Moving Along

We have spent our first two weeks in India and now it is time to head off to the next place. It has been a wonderful experience. Here are some clues about where we are off to next.

1. Men are literally stronger than yaks here and can carry up to 170lbs through the mountains on their backs.
2. This country’s government has been having clashes with Maoist rebels.
3. Sir Edmund Hillary made his claim to fame by climbing the world’s highest peak that is located in this country.
4. “Dhani baht” means thank you here.

Amalapurum, India

Our second week in India has been spent in Amalapurum, a smallish town about a half hour from the southeast coast. Read (Kristen’s dad and Suzie’s husband) has joined us and has been working in a medical clinic, as in, he is the clinic while us girls have been teaching English and playing with the plethora of enthusiastic children here at the children’s home. One step out of our house ensures a stampede of flipflop clad feet and huge brown eyes that beg to be loved. It is a joy to be with them but being so popular is overwhelming.
However, I have found a respite. It is a high balcony that is just high enough to be out of the immediate view. From my high perch I am able to observe and relish everything without bombardment. Below people pedal by on rickety bicycles, girls walk to class giggling in their elegant flowing Punjabis, and the neighbours on the other side of the compound wall are still within the view of my lofty keep.
I have been discovered lately. Mahesh is a slight 14yr old who enjoys quietly sitting with me as I journal or read. Sometimes he pulls out a wooden flute and pretends to play it as I whistle along to complete the illusion. Mostly though, Mahesh drums. His sense of rhythm is what American pop stars can only dream of possessing. A nalgene, light switch, table top, and a pile of books are his drum set. I am pretty inept at learning his complex Indian combos so instead I sing while he weaves percussion in and out of my melodies. At the end of a particularly good set Mahesh said, “Drumming is my gift to you.” Thanks Mahesh.

Sanctuary

A tidy row of homes splashed with the comforting light of the tropical sun are nestled down alongside a plot of fertile ground, carefully ploughed and ready to be planted. Neighbours are doing their neighbourly thing, chatting in their doorways and enjoying the warm weather. One is helping his friend put a shirt on and buttoning it for him. He is helping him because his friend has no fingers to do it himself. The man buttoning the shirt has no toes, or feet, for that matter.
What is this twisted scene? This is the New Life Center and in order to become a resident you must be a leper.
All fifty of the residents and us six healthy visitors gathered to sing together. A woman wearing a scarlet hued sari kept perfect rhythm on the drum with a mangled stump of a hand. Everyone kept in time with the music with what remnants of limbs they possessed.
“Would you sing a song?” someone inquired. Oh crap. A song? As in me singing in front of people? No thanks... I looked around at the group about us. They make do with what they have with a smile of joy, not survival. Why can’t I? Kristen and I stood up and sang this song, “Lord prepare me to be a sanctuary, pure and holy, tried and true. With thanksgiving I’ll be a living sanctuary for you. “ May it be so.

Madala Rajendra

As the village lane opened up before us we were greeted with low lying huts thatched with palm branches that were bleached white from the intense Indian sun. Disks of cow dung were slapped on concrete walls to dry in preparation for the fires they would soon fuel. Within a few steps of the village lay verdant fields of sugarcane, cabbage, and rice paddies. My anticipation swelled for today I was going to meet Madala, a boy that I have been able to sponsor through Compassion International. A few men were gathered together with instruments and village folk were everywhere with worn, leathery hands and radiating smiles. All of the sudden the air exploded in a cacophony of sound. Music from the musicians filled the air, the eager hands of the children threw gold and fuchsia flower petals in arcs above, and women in vibrant saris were greeted me with “Namaste” and hands in a prayer pose beneath their chins. Madala appeared from the crowd and placed an ornate floral garland about my neck and I realized that I was in the middle of a parade, and the parade was for me.
I didn’t really know what to do. A parade? For me? Their greeting was such that all I could think about was that this must be the kind of greeting we will have when we go to Heaven. These people did not know me nor have any reason to care about me yet they had given me the warmest and most joyous welcome I had ever received.


In Madala’s home, a humble two room hut, he shyly showed me all of the letters that I have written to him with the awkward nonchalance of a 12yr old. Awestruck, we turned the crinkly pages of five years of letters and remembered what had passed within that time. One half of each page was filled with the tall scratch of my English lettering while the other was covered with the elegant tendrils of Telegu. Really? Had I actually made a difference in someone’s life? $32 bucks a month is not very much money, I mean, that is like two cds or two nights out. The money I had sent for Madala didn’t seem like much but when I visited him I saw otherwise. I heard it as Madala’s mother and I giggled as she wrapped a sari around me. I saw it as the whole community showed up to see this girl from Montana. I smelled it as the fragrant flowers fell from the children’s hands. I tasted it as we shared spicy chicken biryani. I felt it as I greeted Madala’s extended family, his father’s sister, his wizened old grandfather. It doesn’t take much to become jaded about “changing the world” but you know, perhaps it isn’t about changing the world. Perhaps it is about changing someone’s world.

Kistmapur, India

The air is cloaked in a rusted sunset light that warms to just this side of sweating. Men’s voices rise and fall over the din of a passing lorry (like a dump truck) outside of the compound wall while swish, swish someone is sweeping below. The sweet scent of tropical flowers wafts up to my balcony along with the melody of children’s voices. Welcome to Rock Ministries in Kistmapur, south central India.
Rock Ministries was begun by the Komanapalli family and has established churches, widow’s homes, leprosariums, Bible colleges, schools, music and outreach festivals, hospitals, clinics, guest homes, orphanages, tech schools, dorms, and jobs throughout India. Suzie, Kristen, and I have had the opportunity to teach English. Prep time? Not really! We were simply told, “You will teach English.” So, on the first day of class we found out their ages (to 3-25 yr. olds: 500 orphans, children, and college students), abilities (from rudimentary to conversational), and that yes, they did have blackboards. Phew!
Throughout this process I have ceased to be Kadyn and have become “Akah”, which means big sister in Telegu. I have gained so many little sisters, “che-li” and little brothers “ta-moo-du” who love to hold your hand and grin at you with their sweet, lively eyes. The girls have long ebony braids that they double up in loops by their ears and festoon with ribbons or flowers. The boys don worn black shoes with dusty toes peaking out of the holes as they run in pursuit of a soccer ball. A 12yr old named Madhavi taught me a handshake, “Ma-dha-vi and Ka-dyn are ver-y best friends!” and gave me her W.W.J.D. bracelet, something that I would dismiss as trite in the States but now treasure. Sheena taught me several clapping games. Rahul is about 5yrs old and such a rascal! His dark face is so endearing with his huge inquisitive eyes and bright impish grin. On our final day at Kistmapur Rahul cradled my hand, kissed it, and tossed a sweet smile over his shoulder as he walked away. I don’t know how you can become so attached to people in only a week! It is difficult to think that I may never see them again and wonder what the heck will happen to them.
p.s. I said Brahman in the last email. It’s Brahma.