent several days with their families in their villages answering questions, and working with the parents. Apparently some of the girls called the director, Nazer, and pleaded with him to come to their homes because their parents didn't want them to go back.) Ambryn and I were sad to see them go, and sad to have less time to work with them. Still, it’s exciting for them to be able to reconnect with their families and home villages.

And here at Visthar there is always plenty to do. May 11th brings the annual Festival of Just Peace. This is an annual mela (carnival) celebrating the joy that comes out of struggle. There will be local artisans demonstrating traditional crafts like handlooms, bamboo work, etc. People will be selling their wares. There will be traditional foods and emphasis on local, organic, etc. The plates will be made out of leaves (this is traditional here). There will be art exhibitions, photo exhibitions, dance, theatre, children’s activities, as well as stalls for local NGOs. It sounds like a really beautiful day.

Unfortunately, we cannot be in two places at the same time, and Ambryn and I need to hit the open road by the end of April in order to see all of the places we want to see before we leave India in June. We're on a train for Trivandrum (Kerala) on April 23rd!

Still, we’re able to be involved by helping to coordinate and facilitate some summer workshops for youth (ages 12-16) that will serve as a prelude to the actual festival day. This week we’re going to facilitate “creative movement” workshops. Ambryn is the dancer, so I’m mostly just assisting. I’m really excited for the opportunity to move, and for what I’ll learn. In the last two weeks I've traveled all over Bangalore with our co-worker and friend Lyola speaking with principals from area private high schools, visiting churches, community centers, etc.. It was very interesting. I don’t know if I could’ve survived the pressure that Indian children go through with their exams. It’s exam season and tensions are high.

So, the rest of this month will see Ambryn and I body-mapping, flocking, weight sharing, and moving through space with students and teachers from Bangalore.

On one last work-related note, here I am with two co-workers: Steven from the paper unit and Shafi. We were three of five people in the backseat of the Qualis (a Toyota SUV thing) with 10 people total in the vehicle. I'm really going to miss the people at Visthar!

International Women's Day: Koppal

Riding home on the bus from Hampi the phrase “character building” came to mind (while sweating, tired, and immobilized by rice pot and limbs of small children). I was reminded of how often I thought this phrase in my teens and early twenties, as I always was trying to prove something to myself. (I can climb up this mountain. I can survive in this difficult place. I can get an A on this paper without any sleep.) Ambryn and I have spoken a lot about our lack of necessity to prove something to ourselves on this trip. I think our time in Koppal was our test.

Shortly after returning from Hampi, the girls’ mothers began to arrive. From the wedding hall that would be home for the next two days, we could see them walking down the street, streams of colorful sarees. They each clutched one small bag. Some of the girls were ecstatic. Some were apprehensive. Some stood by themselves and told us, “Aunty, Mommy, no.” We knew of some girls whose mothers had recently died, and we knew that some were not sure if their mother would come. Bittersweet. Soon there were circles of women all over the floor. The girls weaved in and out of them, introducing friends, talking to mothers of their friends, translating. Ambryn and I made some appearances in some circles and at one point were called upon to sing a song. (Thankfully we had been practicing because we knew this day would come. Because we both have sung “Closer to Fine” about a million times, it’s our best hope.) Around 11:00 we trekked home with our Visthar companions, over the railroad tracks and through very some muddy roads. (Ambryn received a reprimand from our Indian friends because to avoid mud she stepped into the rice patty…filled with snakes.)

Our alarms were set for 6:00 the next morning and we woke up absolutely exhausted. We peeled our tired bodies off the floor and tried (unsuccessfully) to muster up some celebratory feelings. Thankfully, Radha, the Kannada teacher, was there to get us into our sarees (purchased for this very day). With sleepy faces, sarees on, and borrowed gold chains around our necks (an absolute must to complete the outfit, we’ve been told) we stepped into our sandals and again took off down the muddy road. Upon arrival at the hall we experienced the “celebrity status” our professor Doug cautioned us of in our 2001 trip. Our white skin was one thing, the saris another, and Ambryn’s eyebrow ring the final straw. It was beautiful to see the girls with their mothers…singing, dancing, drumming, speaking eloquently…and all the while it was absolutely exhausting to be surrounded by hundreds of people (many of whom wanted to touch us, stare at us, speak loudly to us in Kannada) in intense heat, wrapped in 5 meters of cloth. I literally did not know my body could produce so much sweat. Thankfully, due to my childhood lessons on the importance of natural, breathable fibers (instilled in me by my mother) I chose a (high-maintenance, that’s the trade-off) cotton sari. Still, it took so much energy just to keep ourselves hydrated. There wasn’t much left for explaining over and over our names, where we were from, if we were or were not students, and why we were not married.

It could have been due to the heat, but our emotions ran deep. I felt so much as I hugged the girls good-bye, or saw them with their mothers, or without their mothers…But I also felt such intense frustration at all of the attention that we were drawing. The days were (so) not about us, and we had no idea how to re-direct all that gawking, all of questions. I’d like to say that I was always gracious, but several times I just had to ignore the throngs (literally) of children jumping and screaming, “Aunty! Aunty!” (Not Bandhavi girls, but local children we did not know.) At one point I was trying to say good-bye and several of them had a firm grip on my arm and wouldn’t let me go. I was literally trapped on several occasions. Even though they were really cute little kids, my instincts kicked in. Being trapped is not a good feeling. Everything became a production. While waiting for the toilet I was surrounded and couldn’t even get into the bathroom. It was an awful feeling to lose the ability to have time to ourselves. We couldn’t walk down the streets without gangs of schoolchildren following us, or random adults stopping to stare and ask questions. At the hall we were always surrounded, no matter which corner we tried to find. I was bewildered at the predicament. I wanted to be able to blend in both because I wanted the attention on the girls and the mothers, but also because I just needed my space. Is this selfish? I don’t know.

The program itself was very inspiring. (Our difficulties came during the “free times.”) Even with the intense heat and lack of sari-wearing history I was deeply moved by what we saw and heard. The program was entirely in Kannada, but the spirit was easily conveyed without common spoken language. The girls took charge, with Renuka as the master of ceremonies. There was drumming, singing, and dancing with a spiritual element infused throughout. One by one, the girls were called onto the stage and presented their mothers with a flower and a card, and honored them. There were tears, from the girls and their mothers, but also from those of us in the crowd. (Unfortunately Ambryn and I missed most of this because we were taking a trip to see land Visthar is about to purchase to began another Bandhavi program in this area, closer to where the girls are actually from.) The interesting thing is, the girls who did not have mothers present chose to honor various people from Visthar…their teachers and coordinators of the Bandhavi program.

The entire event culminated in a march to the government building and presenting a list of demands to the governor. Ambryn and I were encouraged to hop (aka be pulled) into the lorry and ride with the women. We pushed our way (literally…Sham was telling us, “Push! Push! Otherwise we’ll never get in!”) to the front to stand next to someone familiar, the theatre teacher, Shivashankar. He turned out to be an excellent rally leader and initiated call and response. Ambryn and I were invited in and soon Ambryn and I were shouting (to the non-English speakers):

Us: What do we want?!

Women and girls: Justice!

Us: When do we want it?!

Women and girls: Justice!

We decided that was pretty good. After arriving safely and jumping out of the lorry (and the requisite waiting for who-knows-what for about half an hour in the sun) we began our march. All of my frustrations from the days began to fall away. It felt so good to be engaged in something meaningful with these women. Here was something we could actually DO. We could march with them in solidarity. We could try our best to repeat the Kannada calls for justice while they giggled at our butchering attempts. On the steps of the government building we were met with a group of men with arms crossed at their chests, and police officers on either side. Ambryn and I were ushered to the front by some of the NGO workers from Koppal, even though we really wanted to be in the back. The women continued singing, then one woman read the demands. Next, the (arrogant) government official told the crowd that the NGOs were exploiting them and representing them in ways they don’t understand (most of the women are illiterate). Unfortunately, the male NGO employees from Koppal became very defensive: standing up, and shouting. Ambryn and I continually muttered, “Let the women speak.” We grew uncomfortable as tensions escaled, and I re-located myself to the back of the crowd. Eventually some of the women stood up and set the man straight. Sham, dear benevolent Sham, approached the officer gently and demanded he apologize. Eventually he did, and he walked away. Then, it was all over. The women began to walk away. I stood, stunned. I found Mercy to try to get some sort of a translation and analysis of what just happened. She told me there was some speculation that the government officials thought Ambryn and I were from a donor agency and therefore the NGOs were trying to impress us. This news hit hard. The thought that our presence could have taken away from this event was almost too much to bear. However, this is only speculation (this is what I’m holding on to) and Mercy (a tireless activist) told us she actually thinks it’s a good thing that the government official was oppositional, because it adds fuel to the women’s fire. This is my hope.

This is the lorry that transported we protestors to the government building:

Here we are in it:

p.s. The events made the local paper both days. On the second day one photos is of Ambryn and me, which is kind of interesting.

Hampi

I didn’t know so many people could fit into one bus. The Visthar mini bus holds 30 people, and after Ambryn and I climbed aboard and attempted to find the most stable standing position, we counted 74. Granted, most were girls, bust still. I rode most of the way pressed up against the door, while being spooned. Thankfully my spooner was a benign 11 year-old girl. We rode through the busy evening streets of Bangalore. I believe only one girl vomited, and I think we can call that a success. As I looked out the window (I felt lucky I wasn’t lodged somewhere in the middle) onto Hindu worshipers in the little roadside temples, men sitting in tea shops, and sides of mutton and pork hanging in the meat stalls, I felt like I was seeing India for the first time, in a sense. Somehow it felt more like India, this country with over one billion people, with humanity pressed into me, slogging our way through the loud, honking, gritty streets. As it turned out, I think Ambryn and I needed our weekend in Koppal to round out the relatively cozy experience we’ve been having so far.

It was delightful to take the train with the girls. At the station we entertained them with singing, “Head, Shoulders, Knees and Toes” etc. (It was actually a request.) We saw a few other white tourists at the station and one girl, Padma, turned to us, smiling excitedly and said, “Aunty! Same!” Ambryn and I cringed (at the reminder that because of white skin, we are immediately associated with all the scandalously clad Westerners backpacking their way around…), and allowed ourselves to continue to be pulled down the walkway with them. The girls were professionals on the train. Ambryn and I were lucky to share a berth with 4 of the smallest girls. One had no shoes and carried a heavy second-hand suitcase that was almost as big as her. The excitement wore off relatively quickly for them. They pulled down the make-shift second-class sleeper beds, covered themselves with a “dupatta” (large scarf) if they had one, used their suitcase or backpack for a pillow, and promptly went to sleep. I can’t get over how competent these little girls are. Ambryn tried to cover a few of them up with her blanket, but they would only immediately fold it neatly and hand it back to her.

After arriving at Koppal the next morning and taking our breakfast, we packed into two (thank God) mini buses and headed for Hampi. Hampi is the site of old temple ruins, the largest World Heritage Site. The day was long and hot, with all of the waiting around in the sun associated with group travel. It was also a beautiful gift to share that incredible place with those girls. They took turns playing tour guide for us and pulled us along the various ruins, pointing out different deities, “Aunty! Hanuman! Beautiful! Aunty!” At the living temple at Hampi they became very pious and serious. We all took the holy water, and received the red, yellow, and white powder (I always forget what they’re called!) on our foreheads. The girls bowed to the little chamber where the priest sleeps, which can be viewed from behind a gate. On the way out I gave Renuka a rupee so she could receive a blessing from the temple elephant. Upon handing over the rupee the elephant lowers its trunk onto the head of the rupee-giver.

After ice cream was consumed and sunburns (for Ambryn and me) were confirmed we boarded the buses for the two hour journey back to Koppal. Raju, the social studies teacher, picked some sugar cane from the window and passed it to all the children. They soon crashed from their sugar highs and Ambryn and I were left to giggle all the way home. We were crammed into the backmost seat, our legs wedged behind the behemoth rice pot in which our lunch was kept, with sleeping girls on each side of us. The heat of the day made us a little loopy as we processed a day of heat, hilarity (the usual Indian travel things), and deeper relationships with the girls (including moving to a place of being irritated, a necessary step in authentic relationships, I think). We nearly missed our death a few times, but that all comes with Indian travel. We were hot, sweaty, and probably had a few months taken from our lives due to the alarm caused by our reckless (read: just about standard) bus driver. But the overwhelming sense was that of extreme gratitude for the opportunity to spend a meaningful day with these inspiring girls.

More Daily Life

We’ve been doing well these last few weeks and days. A few weeks ago we attended a party at our friend Lyola’s. Her husband works in the “Lifestyle” section of the Bangalore newspaper and he’s quite in-the-know about all things social. (He’s also the president of the Karnataka Racing Pigeon Club and owns over 300 homing pigeons.) The humidity of the day finally broke right around the time we were scheduled to leave so we walked in the pouring rain and had to change into Lyola’s clothes up on arrival. Lyola is very small, so I ended up in a pair of her salwar pants, if you haven’t seen them, they’re quite indescribable…there are a million modest pleats around the hips and they taper tightly at the ankles, so much that they are difficult to slip over your feet. Her aunties served us hot chapattis, dal, paneer, and tea, and soon after the friends began to arrive. We had cocktails, listened to music, played with the children and generally had a really good time all the way until dinner was served at 2:30 in the morning. This group of friends has graciously welcomed us into their crowd and we've been hanging out with them every weekend since. It's very exciting to have a social life, and we've had a lot of fun.

We also went sari shopping with Mercy and later took our sarees to our friend Chrstina’s cousin’s for tailoring. To begin measuring we were fitted into skin-tight sari blouses (a top that exposes your entire stomach) and before we knew it we were being wrapped into colorful sarees, bangles were slid on to our arms, and Christina took the bindi off of her forehead and place it between my eyes. (Ambryn and I tried to explain the concept of giving someone the “shirt off your back” and how in India this may be the equivalent.) Then we were paraded down the road to her cousin’s house. In the course of an hour or so we drank two cups of tea and ate butter sandwiches, then were back in our clothes and deposited on the back of two motorcycles, and then into a rickshaw and on our way home.

Here we are with Christina, two of her sisters, and her cousin:

My Easter was decidedly more secular this year than previous years in Tacoma and Holden. (We went into the city on Saturday and I realized I had purchased a pink Easter kurta, my first Easter dress in many years. I hope this makes my mother happy.) There are certainly Christian churches here, but from what I've gathered they fall into dichotomous categories of extremely high and low church. There are Catholic and Anglican churches that are very formal (and "old fashioned") and then all other Christian churches fall into one category of "Protestant" and seem very much into rock bands and accepting Jesus Christ as your personal Lord and Savior. We had a good and relaxing morning here at Visthar, said "Happy Easter" to everyone, and made our way to our friend Biju's. He and his wife Lincy prepared us an incredible Keralan fest. I love Kerala food. Here we are with their daughter Airene:

After lunch at Biju's we boarded a bus and headed to our friend Chrstina's for her family's Easter celebration. Their home is very warm and cozy and we were well taken care of by her family.

One last thing: Because of my bus driving experience at Holden, I've been so fascinated by Indian driver's abilities to back into incredibly tight spaces and (most of the time) avoid colliding into stray cows, herds of goats, bullock carts and pedestrians weaving between fast moving cars, bicycles, two-wheelers, and auto-rickshaws (I'm still excluding many categories of traffic). I think often of the days of passing fire engines on the Holden switchbacks during the evacuation, as we narrowly escape sideswiping lorries barreling down the road. I never would have imagined it, but I have been behind the wheel on a couple of occasions here. Our friend Christina drives a sweet little scooter and I told her I wanted a "non-scary" ride around Visthar, but she insisted that I drive it! However, I did find driving it to be scary. I didn't go far. I also drove the Visthar van down the road (within Visthar) a ways, but definitely don't want to take it outside of the gate.

Sangama

One of the perks of being at Visthar during the School of Peace is that we’ve been invited to attend some of their classes. Lat week we sat in on a session led by a local NGO, Sangama. “Sangama defends the human rights of sexual minorities and others who are oppressed due to their sexual preference and/or gender expression. Their aim is to bring sexuality, sexual preference, and gender identity into the realm of public discourse, and influence class, caste, gender and other human rights and social movements in India. They focus on working class, non-English speaking sexual minorities who otherwise have very little access to resources. Sangama believes in diversity and does not see the different sexual minorities as one monolithic uniform community. We recognize that they come from different classes, castes, genders, religions, languages, cultures, ethnicities, sexual identities, sexual orientations, and political backgrounds.”

Sangama was founded in 1999, and at that point there were groups for gay-identified people in Bangalore (the fifth largest city in India, 8 million people), but they almost exclusively served the upper-strata of society. Very few (if any) resources existed for the lower classes. Samgama began as one small center that focused on twenty-four hour crisis intervention for sexual minorities who had experienced a violation, whether from their home, school, workplace, etc. Their support base has multiplied over the last nine years and they now have offices in Mysore, Chennai (Madras), Hyderabad, Trivandrum, Calicut, Cochin and Gujurat. They employ over 160 people.

It was inspiring, to say the least, to hear the stories from five of the members of this group, who all identified differently. They had all faced persecution because of their identity. Currently, they all work for Sangama as community organizers. From their stories we learned that so often people (somehow) hear that there is a place for people like them, and they find Samgama. After just one phone call they learn that there is community waiting for them.

When we were here as students in 2001 one of our classmates did her research paper on sexual minorities in India, and she was not able to visit this group because at that time it was not safe for them to allow “outsiders” in. It is fabulous to see that after six and a half years Sangama is able to celebrate International Women’s Day on the busiest intersection in the city, and is well-regarded by the NGO community. They are extremely well-networked and are able to mobilize 4,000-5,000 people for protests or events for Dalit women, garment workers, etc.

If you are interested, you can check out their website at www.sangama.org.

Grace

Last night, while Ambryn and I were nestled in our respective beds, covered with our respective mosquito nets, our conversation turned toward grace. I realized that the title of this blog is “From Holden to India” and that in the last days what I have taken from Holden has been emerging in my thoughts and conversations.

As I may have noted earlier, it has been interesting for both Ambryn and I to experience Visthar as an agency and as a workplace, rather than simply an idyllic place in which to learn. Because we have both worked in the non-profit sector post-graduation, we frequently find ourselves analyzing what we love, and what is hard, about working at Visthar. I am thinking a lot about “not taking oneself too seriously”, about the importance of celebration (something both Holden and Visthar do with gusto) and about different leadership models. I am deeply inspired by David’s moving homilies over tea, and Mercy’s ability to laugh at herself throughout the day, and I miss Paul, Carol and Tom’s quiet confidence in me, their affirmation, and their forgiveness. I miss hilarity.

Since I’ve left Holden, I’ve been thinking and speaking about graciousness. Last night I was telling Ambryn the story of the night I spilled diesel (from my bus's tank) from the diesel tanks, to the garage, and back into the village after an exhausting day (and after a few exhausting weeks) of driving and staff coordinating during the evacuation. While everyone else was walking home from Vespers I stepped out of my bus and saw the spill. My heart sunk into my stomach and I immediately felt tremendous guilt. I held the walkie-talkie to my mouth and said, “Marc, Bethany.” Marc replied, “Go ahead, Bethany.” I said, “Marc, can you meet me in the road?” He soon came outside and I quickly explained what had happened, apologizing every other word. What followed from Marc was one of the clearest examples of “graciousness” I have ever experienced. Marc and I walked the trail of the spill, and all the while he stressed that it would be okay, that it wasn’t that awful of a thing, and that the clean-up involved would be quite simple.

Ambryn and I have spoken a lot about our shared belief in the importance of creating space in which people can be vulnerable, and treating them kindly when they’re there. It’s so simple, and it can be rare. Last night I found myself talking about not just graciousness, but grace…about the ability to forgive, about not having to prove, not having to justify, not having to atone. And I think of Mary Oliver’s lines from Wild Geese, “You do not have to be good. You do not have to walk on your knees for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting. You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves. Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine. Meanwhile the world goes on...”

And then I miss giggling while doing the “resting face” with Daniel, and I miss the tea area, and I miss singing Vespers ’86. I can’t take these specific pieces of Holden with me, but I can take what I learned, and then dance with both the Bandhavi girls and administrative staff of Visthar.

International Women's Day: Visthar

On Monday we celebrated International Women's Day and we basically danced all day.

The week before, Rhati, who is the "house mother" to the Bandhavi girls told us she'd lend us saris to wear for the day. After breakfast (And I have to add that Ambryn and I woke up at 6:00, took a walk, showered and relaxed before breakfast...I'm really proud.) Rhati wrapped and pinned us into our saris-of-choice. In the morning we worked on our "American women's" presentation (an Alice Walker reading with some interpretive dance, translation, and repetition) and the festivities began at lunch time. We all ate with the girls in their festive quarters. They had been working ALL weekend (we felt quite lazy in comparison) preparing. After lunch we gathered with some drummers and some neighbors for a processional around the campus. We stopped at different places and DANCED. The purpose of the processional was to remind us of our connection to the earth. We stopped at the deep, dry well (decorated with palm fronds, oil lamps, flowers...) and we all scattered nine varieties of seeds, drank water in leaf cups (water from the dry well...from death, life), and watched the girls perform more songs and dances.

We then gathered in the open air alla for the program and then we REALLY danced. The girls said to Ambryn, "Auntie! Red!" because her face was all hot and sweaty. She had to try to explain that this happens to white people! (And if you know Ambryn, you know she dances hard.) We danced in our bare or flip-flopped feet, kicking up dust and emulating their cool moves, but those girls put us to shame. They had ceaseless energy, and when it was all over (a long while later) they served us all tea, pekoras, and biscuits. We feel quite lucky that an afternoon of "work" could be spent in such meaningful activities (these girls are so wise...so dedicated...so revolutionary) and that we danced with such wild abandon (in saris!) with a wide group of phenomenal people.

Check out this guy's moves!

Happy International Women's Day! As we learned from the girls, "Women's liberation is human liberation!"