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.

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.