Traumatic events build unbreakable bonds between people. So
do extra-long church services, I think. When I first met Sam, I was smitten but
he was indifferent—not afraid, but uninterested. An hour into the service when
he was being unwillingly pinned down in his mother’s arms, he became intrigued
by me and my bracelet. Later when he was about to scream during the sermon, his
mother, also initially hesitant about my presence in the chair next to hers,
ripped the bracelet off my arm (where I had returned it once because Sam had been more
interested in the cookie his mother pulled out from her purse) and handed it to
him like a pacifier. It surprised me at first because it shocked me out of my
deep thoughts about the sermon (of course) and trying to figure out if I had calculated my
arrival date to the US wrong (I had), but it made me feel like part of a
family in which no one has any embarrassment about taking what they need from someone else. And now Sam and I are pals.
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| Sam, his mother, and my bracelet |
Strikes in India involve women in colorful saris wandering
down the streets yelling into megaphones and carrying signs. It reminded me of
the sister suffragettes and “votes for women” was running through my head even
though this strike wasn’t about votes it was something about farming…if you
have never seen Mary Poppins, you will have no idea what I am talking about. If
you have seen it you may remember more of the “votes for women” song than I
do—since that is the only bit that I remember.
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| Can you see the line of striking women? I took the photo from inside a store. |
India (at least this part of India) doesn’t have our Western
Christmas songs translated and installed in their appropriate church-song
repertoire—at least not that I have heard and not that the two men I asked
about it today knew. Maybe that’s
because I haven’t attended a Baptist church yet, but I am strangely
disappointed by that even though I know that it is way more culturally
appropriate for them not to have to sing awkwardly translated songs. But
translated songs are great ways to have guitar sing-a-longs where everyone can sing
whatever words that they want. Also translated songs are great for learning new
vocabulary. Also I think it’s fun to sing songs in a multitude of languages.
But Indian praise songs are enjoyable too, so I’m ok. If I don’t learn “Joy to
the World” in Hindi, it’s fine.
India moving companies are only allowed into Patna after
11:00pm. My movers arrived a 12:30am and unloaded a large truck full of stuff
from the Kolkata office. It took 2.5
hours and left me with a house full of boxes and furniture. I walked around
sideways like a crab for days. We opted
for a less sophisticated but equally effective option for moving the stuff into
the new office: a parade of bicycle rickshaw drivers. I was told that they
would arrive at 5am to get an early start. When I woke up with my alarm at 5am,
I realized how dumb of me it was to actually believe that they would show up on
time, so instead I called my mom and asked her for a recipe for something to
make to serve them while they were in and out of my house carrying stuff. As I get older, I’m realizing more and more
what Asian/Jennie Stillman etiquette that has become deeply engrained in me.
Most of that etiquette has to do with food, which is why I’m constantly baking
these days to make sure that I never send someone’s plate back to them empty.
And people keep giving me food, which is great but not actually a time-saver
for me. On a related note, I kept thinking how awesome it was that I could call
my mom at 5am and know that I will only be interrupting her dinner, not her
sleep. My phone etiquette, which I
probably didn’t receive from Asia (which has no phone etiquette) or my mother (who
would never call someone during dinner), was totally ok with this. And while maybe 1 or 2 bicycle rickshawers were
brave enough to try the beautiful cinnamon rolls, I ate them for the rest of
the weekend that I spent running to and from the office without a second to
spare for cooking food.
I have become wonderfully adept at small home
improvements—these are improvements of things that no one else would naturally
think of as things that need to be improved. That is why I can’t think of
anyone in particular to call to help me with these things. You know, you can
call a plumber if your sink is leaking or a mechanic is your fridge is buzzing.
Who is the person you call if you need to unscrew a light bulb that is in the
way of a giant lighted glass display case for fancy dishes with extra drawers
underneath that you want to move? I couldn’t think of the name either, so I
climbed up on a chair, and unscrewed it myself with my pocketknife because of
course I don’t have any tools. And that is generally where I end up when doing
home improvements: on a chair with a pocketknife unscrewing something. And my pocketknife is one my dad got for me
two Christmases ago as a free gift at a Christian bookstore in Indonesia. It
says “Halleluya” on it. It isn’t one of those awesome chunky ones with
tweezers, scissors, a retractable hammer, and a cappuccino maker. So clearly,
it is the awesome person who is wielding it (yes, I mean me.) who has all the
skills. I recently unscrewed two showerheads and then re-screwed in the one
that was better in its original state, as I personally believe that one big
stream of water pounding on one’s head is better than a tiny trickle spitting
out in several scrawny drips. Moving the
large glass display case may have been trickier than unscrewing the light bulb
and light blub socket and prying it out of the paint, but it had to be done. Otherwise my washing machine would have to sit
in the middle of the dining room. Now it can be barely wedged between the sink
(yes, there is a sink in the dining room for
post-dinner-eaten-by-hand-hand-washing) and the glass display case. Of course, I still have to move it out to the
balcony before using it to stuff the drainage pipe down the balcony drain so
that the water doesn’t explode all over my house. I learned this the hard way—by experience. My
first load of laundry extended that day’s house chores to cleaning the floors
and drying the furniture. I also made a dam out of an old table cloth that I
found.to keep the water from getting into other rooms. I kept thinking to
myself, “There must be SOME ingenious way that I could force the water to go
out on to the balcony and then drain outside.” And I considered building a
channel to redirect the water outside with cookie sheets (I am always in favor
of using kitchen tools for multiple purposes.), but then I remembered that I
only have one cookie sheet and a channel has two sides. I was wracking my brain
for various water-proof objects that I could line up and use to trap water when
I realized that I could pick up my washing machine and carry it a little closer
to the balcony and the plastic tubey thing would reach the drain of the balcony. Another brilliant solution to my
house-keeping needs.
While I was in Sri Lanka I was informed that I have taken to
doing the Indian head-nod. I am like a chameleon. I can adapt and change and
morph no matter where I am. In the Middle East, I clicked my tongue and raised
my eyebrows for ‘no’. And now I shake my head side-ways like a bobble-head doll
outside in a hurricane. I can’t say that
it just happened. Initially, I worked on the skill and at least once I was told
I was bobbing excessively. Now, however, I am pretty sure I’ve mastered the
exact amount of tilt and shake. At least there have been no more comments about
my head-nodding now. I imagine I’ll get
a few if I happen to use this new skill in the States though…
And now, here’s a photo of a goat in a rickshaw:
