Second Day in India: Wednesday
Toast in the morning, but the eggs tasted a little more Indian because there were peppers, onions, and tomatoes in them. The tea is delicious. More sugary then what I normally make, but still delicious.
Today we learned a little about Hinduism from Roger after breakfast. Hinduism is really a fascinating religion. It really dictates everything about life for most Indians. In the morning I’ve noticed that good Hindu housekeepers sweep and wash the front of their house early in the morning. And then paint with a chalk-like powder a circular swirly design in front of their door to welcome the deity in. They scatter fresh fragrant flower petals on the design. They bring food and flowers to the alters of various deities, and spray sandalwood perfume on them.
Walk 10 feet in Bangalore and you will find a picture or alter to a god, walk ten more feet and you will find another (or three). They’re house, streets, and stores are completely saturated with them. I thought maybe that in the midst of the overwhelming presence of idols, I thought I might feel oppressed from them, but I did not. I did not feel them at all. They became to me personally as powerless as an empty wooden carving, as weak as the flimsy piece of paper holding its image. To me—these gods were entirely defeated and powerless. Not the same story for the others though. The Indian people are captivated and bombarding with every constant reminders of loyalty to their gods.
JORGE!!! (please do not take offense if your name is Jorge)
The girls I was travelling with turned out to be pretty skiddish around bugs. I myself am a recovering bug-o-phobic. I introduced to them a new stress relieving coping mechanism: naming them. There are not many rules to this coping mechanism. Only you must name all the bugs you see, and not use the same name over and over again. That is how we met Jorge. This is what I wrote my journal on the 16th,
"Right now there is a humongous bug in the toilet, and I don't know what to do. I'm suppose to be the strong one, but right now this bug is deabiliting our use of our only toilet and its upsetting."
It really was humongous. Definitely a cock roach bigger then my thumb just doing laps in our toilet. We flushed the toilet about 15 times and it wouldn't go down. Finally Brock held it under the water with a stick, and it went down.
We jumped into the car, and went to Anugraha Mane (The Grace House). It takes about an hour to get there, and we walked through a narrow alley. The aroma of spicy food, urine, and cow poop filled our senses and turned our stomach upside down. We gathered curious stares as we followed Roger to Anugraha Mane. When we got there we walked up the patina staircase into a room where three smiling young men waited for us: Nelakanta, Veenay, and Manju. This place was the center of the church’s street child ministry, and they were taken care of by George and Cindy a sweet Indian couple who make raising these boys (plus their own children: Adfrin [8 years] and Adwin [2 years]) their full-time job. Little Adwin is so cute, but when I asked Cindy if I could hold him, she said no because he would be too scared, and I would probably make him cry. This is probably because he almost never gets held by white people. Lets face it. White people are pretty scary looking if you haven't seen many of them before. I resorted to playing a 2 year olds version of “catch”, with hopes that if I won his heart slowly, eventually he’d let me hold him.
Nelakanta was the oldest of the 3 street children at age 16. He knew the most English, but still not very much, and the others knew almost nothing so conversation was difficult to say the least. They fed us lunch right away. They were so sweet to us, and also confused as to how we could maintain our towering physiques by eating so little. We ate us much as our uneasy stomach could handle, which was not much at all, and then a familiar word. Manju says, “Chess?”
We nodded and he ran to go get his beloved chess board. We took turns playing chess with him for hours, and he won everytime. Eeeeeeeeevrytime. I played two games, and then my jet lagged mind could take no more, so then Brock would play. They called the rook an "elephant". :) The rest of the group got to work on painting their dining/living room, and the boys bedroom. There were holes in the walls, and chunks of paint were falling off, so it turned out to be a huge blessing for the family. The first step was plastering the walls. Meanwhile, Brock and I played with the boys out on the porch. Across the narrow street there was another porch, and I caught the glance of a beautiful young woman who looked about my age. “Namaskara!” I said, practicing my Kannada. She giggled at my attempt and asked my politely if I’ve had my lunch yet.
In India, there is always a series of questions they ask in the beginning of a conversation, one of which is “Oota Ita?” Which means, “Have you had your lunch?” I think it’s a cute question.
She said her name is Padma, and I told her my name. We continued a real light-hearted conversation for a while, and then I went back to playing with the boys.
Brock and I lead a short bible story for them. Brock told them about David and Goliath, and I asked them how we could pray for them. They answered with real honesty. Their main prayer was: please give me to strength to not run away again.
[Squatty Potty!!! Rebecca did it! She conquered it!]
Grace waited till the second day to conquer the squatty potty.
I can only imagine the life of a street child. It must be so difficult to go from a life in which you are entirely “self-sufficient” and independent at such a painfully young age to being completely dependent again living in a home having everything provided for you.
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