The Soles of My Feet

So, since my arrival in Kolkata I’ve had this irritating nuisance. Often times leading to light harassment by the team in the office, or utter embarrassment when I discover the children of the slum schools are uninterruptedly starring at my dirt stained feet. I scrub and rub and wash Daily, but nothing has cleaned me from the dirt smudges that coat the soles of my feet. But what I’m coming to discover is that I don’t want it to be washed away. It is the India with me, the India that never leaves me. It is the India that leads me.

I have never gone hungry, yet you feed me.

Your stomach pants for nourishment, yet you give. Though it is simple, you are unashamed.

Though there is little, you take care to be excellent. Hours of preparation, of meticulous grinding and measuring of spices for the enjoyment of others. Whether I am a well planned out visitor or a last minute guest, you welcome me as one expected and you bathe me in care and attention.

thanks for the photo Lizzie!

I miss you now; now that I am gone and I look forward to greeting you someday soon as my old friend.

Finger Food

So I sit here in Kolkata, just a few days before I depart and I am expectant. Expectant of family, of hugs, of warm greetings, and of conversation. I yearn for a comfortable bed to sleep, to be able to shower without mopping the water into a ‘drain’ and of walking the sidewalks without incessant horns blaring from the ever-trafficked streets. But what I anticipate the most is the story I get to tell you. A great story of the love that is here, of the life that is so raw and beautiful and FULL.

I cannot help but smile when I think of how I get to introduce you to those who have taught me the true nature of service, who have spoken words of life though they are close to death, children who have taught me strength.

I sat yesterday at one of our school, not a new learning center, but a school of several years. The children are from the slums and they sit on cement floors. But I am in love. We signed each others drawings, we made paper roses and marker towers. We played, we sang, we sat over chai and ate biscuits. It is moments like this that the time passes and worries fade away and the world outside seems to not exist and the happiness that we know NOW is the greatest joy we have ever experienced. I am a world away, actually an entire day from home and it is Christmas. But my heart is Full and I am home among children, children who do not ask questions or credential you, but invite you to sit and in that gesture, I am Dede [I am sister].

I eat with my hands and its fun. A lot of effort and little bit of strategy is necessary in the washroom, but its some sort of game or adrenaline rush, the kind of game where you never know how it will turn out or if you will get out clean. This is India without apologies or shame, it’s the way we are. I have sat to dine with Doctors and Missionaries, with Children and Businessmen, and together we all cup our meal in our hands, we smack our lips, and we lick our hands clean.

There is little room here, in a city of 18 million people, space is a luxury for the few. So we hold hands, we bump shoulders and we hope that the path ahead of us is clear of obstructions

A Katabon Christmas

So its Christmas time. It’s kind of hard to believe. The only carols I hear are those whispering from my faulty computer speakers, and the icons of Christmas- Santa Clause, Reindeer, Drummer Boys and Snowmen - are only scarcely recognized, dispersed thinly throughout the city.

What I miss the most is the utter attack on the senses of Christmas. The bitter cold of “the Season”, the infusion of peppermint, gingerbread and pumpkin spices. N’Sync Christmas album looping in storehouses and malls.

But today we were invited to a different sort of Christmas program. The likes of which are not intended to flatter you, there are no programs to follow along to, no orchestra to choreograph the scenes that will inevitably play out or a musical serenade inviting us to sit, to be still and to listen.

Yet all are welcome and all are encourage to participate. There are no auditions or means of filtering the ‘good’ and ‘bad’ performers. That’s not why we are even here, and it’s not a part of the story. The intent was to Come and to Hear and See that Jesus, Lord, came for all and so we all participate in this thing called Christmas.

Our Katabon Learning Center asked us to join in their Christmas program, to join along in songs of the season. Sitting with legs crossed on a cement floor, we became a part of a community. As I said goodbye, a goodbye that is certain for this trip to India, my heart sank. We had become like family.

They are people with little, but little is all they need. They have given their lives for the lives of others. Educated and intelligent, those who once had privilege, now voluntarily sacrifice for the well being of others. They are changing the world, yet they live in one corner of a slum that was never intended to be their home. I want to sing their praises, make known their names, but all would be in vain, for their one response would be the touch of their heart and a pointing of their finger to the skies.

I have glorified humility, I have been in awe of it, but today I know it and it is defined by those who hold their hands out – available for the leading and open for the giving.

Train Runners

I spent my childhood observing the systematic nature of society, of home, of school and church. Each context unique, with its own inherent purpose, most of the time each has its days of use and hours of ‘operation’… you know, the neon ‘open’ sign sorta thing. Whether through observation or an audible inquiry, our childhood and adolescence are spent understanding rules and regulations, becoming aware of boundaries and the non-verbal queue that protect us from embarrassment and foolishness.

In college and on the cusp of adulthood, we are thrown into the system, expected to assimilate. Yet we are a society that stands on the foundation of independence. We place the concept of independence and of liberty on a pedestal and we worship it. It is our drive and our excuse; it is our purpose for and our reason against.

We are a society of contradictions. We attend to the precepts of equality and of liberty. Yet every sector of our society is filtered through structures and systems that dilute our freedom [the Indians laugh at this]. We demand equality and justice, yet those that survive in our society are those that embrace raw competition, which inevitably places others below us. To gain more, others must loose. To be the best, others must be less than.

We live by this social movement, conscious or unconscious. We pat ourselves on the back at the conclusion of the day. And find relief when we have discovered or role, our purpose in this system. Yet the longer I live here, my idealistic understanding of the world, of society, of structure and norms are slowly crumbling. Because it is in the life of the poor that I have experience service and an attitude of giving. It is in the slums and among the poor that I have seen a social responsibility like none I have experienced before. A child is left abandoned, and the community takes on the child as its own. Throughout the week I visit schools, where children with nothing, share everything. One boy, five years old, without parents or a home gave me his one possession, crafted by his own two hands. He handed me a snowflake, his only toy, made just minutes before. And then he left, leaving to work the trains and sleep on its platforms.

I sat with a kid the other day, chatted with him about his life and in those 15 minutes my theology on the world, my surety of right and wrong was shattered and my deep well of answers, collected from years of experience, was instantly dried up.

We say drugs are bad and will only harm you, we say they are for the weak, for those who cannot cope and want to escape. We say deceit is a tool of the corrupt and those who are unwilling to work for that which they have and for that which they long to posses. We say that family is something to value; it is in family that we understand our identity, by understanding our past and drawing from our heritage to cultivate our future.

We say all these things as if they are truth, as if they are certain. Yet what do you say to a child who has been abandoned and who has been forgotten? What do you say to a child who has raised himself since infancy, surviving on the scraps and garbage of others? What do you say to a child addicted to drugs, because sniffing adhesives is the only thing that erases his pain from hunger? How do you rebuke a boy, who peddles cash, simply to eat? I don’t know what to say, but I am unwilling to say they are wrong or to ask them to change without a means to provide.

This is the story of the boys from the train platform, but not told in its fullness. Because if I was to leave it at this, you would not know of their great strength, their relentless love, and their true honesty.

I have found it difficult to express the nature of my three hours with the boys who live by the train system of India. It is a day I will never forget and conversations that will burden the depths of my soul for a lifetime.

But what I know, is that more than ever I am willing to overcome for their sake, I am willing to speak and act for GOOD, for peace, and love because it is the lives of these boys, boys who hold nothing, not one possession, who crave goodness. More than ever, I am not trumped by the darkness of humanity, for I have learned a lesson…

When you have nothing left, our only possession is our soul and the choice to embrace life with joy and to once again place trust in others, because without the risk to love and to trust, we are empty. These children have nothing, all that was once there’s and all those things that we ascribe as a child’s entitlement have been stripped from them and what is left is a smile, and behind that smile, Strength. The strength of one who at the tender ages of their childhood, refused to be abused and exploited, because in the depths of their soul they know they are worth so much more.

And one after one, these children glowed when asked to be enrolled in our education program. They have fended for themselves for years, taken every responsibility and now they are asked to be given something, to be expected somewhere. It’s Magical!

Splashing in the Rain

With five minutes to spare and a last minute decision to bid farewell to the city, I grabbed a petite snack of banana’s and fried eggs and haul my luggage of books, pens, and a half charged camera to the hospital entrance for a day away; a day at a village clinic.

In the cradle of my elbow, a roll of fresh toilet paper is lodged. A source of absolute luxury to foreign travelers in a country of squat toilets and water buckets. On special occasions, a lantern is a necessary companion in the dark of the night. I am thankful for the rain today, in the midst of laziness, I simply settled on the idea that… ‘Of course its just a splash from the rain puddles.

This city becomes a playful wonderland in the rain. It is a renewal and welcomed furlough from the incessant scent of fire and exhaust, cooked Samos’s and the aroma of unyielding fresh chai. But today it is not simply the rain that has washed me clean of the dirt and grime of the streets, but it is an escape to the villages and a backseat view of a tropical jungle.

In a community that lives by the land, the rain is a welcomed companion; a source of life. It is the rain that eases the tension of a mother’s anxious heart. There is no resting peace for those who must provide for the nourishment of their child. The only relief is the presence of rain, and its certainty of life.

The view from my window is marvelous…whole communities lace the two-lane highway on bikes and peddled carts. Bicycles anchored with harvested grains and ripened produce. The rich fabrics and bright colors of those working the fields enrich my backseat view, and I watch in wonder as bamboo baskets lay uninterrupted upon the heads of men and women, holding upon their heads their ration for the day.

We walked the streets of this small village, cradling the highway and nestled in a strikingly lush valley of vegetation. A small team of hospital personnel converge on this village twice a week as healers and miracle workers. But it is not a miracle of the dead rising, the blind seeing. No, it is the miracle of those who hunger and thirst for goodness. I sat among the 30 patients that would seek our wisdom, presence and provisions. A two bedroom clinic serves as a medical facility, but more importantly it is a symbol of compassion. To be cared for simply because you are thought of as having value, and the worth to live and to live well. That is what our clinics do, they satisfy the need to be known.

I have seen this played out throughout my time in India and when I think of it, it is a truth throughout my life. Those who are thought of beyond their lot in life, beyond the predestined future that the world designates upon them… it is these people who will soar, who will build mountains and part the sea’s.

Today we visit a school, a ‘slumdog millionaire’ sort of place. Where young boys, for 8 hours a day, no longer worry about pedaling cash, or being chased from trains – their only source of shelter in the blistering heat of summer and the bone chilling cold of winter. They are free to be young once again, to discover for the first time what it is to be cared for, to be nurtured… to be disciplined. They are unpacking the myth of family and the legend of ‘home’. They are known, they are accounted for, they are expected and they are missed.

As a teenager, I simply wanted to be forgotten, to fly under the radar when I was breaking curfew or got “lost” on the way to school… In Bakersfield, you could blame it on the fog and so we did. But for these boys and for the first time, they are not forgotten, but expected. Their place is set at a breakfast table each morning, this is a table of great honor and today I sit with these honored guests. Today I will enroll them in school, place a nametag around their neck for tomorrow they will be adopted, adopted for $1/day. This is the miracle of our learning centers, for the first time a child will be welcomed into a family, whether it is simply through written letters, an exchange of photo’s and a birthday gift. And once again, these boys will be known and their story told and their stocking hung. Thank you to those who have adopted the children from our learning centers, today I get to tell them of your great kindness. Here are the photo’s of a few from our last visit…

Yawning through the Dawn

Its early, but not so bright here at dawn in Kolkata.

There is something remarkable about the morning, especially in a city where work is life, it is work that preserves us for the next day. Despite the playful cries of children, the howling of dogs, and unidentified bangs that orchestrate my dreams each night; at dawn All is at rest.

For six days a week, before life takes motion, a miracle takes place, cultivated by simple hands and driven by the vision of one who can only be thanked through prayers sent to heaven. What seems like a small operation, is nothing less than a revolution… simply concealed in the texture and silhouette of rice and lentils.

For these 6 days and for the last 30+ years the hungry have been fed and today, we woke with the setting of the moon to witness a raising of life. In a few hours and a picturesque drive among the cauliflower fields and fish markets of West Bengal, 25,000 people were fed.

I think on my life, on the awe-inspiring moments where, despite the life that races around us, God stills us and for a moment time stops and we breathe and in that breath we are sustained. We are sustained beyond that moment or this day, it is in that breath that we transcend.

Today I was mesmerized. Today, I transcended. I have worked and prayed, laughed and cried in this job. I have only a small role, a minor contribution, but for three years I have been saturated in the stories of Kolkata. Stories of need and provision, of sacrifice and sustainability. Today, I witnessed the simplest of acts… the sharing of food. But it is in this act that the poor of Kolkata are rising, rising from poverty, from hunger and from need. It is in this act, instituted on one street corner 50 years ago, that I now know Hope.

Kite Flyers

I love children. To some, this phrase seems universal, but to a youngest child, kids are a bit of a mystery to me. I seemed to have skipped the stage of pleading with my parents for a baby of my own and the idea of children has always been mildly intimidating, I guess it’s the fear of the unknown. But a strange transition occurred around my 25^th birthday… I came to love babies and now in India, I’m a sucker for the little tikes.

Needless to say, the last week has been quite a blast. There are simple truths in the life of children that become distorted as we wrestle with life. I’m not the first to say it, nor will I be the last, but the life of a child is simply beautiful. Why is it no longer appropriate to cry when we are scared or to admit when we’re afraid of the dark. I’ve lived on my own, away from home since High School, but nothing warms my soul like the presence of family and walking into my childhood room still adorned with stuffed animals, a treasure chest of love letters, yearbooks and the journal of a teenage dreamer.

Children see the world with color and smudged lines, where the dictates of life and living are a little more malleable. Have you seen a child hold a grudge? Allow hatred to burn in their soul until their only solace is to recoil to their rooms and sulk. NO. Children are resilient and its evident. On Tuesday, we traveled to the slum school of Katabon to profile the 40 children who find refuge in the three rooms of the school. It is where they are free to play, where their empty stomach’s become full and where they are called by name. It is only at this school that these children are thought of beyond their circumstances, where others dream for them and where the idea of future is not fixed, but a path that is yet to be paved.

That night, after we had returned from the school, I came across this excerpt from Dominique Lapierre, "In calcutta kites were favorite toys, as if somehow those scraps of paper climbing high above the rooftops carried the children's ambition to escape their lot, all their need to flee their prison of mud, fumes, noise, and poverty."... I agree

Today, I met Nusrat a 10 month old baby born with a severe cleft lip and palate deformity. On Friday, December 3^rd, her life will be transformed by one simple surgery. Without the procedure, Nusrat will be unable to properly speak and the social connotation of such a deformity will dictate the path of her life, she will find life much more difficult, much more cruel.

You meet Nusrat and you become addicted. Addicted to her smile, her laughter, and her desire to play. She loves touch and anything she can grab with her two hands. Thank you to those who give for babies like Nusrat, you truly transform lives. And, thank you to doctors like Dr. Ganguly who see the worth in each child.