A MALAYALI WEDDING IN TAMIL NADU

I’m going to start this post with a quick lesson in Southern Indian geography for any one listening in at home. India, much like the US, is divided into various states; the two southern most states being Kerala (on the west coast) and Tamil Nadu (on the east coast). Unlike the US, each state has its own language and cultural nuances. In Kerala the language spoken is Malayalam with a Malayali cultural divergence; in Tamil Nadu the language is Tamil with a Tamil cultural divergence. The wedding I attended this past weekend happened right on the southernmost border of the two states; thus a Malayali wedding in the state of Tamil Nadu.

AN AMERICAN PREPARES FOR AN INDIAN WEDDING: A COMEDY

Preparations are a big part of any wedding event; anywhere you go in the world. Generally when one hears the word “preparation” associated with a wedding they assume reference is being made to what the bride and groom have gone through to make ready for the big event. It is true that the bride and groom, more specifically the bride, take the trophy home for the one devoting the most energy to preparations for a wedding. However, guests also make wedding preparations.

TRAVELING ALONE... WITH FRIENDS

This year, my travels to Vellore, India have been transected by a long weekend trip to the Southern tip of India for the wedding of a dear friend. I will be writing about the wedding itself in a separate post as well as a posting about the adventures I had while traipsing throughout the deep south to see the sights. But I wanted to take a moment to set the whole tone my weekend adventures.

CURBSIDE COCKTAILS

It was the afternoon of the wedding, just after the first (Bride’s) reception that followed the wedding. My posse of people were waxing hot, and tried and had made the decision to retreat back to our hotel to refresh and cool off before the second (Groom’s) reception that evening. But first: a stop for curbside cocktails (non-alcoholic). Being fairly parched, I took a pause from my photography to quickly agree to partake of the beverage being offered. That is to say, I quickly agreed to it before actually knowing what it was I had agreed to.

SYSTEMS ON STRIKE

This is an open letter to my Indian friends

Dear friends,

There is something you need to understand about me. That is this: when the temperature rises, my appetite and metabolism (i.e. digestive system) go on strike. They outright refuse to work at their contracted pace. Yes, they slog along slowly as they get acclimated to the heat, but by and large they just don't process foods like they do in the cooler temperatures.

NO MORE TROUBLE WITH THE LAW… OR SO I THOUGHT

Upon arrival at CMC Rehab, I am required to check in with the Principal’s office to obtain my badge and let my official volunteer status be recorded. In the past this has been where I get ushered off to the local police station to register my name and housing status. Despite having nothing to hide and having completed everything by the book (or so I think), this is the part that makes me nervous. Last year it took me half the week, multiple trips to the police station, and a change in housing location to finally sort out my issues with registering at the local police station.  

I was delighted this year to discover that I am no longer required to register at the local police station. Instead I was ushered off to the library to fill out and electronically file a vague form, Form C. I don’t exactly know what Form C is all about, but I dutifully filled in the blanks with my name, permanent address, passport and visa number, and any other pertinent information. With the confirmation number in hand, I trotted back to the principal’s office to seal the deal. This process was so much easier to accomplish. This also means that I am free to stay where I choose vs. staying at a location that has previously been registered with the police. Yahoo!

Within 24 hours of arrival, everything was in order and I was at liberty to go about my business… until I got a call at 730 the next morning. This call from an unrecognized number woke me up.

Unidentified caller: “Hello, is this Miss Emily Loonden?”

Me: “Yes.”

Caller: “I am calling from the Bagayam police station. It seems there is a problem with your visa.”

Me: Oh crap! Here we go again! But wait… how in the heck do they even have my visa, I never registered there? And how do they have this phone number? “What is the problem?” (in a frustrated and someone demanding tone)

Caller: “Umm.. Yes. There is a problem. You are going to have to take a flight to Nagpur this very night to try to resolve these issues.”

Me: Oh for the love of Pete! This is ridiculous! And why the heck Nagpur??? Also, this guy’s English is pretty darn good. Tell me what the problem is.

Caller: “Just take a flight this evening and it could be sorted out.”

Me: (long pause) “Neeraj? Is this you?”

Caller: (short paused followed by stifled laughter). “Yes!”

As it turns out, my early morning prank call was an old friend attempting to con me into flying up north to pay him a visit. I tell you what, there’s nothing quite like telling a traveling foreigner that there is something wrong with their traveling papers to get their blood flowing in the morning. Well played, Neeraj. Well played. 

Just a few random photos from around Bagayam... only because a blog post without them seems so very dull. 

DISHKIYAOON

Wednesday was my first full day back at rehab. I’ll be the first to admit I was struggling. I’m not sure if it was the heat or the jet lag, but formulating a complete thought let alone carrying on a logical conversation eluded me. In wandering about the first floor OT gym I noted that not much had changed. The walls had been repainted, a few plinths had been rearranged, and sometime during the past year the decision was made that all patients with spinal cord injuries be treated on the first floor and all the patients with brain injuries would be treated on the ground floor. But all in all, things from the first floor OT gym were by and large the same. Patients arrived at 8am and began their treatments, left at 10am for a tea break, and a second group of patients arrived at 1030am for their treatment and left at 1230pm. Lunch then commenced, and at 2pm the patients returned for therapy until 430pm.

After the morning tea break, I decided I would spend a little time in the newly created pediatrics gym. (Indeed some things have changed… all for the better!) The Prosthetics and Orthotics department that had once occupied the space had been shifted to a newly renovated out-building giving them more room and adequate ventilation. The new pediatrics gym had been converted into a fun space with brightly colored walls, mats and toys.

The new pediatric therapy space.

 Upon entering the gym, I immediately spotted Agnes, the OT I am staying with this time. She is the pediatric occupational therapist at rehab. She was playfully engaged in therapy with one of her little ones, but eagerly invited me to join. I knew her kiddos probably wouldn’t know what to do with me around, and most did revert to a shy and reserved demeanor when I approached. However, one little firecracker of a girl warmed up to me very quickly. She was working on standing balance and side-stepping while gleefully wearing her beautiful Belle (or Beauty and the Beast) gown. It wasn’t long before she was letting me get some hands-on therapy with her. I suppose some of that had to do with the amount of playing we ended up doing. I would argue that a child’s occupation is to play, so might as well have a few laughs while we work on strengthening those hip abductors or core muscles.

Agnes and one of her little people.

Shortly into our session, my tiny friend clasped her little hands together, drew out her index fingers to me, scrunched up her face in a mischievous smile, peered over her glasses and yelled “dishkiyaoon” at me. Her mother reacted in astonishment as my little friend hurled back into a fit of laughter. Agnes lightly and playfully chided the girl as I sat in confusion as to what had just happened. Now, I’m not exactly sure what types of firearms are used here in India, but apparently the sound they make is “dishkiyaoon.” My little friend had just “shot” me. After learning that this befuddling sound meant that an imaginary gun had been fired, I joined the charade by faking a fatal wound the next time her little hands aimed my way. My reaction brought on a cacophony of laughter from more than one of the little ones at therapy. Needless to say, when I enter the pediatric therapy gym I’m often met by a number of fingers pointed my way and a barrage of “dishkiyaoons” excitedly waiting my fatal fall to the ground. And just when I thought they were getting to like me…

My Belle Star

Despite their desire to shoot me whenever I appear, I think I’ll see about spending half my day with the little ones if possible. They are so precious. 

THE WHY

I always seem to grapple with the “why” of my India travels about this point in the trip. Why do I keep coming back? Why don’t I go somewhere relaxing and beautiful (I might get more takers for travel companions if I choose somewhere else to go)? In reading back through the blog post from thirteen months ago, I feel many of the same things. And yet I have even more peace, and what feels like more persuasion this time around. Last time I wrote about the easy answers and the truth: I really don’t know why I keep coming back. (This year I get to add “for a friend’s wedding” as a truthful answer, which I’m absolutely thrilled about!!!)

I also asked myself the question:

Who on earth decides she is going to pack her bags and go visit India? And what kind of person continues to go back?

And this answer continues to be true:

This girl does. This girl who has a mystifying love for India, and a craving to experience it more. I don’t know why. I just do. I just go. And I go in faith that at some point in time He will make it clear why I go-- faith that He will show me why I keep coming back. I will go with my God.

The same prayer I had then echoes through my mind today: My Savior is a planner. He has provided for me this far. He has given me the desire to return to India, despite its lack of creature comforts. He has given me a heart for India. I know He has brought me here for some purpose. I continue pray that I have the courage, faith, and heart to say “yes” to whatever challenges He has planned for me ahead. I continue to pray that I can serve Him, be His hands and feet, spreading His love with abandon on those He has sent me to serve. So yes, I’m confident that I am supposed to be right here.

On the lighter side of things, one of the things I like about returning to India is the lack of options. I know this may sound odd, but there is something very refreshing about not having options sometimes. For instance, in any given US grocery store there is something like 47 different types of bottled water. BOTTLED WATER, folks! Not to mention paper towel options, toilet paper and don’t even get me started on shampoos. In my experience, in India, you have maybe two options for bottled water (if you’re lucky) and then were talking 1 liter vs. 2 liter size.

The lack of options cracks open the necessity for creativity, especially re: my perspective of therapy. In my world of physical rehabilitation, we have about as many choices with adaptive aids as we do with bottled water. For a simple example, we have three (immediately available to us at our facility) options for sock aids. We have a myriad of different configurations for manual and power wheelchairs, and a single call to a vendor puts into motion the perfect (or as close to it as we can get to perfect) setup for someone with wheeled mobility needs. This side of “the lacking” is not the side I appreciate as much. This is the darker side that makes my heart ache a little. However, this is the side I find purpose in facing head-on. This side of “fewer options” is the side that facilitates the growth of creativity.

I am looking forward to embracing the “fewer options” with all the simplicity and complexity that it unearths. I also wonder if this perspective of mine is part of why I keep answering the call to return.

“…walk humbly with your God.” – Micah 6:8

“…’for I know the plans I have for you,’ declares the Lord…” Jeremiah 29:11

THIRTEEN MONTHS TO THE DAY

Thirteen months ago, this very day, I typed these words: I am sitting at my gate of the Dubai International Airport. The same thing is true today. Right now.

I can hardly pass through Dubai without sufficing the need to write a blog post. I have tried to while away my time here with things other than blogging, but I just can’t seem to fight the urge. Or I’m too tired to keep fighting. The problem I face this time around is that I’m not really sure what to write. In the past three passages through Dubai, I have had something on my mind or heart to speak about. This time through, the thoughts on my mind are jumbled and disjointed.

I am on my way to Southern India for a third trip to the Christian Medical College. This time around my trip has a three-fold purpose: to volunteer at the Rehab Institute as I have in the past, to partake in the celebration of a dear friend’s wedding, and to do some exploration/research for a personal project. It feels good to be going back with a purpose, even if it means my dance card is going to be very full over the next two weeks.

A week before I left Spokane, many people asked me if I was ready and if I was packed already. Ha! Clearly those who asked if I had packed don’t know me that well… (I pack in the eleventh hour). As for being ready to go back… I left India a year ago ready to return. So yes! Definitely, YES! But packing for this trip was unusually difficult for me. I had laid out all the items I felt necessary for my trip and some luxury items that I felt would be fun to take if I had extra room. When I finally got around to stuffing all my things into my backpack, I was surprised and almost alarmed when I realized that my bag was half empty. I looked around for anything I might have missed, and then mentally ran through my itemized list. “Passport. Check. Visa. Check. Cash. Check. Toothbrush. Check. Sense of humor. Always. Ok then, Em, you’re set… everything else is just luxury.” Maybe my past experiences in India have armed me with the knowledge and confidence which allows me to pack light. Or maybe I am going to have a sudden realization that I was too confident in my light packing and things will go awry. (If that’s the case, I’m sure you will hear of it.) At any rate, I humored myself and packed a hooded sweatshirt at the last minute for two reasons: 1) I felt the need to fill space in my backpack, 2) I still can’t imagine not being cold despite the fact that it is supposed to be 102 F when I land at my final destination.

I can tell you know that there are a few things I would have packed in my carry on and will remember for next time. When I arrived in Dubai, I decided to track down a hot shower and place to freshen up. With nine or so hours to kill, I figured it would be a fair use of time. After partaking in the delight of a hot shower, I quickly realized that I had no towel. Good thing I had nine hours to kill: drip-drying takes a while in a humid environment. Mental note: pack some sort of towel in the carry on. Also a change of clothes would have been nice. Ah well, live and learn!

Most notably missing from the items I packed is this: my people. I love traveling. And I do quiet enjoy my solo adventures. The “I do it byself” attitude I was presumably born with seems to almost relish these unaccompanied adventures of mine. But the truth is, after only a few hours into my trip I have realized more poignantly than ever that I want to share these experiences with my people. My family. My friends. My people. I want my people on one side of the world to meet my people on the other side of the world. I want my people to smell the foods I have fallen in love with. I want my people to see the chaos of life that has become dear to me. I want my people to taste the flavors of the world that I keep traipsing back to. Perhaps it is the familiarity of the trip that has caused these feelings. I’m now more relaxed and calm about the trip with less crazed concern about being where I need to be and when I need to be there. I’m not so concerned about the little things, because I know, for the most part, what to expect. My mind is not preoccupied with the unfamiliarity of it all because it is now rather familiar to me. My mind has freedom to wander, and it inevitably wanders back to its first love: my people.

I recognize how incredibly blessed I am to be taking this trip-- for the third time. I trust I will never take for granted the opportunity that has been afforded me. I pray that next time (because, Lord willing, I hope there will be a next time) I blog from my gate at the Dubai airport, someone counted among “my people” will be with me.