to the northland

All oceans are equal, connected by currents through rivers and streams and clouds and creatures, and when I come to the sea, I am home. I feel it, as my sweat and my body and my blood, a sense of recognition. All flows towards this final destination, and when the water of my soul mingles with the waters of the world I can finally rest. But I came to India to leave my sanctuary, and I must move beyond my shore, to the unknown north the sky and earth pull me away.

I exhale the forests of palms, shimmers of salt scales, dying jellyfish clouds and breathe in pine and moss bundled burls, fingers clenching and stretching, ribs expanding to accomodates acclimate thin air so close to heaven. Rising slowly in the heavy bus berth weary euphoric vertigo washes over and pours out the window passage. Snow rock ridges and cloud rows are indistinguishable as lines colors thoughts blur into sleep unity. Passing signs give guidance, This is our land, please keep it clean. Don't even think about parking here. Silence, the trees are sleeping. Slush softy.

The peace of the stirring hilltop town is interrupted only by naughty monkeys with dirty mouths who swear incessantly, hissing down from safe perches and jabbering back and forth. They wear crimped flat tops with black and white streaks and watch us with disdain and wonder, plucking leaves with decisive movements and questioning the validity of evolution. A child swings from a cable and dangles before the drop, suspended in flight. Another pounces onto the counter of a general store, runs straight for the top ramon, bites down on the package and prances away. The shopkeeper shoes at the stray with a broom too late. Dressed donkeys show their crooked smiles and shake their heads.

The Himalayas emerge as a mirage in the distance, bright white teeth with black rolling hill gums holding them. We climb with other pilgrims to a temple above the world and see all ways at once emerge from us, surrounded by tibetan prayer flags and rows of brass bells and hindu altars, and the orange god knows what I'm thinking so I bow low and tell him to hush. Offerings are made with the crack of mallets on coconut and crows cry out in responce. Cement rooms filled with smoke seep into our skin and leave blessings in our trail as we decend into the cold world below. The trees begin again, and I buy a sappaling from a park, a Banj oak, to plant in a space of sunshine, for dad. They have no tools, and I work the hard earth with a pointed board and scoop it with my hands. Just across the stone wall a bent woman with rosy rawhide cheeks tends her goats, and I wonder if they will wander over the wall, if my tree will be safe and grow strong, but I don't mind, because what death is more nobel than enabling another to live.

A weathered man with grease creased hands hides nothing fromt the street under the flourescent lights of a green room. He twists wires into empty sockets of a grey black box, something old and outdated, born before I was. He looks up and far away through me at someone behind with a wheeled tray of peanuts piled in a pyramid and crowned by a smoke stained cast iron skillet. She shifts coals in the skillet split from wood scraps on the pavement, and her face glows solemnly, like an apparition. The coals burn amber and orange, and I want to stop and warm my hands, but I'm not hungry. I look at him watching her, and he licks his lips, and our eyes meet for a moment, understanding but not entirely, and we both turn away and back to our work, weary. The city, the night, is the man's world and everyone shifts between shadows and highlights, chewing and spitting and smoking, and discussing nothing. These men, out late, are rich, or consider themselves so, and there's no one I could bum a beedie from, and their keys jingle in their pockets. A man with keys has possessions, and the sisters warned me about that.

mindful consumption

The sky is full of stars, the ocean is full of ways. In the same way your heart is filled with love and care. and don't forget us please remembers in your time. and then we keeps you in our heart with little sweet heart we all wish you. and then this gratitude is towards. with of us your smile looks beautiful.

I open the letters on the train, one by one, hand drawn cards to accompany the dances of dedicated blessings and prayers that the children had planned and performed for my departure. I'd accompanied them on stage and tried to join their routines, ending with a finale cartwheel in which I ripped my new pants from one crotch to the other, flashing 90 children and the sisters and releasing an ovation of laughter. I led morning yoga and embarked on my journey, refusing to say goodbye any more. Two hours on a rick, running late, I tried to flag down a departing cargo train before getting on the right one and setting off on my own.

Now I sit in silence, interrupted only by the occasional refrain of chai, chai, wishing I was still surrounded by love and innocence, wondering if leaving was the right decision. I go to the bathroom to collect myself and watch the tracks fly past through the keyhole toilet, the only window to the outside world, holding back tears and vomit. Twenty hours on the train is followed by a 13 hour picnic with another set of orphans, and the littlest girl pees on my lap in a bus so full I can't move her off me until we arrive home that night. The next morning, my rickshaw stops at a temple on the way to the bus, collecting flowers and powdered dye for the steering wheel, making me two hours early or ten minutes late, and by the time I arrive in Munnar I am in tears, running from a rabid dog and sleeping in a worm infested room next to the local beer shop: cold, filthy, alone. So this is what freedom feels like.

But I am here; I am free. I don't believe in regrets, remember. Every accident, every misstep teaches me the right way to maneuver in this madness. Now, I'm surrounded by green forests and tea plantations, elephant rivers and wide blue skies that layer the mountains unto eternity. at rest. at last. I keep on trekking. I take tea. I breathe in blessings and breathe out peace.

The grassy ridge rises like the backbone of a great beast, and we scale it one vertebrae at a time. As we rise into the atmosphere the horizon grows clearer and mountains give birth to others in their wake, spreading dark waves across the sea of sky. Tea grows over rocky hills in geometric kaleodoscopic patterns that move in the minds' eye from our bird's view. Our guide identifies plants we pass, a flower my children proclaimed "not useful" once treated snake bites, a bud that pops when pressed to the forehead, the silver rock tree with deep roots that shares water with others generously. Workers wrapped in plastic and cloth cut the new growth with a whisper of slicing steel and collect it in giant bags on their heads to be weighed and paid accordingly. They do not pause as we pass. The smell of elephant mingles with earth and herbs. At the rock summit we stop to sit and watch the universe exposed around us. Within minutes the mist rises, sends spiral jetties of light into the cloud layer then swallows everything. The world disappears, and we exist only in a shroud of sky.

Kerala is God's own country, my host declares with pride as we wind our way through the maze of canals that makes up the backwater island chain of Kumyakumaron. This is a tropical paradise is such an exotic and startling contrast to the barren heat of Andhra that it doesn't feel real, it doesn't feel Indian. I try to trace the same path later and wander farther from civilization, running for hours just trying to cross a rice paddy. Women beat tattered clothes on the rocks and rinse pans with gravel; others tear down trees with machetes in a tug of war between roots and hands, and I grab the branch and pull hard, and they laugh and ask me for something to drink with strange gestures and murmurs. Men push dug out canoes under bridges with bamboo rods, a burning beedie clamped between paan rotten teeth. Egrets and herons rise from the fields and return to homes unknown . A mother holds a child--a pure child, I'm told--who clasps a hibiscus and stares at me in awe.

All ask where I'm going. Walking, I tell them. Just walking. Such strange behavior to them, who work so hard for so long and have no reason for unnecessary exertion. I'm losing my barrings, myself, drifting off in the heat daze. Startled back suddenly as a long snake springs in the grass. A frog leaps out of my path moments later, and I shriek. A local man guides me home, and the heaven breaks, and the water surrounds us in sheets. I am taken to a temple for a ceremony of light, but the rain battles the candles and beats them into crescents of smoke. Elephants shift awkwardly under their ornamental headdresses, and the lamps of sandalwood oil are drained of water, and the women lift their saris and shuffle bare feet through red puddles of earth, all waiting for the parade to begin, but still it pours on. Night envelopes the rain and the candles struggle to breathe, and you know the water is still there and taste it in the air. An orchestra of insects and exotic birds fills the blackness, and I wonder who dances in this dark. With the morning light the concert settles, changing pace and tune, and I climb into a dugout canoe to continue my journey. Snakes wriggle through the water, eyes just above the surface scanning our progress. My deaf, mute driver moans from his gut and motions with his mouth at the world awakening and stretching around us, and we make our way back to the beaten path slowly.

Kerala is a land of many rivers and rocks. Before language was born, the people listened only to nature. to water and to stone traveling together. they began to make this noise with their mouths, letting their tongue roll over their teeth like pebbles in the waves, this gurl gurl gurgle. their voices became the words of Malayalum and now we speak with the sounds that surround us. The man who'd cooked my meal stopped talking and smiled at me, a fleck of mischief passing through his expression, an acknowledgement of the beauty in his words and voice. Then it passed, and he scooped another handful of food from the leaf platter into his mouth, still showing his chipped grin.

In this land of water and earth life flourishes. Little jellyfish spiral around my body, invisibly painlessly brushing against me, no more than collections of bubbles, spit sinking and surfacing in rough current. Men cast large nets into the onslaught, drawing them out with finger claws, spiders releasing their webs. The nets comb across the shoreline, connected by thick raw rope to teams of fishermen in branded t-shirts and lungis, chanting, "u lum, ovelum, daj jay, cov e la do vey." After hours of steady movement the only progress is a coil of rope where they began and dicarded folds that snake over the sand. The net is finally brought in and a crowd of spectators gathers around. Dozens of jellyfish are discarded, and half an eel, and a porcipine fish, and the bounty is sorted . Hundreds of little bodies flail for breath and home as life flutters away. The fish are spread on tarps and plastic bags, the stench displayed for passing tourists and stray puppies. Birds circle high overhead, kestrels and hawks, bats in the fruit trees, but all unnoticed unless you're lying on your back.

At India's southernmost tip, three bodies of water converge into two holy rocks upon which temples have been erected. Palm tree forests file the horizon from sunrise to sunset, and we watch the globe move with our feet sunk in the sand. Pilgrims bathe in sacred glimmering ghats, absolved of all sins, then sneak into smokey bars tucked in alleys out of sight. Bright boats with peeling paint crowds the shores, lined for flight, and men untangle strands of net like women knitting. Broken shells and barbed hooks crunch underfoot as turbaned women wander with towels and umbrellas offering fresh fruit patters. Crows and egrets feast on the abandoned guts and pick at the bones, the beach combers.

waiting for morning

rows of swords raised to heaven,
sheer angles of translucent sun
poised crystal dew.
nets gather blades into battalions
bow softly in centered prayer,
hold silent.
a predator's web
captures light sky,
tempts prey in
to cupped palms.
namascaram.

may god catch you

“You do one thing. You pray to the God that created you,” the Superior commands with resolution. She means to solidify my allegiance to Jesus, but instead opens up a new understanding of faith. This simple statement eliminates the ornaments of religion and identifies the heart of it: cultivating gratitude and expressing it; communicating our intentions for ourselves and others, praying. It doesn’t matter to whom, by what we call our God (‘a rose by any other name...’). Only that we pray. For ourselves. For each other. For our world.
Surrounded by spirituality I am. A boy begging in the market pulls his rosary from inside his shirt as he pleads with us. I can’t help but wonder if his shirt hides other chains with Hindu and Muslim symbols. Monkeys fill the temple’s trees, where they are fed fresh coconut and worshiped on bent knees. Snakes are feared and revered as Gods, spoken of in hushed voices, as if they may hear, and their presence as an omen is more powerful than the poison they carry. Every action is accompanied by prayer.
I’m coming to understand the scripture, how these disparate beliefs are connected. Faith is best expressed in metaphors. With the consumption of his body, Jesus tells the world that God and all of His creation is in every bite, every thing, every one. In this food I clearly see the universe sustaining my existence. When he cautions disciples that it is easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than a rich man into heaven, he is explaining the cause of suffering: attachment. He is Buddha celebrating his absent cows. If we see heaven as here on Earth, as joy, it becomes apparent just how difficult it is for those always and forever desiring and acquiring to see the beautiful present before them.
The definition was written in black and white, chalk on the board: Shadow is darkness caused by form blocking light. Like pools of shadows the slums grow beside wealthy houses. Born in the construction of vast cities, the puddles spread to shelter builders and their families, relatives, and finally strangers. Shadow can only exist because of the source that created it. Such is poverty. People know they are poor only when they see the wealth of others. I ask an orphan, what is suffering? “Winter,” she replies. “Cold. Hungry.” It is desire unfulfilled. A teacher, a slum-dweller, tells me: “everyday of life I’m so happy. God never let us be less of anything. Food, let it be. Clothes, let it be. House is small but mine. Faith in God growing.” But she is one of the lucky ones, who understands. There are no slums here, in the village. "What is slum?" one girl asks. Everyone is equal. Some houses are bigger, some clothes are nicer. But everyone is connected, their blood and water and waste. It all flows to the same place.
Until I arrive. I am different, and it is impossible to hide this: my clothes, my shoes, my food, my tea, my music, my everything is strange. And they want it. They ask to see a dollar. An American dollar. I show them, and they try to grab it. I pass out stickers, and they sneak back in line for more. Everything I have and use and do becomes an object of desire, and I can’t stop it. I sit down to tutor the “bridge” girls who have just come here and speak little English. One begins to pet my arm; another rubs my feet. No, no, chalu, enough. But it makes them so happy. She kisses my toes and giggles. Then they gather, like always. Conversation turns into a swarm of pushing and pulsing starched bodies, and the children fight to shake my hand and say good morning. And now they fight to kiss my feet. Two begin to cry, and I hold one in each arm and bring their hands together and “say sorry.” But somehow, I feel guilty. For wanting to leave so soon, even as they beg me, “you will be here now only, Yemma.” They call me beautiful, so nice, and I see glory in their eyes. They worship me after only a week, and I don’t deserve it. I am tired and weak, and not that good. I fall asleep in church and hide in my room and take an extra share of my favorite tiffin. One girl proposes to me, and I tell her I’ll take her away (they all want me to take them away, to America, in helicopter) and buy her castles made of chocolate, like my mother promised me as a child, and now she calls me her darling. An old man in church bows long and low and brings my hand to his forehead. His eyes, dark and foggy with the film of memories, stare into mine with earnest clarity, blue thought, and something else: a deep and noble gratitude I’ve never seen face me. I’ve done nothing for him, only attend mass at his parish, but I feel those eyes hold my own, and I try to copy the movements of his blessing and the intention within, and I know that I want to earn this, to be capable of doing anything for him.
We have an infinite number of choices in life, but they are all deviations of one: free will is the ability to decide how we spend our time. All animals have free will, and every movement we make is the actualization of it—how to be conscious for this, this present moment, where and with whom. And why, that is God.

so nice will it be

“In India it’s enough to have music. Serpents dance, parrots dance, monkeys dance, even the bulls dance.” Each morning finger clouds wipe sleep from a solitary heavenly eye we salute with bodies bowed. Eighty girls of every age move through yoga postures, and I grow conscious of a soft twinkle of anklets, like the bells of an arriving sleigh. A steady beat of bangles follows the flow. And from that point on the day is full of sound and light.
On the way to mass we cram onto a bus, and silk, cotton, sequins, and ribbons caress and scratch and squirm against sticky skin. The church is crowned with tinsel and trimmed with false flowers. It smells of sweet jasmine from garlands woven into dark pleats of hair. The congregation pulses with music: drums and tambourines, claps and chants, and finally, as a poor woman enters to great the sisters, a rooster cries “eh, eh, eh” in perfect beat, emerging from her green plastic tiffin basket for the finale. a tisket a tasket. Even the sermon is sung, and the congregation swallows the joy of faith, and it fills our bodies with nourishment. Here “food is music inside the body and music is food inside the heart.”
The girls take a fieldtrip to the city for a picnic, and as we repair a punctured tire, the bus is slowly passed by a line of camels. The train is migrating from Rajasthan in to the warm south, and I wonder why I’m plan to head the opposite direction. They trod along the road, undisturbed by the honks of ricks and lorries, munching on plants, molting, and I dodge traffic to skip beside them shouting, not sure who is the bigger spectacle. We pass fields of sunflowers facing their higher source, buffalo drawn carts of fresh clippings, clans of monkeys climbing telephone poles, babies on their backs and in their arms, and flocks of egrets shifting color in the wind. My scarf trails out the window in a never ending wave, and the children scream with delight and sing and dance and teach me Hindi hits and how to call a parrot in Telugu, and I feel alive and all right.
India is a mixture of sugar and spice—its food, its music, its people, its life. A balance that makes your lips tingle madly then quenches thirst with mouth watering sweets. I bite into a special treat Sister brings me, something fried, something to celebrate with, and find a chili hidden inside that makes my tongue burn and my eyes water. The combination is deceptive and subversive. Behind a man’s polite smile lies abuse and desire. Behind each child’s innocent greeting is a hunger for something more. Even the flowers are implicated, so beautiful but sticky and poisonous to the touch. You have to be careful not to succumb to the spell.

shaking hands

"Life is meeting and parting. One day we go there," she points upward at the cracked, peeling ceiling of the bus terminal "and we will not part." Sister Alice holds my hand between her fragile calloused palms, and I respond "I look forward to that day," and I mean it. I move onto the bus and back away slowly to the warning wail of carnival music, and then they're gone. I promised the girls I would try to come back and never forget them; that when the other children ask me about my family, "how many we are," I will tell them I have two brothers and nine chellis. I gave them a dream catcher with nine turquoise stones, one for each, and explained how it works until they understood and smiled at the thought of no more nightmares. At least I can take away a little pain. I taught the ones from Navageevana who were too tiny to say much to point to eye, chest, other, I...love...you, and they chanted it, one lounging in my lap and pronouncing Haw..pee, the first English I've heard her say on her own.
Mittapally is not a village as much as clusters of hay piled near the school and a long ruined wall from the days of ancient kings, slowly disappearing under gradual growth. I enter through rice paddies of rising mist and a mango sun slowly announcing work to come. The children here come from poor farmers who see little value in a good education and honor in hard labor. I teach them the song, "head, shoulders, knees and toes," and see several peeking through shoe holes when I bend over to touch my own. Others are barefoot and a few have no uniforms at all.
The students come running to me as before, but now they kiss me tenderly: my arms, my hands, my cheeks, holding me close, feeling my skin, afraid that I’m no more than a phantom, a strange feverish vision that will pass with night. They speak little English, but chant “Good morning, sister” each in turn. They don’t understand my lessons; even the action songs that match words with gestures and body parts come back as only mimicked sounds and eager eyes, a strange warped echo of telephone games.
Concrete shacks lean against each other for strength and support in the heat, souls intertwined, cut from the same slabs of raw rock by the men who sleep inside each night. As are the people. A child leads me through the town, pulling hard on my hand, introducing me to her father, mother, sister, brother, grandmother, other father, second grandmother, auntie, cats, cows, and cocks. She shows me her home: her tattered dolls, her woven blanket, her posters, her pots and pans. Buffaloes are the primary residents; chickens peck scraps dripping from their mouths; egrets perch on their mudluscious backs splashing damp shade over mangled hide. The people stare as we pass. Some smile, others scowl. Namascaram, I whisper and bow my head. Some laugh. Others turn away. When you decide to go off the beaten path you have to bush-whack, and fight your way through thorns and weeds to make a way. Luckily, I have hands to hold and help guide me along, and mine are never empty.

tend your garden

Early morning, before my eyes have adjusted to the light and the hot milk chai is cool enough to drink the girls creep into the courtyard, an area forbidden to them, to watch me take breakfast. I hear them whispering, and as I peek out through green plastic curtains and make a face they burst into suppressed giggles. All except one, who frowns and holds up four little ashen fingers. Only a few days she says softly, and I run across the square and lift her up in my arms and spin her slowly, telling her, "but how many hugs we can share in four full days," fighting back the tears that slip into my eyes, trying to be brave, for her, for me.
There is an expression in the Pashto language, You are not a man until you give your love truly and freely to a child. And you are not a good man until you earn the love, truly and freely, of a child in return. I'm falling in love with these children, one by one, learning their names, they're ticklish spots, their favorite ways to be held and swung and danced with. Not all of them, arbitrarily, but certain ones. I worry they've become too attached to me, and I find myself fantasizing about staying, or worse asking them to run away with me, showing them how to build sand castles and search for sea shells. They know I'm leaving. The girls at the orphanage say goodbye every time I walk out of a room. I just hope they realize it has nothing to do with them. They've been abandoned their whole lives. They will forever feel unwanted, and now I'll be another ghost, a person who passed in and out of their hearts. Is it better to have loved and lost? Did anyone ever ask a child that? I find myself whispering "I love you, over and over," into the tiniest ear. I have to stop myself. But now, looking back, I wonder if she's ever heard these words before. She is six, but the size of a two year old, the one who came to the sisters crawling like a chimp. I want to repeat these words over and over until she understands what they mean.
Some compete viciously for my attention, clawing at each other's hands and hair. Everyone wants to be wanted. Maybe that's why I've fallen so hard. I need their love just as badly. But still, it’s frightening to see so much anger, so much jealousy, so much emptiness in such small hearts.
It's time to move on. I'm running out of material, patience and restraint. At school, the children take advantage of me. I've come to realize that violence is self perpetuating. The class gets out of control and no amount of yelling and clapping will stop it. Another teacher always comes in to beat the students, and I have to turn away, feeling inadequate for my inability to discipline without a stick. But I think it's the stick that causes the chaos. As long as it’s absent, the children have no boundaries. Other methods don't work because punishment is the most immediate and efficient means of control.
I've become frustrated with the absolute austerity of control here, in India and in the convent. Children live in fear. From preschool on they are driven to succeed, not by their own choice and desire but by the stick. Even the youngest ones live in angst, to the point of teachers confessing that they don't want to tell parents how their five-year-olds are performing. The chellis I live with are afraid to break the rules in any way. I understand the importance of structure, of school, of goals. But these are kids. I brought the girls temporary tattoos, expecting pure rapture, but instead every one worried about the beating that might follow should they be discovered. The next morning, one girl's skin was rubbed raw. I asked what happened, if she'd gotten into trouble. No, she replied. Sister said it causes skin cancer. I told her that was a lie. Flat out. I know I'm going beyond my boundaries but so are they.
At first I was content with silent acquiescence, but that has never been my way, only theirs. I'm trying to find a compromise between teaching my classes what I believe is true and right and empowering and allowing them to live with the socially accepted modes of behavior, within webs of manipulation and domination--by their parents, spouses, teachers, and their sisters. I feel like I'm being monitored, censored. I discuss with the students primary differences a between American and Indian cultures: food, language, dress, appearance, religion, appearance. I tell them that in America wives and husbands have equal opportunities and equal power. I teach them that we fought hard for these rights; I talk about the Women's Liberation Movement (without the burnt bras). The boys aren't really paying attention, but one girl replies that this inequality, this disparity, is what makes India a developing country, even with all the drive and technology its people possess. I'm not trying to start a revolution but a little dissent could be quite progressive. Still maybe it’s best that I sow the seeds and let the fruit ripen on its own, in my absence, like the first missionaries did with mustard.

Going local

Even the buffalo ox, walking down the street and merging seamlessly with traffic, looks at me funny. The girls at school ask why my hair is light and my cheeks are red and only laugh when they see my toes, and I don’t have a real answer except I was born this way. I expect it from them. But when the herd in the road stops to stare I start to squirm. They are called “natural speed breakers” because Indians (dot not red [their designation]) consider them holy, and it is a more serious offense to kill a cow then a beggar. Streets teem with life and sounds: marriage processions, firecrackers, markets, hari krishna chanters. The sisters pray for our protection each time we go out in an auto, which provides some reassurance as we weasel in between moving buses whose occupants jump and hit the ground running and mopeds carrying 4, 5, 6 people with outstretched babies held over speeding concrete.

And music, music everywhere. The wind carries gasps of chants and flutes depending on the direction. A child ululates his national anthem--so bold, so proud, when moments before he was huddled over, timid cheek pressed into his desk. He moved here from Rajasthan, a land where women cloak themselves completely, allowing only their eyes to peer out as animals in the darkness. When he’d first arrived he’d been afraid to go to class with his teacher exposing so much skin. He’d lingered outside the averting his eyes.

There are certain aspects of this culture I have to learn to accept without judgment. The boy’s teacher suggested I get a sari, because my figure is so slender. I teased her that perhaps then I’d find a nice husband, and maybe we should go shopping for one together. She’s not permitted to leave the house alone, not even to go to church. Her husband does not allow it. I asked how she deals with this. She doesn’t mind so much any more; she’s been married 15 years. I responded that I wouldn’t be finding a husband in India. One of her students died the day I came. She came down with a fever and hours later she was gone. She was so sweet, a bright, beautiful girl only 5 years old who smiled at everything. Sister Alice said “that is why God took her so young.” I refuse to believe in such a selfish God. But then, I am told he made us in his image.

Other than a few speed breakers I’m adjusting well: I accidentally poisoned myself with insect repellant though incidentally was still attacked, and I believe I’ve been bathing in the toilet bucket for a week now. I gave the boarders, my chellis (little sisters), their first Halloween. They too don’t completely understand our culture, and what a bizarre holiday to explain--mischief and make-believe. I revert to a show not tell method: coloring and cutting out a butterfly mask that I strung to my face. They begin shouting acca acca (older sister) I want to be a doctor, a sister, a lion, a princess, a saint. One is even a mango! She makes the costume herself, while I do most of the drawing for the others and the big girls do the cutting, all to the scary tunes of a “thriller” cassette I’d found that afternoon. We have to trick or treat quickly because it is time for duties, but their masked faces light up at the sight of treats, though no one wants the plastic snake and they all shrieked at the sight of it. I have to instruct them to unwrap the candy first and not swallow the gum, but we all walk back to our rooms smiling.

That evening we explore the city. Another volunteer Daniel is visiting, and the presence of a male escort brings me much more freedom. Our tour consists of mostly traffic but we end up at enormous marble temple with white towers glowing in the night sky. We leave our sandals in the car and climb the steps, encountering various shrines with adorned creatures or gurus and intricate carvings covering every surface, telling stories of battles, sacrifices, beasts and heroes. At the highest level bats circle a gold flagpole, and I silently thank them for chasing the mosquitoes that feed on my flesh. We stand in line for a long time only to be hurried before a great altar where a black figure completely covered in garlands and flags peers down on us mere mortals. A priest with a wiry beard and fierce eyes outlined in ink feeds me blessed water, which I sip and splash over my head, repeating the motions of those before me. Another man, stout and shirtless but wrapped in fabric, chants responses and offers the sculpture sacrifices of fruit and incense. A guard ushers us out, and I bend down in prayer, touching my fingertips to each tusk of the elephants that frame the entry. My heart is heavy with bliss of this holy place and perhaps the affects of the offerings I have taken.

When I finally arrive at the orphanage, the girls are not as excited as I expect. Happy yes, but rowdy no. Not at first. I think they are feeling me out, developing trust. They’ve been disappointed all their lives. The conditions are not as bad as I assume: cramped but clean. They sleep head to toe in a tiny space, but there is a large open room upstairs big enough to dance in. So, we proceed to do just that. First they perform for me-- in rows with synchronized movements, a welcome song then one in Hindi and one in Telugu. The little ones are so small they can’t keep up. As the children dance the sister who cares for them explains each story: this one left in the station, that one outside the hospital, those girls, sisters, in a temple, their father told them he’d come right back and never returns. The one in red, both parents died of AIDS. She may be carrier, we don’t know. That one’s father killed her mother, lit her on fire with kerosene. He was going to do the same to her when she was rescued. He tries to visit sometimes, and she runs inside screaming. Row after row. This one was working in a house at age 6, rescued when the government raided, many child laborers are victims of physical and sexual abuse. That one abandoned when she came down with chicken pox, the neighbors heard crying. The small one in blue just recovered from malaria. That is why there are cotton balls in her ears--they have two holes. The fever went to her brain, and they had to operate. She cannot hear. They will operate again to restore sound but not until she becomes ten. And the littlest one in the red dress was very malnourished. When she came here she looked like monkey, huge swollen stomach, face bulging out, so small. she cannot walk properly. never will. but look at her dancing.

Dancing, dancing all of them. The past seems to disappear as they pull me up from my seat with many little hands. I spin them around, lifting them high and dipping them down and become dizzy and soaked in sweat, but more, acca, more they cry. I forget all else and only dance. But the sister reminds me gently that each one was unwanted, that they will never forget that, no matter how much love they receive. Deep in their hearts they burry terrible pain, and it haunts their subconscious. I wish that I could take away their pain, wipe their memories clean, dance forever, spinning in circles faster, faster, faster until reality becomes a blur of laughter.

I return home and scrub myself cleaning, asking for a washcloth that turns from yellow to brown. Many of them have lice and scabies, and I held most and touched them all. After I bathe I have dinner and tell the cooks chala bagunde, very good, a phrase I learned in Telugu that day, my first. They smile with such pride. One hurries to the corner and re-emerges with something white. At first I think it’s a washcloth (I’d asked her for one just a little while earlier) but I see it’s flowers, a string she’s sewn together. She must have seen me gathering them in the courtyard that morning, pinning them into my hair before mass. She holds out her hand, then pulls back, telling the sister something I can’t understand. She wants to do your hair. Go get your brush. I run to grab a comb and she seats me down, while all the chellis gather to watch. They admire my comb and show me their brushes. She combs my hair gently, and the girls murmur, so soft, so pretty. She pulls it back into a tight braid. I haven’t had my hair done since I was a little girl, and it feels good. A sister comes by to give advice, telling her to string the flowers through the braid. Yes, sister, she says. One chelli climbs up on the chair and asks me, are you happy. Yes, I reply, so happy. She ties the final knot, and I’m lead into the girls room to look in the mirror. Very beautiful, I say. She follows us, and whispers something to one child who returns with a sheet of paper. She removes a bindhi and sticks it on my forehead, slightly off-center, the perfect spot, and smiles with smug satisfaction. I have found my place.

day in the life

I awoke from deep incoherent slumber to pitch black and creaks of old plumbing and aching bones. Took chai and watched the girls doing their morning chores, offering assistance they only giggled at. I asked if I could join them for yoga (I'd seen it on the schedule) only to find they trickled into the empty room and stared at me as I stretched, finally mimicking my movements. I led them through a few sun salutations and warrior series, and they particularly enjoyed the tree pose, toppling over with laughter. (I had to resist the urge to hollar timber so as not to disturb the sisters' morning prayers.) Next I observed mass, my first since childhood, listening to the sweet voices of my little sisters and wondering at the strange practices of the priest and his assistants. I chose not to consume the body of Jesus, as I was never baptised and heard that is immediate cause for eternal damnation.

A quick breakfast and it was off to my first day of class, as a teacher this time. Rocky start as I tried a name game involving alliteration and grammar with kindergardeners who also knew all the songs I had prepared to teach. The next class was no better, for they were so small they barely understood what I said and after explaining duck duck goose found myself being chased in circles by the entire class. The following two went much smoother, and I hit a home run with "head, shoulders, knees and toes" and "row your boat" though I don't think we'll be making rounds anytime soon. I fell in love with two girls from the orphanage who clung to me like chimps and resembled them even more as they plucked the lice from eachothers' hair. Their clothes were stained, pinned together and in tatters, and their faces were covered with scars and snot, but they smiled sweetly and wrestled over who got to hold my hand. I tried to have snack with them but apparently the tree the kids sit under drops poisonous catterpillars that can cause your skin to swell.

Home for lunch, Sister Alice gave me a bouqet of three roses, pointing to each in turn and chanting "We love you". Over lunch she told me about the issues they're having in acquiring land, and I confessed to her how frustrating it was for me to come home to such affluence after a simple summer. I indicated that if I could only get three women in Beverly Hills to sell their purses we would have enough money to by space for a new orphanage. She replied, "God gave us all everything, to share" and shook her head at how unevenly the wealth had been distributed. After school a walk into the hills brought me to the other side of the mountain, with a full view of Hyderabad. I was surrounded by the reality I came here for: a woman feeding her goat rubble, one spanking her child with one hand and shoveling cement with the other, and a family with a yellow swollen baby who begged me to take their photograph. Skeleton buildings flourished with plumeria and housed families of butterflies. A few turns later I found myself lost in a slum. The road turned to dirt, the structures to shelters. People gathered in clusters to watch me pass and held out hardened hands. No one spoke English or knew my way home. Luckily I happened upon a rickshaw and payed him tripple fair to take me back to my sanctuary(which amounted to one dollar).

After I'd rested and took more chai the sisters escorted me to the bazaar to get me some new clothes (which is probably a kind way of them indicating that my sheer shirt was inappropriate for the Father's visit tomorrow). A thin alley offered all the wonders of the world, much like Ariel's cave of gadgets and gismos a-plenty. Sinister villans and beggers lurked in dark corners, but I had a guardian angel on each shoulder. It was tricky to try things on over what I was wearing but amazing to watch Sister Alice haggle, waggling her finger at men and demanding they "Give a fair price! You wouldn't cheat a nun." I got the full makeover, and the next morning the girls would look at me like a movie star. Traffic back was deadly and fumes of exaust seared my eye sockets. Happy to return home I had little time before we went to a nearby house to give a Rosary prayer, which included 50 Hail Mary's, several readings, and hymns in Telugu. The soft cadence resembled a lullaby; it lulled me almost to sleep. Afterwards we feasted, and I ate with my fingers the home-cooked delicacies. All I wanted was a bath bucket before bed but the water seems to have run out, which means it's time to call it a night and wake someone else up with the leaky pipes come sunrise.

initial impressions

I walk through the terminal doors into a blast of humid Indian night and immediately spot three beautiful women dressed in all starched white with smiles upon their faces and my name in their hands. As they embrace me and welcome me to their country I know that I have arrived. I am home.

They help me carry the baggage that has been such a burden for the day long journey and we shuffle into a car. Sister Alice, the eldest one with white whisps of hair creeping out from under her habit, touches my arm tenderly while she explains sights we pass: the rickshaws that were once their only means of transportation and the lorries for luggage that read PLEASE SOUND HORN PLEASE on their rear bumper. Honking (along with the head waggle) seems to be the primary method of communication, replacing stop signs, speed limits and lights. My first encounter with India had been smog, a grey brown soot settled across the sky into which I descended. It wasn't until we'd nearly landed that I could make out buildings--urban sprawl scattered across the surface below an enormous glowing ember sun that left amber cream in its wake. Now, driving through the city, I understand the source of the pollution: production and destruction. The air is sour sweet like milk on the cusp of turning, with undertones of smoke from cinders burning into ash along the street. It is filled with noise at all times: horns blaring, dogs barking, dripping facets, spinning fans, soft voices, loud cries.

The sisters have such kindness and love that you can see it pour out from their dark deep eyes and they wait upon me like the children they watch. A note in the kitchen reads "A Hearty Welcome Dearest Emma". The food is delicious but foreign and my body is reeling like a reversed magnet at the change in time, climate, and conditions. I carry myself with a grateful propriety at all times, smiling at everyone I pass and careful of what I say. I was discussing religion with Alice, that my mother is Hindu and my father Buddhist though both were raised Christian, and she commented, "how sad."

Even all the warmth of my new home doesn't compare to that which radiates from every child as I enter my first classroom. Their faces come to life with excitement and joy. I cannot help but grin back, meeting the eyes of individuals who wriggle with pride at my attention. They run to the front and clasp my hands in their tiny fingers, shaking them quickly and greeting me in a mob. Many ask for autographs, notes and drawings. While the school is structured, and it must be to accomodate 4,200 students in such a small space, my role remains undefined. I am told I can do whatever I want when I ask whether there is a specific class for me to teach or if I should share my time with many. I am nervous of what tomorrow will bring with nothing prepared but a list of songs. But I know that my mere presence in these children's lives makes a difference. I will bring them new experience, help them with pronunciation and show them the world that exists beyond their own. A world they can aspire to reach with enough determination and courage. Especially the nine girls that live with me. They call me acca, which means eldest sister. They swarm like bees as I try to teach origami, asking questions all at once. I brought small gifts and instructed each to take one, but within minutes all were gone, and they seemed confused when I asked where the extras were. I didn't have the heart to make them return anything. They have so little, and I have been given so much. At the sight of construction paper and markers they become overcome by delight and run around the room. But the eldest settles them, and I when I return moments later they are seated in desks, hands clasped in front, awaiting what new adventures will follow. I feel just the same as my sisters.

That night my orphaned sisters prayed for me, though I can't imagine what they wished for.